Crimes & Lovers by Lizbeth Dusseau
An Old World Romance. In a land of castles and kingdoms, of slave queens and noble whores, a barefoot girl, Jessamyn, with the virtue of an angel, appears before a hundred gawking eyes and is procured by the queen, Lady Casia, for her husband, Lord Nor. Though Nor is furious with his wife, he allows Casia to train this nubile young woman into a worthy slave. Under the dutiful tutelage of her Lady, Jessamyn learns of the great pleasures in sexual surrender. Meanwhile, behind the scenes the treacherous Lady Sophia hatches an evil plot to dethrone Nor, and all of Illusia is threatened. Sacrifices must be made. These dangerous times require bold action.
This story of Casia and Jessamyn and the men who love and conquer them is teeming with treason, adultery, betrayal and some of Lizbeth’s most startling scenes of debauchery and sadomasochistic revelry. Including bondage, whipping, spanking, female bisexuality, orgies and discipline and lots of sex.
The barefoot girl was already on stage. Her hands were chained behind her, her head held proudly high, though the fear in her eyes was alarming. She quaked beneath the thin frock that covered her slight form. With torches flaming behind her, the outline of her fair body could be seen in silhouette. Her breasts were yet slight, surprising perhaps, since she was of the right age, eighteen. Many previous girls were much more well-endowed than this one. Ah, but her body was delightfully curvaceous, her hips well-rounded, her waist slim and her nipples were curiously large, the two generous buds poking through the sheer fabric of her attire. Her pale red hair was tangled in wild locks that dangled across her face. Though she tried to fling them back, tossing her head, she was hardly successful. But how that hair gleamed in the light of the flickering orange flames—as though a part of this innocent lamb was as savage as the company she faced. The pale scared eyes peering out from behind that hair looked panic struck. She stood frozen with fear, though her heart beating hotly in her chest. Perhaps she’d fought when she was captured. The spit and fire would be expected and enjoyed. Such moments bred all kinds of speculation.
In the clamoring crowd with necks straining to get a better view, one pair of womanly eyes looked on, with both the lust of her fellows, and the sheepishness of the tender flower before her—thinking back in time.
The master tradesman pounded the gavel again, irritated. This year’s assembly was especially rude.
“Shall we give the maid a reprieve, or will you nasty folk hold your tongues,” he roared.
There were a thousand shushes around the room, the agitation subsiding for a moment, though it would only be brief for the way it still brewed just underneath the surface of their collective quiet. The master snarled and then sneered, though it was unclear for whom that sneer was meant—the girl or the audience.
“You have another, my fine folk,” he addressed the crowd, “plucked from the teaming streets, a babe, a mere child, a virtuous innocent. Shall we celebrate her purity?” The master posed the question seriously and the crowd murmured, stirred, but yet silent. “Or shall we rip her virtue from her and make her an offering to lust?” The crowd roared, hands pounded the tables and boots hit hard against the floor. It took another ten minutes of the master’s hard hitting gavel to calm them again.
“So be it!” he roared as he smashed the heavy hammer into the block of wood.
The crowd roared again, but quieted on its own as three men advanced on the fainting beauty from behind. One stood at each side, dressed only in trousers, their brawny muscles had been oiled and gleamed like the maid’s lustrous tresses. Their hair was loose, falling around their shoulders. Their faces had been freshly shaved. The third man stood behind her, with his bald head oiled and gleaming as dearly as the chests of the two men at her side. He wore a leather vest and leather britches with a laced codpiece, and boots polished to a shine. His dire expression was meant to capture the eyes of the audience. The girl gazed side to side, but she did not see the man behind her or his menacing grimace. Yet, she could feel his hands enclose her bound ones and hold them tightly.
“She is your prize,” the master shouted, “how would you have her?”
A thunderous clamor began, “Bare her breasts!” And the boots pounded the floor again as the throng cheered.
“Whip her,” other voices shouted from the sidelines.
“Strip her! Make her dance!”
The whole room rocked wildly. Bets were placed on how long it would take to de-virginize this appointed damsel.
While the bald man held the maiden’s hands, one of the men at her side, grabbed the bodice of her dress and ripped the garment to her waist, exposing the delicate breasts to the teaming air and the eyes of the entire theatre.
Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks as she tried to look away. The bald man’s free hand massaged her breasts from behind. His lips descended to the crook of her neck and the barefoot girl shuddered.
“The whip, the whip, the whip,” the crowd roared and one of the bare-chested brutes withdrew the dreadful implement from the belt around his waist.
(c) Richard Savage, www.swage.net