I Belong To You by Lizbeth Dusseau
After an unexpected three-year interruption, Michelle Monroe begins her life anew as a documentary journalist—a major change from the hideous years she spent at the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists who toke her for sex. Freed by a sympathetic but dangerous soldier of fortune, Col. Daniel Broc, she’s determined to put the past to rest…to put aside dungeons, humiliation and pain…but can she? Will she be allowed to live without the threat hanging over her head?
She’s in love with Steven, an All-American gentleman and a skilled lover with a surprisingly kinky streak she can’t wait to explore. Life couldn’t be more perfect… that is until anonymous notes begin to arrive alluding to her past. She’s rightfully alarmed. As the torrid memories of her former life resurface, she obsessively seeks out risky sexual interludes with strangers in public places. And when Aman, a terrorist from that ‘other’ life, appears out nowhere to reclaim her as his submissive, she’s forced to submit to his villainous schemes, to torture and sexual exploitation, or risk the lives of those she loves. Her life with Steven must end. Only one small ray of hope remains in Daniel Broc, whose sudden reappearance is as unexpected as Aman’s. What does it mean? Is he there to take her as his own, or to set her free again?
Who will her life belong to when the war between these three men ends? To the savage Aman and his brand of abject deviancy? Or to Steven and the peaceful future he promises. Or to the Colonel, whose dark influence has never disappeared, despite time and distance. One thing is certain—Michelle can deny the truth no longer. She must dive back into the dark realms of submissive sexuality with the man who finally wins her.al The journey is a rough and torturous one for body and soul, exploring the dark heart of sexuity.
We were at Steven’s beach house a week ago, during a storm that shook the windows and turned poor Sam into a sniveling little beast, cowering in the corner, whimpering sadly.
That night I got as dark as I ever go with Steven when I pulled a rope from the kitchen drawer while searching for a flashlight. Sudden inspiration gave way to impulses I’d previously squelched in his presence.
“Want to play a game?” I asked when I returned to the living room.
He sat on the couch, smirking at me, which took on an appropriately evil look as thunder rattled the house and lightning brightened the room with flashes of brilliant white. He eyed my face and then the rope.
“That for you or me?” he asked cautiously.
“Me. You tie my hands behind my back and do terrible things to my body,” I said with a mischievous grin.
His smile grew bigger. I felt his consent. I knew then that this was the way to handle my fascination for dark, confining sex. Whimsy. Spontaneity. He’d never refuse me.
Of course, why not, the electricity was already out… no reading, no TV, no radio. There was little else to do but let the electric storm take charge. With Mother Nature happily cooperating, the game was on.
He took the rope from my hand, stood up and planted himself behind me, all one hundred and eighty pounds of thick muscle, firm flesh and testosterone-laden drive. I shivered from my shoulders to my toes as one hand feathered its way down from my neck to my behind, where he cupped the base of my ass and gave it a gentle squeeze. I never remember when he’d been more thrilling to me than at that moment and I surrendered to that touch. I closed my eyes—which did nothing to close out the flashes of lightning that intermittently tore through the room. My eyelids brightened, and I could feel the explosions in my crotch, almost as keenly as I felt Steven’s hand fondling my privates. He tied my hands behind me, looping the sisal around my wrists several times until they were securely bound. Then he moved in front of me, where his hands went under my t-shirt and he slowly raised the thin cotton over my breasts. My nipples clenched into knots as the air stirred around them. A tingle of excitement darted through me, as I realized that my boyfriend was witnessing a surrendering side of my personality he’d never seen, feeling my arousal in a whole new way.
“Do terrible things to your body,” he whispered between claps of thunder. “I wonder what that means?” He answered the question himself as his fingers closed in over my nipples and he began to squeeze with a biting pressure he’d never used before. As the pressure increased, so did the resulting pain. My breathing became more labored as I fought to hold back the whimpering cry that threatened at my lips.
He gave my nipples an extra twist before he let go.
“You’ve done this before,” I suggested.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered. “But right now, you’re supposed to be quiet.”
By whose rules? I wondered. Maybe he understood more than I gave him credit for.
We’ve only been together a little over six months—which seems like years, not months—I thought I had every corner of his sexual repertoire figured out, but perhaps not. Perhaps there is a dominant master lurking beneath the surface of my nice guy. Just my luck to never get away from sexual despots.
Steven left me standing with my eyes closed, while a disorienting mix of sound and sensation swirled around me. I could feel myself sway, my balance unsteady as if a hand were reaching toward me, subtly pushing me off my feet. Should I just fall back—or was the sofa even there? I couldn’t be sure and I couldn’t open my eyes. That would be cheating, my internal, made-up rules insisted. Before I toppled over, however, Steven returned to me, his lips meeting my lips with a kiss, one hand steadied me at the shoulder and the other pressed into my crotch.
Something white hot and chilling ripped at my clitoris. I flinched on instinct.
I struggled, thinking he’d lit my tiny sex bud on fire. But it wasn’t fire; it was ice, pressed so tightly against my clitoris until it burned the skin and that white-hot cold seeped into my bloodstream, carrying the artic blast into every inch of my shivering form. I jerked in an effort to get away, but couldn’t wrest from his tight hold. His arm circled my waist with visceral strength. No amount of kicking or screaming would free me, but I didn’t kick nor did I even attempt to scream—those were thoughts not actions, pictures in my mind but not how my body chose to react. Instead, the submissive switch in my psyche had been thrown. I returned to that other time when to balk could mean a fierce rebuke, to struggle meant more pain, not less, to scream would have resulted in a stunning slap across my cheek.
Did he know what he was doing? I kept wondering to myself.
© R C. Hörsch www.eroto.com