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Little Savage

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Little Savage by Lizbeth Dusseau

The waifish Lisle has been a sex slave, serving the reclusive Baron Brauer at his estate located in a remote woods outside Washington DC. When she’s not collared, caged and used by her master and his friends, she roams the vast estate like a feral child. When Brauer dies after an extended illness, his heirs hire the Baron’s friend Marcus Rathburn to purge the estate all traces of Brauer’s perverted lifestyle. Slaves scatter, dungeons are dismantled, and the contents sold at auction, which leaves the elusive Lisle the sole remnant from Brauer’s kinky life. After several unsuccessful attempts to remove the wild girl from the property, Marcus enlists the help of his friend Daniel Broc, a former mercenary who once ran a slave trading operation in the Middle East. He gave up that life two years before and now lives in Georgetown while working for the Pentagon. Though dominating women still comes naturally to the rugged sadist, he no long wants anything to do with owning slaves.

At the Brauer estate, Daniel finds Lisle to be a puzzling creature: vulnerable, impulsive and stubborn. Though she puts up a fight, he’s able to extract the girl, which is all that Marcus asked for. However, the Domme who agreed to take her is totally unprepared for the silent, moody slave. Convinced that the situation is headed for disaster, Daniel decides to keep her until Marcus can find a better arrangement.

Daniel and Lisle are misfits in polite society, mirror images of the other in their sexual passions. Although Daniel resists becoming this girl’s master, he knows there’s no one more capable of handling the explosive and secretive female. Their tempestuous relationship is fraught with sexual tension, which sends them hurling into the extremes of sex they both love and need. However, Daniel’s houseguest is far more than she first appears. He’s shocked to learn that Brauer sold her before he died, money was exchanged, and now the buyer is out to find his missing property. With her life in danger, Daniel must act fast to keep her safe.


“On your knees, whore!” he cut her off with his curt command splitting the air.
She gazed at him dazed, shaken, hesitating a moment too long.
“I said, on your knees, whore.” He came at her like a beast, eyes flashing as he smacked her cheek with the palm of his hand. She reeled back, defenseless, confused. Off balance, she teetered in her high heels then collapsed to the marble floor, on her knees, at his feet. She looked up, praying for mercy.
But there was none from the man hovering above her, angry and bullish. And no explanation.
“Strip, slut!”
She blanched in horror, anxiously gazing upward from one man to the other, from the man in the business suit to the Texas mercenary Daniel Broc who she’d come to see. Once her eyes caught Daniel’s, they wouldn’t waver. The rugged face, the square cut jaw, the cool blue eyes would always hold her enthralled. The man was a rock. A force of nature. A cowboy, a maverick—muscled body, barrel-chested, fit, hard-boiled and as cynical as the life he led. He would have been better suited to an earlier century when men were men and women knew their place…that sort of thing.
Seeing little response from the terrified woman, he snatched a four-foot whip from the hall table and snapped it against her nyloned thigh. She flinched, but panic struck, she didn’t budge until he snapped the whip against her arm, then her thigh and back and forth, until she began to back further away with each strike. “Strip, slut!” Her clothes protected her from the pain that would have seared the flesh had he hit bare skin, but nothing could protect her from the furious emotion that fueled the man’s attack.
She tried the buttons on her coat but her fingers refused to work. “Daniel, please!”
The whip lashed out again and she backed up another six inches. “Please, nothing, bitch. I said strip!” He delivered the message for the third time with another slash across her thighs—still sufficiently protected by her slim skirt.
He glared at her, she glared at him. “Stop with the fucking whip and I’ll do what you want,” she finally lashed back. The fury in her rose like a storm down a riverbed.
“And you stop with the fucking theatrics. And don’t go telling me you’re in pain, I know better, you smart-mouthed masochist. Strip down now on your own or I’ll string you up and lash you till your clothes are nothing but shreds.”
Her dazed mind tried to make sense of the assault, but time warped in a curious loop; she was back in the sand, the desert, amongst the terrorists and thieves who stole her life for three years. She stared into the eyes of the man responsible for that grueling ordeal and suddenly her hands flew to her jacket, then the blouse, removing them both, then they continued their struggling effort to remove her skirt, her bra, her panties and pantyhose as he drove her back to the far end of the hallway, the whip cutting and slashing every bit of bare flesh she uncovered until her body was streaked with red. Cornered, there was no retreat left, no way to stave off the flailing weapon that struck her thighs and ass, even her breasts when she jerked enough to expose them. She fought him all the way in a yanking, tugging, groaning battle. Finally crouched in the corner with her back to the man and his snapping whip, she took a steady rain of blows across her shoulders, jerking as she did before, though not as violently. As the whip raised welt after welt on her flawless flesh something in her spirit eased. Letting go the need to fight the man her body wilted. Something bigger than pain and horror took charge, and so surrendered, for nearly a minute she succumbed to the blows and welcomed each one as if they could drive away whatever demon was clinging to her soul.
When he stopped, she took a deep breath, but it wasn’t time enough to recover before he delivered his next command.
“On your knees, Monroe. On your hands and knees.”
With no fight left, no will at all, she untangled herself from the corner and struggled to assume the position he demanded. Her pantyhose were bunched around her ankles, snarled inside her shoes, and she twisted around to remove them.
“Leave them be,” he snapped. “Just crawl.”
She gazed up, meeting his hard-edged eyes and fearsome scowl. She felt him claw his way inside her, with his invisible hand grabbing her sex and shaking it. A man in control was her aphrodisiac and her cunt exploded in spasms just knowing how he viewed her lowly crawl.
In small steps she made the awkward journey across his marble floor to the living room, to the comfort of the rug between the facing sofas and the bright rays of sunlight streaming through the front windows. The two men followed her in, Daniel snapping the whip against her ass from time to time to keep her moving, his companion along for the ride. Daniel whipped her till she reached the center of the room where the hot sun burned a hole in the ancient carpet.
“On your feet!” He ripped off the crisp command and her battle began anew.
With the tangle of shoes and pantyhose frustrating her attempts to rise, he barked

Artist Credit

© victor zastol'skiy - Fotolia.com

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Product Reviews

  1. Slave-girl novel...

    Posted by K. W. on 9th Nov 2010

    Little Savage is about the best slave-girl novel I've read; on par with or better than The Story of O (Blasphemy!)

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