Property of the Marquis by Lizbeth Dusseau
Six months after her husband Erik’s death in a plane crash, the lovely Laney still wears the bracelet that he gave her before his death. With Property of the Marquis inscribed on the platinum band, the bracelet demands her willing sexual submission to those in the Marquis’ circle. With every touch of the shiny band, she’s reminded of the vacation three years before, when she and her friends Sandra and Elise were stranded on the deserted Marquis Island. Aided by the shocking Marquis’ Book of Pleasure, they were turned into sexual deviants—bound, whipped, and used.
For Laney and Erik, the bracelet became an extension of their Dom/sub relationship. Now haunted by that memory and determined to find the anonymous Marquis, Laney returns to Marquis Island. Not only does she steal the Book of Pleasure and the Marquis’ diary from the library, her guide, a seemingly humble fisherman, Alex Greenwood, turns into a formidable dominant, who knows a good deal more about the bracelet and Marquis than she first suspected.
Now, with a vague idea of the Marquis’ whereabouts, Laney travels to Paris for a run-in with a brusque and punishing bookseller. Then on a trip to Prague, the rule of the bracelet forces her to submit to a sexy couple on the train. In Prague, Laney is taken to a country house, where she’s interrogated and sexually tormented by the Marquis' enemies.
That is, until her theft of the Marquis’ books finally comes back to haunt her. Only when she’s punished for this crime will the man who owns her take charge of her. Only then can she fulfill the promise she made to her husband when she first agreed to wear the band that would make her subject forever to the rules of masters. A suspenseful journey into the arcane and seductive world of the leather underground, where with every turn there are missteps to be made and much to atone for, much to which this wanting submissive must surrender.
Although this book reprises characters from Lizbeth’s novel, The Marquis’ Book of Pleasure, it stands alone as a unique and steamy journey into the psychological and sexual drama of this unique lifestyle.
“You don’t you remember what happened on Marquis Island?” Laney tried again.
“Of course, I do,” she shot out, as if she was trying hard to forget. “What good is it to talk about…”
“We get stranded in a storm,” Sandra cut her off, “the boat won’t start, and suddenly we’re captive to Jason, Matthew and Erik, imprisoned in a strange house with that strange caretaker Archibald Devane and his vile book.” Suddenly she’s a little dreamy, staring trace-like into the fire. “Chapter by chapter we followed the path of some mysterious Marquis, and were turned into sex slaves…stripped, bound, beaten…used …” Each word and her voice softened a little more.
“Sandra, dear, do you think we could forget?” Elise tried again to stop her, speaking plainly, but maybe a little too curt.
“I want to talk about it,” she declared, but her declaration was met with silence. Sandra looked up. “I have to talk about it. It’s impossible to forget—you’d think by now…. If I mention it to Jason, he just shrugs it off and when the three of us have been together—which has hardly happened—it sits like an elephant in the room that no one sees.”
“As I recall, Sandra,” Laney said, “you and Elise were both quick to write the experience off when I brought it up a few months after we got back.”
“Well, that was a stupid thing to do,” Sandra said flatly. “Although maybe that day, it wasn’t stampeding through my mind. But it has often enough since.”
“Really? Like how often?” Laney asked.
“Often enough that we shouldn’t be sweeping it under the rug like that vacation from hell didn’t exist.”
“You thought it was hell?” Laney probed.
Sandra waited to answer, then shrugged. “Depends on my mood.”
“And what has made your mood so dour today?” Elise asked.
Sandra’s tone changed. Her blue eyes danced with amusement and her lips formed a pouty smirk. She made them wait, their anticipation turning the thick, fragrant air electric.
“I saw Essex yesterday.”
“What!” Laney leaned forward, while Elise’s eyes shot open.
Sandra sat back and smiled smugly, her fleshy body seemed to jiggle with satisfaction. Now she had their attention. She stared directly at Elise, whose eyes still shone with agitated fear.
“You remember, don’t you?” Sandra said. “He enslaved you, Elise, the way Darius enslaved me and that nasty Mistress Gina turned Laney’s world on end.”
Elise appeared to shake off her alarm. “Of course, I remember him, Sandra,” Elise spoke ardently in an attempt to placate her troubled friend. Of course, she remembered Essex, the proper gentleman, the sadist, the master who bound her to a rack, beat her body raw and fist-fucked her ass to an orgasm she could never drive from her thoughts. Essex, who with Master Darius had branded all three women as properties, as slaves forever in the world of Marquis Island. “And you’ve seen him?”
“How did that happen?” Elise was now all ears. Her heart was feverishly thumping, and her pussy clenched and moistened…just the sound of Essex’ name…
Laney seemed hardly surprised at all that the man would reappear in the world of their real lives. In fact, she was surprised that this hadn’t happened sooner.
“You remember, Elise,” Sandra spoke, “when you said you wanted to have a tattoo added to your brand, something to disguise it?”
“I never did,” Elise said.
“Well, I tried to. I went to three tattoo artists. The first acted like he was scared of it, the second man just shook his head and said he didn’t do that kind of work, the third recognized the style of brand. He touched it admiringly and said something like, ‘This is a slave brand, isn’t it?’ The look in my eyes must have given me away because I know I didn’t answer him. Then he said, ‘You don’t tamper with a brand like this.’ I was spooked. I finally blurted out something stupid like, ‘How do you know that?’ His twisted smile made me want to run for cover. Like any minute I’d have whips and floggers raining terror down on me. I was so horny, I could hardly stand myself. In fact, I masturbated as soon as I got back in my car. Right in the parking lot behind the tattoo parlor, next to that old surplus store on 8th St.. I didn’t care if the neighborhood drunks were staring at me.”
(c) Erick Seben-Meyer www.photographe-de-mode.com