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She'll Come Crawling

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She'll Come Crawling by Lizbeth Dusseau

On a desolate country road, Annabelle finds a beautiful barefoot waif wandering aimlessly. It seems she's running away from Breckenhurst - a strange gothic mansion that rises from the flat Northern plains, inspiring wild gossip in the curious townspeople. They are certain there are strange sexual goings-on inside the sober walls. If they only knew the terrible truth!

After burgers and shakes in Kat's Diner, the waif, Sylvie, drops beneath the table and licks Annabelle's cunt to a hot unexpected climax. Bewildered, but intrigued by the girl, Annabelle takes her home, thinking she just might fit into the kinky lifestyle she shares with her boyfriend, Eric. Annabelle's no stranger to S&M; ruthless BDSM sex has been one cure for the persistent demons that make her life restless and discontent. At first, Eric loves having another willing female in the house, especially because this one is so utterly submissive. But later, when he takes off for a new job and expects Annabelle to follow, she refuses to go with him, saying Sylvie needs her. He's pissed. But he suspects, rightly, that it's not Sylvie who keeps his girlfriend tethered. It's the tales Sylvie's told her of Lawton Hurst and the mysterious Breckenhurst, that have his desperate girlfriend ready to crawl there on her knees.

Hurst attracts women like flies, all drawn to him for his dark sexual visions and his willingness to dominate willing females. Deciding to return Sylvie to where she belongs, Annabelle arrives at Breckenhurst, only to find that she cannot leave. The man's powerful allure holds her captive. One hour in his midst and she knows he will take her to the hard extremes of submission, in hopes of forever purging her of the dark past that haunts her life.

The two clash in a lusty battle of wills that sees Annabelle surrendering in ways as savage as her fiery anger. Readers looking for hard S&M, bondage, punishment, exhibitionism, public sex, human pony training, and orgies will find it all in this compelling story.


Next thing I know, Eric has me by the nape of the neck, pulling me upright. The coiled rope in his hand throws me; although it’s not coiled for long. The pool cue clatters to the floor as he captures my small hands in his large ones and binds them behind my back.
“Not in here!” Grady shouts from behind the bar.
“Your shed will do just fine,” Eric calls back.
He pushes me through a crowd of our friends, my puffed up chest straining the buttons on my sleeveless shirt, breast flesh jingling in a show of titillating angst. It’s hot; the bar swelters in the heat of activity. Beads of sweat run into the valley between my tits. I’m panting, hardly able to catch my breath. I falter in my three inch heels but Eric keeps pushing me forward.
I see snickering faces all around me until I close my eyes, but I can’t stop the catcalls from infecting my pride.
“Ooo my, looks like Annabelle’s going down tonight,” some raspy voice I recognize calls out, sneeringly. Lucas Dort drunk on his ass.
Outside, I drink in a breath of fresh air. But the humiliation doesn’t end as the bar door slams behind us. A small crowd of rough bearded faces turn our way with curiosity leaking from their leering eyes. They’ll get malicious, just like the man who owns my body now. But he steers me through the dozen loitering men with their smokes and beer to the shed behind the bar. I’ve been here at least twice before that I remember—but everything, past and present, is a fuzzy haze right now. None of those previous trips were quite as public as this one.
“Don’t we get to watch?” Kevin Darcy calls out as the shed door starts to close.
“Get your own slut to punish!” Eric calls back at him.
The air is close inside the shed, where now I’m part of the atmosphere, the tools, the stacked wood, the broken-down snow blower and decaying bikes—the kind of bikes with motors and lots of varoom when they were new. Grady’s good one, the polished Harley, sits beside his backdoor — there for fast getaways, maybe, though it’s never stored in this place of abandoned plans and forsaken dreams.
Eric pushes me down with his big firm hand, while the other hand draws the leather from around his waist. I stumble, trying to maintain my balance in my favorite heels. He handles that issue swiftly by shoving me against the prickly bark of Grady’s firewood. My skirt’s too short to hide much, especially when I’m bent at the waist. My hands stay firmly tied behind me, so I’ll take the punishment awkwardly, bear it with nothing to cling to.
I hear catcalls from outside as the crowd collectively waits for the action to begin.
They don’t wait long and neither do I. A sudden draft of air precedes the first smack on my naked derriere. Eric lets that burning shot linger—that is, after all, his trademark. A warning, I’ve always thought, because it just gets worse from there. Following the first strike are the hard, cruel waves upon waves of fiery smacks that blister my butt from top to bottom. I don’t dare make a sound, as Eric’s leather belt connects with my ass at the base and the tender sweet spot that hurts like hell at times like this. Don’t think I don’t want to howl like a banshee. But I won’t; I never do. My pride is too important to me.
I feel the burn all way inside me where it churns up sex and rage simultaneously. I want more; I feed on this. This want — this raging, needy want pours through me; my soul’s been begging for this for days. I come back to this moment of pain and rage again and again to expunge the tempestuous ache that never seems to completely leave me. A fix for my addiction, Eric tells me. It’s no surprise I’m getting it now considering how badly behaved I’ve been in the last week. Despite the terrific pain that rises up all around me, through every pore and nerve and fibre of my being, that finally makes me gasp aloud — I don’t cry out. I clench my fists inside the cutting rope, futilely fighting against it, until my wrists are scraped and bruised.
Eric stops the punishment to bark at me. “You’re not gonna win this one, Annabelle!”
Dammit I will! My inner demon speaks, but no one hears but me.
I fight on and the strap continues its belligerent smacking. Eric’s powerful arm comes down again and again; the pain almost makes me numb. One minute, there’s nothing but pain, the next, from deep within me, my sexual fires explode. I wrench in spasms. Eric suddenly drops the belt and pulls me to his groin where, magically, his erection spears me to the heart. His hands reach up under my shirt and grasp my breasts, pinching nipples as he does, sending more pain through my beleaguered nerves. I gasp with sudden pleasure, feeling lifted from the damage, the terror, the well-deserved anguish to a place where nothing matters but my cumming body and the man hammering my cunt. I feel him hard and strong behind me, a force that seems to gobble me inside its dominant attitude. I feel small this way, insignificant, and won’t come down from the adrenalin frenzy of my personal horror—at least for the next hour. The effect will last for days, if I’m lucky a week or two.
Our rasping voices cry in unison as Eric spews his seed in me, leaving it as a reminder of his ownership. When he’s done with me, he pulls out and turns me around by grabbing my hair.
“Don’t you dare lie to me again, Annabelle,” he says. A warning.
“No, hon, promise. I’m so so sorry.”

Artist Credit

(c) RC Horsche, www.eroto.com

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Product Reviews

  1. Posted by Lancelot Knight on 23rd Apr 2010

    She'll Come Crawling by Lizbeth Dusseau
    Reviewed by Lancelot Knight, Copyright (c) 2004

    Lizbeth Dusseau has built a reputation as an explorer of the psychological nuances of submission and SM. Dusseau is, as well, a gifted storyteller whose stories unfold seamlessly, effortlessly and swiftly.

    In this latest tale, Annabelle is in a relationship that is not entirely satisfying to her. Her boyfriend Eric dominates her, but she struggles against it, torments him with her willful disobedience. Like many submissives she at once wants and doesn’t want to admit her submission. In any case, she cannot deny that she blossoms under the hard and rough sex he provides her.

    While she struggles with her not to-be-denied needs, Anabelle picks up a waif-like submissive from the side of the road. Sylvie revels in her submission and she provides plenty of sex for both Eric and Anabelle. Sylvie has fled from Breckenhurst, a strange gothic mansion. There are rumors in town of strange goings on, of sexual slavery and beatings. The place is presided over by the mysterious Lawton Hurst.

    Gradually, hearing the tales of life at Breckenhurst from Sylvie, Anabelle cannot deny that she is attracted to the place and its mysterious master.

    In disgust, Eric leaves her, and Anabelle is free(?) to return Sylvie to Breckenhurst and explore her own special desires. Anabelle discovers that the mansion and its Master hold up a mirror for her to understand her own past and her self.

    Brief mention should be made about the cover art for the Pink Flamingo books. Very professionally done, the covers are provocative and alluring. A great addition to great stories! It is touches like these that set Pink Flamingo books considerably above the standard reads in the field.

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