Soul Custody by Lizbeth Dusseau
Her obsessive lust drives Hayley Lyndon into torrid sex in stairwells with a Latin lover she hardly knows. Later, wracked by self-reproach and shame, she turns to her friend, Jeremiah, who will beat her in his dungeon. When that is not enough, she becomes the Professor’s sinning slut, redeemed only by enacting his nasty ritual of purifications, followed by groveling pain, punishment and sex. She belongs to all these men, and yet, none of them can give her what she really needs. Behind Hayley’s brash behaviors, she is a sad, naive and mixed-up girl in need of someone to care and take control of her life.
When Jeremiah suddenly refuses Hayley the deviant scene she wants, the enigmatic Pierre Dysart, volunteers to take her down. This shouldn’t surprise her, he’s always there in the background of her life, rattling her nerves and tying her stomach in knots with brooding looks. His sullen nature has her oddly aroused. The scholarly, light-skinned black man says he’s a Dom, but he’s like no Dom she’s ever known. Their session in the dungeon leaves her reeling, immobilized in a yoke, a knife slashing through her clothes and the demanding man forcing her to look him in the eye as he brings to the bitter edge of orgasmic pain. Pierre takes her further than any man has...and then demands so much more.
Hayley wants him now more than ever, but to have him, he requires she give him not just her body and mind, but custody of her soul. For a girl who can’t trust herself or the men in her life, is this possible? Can she do what he asks? Give up the others, submit to him in front of his friends, confess the humiliation of her dark past, and finally open herself to love? It would be the hardest thing she’s ever done.
He laughs aloud and hits the countertop hard with a glass. I practically jump from my skin. “Leave your clothes in the upstairs hall and get yourself downstairs, slut.”
Unsure, I hesitate. The pokerfaced Black man gives the scene a unique twist, making me oddly afraid. I shouldn’t care. I’ve been naked before strangers more times than I can count. Am I wrong to think he is not as disinterested as he looks with his solemn face stuck in his newspaper?
Jeremiah hates being made to wait—especially when he’s doing a female a favor. Scowling, he reaches over the bar and grabs my throat in his large hand, squeezing enough to shake me back to life. “Now!” he says tersely.
I practically fall off the stool getting to my feet, and move directly toward the far left corner of the coffee bar where the stairwell to the basement is walled off in a small alcove. It’s not much privacy, but it’s all I have as I slip out of my shoes, then strip away my winter coat, my best red sweater, and my jeans. I left off my underwear when I left my apartment this morning, as if I was beginning the script then in anticipations of the final act now.
I am a fair-skinned blonde with hazel eyes, about five feet six inches tall, pretty average. Right now, my shoulder-length hair is wildly disheveled. I think Jeremiah likes it that way. My breasts hang out, jiggling softly against my chest, nipples responding to the draft of air seeping through the old building. I remember one lover telling me that I have a body made for sex—tight in the right places, but curvaceous where it counts, hips, ass and voluptuous breasts, as good as a 1950’s Playboy pinup when women had flesh enough to hold. I don’t know what makes me think of that lover now since; if I don’t want to make Jeremiah mad, I need to get downstairs.
I don’t know if either man sees me naked, because I won’t look back before I hurry down the rickety staircase, shivering until my teeth chatter. My belly makes a weird jolt as the damp musk hits my nostrils. I think of this subterranean maze as the gateway to hell. In winter, the ancient oil furnace clangs in erratic ear-splitting rhythms, sort of mimics the bad hard metal that plays in the background of most dungeon play. Once hitting bottom, I wind my way in the dark along the narrow stone path toward the punishment room, feeling my way with my hands, mice and spiders surely following in my tentative footsteps. Suddenly, the corridor is awash with a feral glow. Jeremiah turned on the lights, thank God.
For a second I linger, my body hugging the stone bricks. Every nerve ending has come alive, so what I touch feels like fingers grasping to take hold of me. My pussy aches; my belly spasms. My breaths come in ragged gasps, while my mouth is parched with the taste of sex. I keep close to the stone, enjoying its support. And for a moment, my hips gyrate against the scratchy granite, imitating the motions of fucking. The more the rough surface scratches my belly, the more I want it cutting into me. I stop to feel a wave of orgasm that’s been dallying at my sex for days rise up threateningly. I could come right here without Jeremiah’s help, but we’d both be pissed.
Thankfully, my friend abruptly intervenes, grabbing my hair and shaking me from the erotic splendor just before I hit the edge. He thrusts me the rest of the way down the corridor to the Hall of Retribution—the space he so aptly named, where from every angle the tools of punishment hang in ominous array, inert now, but like jackals awaiting prey.
“What a bitch you are!” Jeremiah comments. I see with some relief that he’s alone.
I know my friend resents the way I come into his Coffee Bar: knowing that with a little pussy power, I can always finagle a trip to his dungeon. I don’t recall he’s ever refused me, although I prefer not to think of what it means to have him so easily won—it would destroy the headspace I have so meticulously carved—Jeremiah in charge as I surrender.
He locks my wrists in iron manacles, while my cunt drips its expectation down my inner thighs.
“You’re hurting bad, huh?” he taunts.
He’s noticed. “Rough week,” I say.
“Any particular reason?”
“I saw Daniel Mulray yesterday.”
I’m so glad that I don’t need to explain more. He knows my neurosis, my psychosis, my hysteria, insanity, obsessions and phobias. He understands silently why I need him now.
I’m bound to the stone wall, arms high, feet wide, and my waist strapped to the cold surface. In seconds, the chilling cold climbs into my belly where it joins the gnawing ache that keeps up a restive residence beside its companion—sexual fervor.
I make the wall my lover as the first talons of Jeremiah’s braided cat slash across my shoulders. My empty, open pussy hungers for each searing shock of pain and clenches taut. He pauses and I jiggle inside the bondage to settle my body and shake out the tiny discomforts. I feel his energy now. I sense his emotions running high, gearing up for the long battle with me. I’ll wear him out before I scream the first, “Stop, please stop!”, which, of course, he’ll refuse to acknowledge.
This pain feeds my pulsing sex. I dance around the orgasm for a time, supremely content to have Jeremiah back off to quell the urgency, only to drive on again with this wicked cat o’ nine tails. I feel his blows all over my body, my back and shoulders, my thighs, my calves, my ass. Oh, how my ass burns!
Harder, I want it harder!
(c) Oleg Sizonenko, http://artnude.net