I Belong To You

I Belong To You by Lizbeth Dusseau ISBN 13: 978-1-934349-73-1 ISBN 10: 1-934349-73-9 A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication All rights reserved Copyright ©2009 Lizbeth Dusseau No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher. For information contact: Pink Flamingo Publications www.pinkflamingo.com P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083 USA Email Comments: lizbeth@pinkflamingo.com Cover Art "Gold" © R C Hörsch www.eroto.com Prologue I haven't a care in the world when I'm in this place. White sand slithers between my toes as I make footprints down the beach. Wind blows kindly against my skin. Sam, my mongrel retriever, barks excitedly as he rushes toward me with a lump of driftwood in his mouth, which he drops at my feet before playfully kissing my face with his wet tongue. The surf crashes delivering up a fine mist that covers my arms and I smile. I am determinedly peaceful. When I look toward the bluffs, for just an instant my smile fades into a frown of uneasiness. I think for a minute that I see his silhouette against the watery blue sky, but then it's gone. That is all that Kovac is to me now, a faint apparition that I see in dreams and against the unfettered sky, or fleetingly on a busy street one arm's length too far away for me to touch. He died eighteen months ago, victim of a car crash, which left me without a lover, a friend, a companion, a savior and my master. My heart broke. My life crashed around me. My world of dangerous lust and of verboten pleasures disintegrated into dust as if it had never been. I lost the liberty I felt in the arms of s****l surrender because I lost the comfort of Kovac's strength keeping me safe. Kovac had been my anchor, the force that put me back together after three horrifying years of captivity in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. Abducted from the Orient Express traveling from Bucharest to Istanbul while filming a documentary, I became a slave, trained to be the s****l servant for those who take pleasure in the defilement of women. I would still be the property of a sadistic master if a miracle had not intervened to bring me safely home. I was a beaten and defeated woman then, but Kovac took this freed slave and returned her whole to the civilized world. He gave me hope and love and tenderness. He did all that, while at the same time honoring the great discovery I made during the time I was enslaved. He honored the woman of submission I had become and allowed me to accept the submissive elements of my character I never knew existed. He molded my new freedom with chains and bondage, reshaped my liberated mind with comforting authority, and created a consensual slave to fit the customs of the day. He offered a new, palatable form of captivity right for a sane and enlightened time. I thought our life would last forever, that this relationship was the gift God had given me for surviving a trial no woman should face. Obviously, God wasn't finished with me because Kovac died, and once again, I was required to put an intensely passionate segment of my life into rational perspective and continue on down another path. Such rational perspective became surprisingly easy once my initial grief passed. I believe now that I would have fallen into the gutters of despair had Kovac not found me soon after my return to the United States. And yet, there is something strangely reasonable about his death. As if he were no more than an angel, descended for the one task of restoring me to the real world, Kovac appeared in my life, completed his work, and then unceremoniously left, certain that I could handle the rest on my own. Of course, my life changed greatly when he died. But oddly, I picked myself up, dusted away the old and moved on. With greater ease than I ever expected, I packed up my life with Kovac like old clothes taken to the basement and stored. I began anew, wiggling back into the skin of an independent woman with her head on straight and her eyes focused keenly on a benevolent and productive future. I made up my mind then, eighteen months ago, that the s****l submission I needed under Kovac's guidance was necessary closure—in colloquial terms—a way to resurface after three years away and find strength before I could resume a normal life. The idea that my life couldn't be normal after being conquered by cruel terrorists was simply not true. He was merely a bridge to the present, a necessary one that I will think of fondly as the years pass. Even now, as I gaze toward the bluff with the idea that Kovac will suddenly appear again, my mind flashes even further back in time, where the imprint of that other man haunts my boundless skies. In truth, it's his face I hope to see, not Kovac's. It's his face I look for in crowds, not that of my just deceased master. It's Daniel Broc's that I imagine appearing out of nowhere. I may miss Kovac—the fact that he was taken from me so abruptly stills stuns me. But while he set my mind right after the cruel brutality I endured from the slave traders, he was not the man who reached into my heart, my guts, my loins and shook the foundations of my psyche with holy terror. He was not the man who raised the animal, the voluptuary and the seductive temptress that I am. It was Daniel Broc—an Ivy League educated Texan turned brutal mercenary—who found lurking inside me a brain and body fettered by 20 century rules, a woman of substance, humanity, humility and s****l power. And quite oddly, it was Daniel Broc—the antithesis of what we hold dear in a rational society—who taught me that I could love deeply with my whole heart, not part of it; Broc, who gave me the ability to love the other men who would replace him. I am content that I will live the rest of my life with neither Broc or Kovac at my side, or above me as my master. They are both pieces of the past. The chains, the collar, the corset and the whips have been gladly given to the Salvation Army for impoverished dungeon connoisseurs. I, Michelle Monroe, am on a different path now. I am nearly engaged to Steven Vanderberg—whose beach retreat this is—a decent, solid citizen, a kind and generous soul. He's All-American clean-cut, with an affable grin and a frequent twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. He is the kind of man to love forever, to change for, to accommodate and to inspire—he tells me frequently how I inspire him with my enthusiasm for reinventing my life, since I've done it so many times—I'm afraid he doesn't know the half of it! I trust his eventempered calm to wrap me in a safe cocoon, just as his steely arms and muscled chest hold me safe. He's a health guru, a body-builder, a man grace as much as might, seamlessly perfect, while unapologetically self-effacing. I could even indulge myself in the romantic fantasy that perhaps he's the one God has been preparing me for. But then, it's far too soon to tell. If I've learned anything, it's to count on nothing. I used to think that sitting at the feet of a master was an end in itself, that whippings and s****l servitude were a calling in me so deep that I couldn't live without it. But apparently, that's not true. I put away the trappings of servitude along with my kinky ideas and am perfectly content with normalcy. I still occasionally hope for Daniel Broc. But even that is rare anymore—just like this brief moment when I'm caught off guard staring toward the rugged New England bluffs. That faint hope will pass through my thoughts with only the tiniest ripple of regret. Steven seems to be all I need now. I remain watchful. I know that any minute, that warm rain of contentment may turn cold. A creepy premonition hits and the back of my neck tingles for just an instant of warning. Perhaps I'm not yet done with my life's grand adventures, and perhaps my past is not yet through with me. Chapter One "Sunny, my God, you're flushed. What happened?" I remark, as my assistant rushes in the door, looking disheveled, self-conscious and confused. "Nothing, Shelly, nothing." She continues her flustered movement around my desk, gathering files, sorting through documents, looking harried and nervous. We're in the process of producing a documentary on city life seen through the eyes of the twentysomething generation. Street life, clubs, kink joints, drugs, concerts, poetry jams, dance, art, and s****l habits are all familiar to my twenty-something assistant. They should be familiar to me too, but then my life was interrupted, and I'm only finally catching on. I watch the girl move around me erratically. "You're lying," I say evenly, my voice taking on the appropriate authority to get her attention. "Something's wrong." She stops herself immediately. "Wrong? No, nothing's wrong." Her eyes are wide and unfocused, staring beyond me and my desk. You'd think she'd seen a ghost. "Why don't you sit down?" I tell her. "I thought we needed to go over the story boards and copy for the street scene." "We do, but that can wait. Sit down." I point to the chair next to my desk. Sunny's dressed to match her name today, in a bright yellow, but simply tailored dress. Despite its ordinary design, she manages to make it look quite sexy. There is something about her abundantly lush body that must require its carnal features be plainly evident. Her curves stretch the fabric of her dress ever so slightly across her hips and chest as if her flesh is spilling from the seams. I find her pleasingly alluring, sometimes wishing I could just once kiss her full mouth, draw her into my aura, settle her there and kiss all that slutty beauty with the admiration I feel. I'd love to feel her breasts, those perfectly rounded pillows of fleshy down, and run my hands along her curvaceous hips. She has a 21 century look, while I'm still back in the 90's. The 90's were a pivotal time in my life, why not stay a little stuck there? Sunny's short spiky hair, oddly colored lips and nails, clunky high heels—sometimes stilettos, but not when she's on the run like she is today. She's experimentation, androgynous s*x, motorcycles, Cadillacs, sugar daddies and alternative bands, rap music and soulful jazz. She's also my assistant and a damn good one as long as she's steered right. She's fearless—will do anything, which makes her perfect for the job of getting in people's faces. But I have to keep her on track, which is important right now. We have deadlines and I can't have her going off the deep end. If she gets too rattled, she sometimes drinks too much; if she drinks too much, she'll have to sleep it off and we lose valuable time. "Don't tell me there's nothing wrong, hon. I know you too well." And I do. She sighs in a way that wilts her body into a sensuous mass of smoldering energy. "I've just had the most amazing experience of my life!" she rolls her eyes and smiles mysteriously. Since I've heard this line every week I've known her, I don't get too excited by the exclamation. "Tell me," I say drolly. We've gone through this routine before. "No, honestly," she leans closer, as if there might be someone listening, which is impossible. We're in my private office and the secretary is ten feet away on the other side of the closed door. "I've been," she nervously nods her head back and forth which makes her whole body jiggle erotically, "you know, sort of dabbling. Met this amazing guy at Stony's Café today—well I actually met him on the Internet first, about three weeks ago. We've been exchanging the most amazing email." She stops to see if I'll judge her. I don't, much too early for that. "Anyway, we met for lunch." Her hazel eyes get big again. I stare at her funky hair, wondering exactly what color is natural. Today it's a harsh red-brown. She must have put a new rinse on it last night. Yesterday it was an orange blonde. I like this better. "He's really big into controlling. You know, that searing look, the hawk-like eyes, the heavy voice, contemptuous—in all the right ways." Her voice lowers again, "I'm so wet in my crotch I'm going stain the chair. He made me take off my panties right there in the restaurant." I refrain from smirking. "You could put them back on," I suggest. "No!" She looks at me in disbelief. "I can't do that. He's ordered me not to, besides he kept them." She quivers with excitement, which starts to affect me in familiar ways. I feel my body react. I should expect this, although it seems so juvenile. Fun, maybe. But at thirty-four, I'm a generation once removed from games like this one—unless it's just my past ruining the idea. "And what else did he do?" He made me get off, you know, play with myself. Right there in the middle of the Stony's lunch crowd." "Any one see?" "Oh dear, I hope not. We were in a booth, and I was next to the wall with my sweater over my lap." "Did you scream?" "Shelly!" I'm not usually this forthcoming about s****l matters. Of course, Sunny is being particularly blunt today. "Just curious," I shrug. "I'm thinking 'When Harry Met Sally'. You remember the scene?" "Oh, God no!" "So what's all this mean? New boyfriend?" "Shelly, this is serious, really serious. I've never felt like this before. I hear his voice in my head, every thought I think, every move I make, I feel him with me, his eyes roving my skin, combing my thoughts." "You love him?" "Love him?" The word has her baffled. "Yeah, love him." "That's a strange question." "Why? Or you're just doing this for thrills?" "I don't think so," she reflects on the idea as though it's never crossed her mind. "I think I could love him. But that isn't what's important." "No?" "No. It's the submission. I've never wanted these things before, but I do now. I mean being under the control of a man… I know it sounds unenlightened. But—" she's been almost trance-like and comes-to talking directly to my face, "you think all this kinky, dungeon, slave stuff is dumb, don't you?" "Why would I think that?" "I don't know, I just get this funny feeling from you." "It's not dumb, Sunny. You'd be surprised how sexually enlightened I am." She rolls her eyes and sports an insipid grin. "Anything is okay with me as along as it doesn't effect your work. That clear?" "You're the boss." "All right then, let's get to work." Settling Sunny down is as easy as listening to the events of her life, some of which are more astounding than others. And while this one isn't exactly astounding, it does have a clear effect on me. I'd hoped I'd be immune by now. But obviously not. "Oh, by the way, this was stuffed in the mailbox," she turns to me, handing me an envelope with my name printed on the front—hand delivered; there's no stamp, no address, no return address. The phone rings before I have time to open it, so I open my bottom desk drawer and stuff it into my purse for later. Steven knows I was taken hostage while filming a documentary about the legendary Orient Express. He knows I was kept captive for three years, eventually released by a sympathetic captor who decided I should be freed. But that's all he knows. He knows nothing about the s****l slavery I was trained for, how I was used by dozens of men and eventually sold to a rich businessman to serve as his slave. I refuse to tell him the more lurid details of my captivity. I fear his empathy for my situation will disappear when the details get crude, and they would get crudely graphic. He'd question me. He'd want to know more, but I don't have the stomach for going into it again. I went through it all with Kovac. He combed through every nook and cranny of my memory and heard every salacious and terrifying tale. But he was the only one who knew the whole story, and he was the only one who ever will! What scares me most of all with Steven, or any other man, is the story behind the bare facts, the mixed emotions, the anger, the fear and the desire so raw that even now it raises strange feelings in me—like when I hear Sunny talking about s****l submission. Yes, I have accepted that submissive side of myself that loved the incarceration and the servitude, but I doubt that any man, other than Kovac, could accept the whole truth, and not just accept but celebrate that truth. I figure that now there's so much more of me to celebrate. s****l submission is a just a part I can play with now and then, but it need be no more than that. 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 s*x. Whimsy. Spontaneity. He'd never refuse me. "Why not?" 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 n*****s 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 n*****s 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 n*****s 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 s****l 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 s****l 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 c******s. I flinched on instinct. I struggled, thinking he'd lit my tiny s*x bud on fire. But it wasn't fire; it was ice, pressed so tightly against my c******s 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. Despite my puzzlement, I succumbed and the ice slipped into my v****a where the sensation became manageable. The remnant of that icy fire warmed me, relaxing and arousing my clenched v****a. s*x juice and water poured out over his hand. Then he was gone again, moving about the room, pushing furniture aside. Returning to me, he yanked off my shorts and panties, letting them drop to my feet. He held my arm while I disentangled myself from the pool of clothes. Then he pulled me with him to his overstuffed chair, where he sat down and I sat on his lap, straddling his hips. His groin was as naked as mine, his member rising with every gyration my bare crotch made against his flesh. He held my hips in place, while I danced for him, jiggling my pushed out breasts in his face like a lap dancer plying her trade. While my eyes remained tightly shut, I imagined his lit with fire, that burning gaze that occasionally appears even in a mildmannered man in a moment of self-seeking arousal. It is so rare in Steven, yet a welcome reminder that that even he has a dark side to his character. I felt that dark side, especially when his fingers returned to my n*****s and roughly pinched the sensitive buds. He leaned in twice and sucked, even bit them until I swooned a bit, despite my attempts to contain the grief. He sucked them harder still, until they were sore and throbbing. I humped him wantingly with his erection hitting my mound with every move. His hand went for my opening, forcing my thighs wide. Then I raised up as he pointed his shaft at my doorway, and I sank back down on the thick meat, sucking it inside my slit. With no hands and no way to steady myself as we roughly f****d, I was forced to give up my power and surrender to his control. I do this well, he'd be forced to conclude. He clutched my hair and pulled back, so my chest thrust into his face. He mauled my t**s with his mouth and teeth and his one free hand. For the first time since our s****l relationship began, I was objectified and used, and that made me c*m. The realization tripped the cumming switches in my brain, and my mind drifted free. "Yes, yes… f**k me!" I gasped, as I writhed against his groin until he exploded in climax. Bound still, my movements were limited to the freedom his controlling hands gave me. All that was pent-up let go. Surrender surrounded me, breathed through me and took over until Steven, whose c*m was finally spent, pulled me forward into his chest and I lay there exhausted in his arms. "Wow! That was certainly something," he quieted gasped after a long moment of silence. Even the thunder had ceased to roll. He ran his hands though my hair lovingly. "Was that terrible enough for you?" "You'd think so," I answered him a little oddly. I'm not sure how he took it. "Open your eyes." My closed eyes had been as fixed as if I were wearing a blindfold, and I had to pry them open. I was a little scared to do so, a little scared about what I'd see. I could hardly make out Steven's face in the dark room. Lightning flashed in the distance far beyond the cottage windows and the thunder was now no more than a slow, rolling rumble traveling far into night. As my eyes adjusted, I could see Steven's smiling broadly. "You okay?" He showed the worry in a fretful expression. "I'm wonderful," I purred contentedly. Even the scratchy sisal didn't bother me; the restraint was a welcome friend. "How have we missed this?" he wondered aloud. I shrugged. "I guess we've never f****d during a thunderstorm before." I smiled. "I suppose not." He started untying the rope and I wanted to tell him to stop. But what would I do then? Suggest I wear it all night? No, my broad-minded, slightly tarnished man of steel wasn't ready for that much truth. I was glad when I could put my arms around him again and feel the comfort in our embrace. This was more natural for him, the proper ending for a rough f**k and a rough night. All the jagged edges had been smoothed over as we felt neatly tucked back into familiar roles. I wonder now how dark my sexy stallion wants to go. At the same time, I warn myself not to rush things. We must be cautious.