White Silk

White Silk The Enslavement of Michelle Monroe by Lizbeth Dusseau ISBN 10: 0974113417 A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication Copyright © 2005, All rights reserved 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 Email Comments: comments@pinkflamingo.com Cover Image Copyright © Victoria www.victoriasphoto.com Prologue The imprint of his hand upon my flesh, I feel the heat—so extraordinary my thigh is hot with desire. I press my ass back against his groin feeling his erection growing in size enough to impale my body. The bedsheets stick to my sticky thighs. Maybe it’s the glue of romance and familiarity that keeps us this close, in this sweaty sexy, peculiar morning. “I have my job,” I’ll be telling him in a scant half-hour. Now, the clock is methodically clicking away the hour, methodically minute by minute. I watch as the red digital numbers proceed, and with each one, I’m slowly pulled from —perhaps when appears I’ll have vanished altogether. While I wait, my ass arouses him until his distinctive hardness pushes into the cleft between my cheeks, and its head prods its way for entry. I nuzzle where his warmth mingles into mine. Then, suddenly, his spear seems to erupt inside me, as though it’s saying, “Here, I’m here claiming territory. Relent, sweet bitch.” I have no other choice. And blatantly submissive at this moment, I’m the slut he seeks on the sidewalk, the everywoman/w***e, a natural blonde—a sophisticated and enlightened s****l creature. holds me tightly around my waist. His fingers pinch my left n****e until it hurts. “Yesssssssssssss!” I’m exclaiming. I wriggle toward him with the urgency I feel, knowing that it will be months between this lovemaking and our next. With the feeling centering in my labia, clit, and the tenderness about my hole, I’m lost in that forgotten nowhere of pre-orgasmic seeking. I can feel myself about to burst. I’m thinking dangerous thoughts of being bound—his fixed arm around my waist encourages the feeling. moves his hand from one n****e to my demanding mound of passion. Drenched with my juices, his fingers smear the liquid through the silky sand-colored pubic hair and the valley between. Then he brings two fingers to my mouth, which I suck like I’d suck c**k—while the redolence of my body spawns another wave of hunger. The pounding force continues. I know he’ll come soon, and so will I. “, f**k me darling, now,” my murmurs rise and fall like my swelling belly and my desire. Enjoying the pulse of his erection in my spasming channel, I milk the firm flesh, then draw the c*m from him as he shoots and deposits his remains in me, where I collect them and they linger in the cavity, filtering into my system like October fog. is muscle, as though he defined it. He struts away from me, his baldhead shining, hips swaggering. Even his muscles at rest tease me—I’m exhilarated, now wishing he were still in bed. That broad back, the small waist, the round firm ass—two cheeks that fit so tightly into blue jeans that my cunt liquefies every time I spot them moving away from me. “I don’t want you to go, Shelly,” he says, turning around. “I know, but it’s my job.” “A job I hate.” He won’t order me to change my plans. But he’s afraid for me, darting into politically explosive territory as though I’m on a summer holiday. And there’s something ominously foreboding about this particular trip. But regardless of his fears or mine, I’m going. I haven’t told him how a secret destiny drives me to this, how I wake at night believing that I’ve dreamed past lives, incarnations that haunt my soul with pictures of darkness. Before I can sleep peacefully again, I’ll need to roust the bogeymen from my timid soul with the shock of reality. The truth is simple—what drives me is nothing more than phantoms. But I’ve lectured my fears for weeks to make them go away, and they won’t retreat. The last dream was just a week ago—I was on the Orient Express traveling toward in 1894. I knew the date from the wrinkled ticket in my gloved hand. I wore gold at my ears and neck, a diamond weighing heavily on my right hand, and furs—which mantled me in a blanket of soft separation. Haughtiness and convention kept my companions at bay, and mystery wrapped me like the long skirts that wrapped my quivering thighs like gauze. I had the distinct impression that I’d been p***s f****d an hour before I boarded the train, by a faceless form of muscles, good hands and a scouringly large erection. It was the kind of screwing to give a woman peace before a dangerous journey. Mindless and uncontaminated by emotion. As my alarm clock drilled me from sleep, the picture slipped away so fast, only the memory of my gloved hands, the train and furs remains—and the physical feeling of being ravished. Did these dreams and visions start because I decided on this trip? Or did they appear first and create the journey so I’d see them through to the truth? has never approved of my life—any modern woman would have shooed him away as though he were some antiquated barbarian—which he is. But after each excursion, I return to him as if he were home and I belong to him. His arms rest waiting for me. pumps iron in sleeveless T-shirts, then dresses like a Wall Street banker to sift through research documents at the museum and indoctrinate his graduate students in the archeo-logy of the . And when he sees my taxi coming up the street, he holds the door wide open as though he never stopped while I was away. I invite him to join me, but am reminded that it wouldn’t be practical—he has to make a living. I never want to leave but I’m always glad to go, always happy to say goodbye, at least until I’m beyond the sight of his eyes. “It’s just two months,” I’m quick to remind him this morning. I see him flinch as he moves back to me, limp c**k swaying. Oh! I could take it in my mouth now. But instead, bends over me, peers soulfully with black eyes dancing like a lion’s, “Don’t f**k it up, Shel.” “No, no, no, no,” I shake my head, smiling sappily. “What’s there to f**k up?” Oh, he does look ferocious when he stares this way. “Two months, sweetheart. Then maybe I’ll quit the foreign correspondence and go back to domestic documentaries.” His wild beauty stuns me. All the power locked in him. We’re both runners, but he runs much faster than I do. He’s the natural athlete, while I simply try to keep up. I’m willowy with powerful thighs, with as tight a waist as ’s; though the similarities stop there. My body finishes in womanly form with sensuous breasts he dives into with face and nose to love, and two pert pink n*****s for him to suck “Anything happens to you, Shelly, I’ll never let you out of my sight again. Never.” He’s serious. And sober. And it makes me quiver down to the very threads that make me human. He grabs my wet cunt with his hand and shakes it. “I’ve survived before, darling, and you’re making far too much of it.” I bolt from his grasp, hopping from the bed. Gathering my clothes—shorts, T-shirt and jogging shoes—I kiss him on the mouth with a wide, deep, open-throated kiss. I’m leaving for in two hours. My apartment is down the street. I’m already packed, but want to shower and get into my traveling clothes—no furs, just something comfortable. I have thirty minutes. This is a good way for Jordan and me to say farewell. He’s a terror at the airport. I’d rather go by myself—especially since this feeling of impending doom will not stop hovering about me.