M/f BDSM Erotica
Published February 6, 2015 by Excessica.com
Approximately 7,500 words
Twitter: Lisabet Sarai dishes out more hot BDSM in D&S Duos 2: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00RODBLXQ/
#bdsmerotica #spanking #bondage #submission
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/d-s-duos-lisabet-sarai/1121171237?ean=2940150011359
D&S Duos Book 2 continues Lisabet Sarai's incendiary series with two more intense BDSM short stories. In "Never Too Late", a middle-aged wife and mother encounters the Master of whom she's secretly dreamed all her life. In "Just a Spanking", a dominant provides an answer to the question he's asked his long-time submissive: could you come from just a spanking? Also includes a spicy F/F BDSM excerpt from Lisabet's erotic thriller EXPOSURE.
It takes no more than sixty seconds. One dark look from him and I'm on my knees, his heavy, uncut cock brushing my lips. "Open," he says, and his silken voice wipes away every doubt and regret.
His cock is as silky as his voice but with a core of steel. He slides it into my suddenly eager mouth. I suck at the salty, slightly sour flesh, but only for an instant before he takes over.
He's very hard, very urgent. The hand tangled in my hair tells me he needs this as much as I apparently do. He drives his length down my throat. I take it all, like some porn star, desperate to please him. It hurts. The skin is soft but he uses his cock like a battering ram, determined to break down my walls.
They are down already. I stretch my jaws, crane my neck, and receive what he gives.
His cum erupts across my tongue. I choke and sputter, trying to swallow the bitter fluid. A few drops trickle down my chin onto my linen jacket. At that moment, I don't care. He strokes my curls back into some semblance of order and raises me to my feet. His eyes are black diamonds.
"I knew it," he says. Slow, thoughtful, he smears my lipstick even further with his thumb. I feel my lower lips gaping too, just as wet and swollen. "I could tell." My nipples peak under my jacket, screaming for his attention. He continues to gaze into my eyes. I can't hide.
The elevator dings. "My floor," he says, laughter rippling on the edge of his words for the first time. He takes my hand. A sharp rectangle of plastic cuts into my sweating palm. "Room 1263. Seven o'clock."
"But..." I begin. He silences me with a single look.
"It's your choice," he tells me. "But you know you want it. And I want you, Elizabeth. I want to make you mine. I've been watching you – the way you move your hips, the way you toss your hair. I know what you need. I can give it to you."
He steps out into the carpeted mezzanine and is lost in the crowd of suits.
On the day the conference ends, we finally venture out into the world. I return to my own room for a shower and a change of clothes. We meet for breakfast in the coffee shop on the twenty-second floor, overlooking the harbor.
He orders Eggs Benedict. I can't handle more than coffee and toast. He's shy, most of his bravado gone. It's up to me to keep the conversation going.
"My flight is at noon. I'm booked on the nine-thirty shuttle van." I feel compelled to tell him this, to re-establish some kind of sobriety after days of intoxication. When I see his stricken expression, I wish I'd kept my mouth shut.
He pushes Hollandaise around on his plate. "Come home with me," he says finally. "Stay with me." His eyes are naked. A lump of lead settles in my chest.
"I can't. I have work, responsibilities. Another life."
"That life is over. You'll never be satisfied with it again. Not now that you know who you are. Now that you know me."
I have a sinking conviction that he's right. But I can't chuck everything and start over, can I?
"Your husband, your children – they'll be fine without you." As in the bedroom, he reads my mind. "Haven't you given them enough? How many years has it been? Twenty? Thirty?"
"I know you love him," Mark says. "But for those twenty seven long years, while he's had you, I've been waiting for you." He leaned closer. "I need you. More than he does."
"No." I shake my head, picturing my husband alone. Eating alone. Sleeping alone. How could I do such a thing to him? Then I look at Mark, feel the power he's broadcasting. I fight the urge to slip under the table and kneel at his feet.
He grabs my hand so hard that pain shoots up my arm. "Picture what it will be like. You'll be mine, my slave, my darling. I'll take care of you. I'll give you everything you need. We barely know each other now, but you feel the connection, too. I know you do. Think how it will be, spending months together. Years. A new life. A new start. It's never too late."
He lounges in a chair by the window. The drapes are open. The lights of the Inner Harbor sparkle on the other side of the glass. The room is dim and I'm briefly grateful. Perhaps he will not notice my flaws.
"Good evening, Elizabeth." He doesn't rise. He makes me come to him. I stand before him, eyes cast down, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. Sweat pools under my arms, spoiling my best silk blouse. Moisture gathers in my pussy.
"Um – I don't even know your name," I stutter.
"Yes, you do. Think."
I recreate my memory of him, from that fateful moment when I stepped into the lift and found it occupied. Tall, a bit overweight, but distinguished in his tailored charcoal suit. Black hair, dark eyes, brows that arched in appreciation as he surveyed me. I struggle to recall his badge. Even before he had spoken, I'd been flustered and aroused. Distracted. "Mark?" I say finally, a half guess.
"Good girl. You see, you know more about me than you think you do. You know you can trust me, don't you?"
"What?" Before I understand what's happening, he's looming over me, taking possession of my mouth, rolling my rigid nipples between his finger and thumb and kindling sparks. He tastes of the after-dinner mints they offer in the hotel coffee shop. His hands explore my body, weighing my breasts, groping my ass. Helpless, beyond rationality, I melt again.
"You know instinctively," he murmurs in my ear. "I'm the master you've dreamed of." He nips the tender flesh of the lobe hard enough to make me cry out. "I'm the one who will make you beg for mercy and scream with pleasure."
"No," I say. "I haven't. I can't. I'm married." My pro forma protests are weak, even to my own ears. He is already tearing the clothing from me. The first time his fingers graze my bare skin, electricity sizzles along the surface, down to my cunt. I moan, pressing against his still-clothed body. He chuckles and steps away.
"Turn around. Let me look at you. Especially at that fat ass." My face burns with embarrassment as I follow his instructions. It never occurs to me to object. I feel his eyes on the butt that I can't seem to shrink no matter how many hours I spend on the Stairmaster.
"Lovely," he says and I glow with pride. He is pleased. That's all I seem to need. He strokes my ample backside. When he moves away again, I nearly cry from the loss.
"I want you across my lap. I want to turn that pale flesh of yours a nice, rosy pink."
I obey. I can't believe that I'm doing it, but I stretch myself along his thighs. The fine wool of his slacks is distended at the groin. I rub my damp bush against the hard mass of his erection, the emotional pleasure almost trumping the physical. He wants me. That's all that really matters.
LISABET SARAI occasionally tackles other genres, but BDSM will always be her first love. Every one of her nine novels includes some element of power exchange, while her D/s short stories range from mildly kinky to intensely perverse. Learn more at http://www.lisabetsarai.com.
Yahoo group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lisabets_list