In Chains Read online

  In Chains

  by Lizbeth Dusseau

  ISBN: 978-1-942331-67-4

  A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication

  Revised Edition, Copyright © 2015 by Lizbeth Dusseau

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2015, All rights reserved

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

  For information contact:

  Pink Flamingo Publications

  www.pinkflamingo.com

  P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083

  USA

  Chapter One

  Kirsten

  I don’t remember when these feelings began, or when thoughts of extreme sensations overpowered my image of sex. The idea of a dominant man owning my life seems to have been born in childhood, amplified greatly during my disquieting adolescence, becoming a full-fledged need as the dawn of my adult life now looms before me. Ever since I can remember, this dominant master has claimed my most private thoughts, taking charge of my hours of masturbation with his unrelenting command. Though he remains a faceless master, I need only his voice at my ear to guide me, and I’m sent into a land of physical pleasure that delights every sense, teases my crotch and performs startling and vile acts inside my mind. When my inner fires burn hot, I’m forced into servitude honoring this master’s wishes; and taking my masturbations outside of my simple thoughts, I do his bidding—often before a mirror—exhibiting my base cravings before his invisible eyes, hoping my obedience pleases him. He constrains me to take each turn of desire to great pain. His verbiage tightens unseen tethers about my body, and yet sometimes, those bindings become real restraints. I tie myself with ropes through my crotch, about my neck, letting these cords crisscross my breasts, creating odd handfuls of flesh that jut out obscenely from my chest. The bonds cut into me to the point that I can hardly move. Then I dance for him before my bedroom mirror, until the need for climax becomes so pronounced, I fall to my bed, rubbing myself to a finish.

  I embarrass myself each time this happens, but the physical joy seems to ensure that I’ll listen to that ever present voice again, and repeat my masochistic depravity until my body is satiated by this unwholesome release.

  Have I thought about finding a real man to fulfill these pressing desires?

  Not yet. I’ve been far too timid to seek anything in men other than something akin to the steamy romance novels that regularly land in the pile of books beside my reading chair. All these, of course, are far too bland with sex. Sometimes, I’ll find a scene that tantalizes my imagination, making my body claw with sexual need, but then, it’s always me, and my lecherous mind, taking the mere kernel of romance to exhilarating ends, as I breathe savage and shadowy designs into tedious book characters, making their hunger come alive in dark places—in brothels, dungeons, campy estates and forbidding mansions where the most spectacular acts of sexual depravity are commonplace. Sometimes, I feel as though the world inside my mind has gone awry when the chaos of my fantasies descend. I’m grateful to know that there is a sane world on the other side of my private life, where harrowing corporal punishment, bondage and sexual servitude are never spoken of in polite conversation.

  I am a very average five feet five inches, my body small and compact. Two sensible round breasts protrude sensuously from my chest, with pink nipples that seem to remain slightly erect most hours of my day. I often wonder if there are some men’s penises with this distinct, half-erect feature. And, if so, does this mean they are perpetually horny?

  At twenty-one my body is a shapely feminine design so many men seem to enjoy. With a gentle flare to my hips, two slightly plump rear cheeks, a soft bush of kinky pale hair at my crotch, and plump labia hiding in that mass of curls, the center of my sexuality is obviously my crotch. Mostly at the command of my inner master, I’ve become bolder, shaving away locks of that pubic hair to reveal more of my sexual home to the naked eye.

  I find it fascinating that my inner labia are so prominent, hanging from between those outer protrusions as though my body simply cannot contain its sexual impertinence. They seem to beg for something dangling there, some ornament or jewel. While my friends are getting a half-dozen piercings in their ears, doing tongues and eyebrows and belly buttons, I can only think of getting those thin folds of skin adorned with rings as a gift to my lover.

  I consider my face plain—at the very least, normal. My looks seem uninspiring, though I’m often told my eyes are remarkably expressive with their curious gold/green hue. My lashes are long, slightly curled, and there’s a faint blush on my cheeks. I usually wear my hair back in a ponytail, the natural curls are unruly and hard to manage. I often lighten the soft brown, turning it into a honey-colored halo when I let it float loose. But that is only when I’m feeling wild. I think the voice has some say in this. When I’m most demure and reserved—which seems to be ninety percent of my life—I keep these cursed curls tamed. However, when my darker passions surface, my hair falls sexily to my shoulders, sometimes brushed into soft, buoyant waves; at other times, I leave it in its kinky natural state as though to suggest there’s something savage in me. I like this look—but only when I’m not facing reality. It’s good for going to bars and nightclubs and movie theaters in the evening—and for seducing men.

  I have a lot of rules in my head telling me what I should be doing, or how I should dress. Often, the voice contradicts my plans—though not often enough. Most people figure I’m a prude—they have no idea what drives me, what thoughts lurk in my mind, and what truly gives me joy.

  I know Holly thinks I’m an archaic version of the young and gentle virgin. No, I’m not a virgin—but neither of my two college lovers ever produced an orgasm in me that even approached the depths and heights of the ones I give myself through self-inflicted pain. So, maybe I am a virgin to my real needs. I’m sure Holly would think so. My senior year in the Ivy league, I’m taking a class in modern sexual practices. I knew this would be constant stimulation to my already horny body; and seeing that my prospects for a lasting relationship out of college are unlikely, with no boyfriend at all as I reach these final months, the arousal I get assures me some sexual pleasure—even if it is by my own hand. The class is a whim—urged on by my darker passions, perhaps the first attempt at gaining a lover who’ll have a clue to what I so carefully guard inside my mind.

  I met Holly the first day of class. She sits in the seat next to me, always in the back of the room; me, choosing that spot because I’m still nervous about the ticklish subject matter, she, because she’s routinely late. Holly wears short skirts—usually black, high heel boots, and blousy sweaters or long sleeved tee shirts when it’s cold. Her darkened eyelids, burgundy lips and crazy white hair make her sometimes look deathly—certainly like the poster girl for a heavy metal rock band. Yet, she smiles sweetly, and has a boisterous laugh I love to hear. I wonder about the chain she wears around her neck every day without fail. I imagine it having some religious or sexual significance, but, of course, I’ll never ask.

  Holly turns to me on the third day of class. “Why the hell are you here?”

  I shrug, uncertain how to answer. “Because I need the credits to graduate,” I finally blurt out. “And I like the subject matter,” I hasten to add, though I think the way I say that doesn’t sound sincere. I hate my voice.

  Though I’m self-conscious being in this classroom, not everyone here looks like they just stepped from an MTV video. There are plenty of more modest types like me who you’d never believe have secret sexual passions. Maybe, we all masturbate to the reckless v
oices in our heads, those that make us crazy for some “other” kind of sexual turn-on. We may talk about the deviant behavior and variations like they’re oddities and flukes of nature, but I wonder if these peculiarities are more common than this professor thinks. I’m not sure why the man teaches this subject, the way he seems to treat the topics of S&M, bisexuality and other aberrations with such disdainful amusement. Maybe, he, too, is a closet submissive. He hardly looks dominant—in fact, I think he might be gay. Either that, or being straight, he’s willing to drop to his knees at the command of a Domme in leather and have his ass whipped. We talk about all this much too dryly in class; but then what do I expect—we’ll all get turned on, and for the final, break out into one wild, pleasurable orgy as we physically enjoy the bizarre acts we’ve intellectually studied?

  “What’s your pleasure?” Holly continues to converse with me. I’m nervous, which I’m sure she sees. Stares right through me with her perceptive eyes.

  “My pleasure?”

  “Yeah, what gets you off about this?”

  “You mean this can’t just be an intellectual study?” I’m sounding a little haughty, half of me wants to end the conversation, but the other half is drawn to her, sexually lured by the meaning of her curious attire. I’d love to press my palm against her small pointy-nippled breasts and have those burgundy lips locked on mine.

  “I don’t figure there’s anyone in here that doesn’t have an ulterior motive,” she tells me.

  “But maybe that needs to be kept a secret,” I answer.

  Walking out of class, we’re side by side, her arm brushing against mine. Is she hitting on me—and if she is, what do I do?

  “How about a latte?” she asks.

  The invitation intrigues me, since none of my friends are cut from the same kind of fabric as this odd breed of female. We may dabble with style, but none of us are as deliberately bold as Holly. We’re mostly the children of wealthy professionals, industrial giants, the touted elite. This college is supposed to be a cross section of socioeconomic classes and diverse cultures—but there are still a of lot of us born with silver spoons in our mouths, willingly accepting handouts from our parents, until we decide to make something useful of ourselves. I wonder where Holly fits in the social spectrum.

  “Sure,” I accept her invitation. What would Blythe think? is my first thought. I decide I don’t really care what my pampered, Lexus-driving roommate thinks. She’d say I’m having a crisis, suggest therapy, and then insist I join her for designer pizza and imported beer, talk psychobabble until she’s convinced I’m cured of this woman.

  In the coffeehouse, Holly and I talk mostly about nonsense. I stare at the dozen gleaming silver rings on her hands, and, after a few minutes, find myself remarkably relaxed.

  “Does the chain you’re wearing have some significance?” I finally voice the burning question.

  “It’s a property collar belonging to my sexual master,” she tells me without hesitation.

  Yes. I sit up straight, fused to the vinyl booth seat behind me, feeling as though someone has just thrown a dart in my already queasy belly.

  “You’re …” I can’t even say the word.

  “I’m a real life sex slave, Kirsten,” she says soothingly. Cocking her head to one side, she’s almost coy the way she stares at me, and looking decidedly meeker having made this admission.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m also bi and masochistic.”

  My whole body flutters. My hands become so cold, I clutch my coffee mug in both to warm them.

  “You say you’re his property?”

  “I am.”

  “How long?” She’s no older than me. How could she make this extreme choice for herself at such a young age?

  “About a year,” she answers me.

  I don’t know what else to say.

  “You’d like it too, wouldn’t you?” Holly jumps right in the middle of our silence.

  “How do you know that?”

  “The way you’re reacting.”

  I’m still speechless.

  “It’s all over you. Plain as that pretty face—you’d like a man controlling your life. She motions me to her side of the booth. “Come here. Sit next to me.” I stare around wondering what people will think if we sit together. I can’t figure why she’s asking, unless she’s trying to hit on me.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to do anything. I just want you to feel something.”

  Peeling myself off the vinyl, I take the seat next her as she scoots tighter to the wall, turning her back to me.

  “Here, feel the collar,” she tells me. I tentatively press my hand to the metal chain. It could be mistaken for jewelry, though it has an ominous look. “Now run your hand down my back.” I hesitate. “Do it. It’s not gonna hurt.” With fingers slowly moving as she instructs, I find a metal chain running the length of her back from her collar to her ass. She wants me to know that it goes into the crack between her cheeks. When I finish the journey, I pull my hand away too scared to feel more. The heat of her transmits through my hand, and I can tell I’m growing soppy between my thighs.

  Holly turns again, this time facing me, and raising one leg so her skirt parts, she pulls my hand under the table.

  “The chain. I want you to feel the chain.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I blush embarrassed as I feel her kinky pubic hair. She pushes my fingers deeper, to where the chain runs between her legs and attaches to a ring pierced through her clit. She’s as wet as I am.

  “You have it bad, don’t you?” her voice purrs softly, as she strokes my thigh.

  Pulling my hand away, I move back nervously. “But I’m not ready for this.”

  “Hey, I’m not planning to take you to Crawford. I’d rather make love to you myself.”

  “So, you are hitting on me?”

  “Sure.”

  “But I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.” My bisexual desires are just in their formative stages, having, quite surprisingly, appeared in my masturbations a few times recently—probably inspired by the conversations about lesbians in my sex class. These new desires were unexpected, and, at first, unwanted, though their appeal becomes far clearer with Holly sitting so close.

  “It’s okay if it’s your first time. We’ll take it slow.”

  “I don’t think so.” I’m fighting myself, all this made worse because I see she’s going to be disappointed if I turn her down. This is too absurd, and way too soon.

  “Hey, you can’t expect me not to try,” she quips.

  Of course. She’s amazingly bold, hardly timid the way I am. And she’s submissive? Seems like a strange combination.

  “Why me?” I finally ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been eyeing you, and you’ve been looking at me. You’re in the class, so I figure there’s some secret desire going on in your head—even if you don’t look the type. I know you’re not a dom. You’re likely a bonafide sub, and if you’re that, I figure you’re probably bi as well. Every female sub I’ve known has wanted women too.”

  That’s a lot of fancy logic all at once, but she’s likely right.

  “So, it’s okay to hit on women?” I ask. She backs off the seduction and I breathe easier. “How does that figure with your master?”

  “Crawford doesn’t care if I have women, but he’s very strict about sex with men.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’re interested in S&M, aren’t you?” she probes further to find my dark weakness.

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” I’m reluctantly admitting, though the confession doesn’t seem to carry the judgmental weight that I fear, realizing that this woman likely lives in the world I dream of every day. I think I’m more scared now because reality stares me in the face and I might actually have to make a choice about these sexual desires.

  “Why don’t you come to the house and I’ll show you some of our stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

 
“Chains, leather …” she doesn’t need to say more. I’m dying of curiosity, palms sweating, as she mentions the conventional tools of our lust.

  “Is Crawford there?” I ask.

  “He will be, but later. You don’t have to meet him.”

  I wish I had another class—a decent excuse to decline the invitation, but I can’t think of one good evasive maneuver. Any explanation I’d offer would only sound false. Either I go, or I’m a coward. I know what I want.

  “Sure, why not?” My heart thumps in my chest like a drum beating in an untamed jungle—the jungle close by. As I walk the three blocks to Holly’s house, each step I take is filled with premonitions, and expectations, and gut-wrenching fear. The constant pounding at my heart leads to a steady throbbing in my groin. The dark jungle looms before me pulling me inside. These jarring spasms jolt my belly with fire. I feel my sex press against the silk of my panties and the little cotton crotch becomes sticky. I even smell my body’s sexual aroma wafting toward my nostrils.

  Holly lives in an old brick house with vines that trail up one side like the arms of an embracing lover. The steps are worn, like the path to my pussy where my hand plays. Everything is erotic—the burgeoning spring breaking forth like my sexual appetites. I’m afraid to take this to any real end, but I’m so damned curious, I can’t stop myself—this obsession no different than what I feel when the voice takes over my body. Holly skips up the steps with me following. This is not a jungle but my real world.

  The old oak door swings wide as though she’s opening a vault and a blast of cool air hits my face.

  Once inside, I shudder looking at the mundane surroundings of a master’s house, feeling as though I’m an intruder, or maybe even his newest initiate. I’m glad he’s not here. I’m sure I’d turn into a babbling bubblehead just taking one look at the man that owns my friend. The image of Holly in leathers and chains sparks my imagination. I see her humbled on her knees before her lover, with his riding crop about to strike her ass.

  “It doesn’t show, you know,” she says.

  “Doesn’t show?”