White Silk & I Belong to You Read online

  White Silk

  The Enslavement of Michelle Monroe

  &

  I Belong To You

  Erotic Novels

  by Lizbeth Dusseau

  ISBN: 978-1-938897-51-1

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2014, 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.

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  Pink Flamingo Publications

  www.pinkflamingo.com

  P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083

  USA

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  White Silk

  The Enslavement of Michelle Monroe

  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 Jordan—perhaps when five o’clock 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/whore, a natural blonde—a sophisticated and enlightened sexual creature.

  Jordan holds me tightly around my waist. His fingers pinch my left nipple 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. Jordan moves his hand from one nipple 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 cock—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.

  “Yessssssssssss, Jordan, fuck 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 cum 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.

  Jordan 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 Bucharest 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 penis fucked 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?

  Jordan 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.

  Jordan 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 Western Hemisphere. 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 cock swaying. Oh! I could take it in my mouth now. But instead, Jordan bends over me, peers soulfully with black eyes dancing like a lion’s, “Don’t fuck it up, Shel.”

  “No, no, no, no,” I shake my head, smiling sappily. “What’s there to fuck 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 Jordan’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 nipples 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 London in two hours.

  My apartment is down the street. I’m al
ready 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.

  Chapter One

  I’m aware of what I feel as I approach the train, and am having flashbacks of that other life inside my dreams. I wonder what it means as I embark on what should be an innocuous mission.

  My compartment is small, drenched in the art of another time: gaslight fixtures, pearl handles, and inlaid woods etching patterns in the paneling that lines the walls with warmth. I’ve dressed in red, elegantly. My producer insisted we remain in keeping with the mood—I believe the tour company suggested this strongly. We’re supposed to blend in with the wealthy crowd of travelers. I’m sure I don’t blend at all in my brightly colored suit. I stand out from the other, drabber looking passengers. But this is a designer suit and I look damn good in it. Its deep neckline plunges almost to my navel, and the black lace beneath is nearly transparent. My blonde hair falls to my shoulders in a sensuous smooth cascade. I wear pale make-up, red lipstick, and dark mascara to highlight my sapphire eyes. These high heels will be killing me if I wear them all day, but they add to the effect of haughtiness. I smile to myself thinking that all I need is fur; but I do well to affect the mood without it. My dreams must have been proud of me as I boarded the train feeling as though I were stepping into that other world of the Orient Express.

  I find some peace in the close confines of my antique compartment.

  I’m glad to be leaving Paris. Sometimes big cities scare me when I travel alone (alone with my crew)—which seems pretty silly since it’s been my job for nearly seven years to comb the globe looking for interesting things to say about the places I land. Paris always unnerves me—I think because I want to stay forever in its decadence. It jars my cunt and reminds me of Andre.

  I look forward to the sound of that first cachug as the train strains to leave the station, heading east. Until then, I will be thinking of my Frenchman, and the first time my body was bound for sex.

  His face was reassuring and his animated eyes thrilled that I’d consent. I climbed atop a high four-poster bed in a tiny Parisian Inn, and lay belly down as he tied my wrists and ankles with silk scarves—two blue, one green, the fourth one gold. There was a pattern of birds in flight on the pale blue one, as though these tiny creatures were battling the wind on a sunny summer day.

  With each extremity circled in silk and tightly fettered to a mahogany post, I slipped further down in lust. My heart reverberated like a marching band as he fixed my left hand, with sensation moving to my belly as he gave my right a hearty tug and secured that, too. By the time he had my ankles ready, my pussy was beginning to throb, pressing itself into the tousled sheets beneath me. It was ready for cock, but that’s not what it received.

  Andre shocked me with a slap to my ass. The sting was sweet, but not the ones thereafter, when he kept spanking my cheeks until I was moaning for him to stop. My pleas only encouraged him to change his aim. Targeting the other cheek, I got the blistering ritual on that flesh until my whole behind was warmed and my cunt fondling itself with the mattress.

  Thrashing frantically, I went nowhere. No escape, I only had the sensation; and there was little else to do but submit. In time, there was no pain or sting, just the happy hope that Andre would get me off with this alone. In that hour, tied between those posts, I learned about the miracle of restraint. I discovered that contentment finds a place to breed in me when I’m tightly bound.

  Andre disappeared from my life as swiftly as a summer rainstorm. I sometimes think he was with me only for this simple exposition of sexual desire. Being tied with scarves, or rope, or the heavenly feel of leather became a compulsion after Andre vanished. Though after Andre, Jordan was the first man who didn’t look me in the eye suspiciously when I suggested my desires. I’m sure he was as pleased as I was, and perhaps relieved to find a lover who volunteered to be submissive during sex. Being naturally dominant by nature, Jordan needed a woman to yield to him in bed. And this was easy for me. Though yielding otherwise has never been simple—or even necessary. Now, though, with my dreams and my appetite for submission clawing at my insides, I begin to wonder if my life isn’t leading to complete abdication—even if that makes no sense knowing how much I love my work and my independence.

  I gaze from my window on the countryside of France, as we travel from Paris to Frankfurt. France is resplendently verdant this time of year and my eyes get lost in the middle of the cool color and the fast passing fields that clothe this earth. My heart seeks the mountains. It’s been months since I’ve seen such vistas—I almost arranged a trip to Aspen, then this opportunity appeared and instantly grabbed my gut. But it’s more than the mountains that draw me to this trip—it’s the realization of my dreams. Do I have some precognition of the future? I ask myself. But I’m left without an answer other than my agitation.

  As the kilometers pass by, I write copy, work with the camera crew and my producer. Though most of my time I spend alone, thinking; or if not thinking, feeling the lure of my past, and this history we’re dwelling amidst, push me deeper. From Frankfurt, the Orient Express takes us toward Budapest. I hear the name and my body responds erotically.

  One afternoon, I move into the main observation car where I can see with greater scope the landscape that’s seducing me. My mind floats free, the dreams come; I’m drowsy, eyelids beginning to close. I feel the train start to slow as if it’s coming to a halt, and opening my eyes, I’m surprised to see a woman sitting in the seat across from me. The train picks up speed again.

  She wears a peculiar look of longing in her chestnut eyes. Her ebony hair brushes her cheek line, so that I see the aspect of an Oriental woman inside its lines. Her skin is notably flawless, her cheekbones high; yet, hers is a wide open Eastern European face and supremely sensuous. It almost feels as though there is a cloud about her, weaving through the air like vapors through a mist. The thought is so strong that I look down at her hand expecting to see a cigarette with a trail of smoke rising toward her face. There is none.

  “I am Amie,” she says after she sees me looking at her.

  “Shelly,” I reach out my hand for her to shake. She does so listlessly, with an air of withering charm as if she’s just had sex. Perhaps, that’s what she’s telling me with all this simply stated beauty.

  Her clothes intrigue me. She wears a close-fitting purple dress with a high neck, long sleeves and a provocative cutout that shows the tops of her full bosom and a soft tawny cleavage. The dress might graze her ankles if she stood—she’d be willowy and graceful like me, though not as tall. I see that grace as I stare at her shapely legs. With a slit cut nearly to her crotch—and this Amie is not modest—I admire a good deal of her flesh as she carefully crosses her legs at the knee and the skirt falls away so I can gaze at her muscled thigh.

  “And your destination?” she asks carefully with a slight accent. It would seem to be affected for the purpose of being alluring. She manages it well.

  “To Istanbul,” I reply.

  “I am, too.”

  “I’m with my crew doing a documentary on the Orient Express.”

  “I’m with no one,” she replies rather strangely.

  I would think she might be sad saying this, but she’s not.

  “You’re American?” she asks me.

  “Yes, and you?”

  “I try not to be as much as possible, but I was born in Queens.”

  “Really? And you’ve spent a lot of time in Europe?” This seems obvious to me even if she wasn’t born to her European sensuousness. The way she speaks, dresses, even the way she carries her body give her foreign air.

  “Most of my last several years.”

  “You came for college?”

  “No, to travel.”

  I wonder about her occupation�
��a question she answers quickly.

  “My father died, leaving me, his only relative, a substantial insurance benefit. I live in Paris, Tuscany or London.”

  “And all you do is drift?”

  She smiles with her bright red lips forming an enchanting grin. I get the feeling that she’s hiding something, not only from me but everyone. A girl from Queens traveling like royalty on this train? It’s an odd thought.

  As we settle back into our quiet, I note a sudden change of expression on Amie’s face. She rises, then walks past and behind me with an alert gaze as though she recognizes someone at the other end of the rail car. When I finally turn to look, she’s gone.

  Following her trail some minutes later, I leave the observation car, passing three private compartments. I stop at the fourth with a startled gasp, seeing Amie beyond the slim compartment window in the arms of a man. They paw each other frantically, with Amie’s ass toward me so I can briefly see the man mauling her behind. He pushes away her skirt at the slit to show her naked from the waist down. I stare, unable to take my eyes from the picture they make of ravenous lust. More fascinating still, I’m intrigued by a flaw in the skin of her ass—not a tattoo, but not an accidental mark.

  The man’s skin is a natural brown; his black, wavy hair clipped short. Though I can see little of his face, I know he’s handsome in a way that would entice me. And for one brief second I see the light and dark of his eyes, and his heavy brows. Then, as his lust takes over, his eyes droop and his lids turn heavy. He has a hand at her back, clutching both of her wrists in one fist. Amie swoons to be controlled just as I would.

  He’s in the position of taking as though he might rip away her beautiful purple dress. He wants her naked.

  With this eroticism clutching at my crotch, I take off, certain that he’s seen me and will accuse me of spying. My belly churns erratically.

  Once in my own compartment, I lock the door, making sure that the blinds are closed, and then tear off my clothes to find the throbbing sliver of skin between my labia. It will not be content until I’ve played the fantasy my friend from Queens, Amie, has nurtured in my sex hungry brain. I hadn’t realized how horny I was, or how much this trip had fed my lust until I saw her ass naked and his hand holding her struggling wrists.