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Lusty Lady

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Monday, June 02, 2014

No bra or panties, blinfolded, waiting on a bed--my Slave Girls blog tour excerpt

I wrote a story inspired by several of my favorite things: hotel rooms, blindfolds, submission, surrendering control, in my story "Out of Sight" in the new anthology Slave Girls: Erotic Stories of Submission edited by D.L. King and published by Cleis Press, with a foreword from the brilliant podcaster and audiobook narrator Rose Caraway. Like many of my stories, it's fiction, with lots of my personal kinks in it. It's about a woman who puts on a blindfold with a certain word on it, one that could be an epithet or high kinky praise, one I've written a story about before, emblazoned on it. You'll have to read the full story to find out that word, but here's a little taste of my story. You can buy the book on Amazon or at your local independent bookstore and follow the rest of the virtual book tour. I haven't read the book yet but I've seen a copy and it's gorgeous (yes, I judge books by their covers--that's what covers are for!).


Official blurb:
The idea of a woman enslaved to her lover has captured the imagination of millions and created bestsellers such as The Story of O, Carrie's Story and Fifty Shades of Grey. Award-winning editor and writer D. L. King pulls back the velvet curtains to reveal a world where every sexual fantasy is realized, a world driven by desire and the need to be dominated. These Slave Girls want nothing more than to be subjugated and owned in body and soul. Trained and tested to suit every sexual taste, these women learn the ropes — literally. King and her masterful eroticists offer the reader an immersive experience. These sexy, subversive stories of submission are from the very best eroticists including Alison Tyler, Sommer Marsden, and D. L. King herself.
And now for my NSFW story exceprt, which is toward the middle but a little bit into the tale, but I'm sure you can catch up:
From "Out of Sight" by Rachel Kramer Bussel:

I shifted, the seam of my jeans pressing into my sex. I never used to wear jeans, only skirts and dresses, but that's something else Peter had insisted on one day. He'd made me try on a pair without panties, then explain what I'd done, pay for them, and walk around until I'd soaked them from all his commands. I was only allowed to wear them without panties, just as certain tops and dresses I was only allowed to wear without a bra, and certain skirts or stockings without panties. Those rules applied whether I was seeing Peter or not; I got the impression he liked it even better when I followed his rules on days he wasn't going to see me, when I could have gotten away with disobeying, save for my kinky conscience.

I took off my top and bra while the man watched. I didn't ask his name, and he didn't offer; instead, he took my breasts in each hand, pulled my nipples toward him, just hard enough to make me gasp. When I did, he pinched them, twisting each one until I let out another noise, one not quite so quiet. "You'll be good while I pierce you, right? No screams. I can give you a rag to muffle your noises, if you can't handle it. I've heard you can get pretty loud." The idea that Peter had told this stranger about what I was like in bed was at once infuriating and exciting.

"I'll be quiet." And I was. I thought of Peter the whole time, of how before I'd met him I never would've imagined being the type to get anything more than my ears pierced. Yet here I was not only eager to sport beautiful silver studs in each nipple, but for them to heal so he could play with them.

They did heal, and Peter did make sure he knew exactly how much more tender and sensitive my nipples were after that, and that I knew they'd remain that way from frequent use, whether that was making me suck my nipple while he shoved his fingers inside me or him simply brushing against me in public enough to make them stand at attention. But those studs were symbolic; as long as they were in, I would always wake up thinking of him, and any other lovers I took would see them, and even if they didn't know exactly what the metal meant, I would. I'd know exactly who I belonged to—and I liked it that way.

So as I finger the sensual silk, I savor the last few moments of sight to take in the grandeur around me. There's not a mirror on the ceiling, but there's a giant one across from the bed that can only be a sign of extreme narcissism or unabashed exhibitionism and voyeurism. I strip out of my outfit—one of his favorite dresses, hot pink silk, no bra or panties, fold the dress and place it on top of the dresser, so he's sure to see it. I resist the urge to inspect my naked body, since I don't know how much time I have before he arrives. Instead, I climb up onto the bed and carefully place the blindfold over my eyes, running my fingers over the letters like braille so they're positioned as evenly as possible, before I tie a tight knot. I shake my head back and forth to make sure the blindfold is in place, then lay down on my stomach, plant my cheek to the side, and reach behind me for my ankles. I grab them, then spread my knees, smiling against the sheets as I settle in to the familiar pose.

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