For Marlena, being a slave to a dominant man is an obsession she cannot ignore. Driven by her haunting need, she seeks out the services of her friend Miriam, a professional Domme who runs a matchmaking service for dominants and submissives. Though Miriam worries that the beautiful 40 year old widow is too inexperienced for the three month arrangement she wants, Lena's determination wins her over. From Miriam's files of clients, Marlena chooses a wealthy English actor and lifestyle master, Benjamin Lyons.
Following the master's instructions, Marlena arrives in London wearing nothing but a dress and high heels. She goes directly to a leather shop, where she's fitted into a locking leather harness that will be her only attire during weeks of training at the master's country cottage. She shovels shit, tends his animals, and pulls a plow through his huge garden in bridle, bit and harness. Sex is brusque, and brilliant, but all too brief to satisfy an urgent and growing need.
The master's authority is absolute; his lust is savage; and the compassion she sees behind his cold visage gives her hope that there's a softer man behind the cool fa�ade. He's all that she desires. But while everything about her new life could be taken straight from her kinky fantasies, fantasy is not reality. And the reality of her slave life is as rough as Miriam warned. Has she made a mistake going these extremes? A battle of wills between master and slave soon escalates into a heated crisis that threatens to end Marlena's journey into the dark heart of her desire.
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February 10, 2010
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Excerpt from In the Garden of Lust by Lizbeth Dusseau
Our long drive to Benjamin's cottage comes to a surprising end, not as we drive into the yard, but several hundred yards before the house comes into view. At a turn-off along the road, there's an old stone fence and a wooden gate--standing open--and a small stone guardhouse just inside. The long drive runs down a sloping embankment toward a thick stand of trees. Peeking out just beyond the treetops is the crest of the cottage's steeply sloping roofline.
The car abruptly lurches forward, coming to an abrupt halt.
"Out!" he orders in his gruff voice.
I immediately scramble from the car, while Benjamin sits passively behind the wheel waiting for me to respond.
"Around here so I can see you," his next order, and I make my way round to his side of the Porsche.
"Now the clothes." He nods.
"Yes, remove them," he says. It's the last thing I want to hear, but perhaps the one thing I expect him to say.
Questioning the command would just be stalling for time, and I fear any hesitation will only annoy the man, but I'm shaking so hard that I find it difficult to act on his order. He regards me carefully from the car, as I stand just off the country road dithering about what I'll do. I know I'll relent and I finally do, though I gulp down heap loads of fear as I begin removing my clothes. Once again, I have to set aside my inhibitions, but at the moment, I seem to be on some sort of automatic pilot that ignores misgivings and barrels right into the very territory I so fear and love.
The blouse, the skirt, the shoes... suddenly gone. I'm left with the harness alone, which covers nothing that the more demure Marlena would wish to hide.
Although we've already shared a number of firsts in our brief relationship, the most notable being our first fuck, I realize that this is the first time my master has seen me naked, in the flesh; the first time he's seen my breasts and ass up close, the mole on my back, the scar on my hip, the sensuous curve along my waist--that my husband Tony once called the most perfect sight in the universe--and the vee of my pubic mound, which seems to jut forward so obscenely that I can't help but cover it with my hands in shame.
Obviously that was the wrong thing to do because Benjamin immediately snaps:
"Remove your hands, slave, and don't ever cover yourself like that again!"
Like a slap to my face, the curt reproof registers in my anxious belly and then drops to my crotch, which seems to take undue pleasure from his bristling reprimand.
I gulp back tears and a heap load of turmoil, as I fend off the barrage of complaints my fears throw up to stop me. "Sorry, sir," comes my muffled reply.
He regards me critically, while I wait in hopes that no one will come ambling along this country road and see me next to naked. When he finally orders me to turn around, I do. It's not a passerby I fear now, but Benjamin himself. His eyes are on my every move, boring holes through my back, climbing at will through my thoughts.
"Now turn and face me," he orders next.
I can barely meet his eyes with mine.
"You said in your profile that you're a runner, that you've run long distance marathons and have spent hours in the gym. I'm sure that's the case by the look of you. So, it's time I had a look at what you can do." He reaches into a crevice behind his seat and pulls out something he throws at me. A pair of running shoes lands at my feet. "Put them on. The cottage is a mile down the drive. You'll take it on foot."
I feel a change in his mood, starting with a degree of impatience in his manner that drives me to the ground for the shoes, and has them tied within a minute. I pop up waiting for the next command--a nod of his head as he motions to the driveway stretching before me.
Jogging nearly nude--I never realized how erotic the activity could be until I put one foot before the next and begin to run. As I reach my normal jogging speed, I'm aware of the muscles in my thighs and ass in a way I've never been when wearing running clothes. My breasts rise and fall against my chest and I strain more than normal. This short mile is nothing in my running life, but this isn't that life and these are hardly the same circumstances. It's nerves, I'm sure it's nerves that tighten my chest, that make me breathless long before I should be. Although I'm not the kind to crack under pressure even when I'm racing, this is such an extraordinary thing that I fail to find the freeing feeling that running gives me, although quite honestly, a single mile would hardly do that on any ordinary day. I hate the fact that I can't make a better show of it for this man. Of course, with Benjamin and his red Porsche cruelly goading me from behind, I have good reason for a less than stellar performance. Reaching the cottage is a relief, though I fear that relief will not last long.
The house is stone, beautiful and old. Vines crawl up one side, the shady side, while the other side is bathed in shadows making the house glow bright in the late afternoon sun. The yellow orb has sunk low in the sky, enough to suggest that we've passed by the afternoon and have arrived at evening in this ancient place. I wonder where the hours have gone. I wonder if there's some sort of magic working in this feral place. The light is deceiving but the smell of the earth and the barnyard are not. They practically knock me down with their heady scents. I've never smelled England before, not the countryside, not the earth, and not the air above, that in this evening hour seems to dance with a fairy-like glimmer.
My musings are brief and too romantic for these circumstances; in fact I need to come back to reality remembering where I am and how I'm dressed, and why I happen to be standing here.
So many places in this scene draw my eye and invite further inspection, but my attention finally focuses on the barn that sits on the opposite side of the yard, where chickens peck at the dirt and a pair of geese strut like bossy overseers. I hear a lowing cow, the whinny of a horse. The smell of grass is fresh in the air. The scent of sweet flowers drifting on a breeze. If I close my eyes I might easily be at home.
"Ian!" Benjamin shouts, as the car door slams. Seconds later a man emerges from the barn wiping his hands on a rag. This must be Ian.
He's older than my master by at least ten years, with a short, stocky body, greying hair, and sharp eyes that dart about suspiciously as he appraises me like he would newly purchased livestock.
"Better muscles on this one," is his first comment. Otherwise he doesn't seem to care much about me.
"She'll be with you in the barn for now," Benjamin tells him. He throws him a set of keys. "Remove the harness and scrub her down before it gets any later. I'll be out for the inspection when you're done." He moves directly toward the house without another word for me and I'm left in the hands of this crusty stranger, my mind reeling from the absurdity of the bizarre moment.
While I stand in the shower pit by the side of the barn, Ian's calloused hands work me over with soapy water and a rough scrub brush as if I haven't washed my body in weeks. Not an inch escapes the vigorous cleansing and no orifice is left without his thorough inspection. I had not realized how sensitive my skin could be, when just the touch of his fingers makes me jumpy inside. I want to succumb to what is fast becoming a fierce arousal, but this is all so new, and Ian so unfamiliar, that I'm unable to relax for a second and allow my energy to run free.
After soaping my body, hair and all, he turns on a cold hose to rinse me off with a blast of water. I cover my face with my hands to ward off the stinging explosion, but the rest of me feels the assault like a thousand stinging bees have chosen this one moment to attack all at once. Once that vicious stream of water stops, I stand dripping wet, waiting for what comes next and dearly hoping that there will be something warm to wear at the end of this. The evening brings a chill I won't be able to shake off without a warm fire and something to protect me from the cold.
Ian has disappeared into the barn, and I wait so long for his return that I finally fear he won't come back. But just as I'm about to take off in search of him, he returns with a towel and a blanket.
"Dry yerself with his," he thrusts me the towel, then shakes his other hand and the blanket. "You can wrap yourself in this for now. C'mon in, the stove will warm you up until the master gets here."
I'm allowed to sit by the woodstove to warm, although the interlude lasts only a couple of minutes. Just as I'm getting some warmth back into my limbs, Ian slips in behind me, grabs the scratchy blanket at the neck and rips it free--not without my tugging it back before I realize what's he's doing. I look toward the door and see Benjamin standing there. His once starched white shirt is open at the throat and the sleeves have been rolled up just below his elbows--all very sexy to this submissive female. However, it's the formidable glare in his eyes that has me quaking as I rise. I've not been ordered to, but I sense the command before it blisters the air.
"Getting soft, are we, Ian?" he speaks to the stableman.
"The chill in the air, sir. Thought she should warm up a bit before you get on with things." He explains himself without apologizing, a trait of his straightforward manner I appreciate. It suggests a long and respectful relationship with 'the master' and the comfortable informality they share.
"I'm sure she's warm enough for now," the master says. The air grows more prickly with his edgy voice. I become more unnerved.
Ian wastes no time. Moving directly to me, he shoves me toward an open space just to the side of the fire. Close enough for warmth, I hope. This seems especially important since Benjamin has left the barn door open wide so that the evening chill sweeps in with even the smallest breeze. While I stand immobilized by the sheer weight of the moment, the stableman cuffs my hands, circles my throat with a wide leather collar and raises my hands high above my head where the rings in the cuffs are attached to a two foot long bar dangling from a beam above.
I always thought I'd lose my nerve, and my arousal would to with it, once I actually found myself dangling in bondage. But I confess, I'm wet. Damn, if my sex juice isn't leaking down my thighs.
The master circles once, casting his keen eyes on my subtle movements, on body parts, the whole picture when he steps back, and, worst of all, on my own teary eyes. He sees my chin tremble, the childish biting of my lips, the line of sweat that's formed on my upper lip. Why did I ever think the air was cold? Suddenly, I'm burning up.
After a first rotation, he starts around me again with same the studious glare. This time he stops behind me and moves in close, grabbing my neck with his left hand, my ass with his right, squeezing fiercely. I jerk up, seething from the sensation of pain. As the hand at my ass makes a slow, deliberate slide down my anal crack, I feel the heat in me build, and my desire soar. I'm panting, trying to keep myself from coming but that becomes more difficult with every breath.
"You're about to climax..." he observes.
"Yes, sir." My breathy reply is barely above a whisper.
He gives my rear a good hard smack. "Don't. Unless you'd like your cunt caught in a chastity trainer."
"Sounds odious," I spit out, realizing too late that I've actually voiced my thoughts.
He laughs darkly. "I'm told it's like putting electrodes on your clitoris and in your cunny. First sign of arousal, you'll get a shock that'll knock the climax right out of you in a second flat."
My eyes grow huge. "You wouldn't, sir!"
"I would." He slaps my ass again just to emphasize his point, and that just makes not coming at that moment much more difficult to pull off.
Control, Marlena, control. It's my own inner voice of caution reaching out to instill a little self-control. But it isn't easy restraining a fire as explosive as this one. Deep breaths. Calm your mind. You can do this, Marlena...you can, you will...
The master's hand, which slides deeper toward the molten valley, is so close to detonating an orgasm that I bite my lip even harder to feel the pain. Pain seems like the only thing that will stop me from coming. But then Benjamin's hand draws away and the turbulence subsides--a least for the moment.
Except for a few brief occasions in the last forty-eight hours, I've managed to avoid the intensity of his stare and all that is beautiful and cruel behind it. I can't do that now. When he moves in front of me, he's just inches from my body, our eyes less than a foot apart--no escaping his matchless aura, or the vast well of sexual energy that pours from his body into mine. Just his feral look will make me come. I swear it will. My arousal peaks again, urgent, demanding, insistent. Oh please, please! Not now! He's not even touching me and I'm about to explode. Another deep breath and the immediate crisis passes but that is little relief. He holds the key to my success or failure. It's on his whim that I'll be sent over the edge against his direct orders or win a reprieve. Does he know this about me? Does he realize the power he has to control me?
I suspect so.
Suddenly, he's touching my face with the tenderness of a father. I shudder and try to avert my eyes.
"Look at me, Marlena." His voice is barely above a whisper.
"I can't!" I shut my eyes so tight that nothing will make them open.
"Yes, you can." He's being very gentle. Too gentle. Why the hell doesn't he just whip me. Send on the pain, please!
"No, I can't. Not without coming," my voice rises as the anxiety builds.
This time his voice is firmer. "Look at me, slave!"
I do--because a good submissive follows orders--even if it sends my arousal skyrocketing, even if I'm doomed to fail and come without permission.
With his eyes gazing deeply into mine, Benjamin presses a hand to my belly, the heat of it infecting me in seconds. While I was sure I'd come with even the most meager touch, I find to my surprise that the opposite is true; his firm hand seems to steady me rather than ramp up my arousal. Not that this is not intensely erotic. I feel the slow pulsing of his body through his gently resting palm. I'm momentarily unnerved but then all my frantic concerns seem to fall away as Benjamin's energy moves into me like a balmy breeze.
"You're going to do as you're told, Marlena," he speaks in an even voice, with an energy that matches his physical bravado. "You're not going to come. You're going to look at me and allow your arousal to simmer beneath the surface as I speak. You know the consequences of failure, and you will not fail." I'm amazed that he is so sure, when I'm obviously not. But I've seemed to tap into a new submissive gene that has me as compliant as the man suggests. "Listen to my voice, Marlena and don't miss a word. This is important. You understand?"
"Good." Not once do his eyes stray from mine and I dare not glance away. I don't think I'm even tempted to try. "I'm going to explain exactly how this relationship will work. I know you've had conversations with Miriam Peron about the protocol here; I know we've exchanged communications about the very same things. But just so there's no question in your mind what I expect of you, let me make it clear one more time. This is how our arrangement works: For the next three months you will be my slave. My sex slave. My house domestic. A common farm hand--depending on the day, my mood and the need. For all practical purposes, consider yourself owned, as surely as I own this barn and the horses in it, the cow, that woodstove, and every item on this property. Save Ian, of course. When given a command, whether it's from me or Ian, you will obey it without question. You will do as you're told without hesitation. You will keep a civil mouth, and you will pour every bit of passion that you're feeling right now into being a conscientious slave." I take in every word and my body responds with increasing arousal, and yet, that growing arousal is well-contained by Benjamin's hand pressed firmly on my belly. "You're likely to hate a good deal of what I do to you. In fact, you might even hate me long before these three months are over. But, hopefully, there will be more than hate between us; I'd much prefer we exalt in this arrangement not grind it out to the bitter end. However, that said, what you feel and what you think are not of my concern. So, when this gets rough and you're tempted to walk out--as if that would be possible--you'd better dig in hard and remember you're a slave, not a free woman. You push at me, I'll push back. You defy me, you'll be punished. You challenge me, I'll meet that challenge with more ammunition than you can fend off." He pauses, and for a moment our staring eyes connect on an even deeper level. "Am I scaring you?"
I gulp for air, as if I've been holding my breath all this time. Maybe I have. "Y-yes, you have me petrified," I can barely get the words out.
"Good. You should be scared. That means the message is sinking in. It's not one you should take lightly; it's too crucial to this arrangement to get lost in the midst of your precious fantasies. Be clear on this point. I've gone toe to toe with bitches and won handily, so handling a fainting submissive like you won't be all that hard. Any battles you wage, I will win and you will lose." His lip curls into a terrifying sneer. "Trust me, if it's battles you're after, go right ahead. I'm ready for battle any day. Nothing stirs my sadist more than a petulant and misbehaving slave. And while my better self might hesitate to beat you, the sadist won't. Where the easygoing Benjamin might bend the rules, the sadist won't. And in settings like this one, where you willingly give your body over to me, I will rule with an iron fist and the sadist will have plenty of you to enjoy."
As he rattles off each declaration, a sensuous darkness emerges from his eyes and seems to grab at me. I feel it in my beating heart, in my throbbing temples and tired eyes, in my clenching gut and spasming sex. He's all over me like an infestation--of the most virulent kind. I'm eating it up like candy.
I know he wants me scared and I truly am scared. But on the flipside of fear is the thrill that brought me to this place. Overcome by my emotions, I lurch forward, setting off a noisy clattering of chains above.
He sneers again, his eyes growing colder still.
"Let me warn you, while you hang there quaking on your bare feet, while your mind tries to wrap itself around this message, there is nothing you can do to prevent the noxious beast in me from arriving on the scene. You will be taken down to the bare essentials of your driving lust. We'll see then if you're really slave material, or just a bored housewife in search of a fantasy. I hope that's not the case. What a sad waste of time that would be for both of us."