Archive for May, 2007

Red Ribbon, pt 3

Red Ribbon, Part 3

This is one of the first things I wrote, and my lack of skill is apparent. From the over-done storyline to the awkward an amateurish writing this is so bad it’s entertaining.

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self-editor, so read at your own risk.

***

“Lizabeth? Lizabeth Brown?”

The deep rumbling voice triggered the memory for her. “Marcus Palmer?”

With a few long strides the big bruiser was at her side, his arms coming around her in a rib crunching hug. On instinct Liz’s arms went up around his shoulders returning the fierce hug. It was not the greeting a mature woman would give to an old acquaintance but the hug of a twenty year old college student to a good friend. With a final squeeze Marcus held her at arms length, his big hands spanning and cupping her waist.

“Lizzy, wow, how are you?”

“Mark, it’s been so long. I’m fine, how are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good, thanks.”

Mark held her back from him and his eyes made a slow easy sweep over her, from the crown of her glossy straight blond hair over her torso hugged by the ribbed sweater and down the lean length of her leg emphasized by the tailored slacks she wore. With a smile Liz returned the favor. His dark hair was worn longer than she remembered, curling against the nape of his neck, the sides pulled back behind his ears. It should have looked boyish but instead he looked like a warrior of old. The breadth of his shoulders tapering to a nice waist, not too lean, emphasized the impression. His pants were tight around his thighs showing the barest outline of the muscles and hard flesh.

Liz could see appreciation reflected in his eyes. She found nothing offensive in his examination, indeed it was merely an acknowledgement of her beauty and she had returned the favor. They had given each other similar perusals while in college. They had met in class, each from very different parts of their university community; she an involved student leader and crusader, he the star wide receiver of their national championship football team.

When they had known each other back then they had both been in other relationships. Only with their frank appraisal of one another had they acknowledged that if the situation were different they might have been able to be with one another. It was because they had both been committed to other people that their friendship had grown so strong without the overlying need to posture and pose. It had been a strange friendship but a good one.

Mark let his gaze sweep over the stunning woman before him one more time. She had changed from the sweatshirt and jeans clad co-ed he had known into a polished and professional woman. They had parted ways after college, both knowing when they said goodbye the last time that theirs was a friendship that would not survive their adult lives. She had gone on to corporate America and he to the boy’s club of professional football. There had been some regret for the friendship lost but both had appreciated the time spent together enough to celebrate it for having existed rather than morn its passing.

Suddenly Mark remembered where he was, and more importantly he remembered what was going on in the community center. A slow grin curled the corners of his mouth revealing his strong white teeth. For a moment Liz looked uncomfortable. She turned her head slightly to one side as if embarrassed, her feet shifting against the pavement of the parking lot, but as Mark watched she straightened her shoulders and turned to look at him with the fire of defiance in her eyes. Her look said that she would not be afraid or ashamed for having been found here. Indeed, Liz raised one eyebrow and tilted her head giving him a questioning look, her posture inquire as to what he was doing here. Then it was his turn to feel slightly uncomfortable at having been caught out.

“Well this is certainly an interesting situation,” Liz said.

“Yea well, I guess you could say that. But I would have said fucking embarrassing instead of interesting.”

Liz laughed, her head falling back, exposing the long smooth line of her throat. The slow burn that had started in Mark’s belly when he first saw the stunning woman walking towards him burned a little bit hotter.

“So, I figure there are three things we can do,” Liz chuckled. “One –we can walk away and pretend this never happened. Two –we can exchange business cards, renew our friendship by e-mail and just pretend that we didn’t meet each other here. Three –we can go and get a cup of coffee and catch up.”

“I say number three, there’s a good place down the street or we can head back into downtown.”

“Let’s go to that place on the corner of third and Fairfax. You remember it?”

“Yeah, I remember; we used to go there to study. You always drank diet cokes, when did you grow up and start drinking coffee?”

“As soon as I realized how much more caffeine there was in a cup of coffee than a diet Coke, however there are times at night when I crave that sweet fake sugar taste.”

Mark chuckled appreciatively. Lifting his hands from where they still gripped her waist he looked around for her car. “Do you want to follow me or do you want to drive with me?”

“I’ll follow you.”

Liz headed towards her black SLR, hips swaying. Mark watched her walk away, his eyes tracing the outline of her tight ass through her pants.
Now that was one fine looking sassy woman, he though. Too damn bad she’s a Dom.

Moregon, pt. 3

Moregon, Part 3

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self editor, so read at your own risk.

Recap: It is the night before Moregon is to begin his service as the newest Zinah. He cannot sleep and so goes out into the garden, where Challia, a pretty young woman whom had plans to wed him, has stripped in the moonlight and is preparing to do many, very dirty, things to the virgin Moregon.

***

“Moregon, you must lie back if I am to suck your cock.”

He stared at her and his cock, wrapped in her hand, jerked at her words.

“Don’t you want me to take you in my mouth?”

“Aye.” Moregon lay back, looking up at the sky.

His emotions, normally so placid, had been in upheaval since he learned he was to be the fifth Zinah, and Challia’s words and actions were not helping. As disconcerting as he might find her, she embodied the normal life he would loose when he became a Zinah. Challia was home and heart, wife and mother. Moregon’s life would hold great responsibility and honor, but he would never marry or have children.

All his worries, indeed, all rational thought, fled under her hand and tongue on his cock.

“More,” he begged, not himself knowing what he wanted, unable to tell her what would please him beyond simply, more.

She understood what he did not, and wrapped his long cock securely in both hands, holding him upright and tight as she lapped at the head.

Her hair brushed his legs and belly as she leaned lower, encompassing just the head of his cock in her mouth. With her lips sealed around him she sucked, cheeks hallowing with the effort. Moregon arched his hips up, pleasure racing through him like liquid fire.

“Did you like that?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“I’m glad.”

Challia gave him a teasing lick and then released his cock.

“Please, please don’t stop.” He didn’t mean to beg, didn’t want to, but at that moment he would give anything to feel her sucking on him again.

“I want you to touch me first.”

Challia, kneeling at his right hip, spread her legs, inviting him to touch. Moregon tilted his head on the stones, craning to look. He could see the pink of her sex just below the blond curls, and those few curls that graced her sex itself glistened in the moonlight.

Moregon curled his big hand around the inside of her thigh. He almost pulled away, for the soft pliancy of her skin was intimidating, but his desire to touch what she offered was to great.

He slid his hand up, rotating his wrist so that he cupped her whole sex, his big hand pressing flat up against her. Her body was warm and wet against his palm as his fingers settled into the crevice of her ass.

His fingers gently explored her, playing over the lips of her sex. When the petals parted Moregon jerked his hand away, terrified he’d broken her, but Challia pulled his hand back, holding herself open with two fingers to show him it was alright.

As she held the lips of her sex open Moregon rubbed his fingertips over her, finding a second set of lips and then finally the entrance to her body. He teased around the entrance, a primal urge to shove his fingers inside her, then throw her down and push his cock into her, thrumming through his veins.

But he could not marry her, and so would not take her virginity. He pulled his fingers away from the entrance to her body and continued rubbing them over her, spreading the soft cream that her body produced over every inch of her sex. One spot near the top seemed to be particularly pleasing to her.

Moregon kept his fingers at the top of her sex, three fingertips rubbing and pressing, when Challia suddenly threw her head back, panting and moaning.

“Yes oh yes, Please, right there, right there.”

Watching her body ripple and pant in pleasure, her upturned breasts highlighted by the silver moonlight, her nipples dark with pleasure, Moregon continued moving his fingers. He had no idea what he was doing, but she seemed to like it.

Challia shuddered, her mouth open, though no sound emerged, and jerked away from his hand. She sat back on her heels, one hand snaking between her legs to cup her pulsing sex.

He watched as she calmed. Moregon knew that he’d brought her to completion, but wondered what would happen now. His own cock had started to ache. Watching her had heightened his arousal and the need for release, for an end to the pressure, was paramount in his mind.

“Thank you, Moregon.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Now it’s your turn.” She smiled and reached for his cock.

The Personals, pt. 2

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self editor, so read at your own risk.

About this story: I am writing this story for an anthology with the lovely and talented Roxy Harte. This is a story about a fetish-loving girl who is looking for love in all the wrong places and has the worst blind-date luck in the world.
***

This guy was Quasimodo ugly.

I would never again respond to a personal ad that didn’t include a description.

Less than attractive physical appearance I can actually over-look, after all, we don’t choose what we look like. But if you’re ugly and can’t dress or groom yourself, and are a total JERK, we have a problem.

“You’re not eating, girl.”

“As I told you when you ordered for me, I’m celiac, I can’t eat pasta.”

“Well, it won’t hurt you to skip a meal.”

I sucked in my belly on instinct. I wasn’t fat! Size 10 is perfectly respectable.

I bit my tongue and mutilated a ravioli, taking vicious satisfaction when it’s green guts came squishing out. What I wanted to do was stab his thin twitchy little hand with my fork.

“Good, I see you have self control, and know when to stay shut up.”

Okay, that’s it. I’m going to stab him.

My fingers curled around the handle of my fork in a fist, when his hand dropped beneath the table, grabbing my right knee and jerking it wide.

I gasped and looked up at him.He had bright blue eyes, pretty really.“Keep your other knees spread,” his voice, normally a little nasal for my tastes, dropped to a murmur.

I shuddered and kept my legs wide. Quick as a flash I’d gone from wanting to maim this guy to being totally turned on by the simplest of orders.

I’m such a mess…

“Stay like that.”

“Yes, Sir.”

My voice dropped to match his, my breath evening out.

“Good, now, we will go over a few of your duties if I were to take you on as my slave.”

My arousal level dropped abruptly at the word ’slave.’ I don’t think ‘slave’ is what I wanted, I wanted to be a ‘sub’ someone who willingly gave up control, and that control was treasured by the one I gave it too. I wanted a relationship, not to be treated like a ‘thing.’

“First, I will put you in cooking classes, and you will learn to cook only things I will like. Second you will clean.”

My knees snapped together faster than a preacher’s daughter in
Nebraska.

“I’m sorry, I’m just not interested in being domestic staff.”

“You’ll be interested in what I tell you to be interested in.”

“No.”

He grabbed my chin, hard enough to bruise.

“Watch your, tone, girl, and address me as Sir.”

“No, I won’t.”I

 jerked my chin out of his hand and rose from the table, wending my way through the other diners and out the door. A breath I didn’t know I was holding wooshed from my lungs as I stepped onto the side walk.

I curled my hands into fists and marched off down the street. I was working on being mad instead of scared or depressed. That guy was a jerk, that was the problem. The problem wasn’t me and my freakish desires. A little BDSM never hurt anyone right? Okay that was stupid it probably hurts a lot of people, but in a good way!

Maybe I should go back to vanilla blind dates, at least those were less scary. Usually boring, but less scary. There was that guy who’d given me his number at a bar last weekend. I didn’t really remember him, but he’d been very polite when he gave me his number.

Trying to be decisive, and yes it’s decisive not impulsive and irrational as some of my less charitable friends have said, I whipped out my phone and dashed off a text message inviting the guy (saved as Random Guy 5-14) out for drinks tomorrow night.

Smiling in satisfaction I snapped my phone closed and started walking. The hand that grabbed my arm threw me off balance. My jerk-off date spun me against the wall.

“I see what you’re doing, you’re challenging me.”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“You want me to prove that I have what it takes to master you.”

“That is definitely not it.”

I was pressed back against a scummy wall, my cute dress was probably getting all gross, and his weird spidery fingers felt like mummy bones on my arms.

He stepped wide, pressing my legs together with his.

“I like your defiance; you will look good in my chains.”

Sad little perv that I am I actually paused, momentarily swept away on a wave of arousal at his words.

No, focus, get away from the bad man.

Right.

He must really be used to submissive girls who wouldn’t stand up for themselves, otherwise he would have known not to stand like that.

I left him writing on the ground, holding his nuts.As I walked towards my apartment, depression settled over me once more, the euphoria from having kneed that guys in the balls not even lasting a full block.

What was wrong with me that I only attracted freaks?

Stay tuned for Part Three next week, and check in with my dueling partner ROXY HARTE for her story.

Red Ribbon, pt 2

Red Ribbon, Part 2

This is one of the first things I wrote, and my lack of skill is apparent. From the over-done storyline to the awkward an amateurish writing this is so bad, it’s entertaining.

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self-editor, so read at your own risk.

***

Well that’s done it, Liz though, I’ve truly had enough.

Reaching up Liz yanked at the red ribbon around her neck, jerking it free. Some of the men glanced up at her, frowning, but none approached her. That more than anything solidified Liz’s belief that these men were nothing but posers, playing Dominant when in reality they were users and losers. Setting her cup down on the nearest table with a loud snap Elizabeth strode proudly from the room. Some eyes were on her, watching the sway of her hips and breasts, as if focusing on the parts of her that they could understand, and control. These oh-so-powerful men shied away from her as a whole: the sexy, sexual, powerful woman, who did not need losers like them to give meaning to her life.

Liz made her way into the long hallway of the community center. The organization which was hosting the event had rented out the small one story building for the evening. The event, called The Gathering, was an invitation only affair held four times a year. Liz had received her invitation upon her competition of a BDSM 101 class.

Liz had stumbled onto an advertisement for the class buried deep in one of her favorite erotic stories websites. The class had claimed to be an introduction to living a BDSM lifestyle in the real world, the perfect bridge for people who wanted to make their fantasies a reality. Growing continually tired of living her sexual fantasies in her head Liz had signed up for the class, which was hosted at the neutral location of a community center.

As far as everyone but the members of the class knew it was an introduction to wine tasting class that met once a week for ten weeks. Liz had paid the $500 fee with her Visa and had been relieved to have the charge show up as “Vineyard Educational Services” as opposed to “BDSM 101”, which she had half feared. The ten week class had been purely informational, each session a one hour lecture with Q and A and then discussion time.

Liz had thought many of the ‘rules’ which they taught the class seemed more like common sense, most dittos had titles like: “Why it is important to have a way to say No: Safewords.” At the end of the course they had a few guest lecturers, including one real life Dom. It was the memory of this Dom that kept Liz from giving up all hope. While he wasn’t really what she would ideally want in a Dom he was much closer than any of the pricks in the community center tonight.

He had been introduced to them as Master Lucien. Tall and lean he had been impeccably dressed with a firm steady manner. With medium brown hair and hazel eyes he had the good looks of a lawyer or businessman. One look at him and you knew that he was a man who lived by rules and codes of conduct.

As far as Liz was concerned there had not been anyone there tonight who had come even close to Master Lucien in either appearance or manner. Mr. Lucien, as he had told them to call him, was living proof that there were real Dominants out there. Liz had come to The Gathering tonight hoping to find her Mr. Right. She had placed a lot of hope on this night. The months of attending the class, years of scouring erotic stores and the internet to feed her desire, and a lifetime of fantasies had brought her to this night.

And it was a disaster.

With quickening steps Liz strode down the hallway of the community center, past other rooms filled with members of the BDSM community, both seasoned players and new hopefuls.

A less determined, less sexually frustrated person would have given up, but even as she pushed through the double doors leading to the parking lot Liz was forming a new plan of action. This was only the first one of these events she had attended. There would be another one in a few months. Until then she would go through some of the contacts that they had been given in class, on-line messages boards and yahoo groups.

So intent was she on formulating a new plan of action that she almost did not see the man who stood slumped against the grill of a big SUV. He was perfectly still in the security light which illuminated the parking lot. Liz’s first impression of him was one of size. This guy was BIG. His slumped posture made it all the more apparent that when he straightened he would tower over her. Dark hair hung down to his neck, a few strands had fallen in front of his face shielding it from view. He was dressed in casual jeans and tight t-shirt which was pulled taught across his arms and shoulders.

For a minute Liz stood frozen her heart picking up speed as hoped bloomed. It was unlikely that someone not in the scene would be standing outside the community center at 9 p.m. on a Thursday night. Could he be a Dom? He was the perfect physically embodiment of what Liz wanted in her dominant: big, strong, with muscles to sink her fingers and teeth into, someone who she could trust not only emotionally, but physically.

Knowing her luck he was probably a sub waiting for one of the Dominatrixes inside. With a disgusted sigh Liz started walking again, headed towards her car, which she now realized was parked only two down from the SUV. As her heels clicked closer the dark haired dream looked up.

The way he moved, his head snapping up, eyes bright and sharp, made Liz think of a predator. Raising her own chin a notch Liz kept walking, but as she got closer her steps slowed as she studied his face. A face she knew.

Straight dark eyebrows had pulled together over his nose as he frowned as her, conflicted with the same feeling of recognition. It was he who remembered first, his features falling back into a relaxed position and his lips curled up in a devastatingly sexy closed lip smile.

“Lizabeth? Lizabeth Brown?”

Moregon, pt. 2

Moregon, Part 2

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self editor, so read at your own risk.

Recap: It is the night before Moregon is to begin his service as the newest Zinah. He cannot sleep and so goes out into the garden, where a pretty young woman approaches him.

***

“You’ve broken my heart.”

The nightdress fluttered to the floor, and the knees he’d been so diligently studying were bare in the moonlight.

“And now you must mend it.

“I what?” he yelped. Moregon wanted to look up into her face but was aware that doing so would necessitate him getting a long look at her naked body. The idea of Challia naked was enough to make him blush, let alone actually seeing it.

“You’ve broken my heart Moregon.”

“I did not mean to. I did not know I had.”

“We were meant to wed.”

“Nothing was ever arranged.”

“It was logical, you are the strongest warrior, and I the most beautiful maid.” Her confidence and arrogance was both irritating and arousing.

“Challia, put your robe back on.”

“Nae. I would taste you before the Priestess steals you away.”

“Taste me?” His voice has risen, cracking, painfully reminiscent of a few years ago when his changing voice had been so embarrassing Moregon had nearly stopped speaking.

“Don’t you want to touch me?”

“It is wrong to do so. I cannot wed you, I am bound to serve the Temple.”

“But not yet.”

She knelt and Moregon dropped his gaze to his knees.

“Please look at me.”

“Challia, you should go. No good can come of this.”

“I don’t care, I want to feel you touch me, at least once. Won’t you even look at me?” He slender hands, slightly rough from her work as a basket weaver, cupped his face, tilting it up. Moregon kept his lids lowered and then darted his gaze to hers.

She had a pretty face, always had. Blonde hair, much like his own, fell in straight lines on either side of her face.

“I made no promise to you Challia.”

“I know, but you would have, once you got up the courage.”

He was shocked by her arrogant assumption and the insult she’d delivered him, for Moregon prided himself on his courage. He was too startled to pull away when she leaned in and kissed him.

She didn’t notice that he wasn’t responding to the kiss, and her lips moved to his neck, pecking down to his shoulder.

Her fingers wrapped over his wrists, uncrossing his arms, and bringing his hands to bump against her breasts.

He wanted to be good, to do the right thing and send her away, but he felt her pebble hard nipples against his knuckles and Moregon caved. Self-control only went so far.

He opened his hands to her breasts, cupping them and squeezing. She gasped against his shoulder and Moregon started to pull his hands away.

“No, don’t stop, I like it.”

Moregon, young enough that he cared more that she’d say he didn’t have to stop than that she enjoyed it, enthusiastically squeezed her again.

He nudged her to sit up, wanting to see his hands on her breasts. In the moonlight his sun bronzed hands looked black against the pure white of her breasts. He squeezed once more and the flesh swelled between his fingers.

Still holding her breasts he looked down at the apex of her thighs. The tilt of her body kept her sex in shadow.

“Moregon, I want to see you.”

“You’re looking at me now.”

“No, down there.” She pointed to where his cock had tented his drawers.

The idea of the pretty Challia seeing him, maybe touching him, was enough to have his cock twitching.

“If you wish.”

“I do.”

She reached down for the ties. Moregon wondered if he should remove his hands from her breasts, but decided that he wouldn’t until she asked him too. He did so like breasts.

The ties came loose under her fingers and Moregon felt the planets move when she reached in and cupped him.

Holding his cock with one hand, the other tugged his garment off, pulling it as far down his thighs as his spread legs would allow.

He looked down at her fingers wrapped around him, and Moregon could not decide if he found the sight of him holding her breasts, or her hand around his cock, more exciting.

“It is very hard.” She gave him a testing squeezing. Her hands were strong from his work and Moregon nearly yelped at the strength of her grip. “Oh, sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Nae, it feels very good.”

“My sister said, that when a man and woman do not want to have a baby there is a way for them to pleasure each other, without the woman getting with child.”

“What did she say?”

“That if I were to take you in my mouth your seed would not find root in my belly.”

Moregon shivered at her words. He too had heard tell of this practice.

“Do you like that? I don’t know how so you will have to help me.”

“I, I have never done it either. I have never… touched anyone.”

She smiled, and there was a sly note to it. “I thought and hoped that.” Pushing against Moregon’s shoulder she tried to put him on his back but he just stared at her, a bit disconcerted by her words and tone.

“Have you touched anyone else?” he asked.

“Just Maon, he kissed me and then played with my breasts.”

Moregon was unexpectedly hurt at her words. If she so loved him that his leaving was breaking her heart then how is it that she had let another touch her?

“Moregon, you must lie back if I am to suck your cock.”

The Personals, pt 1

I love Saturday mornings.

Then again, by the time I woke up it was 1pm, so really I guess I should say that I love Saturday afternoons.

I stretched, scratching my head and belly before rolling off the edge of the bed. I’d slept long enough to absorb all the alcohol I’d consumed last night, but the ground was a little wobbly as a started across my bedroom for the bathroom.

The obstacle course that was my floor defeated me today. I tripped over my boots from last night, two empty water bottles, and my cat.

Sasha wrapped herself around my ankle, cementing me in place. Scratching the outside of my right thigh I leaned against the wall and yawned, too lazy to reach down and move the cat.

When she final wandered away I blinked to clear my bleary eyes, but one of them didn’t clear.

I blinked my left eye again, but the lid didn’t go all the way up. Panicked, I darted for the bathroom, grabbing the door jam to spin myself inside and slamming my hand on the light switch.

Awful florescent lighting blinked awake.

One of Satan’s banshees, complete with medusa-afro hair, streaks of black down her face, and one half closed eye, stared back at me.

My hair was so bad that it distracted me for a moment from the eye-problem. Grabbing the snarled mess in one hand I pulled it into a ponytail and then twisted it up, securing it to the back of my head with a big clip. Now the fuzzy ends stuck up behind my head, making me look like a goth pineapple.

I leaned forward on the sink, which was cold against my bare thighs, and poked at my left eyelid.

It appeared that the inch long blue glitter fake eyelash I’d been wearing last night had slipped down while I slept and re-pasted itself in place, half on my upper lid, half on my lower, effectively glued my eye closed. I grabbed the blue eyelash and ripped it off.

Several minutes later the white light of pain retreated. Making a mental note to never do that again I picked myself up off the floor, where the pain of yanking that thing off my eye had dropped me.

I slowly and gently washed my face, removing the streaked makeup. Too tired to shower, and re-thinking the idea that I’d gotten enough sleep, I settled for braiding my hair rather than jumping in the shower right now and possibly drowning myself. The resulting braid looked like a snarled knotted tree branch, but at least I wasn’t in danger of turned any hot Greek warriors into stone.

Thoroughly exhausted I staggered back to my bed, burrowing beneath the covers. I extracted my laptop form beneath a pile of pillows. Since there we no boys in my bed, it seemed completely reasonable to keep electronics there.

I popped open my baby, settling myself comfortably, and clicked to my favorite personals site.

Attractive older man seeking pretty young woman, (no older than 24 please) for a long term relationship. Must be able to cook as well as take care of a home. I want someone who knows how to take care of herself, and looks good, also. If interested email me at… 

Um, no. Creepy old guys. I’m sure there are a million hot women under 23 in LA who want nothing more than to come cook and clean for some nasty old man. Nice try buddy.

Seeking asian Geisha looking girl. 

Riiight. Next please.

I am new to the area and basically, I am pretty busy and don’t want to put the effort into going out to find a girl, but I need a good time right now…so, e-mail me if you are interested. 

How romantic and attractive… except not at all. Nice try ass-hat.

Disgusted I checked my email, bored and lazy enough to actually read some of the spam email. Wow, I was a long lost millionaire with a rich relative in
Africa, awesome. Soon I’d run out of email, so clicked back to the personals site.

Against my will, and entirely out of my control, the mouse moved to a little button that said “Dark Side Personals.” The background changed from plain white to dark blue and black.

My shoulders twitched with the need to turn around and be sure no one could see what I was looking at.

Heart pounding I clicked into “Men looking for Women” and selected the first ad.

I am an experienced, creative, firm and caring DOM
Humiliation and submission a must…I find it a very intimate part of a DOM/sub session.
If you want to learn more email me the following:
A: Describe yourself age, height, weight etc.
B: Send a picture of what I want to see. Face, tits, and ass. You may wear underwear.
C: Begin right now and address me as “Sir”
Please note:
- I do NOT need a more experienced submissive who gives me a “laundry list” of what they want “done to them”!
- If you want to know details but are not willing to experience a session or training go buy a book!
- You must be completely drug and disease free and reasonably free from financial, family and romantic entanglements. (As in I don’t need that kind of drama) And… So I know you read the whole post put “I am a submissive slut for your pleasure” in the subject line!

            I quickly backed out. Whoever this guy was, he was clearly insane. The disclaimers were longer than the actual ad. “You many wear underwear.” What a jerk! How could this guy assume that all he had to do was declare, in a simple text personal ad, that he was a Dom, and that was enough that a girl would send him naked pics.

            Like a moth to a flame, stupid and doomed, I clicked into the next one.

I am a 40 year old dominant, good-looking, bright, tall bearded guy that is seeking a submissive woman who will respond to my demands and do as she is told. I am very giving, strong, caring and loving. If you are unfamiliar with D/s, I would certainly enjoy teaching you how to submit to me and teach you as much as you would care to learn about Domination and Submission. Domination requires my learning intimately both your mind and your body and how to manipulate them both. It takes time and effort on the part of both the Dom and the sub and I will expect you to take your training very seriously. Naturally, I will respect all of your hard limits.

You know how much this appeals to you. Don’t be afraid to reply.

This sounded… good. As I read a cool shiver, moved down my back, raising the fine hairs all over my body and making me hyperaware of each inch of skin. I read through add one more time, identifying the parts that made me hot “…learning intimately both your mind and body…”

The idea of a lover who knew what he was doing, who would read my body’s signals, understand the pleas in each gasp and moan, was incredibly arousing. I suffered from a long string of relationships with vanilla sex with boys who made me feel bad about wanting an orgasm.

I wanted to lie back, no, be tied down, while a man who knew exactly what to do had his way with me.

Sure there were some parts of the email that I didn’t really love, for one the guy was nearly 20 years older than me, the other being the “do what she is told” section. I didn’t want to be a doormat, and wanted to be able to express myself.

These concerns were soon overwhelmed by the lovely idea of a strong older man’s hands on me, touching me, holding me, controlling me and bringing me to one mind numbing orgasm after another.

Holding my breath, I clicked “Reply.”

Red Ribbon, pt 1

Red Ribbon, Part 1

This is one of the first things I wrote, and my lack of skill is apparent. From the over-done storyline to the awkward an amateurish writing this is so bad it’s entertaining. 

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self editor, so read at your own risk.

***

What the hell was she doing here?

Swirling the fruity alcohol enhanced punch in its small plastic cup Lizabeth Brown surveyed the small room despairingly. The people in the room had broken off into pairings or groups of three. For the most part the women were seated on the chairs and couches placed against the walls while the men stood over them. In another setting this might be taken for consideration, the gentlemen having kindly allowed the ladies to sit while they stood, but in this room, in this situation, that was not the case.

Liz eyed the other women with mild distaste. Everything about them was sending off waves of submission: their posture, the gentle murmur of their voices, the soft, easily removable articles of clothing they wore. Liz was the only woman in pants.

Shoulders curled forward, chins tiled down, words soft and hesitant, they were exactly what the men in the room were looking for. She was not.

Fingering the red ribbon around her neck which marked her as a submissive Liz took one more look at the partner-less men in the room, those who stood in groupings of two or more men to one woman.

Strangely she had assumed that there would be more women then men. Perhaps that view was shaped by BDSM literature she had read which always had Dominants with multiple lovely young submissives making it seem that beautiful naturally submissive women were as thick on the ground as leaves in New England during fall.

In one corner two men lounged in arrogant splendor; their eyes fixed on the large breasts of the woman sitting between them. Their body language was relaxed, confident: their posture said that if they wanted the girl they could have her.

Liz shuddered at the thought of allowing either of them to kiss her cheek let alone stick their dick in her. Both men look weak to her, in body and spirit. One had a beer gut and love handles, his clothes poorly fitted and messy looking. The other was rail thin and gangly, like a bean sprout, his hook nose and squinty eyes adding to his overall air of unattractiveness.

The conversation between the couple next to her caught her attention. Shifting in her Steve Madden pumps Liz leaned against the wall, watching them out of the corner of her eye.

The man was older –early to mid fifties- than many in the room. He wore a simple black sweater with a ‘v’ neck allowing curling white chest hairs to escape. He had an older man paunch, accentuated by the fact that his pants were belted tightly below the paunch. She couldn’t begrudge him his homely face but he had obviously let himself go.

How could the woman sitting so quietly in front of him hope to be mastered by this man who clearly could not take care to master himself? How could she expect to feel captured, captivated, by his arms when they contained no muscle, only soft flabby flesh. For a moment Liz pictured herself on her knees before the man, his –old, wrinkly- cock pressed to her lips demanding entrance, her lips parting, his cock forcing its way deeper into her mouth… That is until her forehead came up against his flabby belly, the sexy insertion of his cock into her mouth stopped by the paunch.

Repressing a gag Liz pretended to sip her revolting punch as the fantasy she had been trying to build shattered. With a shiver she went back to eavesdropping on the paunchy man’s conversation.

“You will be a good slut for me won’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Robert.” Ugh. Bob, his name was Bob.

“What if you are a bad girl, slut?”

There was a slight hesitation before, “You will punish me, Mr. Robert,” Liz heard the tremble of arousal in the girl’s voice now, the words broken by soft huffs of air as her breathing quickened.

“That is right slut” Liz caught the slight flinch on the girls face as he called her that, “I will punish you, nice and hard, just like you need it.”

“Thank you Mr…”

The idiot man cut her off, clearly not hearing her, not caring about what she had been trying to say, the obedience she had been trying to show. His eyes were fixed on the girls breasts, his words rambling as he built his fantasies around his own pleasure.

“You will always be kept naked in my presence, and always on your knees. Whenever I want you will suck my cock, and anyone else’s cock. You will become a little cum bucket. Don’t worry my pretty slut I will teach you to take my cock so deep in your throat that it feels like it is a part of you. I will train you so that you will feel like something is wrong if you don’t have a cock in your mouth.”

The girl’s features had tensed, her body drawing away from him as the arrogant prick rambled on about his toy cock sucker fantasies. Liz couldn’t blame her. Never once did the man mention pleasure for the girl, or how he would cherish the gift of her submission.

When the man’s eyes glazed over in lust at his own fantasies and he stopped talking the timid young woman gamely tried to salvage the conversation and the real-time fantasy she was trying to live.

“What would you do to punish me Sir?” There was a hopeful note in the girl’s voice. Undoubtedly she was waiting, praying, for him to describe how he would pull her firmly over his knee and paddle her ass, deny her orgasm while keeping her highly aroused or put her into tight bondage.

“Why my pretty slut, I would deny you my cock in your pretty mouth. The denial of her Master’s cock is the ultimate punishment for a slut.”

Liz watched the girl crumble, the last of her fantasy shattered. Her vision of a Dominate as a sexually powerful and knowledgeable man who would demand her obedience but treasure her in return replaced by the reality of an all too human man who only wanted to stick his dick in her mouth and thought that his prick was god’s gift to women.
Well that’s done it, Liz though, I’ve truly had enough.

Moregon, pt. 1

Moregon, Part 1

Copyright (c) Lila Dubois 2007. This is unedited, and I am an infamously bad self editor, so read at your own risk.

This story takes place as Moregon is chosen to be the fifth and final Zinah, several years before the start of Forbidden.

***
It was an honor to be chosen.

To serve the Temple was to bring great honor to his family. From the moment of his birth, all who saw Moregon said he was destined to be a warrior, and he’d grown up wearing the burden of those expectations as a mantle across his board shoulders.

But this honor was beyond dreams, a chance so rare and fleeting that none dared even hope for it.

The claiming of the Zinahs was an activity that consumed the people of the Temple. For the past year they had waited and watched as the old Priestess stepped down and the Handmaiden rose to take her place. Trepidation had claimed all hearts, for the new Priestess took her place in the Goddess’s service with only four Zinahs.

Five were needed, and five there had been since the Dark War. With five there was no question of the power, or superiority, of the Temple and its army. A millennia ago, five strong warriors, noble sons each, cast away their lives and futures to bond with the remaining child of the dead High King and Queen. They six vowed to fight back against the darkness that claimed the Palace. With the Goddess blessed Temple as their sanctuary, and a burning desire to protect their families and the life they had known, the Priestess and first Zinahs created a new world order from the ashes of the old.

That time was long past, though the battle between Temple and Palace raged on.

Moregon stripped off his leather armor and tunic below, naked to the waist. Setting his armor on a stood by the side of the house he bent over the water trough and splashed water on himself.
A chorus of giggles had him looking up. He caught a glimpse of wide eyes and bright ribbons before the gigglers ducked out of view.

“Go on! Get out of here.” The scolding feminine voice came from behind Moregon.

The girls yelped and fled, darting out from around the edge of the house where they’d been hiding. They ran away, contrition at having been caught evaporating in their delight at having seen the newest Zinah.

“They are always around.”

Moregon’s mournful complaint had his mother laughing. A hale and strong woman, still young though she had children full grown, Avna shared looks with her son. Both had the golden sun-kissed sun common to the people of the Great City with blond hair. Moregon stood a head above his mother. Avna was tall for a woman, and Moregon was a giant, taller than many of the other warriors, with shoulders of matching breadth.

Avna handed Moregon a drying cloth, which he accepted with a murmured “Thank You,” passing it over his wet face and chest. She gathered his shirt and armor, waving him away when Moregon made move to take it from her.

“Let me do this from you. Soon I will not be able to care for you anymore.”

“I will still see you, Maman.”

“It will not be the same. Once they come for you tomorrow, take you away, everything will be different.”

Her words kept him awake long into the night. The moons were well up, halfway through their nightly trek across the sky, when he slipped from his bed.

Though he made good money as a warrior in the Temple army he lived with his parents still. Life was hard in the Great City, and while it was better to live within the Temple’s sheltering walls, there was very little space to house all those who had sought refuge there.

He stepped over the cot his little brothers shared and picked his way down the stairs and out of the house. Not wanting wake anyone he didn’t both dressing, and emerged into the moonlight clad only in loose knee length drawers.

Around the back of the house was a small garden, a luxury of space few others could claim. This small plot of land, blessed as it was by the touch of the Goddess, provided enough green food to feed his family.

Two paths of paving stones made a cross through the center of the garden, with numerous small paths barely wide enough for his foot, providing access to the plants.

He stopped to check the cabbage and examine the leafy tops of carrots. Judging from the length of the above ground stalks there was still more growing to do before the carrots were plump enough to pull.
Moregon settled himself on the stones where the paths crossed, the only place in the garden large enough for him to sit.

He tilted his head to the sky, offering up a simple warrior’s prayer to the Goddess that she might watch over him as he moved down this new path his life had taken.

A breeze rose up, causing the tall stalks of lavender beside him to sway, brushing against his arm, like a lover’s touch. Had he been a fanciful man, one who believed that the Goddess was anything more than a far off deity, he would have said it was the goddess, reassuring him through the touch of a simple plant.

The wind also brought the sounds of the night, and one sound that was out of place.

“Moregon?”

Standing at the edge of the garden was a slim maid, the curve of breast, belly and hip exposed as the wind pressed her thin dress against her body. She was older than that afternoon’s admierers, and wore the body of a girl just able to claim womanhood.

Embarrassed at his state of undress Moregon awkwardly folded his arms over his chest.

“Yes? Who goes there?”

“It’s Challia.”

She moved into the garden, light footed and sure. When she stopped before him Moregon kept his eyes on her knees.

“You’ve broken my heart.”

The nightdress fluttered to the floor, and the knees he’d been so diligently studying were bare in the moonlight.

“And now you must mend it.”

Welcome and Introduction

This is the blog of Fantasy Erotic Romance writer Lila Dubois.

Every Tuesday, beginning May 15th, a new Original Excerpt from the world of the Zinahs will be posted. These mini-stories will follow the Zinahs and introduce you to their world.

The first book in the series, Forbidden is the story of Tamlohn, the Prima Zinah is available in both e-book and print format.