Fall From Grace

An eBook By Lizbeth Dusseau.

Regan had been born in the twentieth century, destined by desire to be a slave, to be owned property. Her psyche begged for it, grasping the vision of herself at a master's feet quite early in her teenage years. She's studied the Dark Ages, Shakespeare and the Renaissance until she passionately lived in that other world. Her friends thought her grim. She thought herself romantic.

She waited for sex because she wanted it right, under the right circumstances, under the right moon and stars, with the right words and the right feeling of surrender transporting her to an imagined freedom.

She told her first lover in a letter what she wanted-they'd been corresponding for several months after having met on-line-and he was happy to oblige her pressing need. Regan was lucky he wasn't a rapist since she gave him every opportunity to take advantage of her naïveté, but he proved harmless. He was a good man with a healthy streak of sexual perversity. And for her initiation into the fantasy, he knew enough about the craft of sexual masters to satisfy her hungering appetite for bondage and deliverance.

They met in a tiny park, overshadowed by great brick buildings, which crawled with ivy and years of respectful neglect. A hazy fog shrouded the afternoon in a thick layer of gloom-yet it was peaceful, burgeoning with the expectation of realized desire.

She knew him from the picture he'd sent in his last letter. He was a college professor, a bit scruffy, but authoritative as he clamped her left wrist in a handcuff and led her from the park to a borrowed room on the third floor of the Arbor Terrace Apartments. Regan will always remember the name of the building, as it became etched in her mind's eyes as clearly as the letters were etched in the cement frieze above the front door.

The carpet was old and threadbare and the woodwork in need of polishing, but the ambience of Old World decadence teamed through every atom in the mellow, sagging building. The floors creaked as the two walked down the entry hallway to the stairs.

For just an instant, Regan caught the musty aroma from the basement below.

Her body lurched forward, stumbling into her silent companion as she started her ascent to the third floor. She smiled nervously, as he looked back to see if she had righted herself.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's okay to be nervous on a first time."

She'd turned eighteen the day before, and now felt like a debutante going to a ball.

Though Regan masterminded the scene, that fact took nothing from her enjoyment of her first pleasure. (It would be erroneous to say this was her first physical experience of sex. She'd been getting off to fantasy since she was eleven, masturbating to the rhythms that beat through her crotch and pictures that ran like movies in her head. She called it survival. But what she did in her bedroom at night or on the fire escape in the afternoon or by the window when she was exquisitely horny could never be enough to last more than a few hours.)

The upstairs room of the Arbor Terrace was lit with a cozy darkness. The professor lighted the only candle and blew the matchstick out with a puff of breath. She smelled cinnamon from the cappuccino he'd downed just before he spotted her waiting for him in the park.

Regan's crotch spasmed hard when she saw the bed, the four posts and the canopy above. She'd seen such things in movies, but not real life.

"It was once the bridal suite," the professor informed her. "Few brides now would accept such tattered surroundings for the a wedding night, but I think it suits your need."

He picked perfectly, Regan thought. "I think you're right, sir," she answered him.

"And you call yourself ‘slave'?" His voice turned cold as he suddenly grilled her with the question. "You're still on your feet."

"My apologies," she said, immediately dropping to the floor, folding herself over submissively, her face pressed to the carpet.

Regan didn't look up to see the expression of determination on his face. She'd already seen it a thousand times in fantasy. Her professor was a little older than her ideal master. He'd aged gray at the temples, and wrinkles creased his brow and around his thin lips; but his look and appearance was keenly masterful-enough to suit her need.

"You'll learn to serve on your knees. That's what slaves do best. If you were mine for a year, you'd rarely stand, and you'd learn."

"I already know, sir," she said looking up.

He grabbed her hair, and pulled her up so that she stared at his crotch, "You know little but your imagination." He wanted to say more, but stopped. More wasn't part of their agreement. He shook her off, "Climb on the bed."

Regan scrambled to obey, suddenly feeling quite clumsy as reality took twists she had not counted on.

"On your back," the professor continued. He'd quickly clamped her one handcuffed wrist to the post above her left side. A second handcuff encircled her right wrist and was then attached to the right-hand post.

With a jerk of his hand, the master removed her long thin skirt to reveal her naked crotch beneath. Her bare pussy pressed the air wantingly, beginning to thrash back and forth for more stimulation.

"Lie still," the man demanded.

He wanted her obedience. She wanted that, too. A rush of satisfaction swept her as she settled herself compliantly. Yet, this only made her crotch burn more eagerly for his touch.

Unbuttoning her blouse, the professor bared her breasts, which flattened against her chest as her nipples rose beyond them pink, tight and proud. He ran his hand across her skin while her head fell back and her chest rose up to greet his fingers. He tweaked a nipple between them waiting for her scream; but the urge to cry quickly receded as sensation descended to her wet pussy.

Return to Top