Bitch Goddess: from the novel, RUBY'S RULES*

by Lisabet Sarai

*Blue Moon Books, 2003
  ISBN 1-56201-329-7

My father always recommended physical activity as an antidote to stress. So, here I am at Proscenium, lately my favorite club. I need to move, to dance, perhaps to indulge in more specialised exercise. The possibilities excite me, as always.

Proscenium is housed in a remodeled movie house from the forties. The stage has been extended out to become a dance floor. A carved and gilded ceiling arches high overhead, crisscrossed by multicolored lasers. Seats removed, the sloping orchestra pit gives one a slightly dangerous feeling of vertigo. Like the stage, it is packed with writhing bodies clothed in vinyl, spandex, fake fur, leather. I see a good deal of bare skin as well.

The main balcony is equipped with a bar and crowded with wobbly tables and chairs. The curtained side balconies are also open, available for more private encounters.

I am in my Asian bitch goddess mode. I have pulled my hair back into a long, tight ponytail that hangs down to my waist. I am wearing butter-soft black leather: laced vest, miniskirt, stiletto-heeled boots, broad studded belt. From that belt hangs an elegant little flogger, a statement and an invitation. My eyelids are silver and my lips are scarlet. I am gorgeous, I know, an exotic vision of female power.

I stride into the churning mass of dancers on the stage and begin to dance. The music pulses, alien and compelling. Techno is not really to my taste, but tonight it suits my mood.

Swirling, grinding my hips, flicking my hair from side to side, bathing in the heat of the flesh around me. I am beginning to feel better. Richard Martell had best beware if he plans on crossing Ruby Chen.

Part of me is lost in the beat and the movement. But I am also scanning the crowd, seeking an appropriate partner. I notice him just as he sees me. He is a burly bear of a man, with black, curly locks and a beard. He’s dressed in medieval mode, a flowing shirt of royal blue whose open-laced neck shows more hair on his chest. Riding boots, leather wrist-cuffs, a chain-mail bag at his waist. Despite his size, he moves well. His tight suede leggings show off his muscled thighs. As I hold his gaze, I also can see the tell-tale swelling at his groin.

With the slightest motion of my head, I summon him to me. He towers above me, despite my four-inch heels, but when I fix my eyes on his, he cannot sustain the contact. Instead, he looks down at the instrument of punishment on my belt, half-fearful, half-eager. He licks his lips.

"Let’s dance," I say, more a command than a suggestion. He nods, and we begin to move together.

I shake my shoulders, my hips. Thrust my breasts forward, so that the thong lacings part and he can see the shadowy valley of my cleavage. My body is close to his, close enough for me to smell his nervous sweat, but I do not allow us to touch. My crotch dampens. That familiar, demanding ache rises in my sex. I trail my fingers through the air, across his body, a hair’s breath from his bulking erection. So little space between us; does he catch the musky scent of my desire?

I lean a little closer, so that he can hear me over the whine of the electric guitar. "You were staring at my whip," I say. "Do you like it?"

Underneath his beard, he blushes. He nods, reluctant but obviously excited.

"Do you want it?" I ask, pushing him further. "You will have to earn it, you know."

The music is too loud for me to catch his response. But I see his answer in his face.

"Come with me, then." I turn and slink toward the side corridor, heading for one of the private balconies. I do not look back, but I can feel him following me, sense his eyes on the tight leather that sheathes my hips.

When he parts the velvet curtains, I am already splayed out, sitting on one chair, legs apart with a booted foot on each of two others.

"Remove your shirt," I tell him. "And kneel."

He does not require more explicit instructions. He pulls his lovely blue tunic over his head. His torso is powerful and darkly furred. A bit clumsy in his bulk, he lowers himself to the appropriate position between my thighs, then looks up at me for further orders.

I recall my fair-haired, graceful supplicant of earlier in the day, poor, ambitious Mr. Dalton. The memory makes me hotter. Power surges in me.

"Now, as you have requested, I will flog you. Meanwhile, give me your fingers."

I raise my skirt a bit higher, and let him see that I am wearing crotchless panties of black silk. Just a few wisps of lace, really, framing and highlighting my creamy thighs. And the dark, moist, hungry gap between.

He begins to play with my labia, watching me all the time to see if I am pleased. I am soaked. Holding his hand palm up, he easily slips three fingers into my cunt. No resistance. I stifle my moan. His thumb is pressed against my clit, rocking it back and forth. Very good. Oh, yes, very nice indeed.

"Your other hand now. In my arse. And lower your eyes. You may not look at me unless I give you permission."

He bows his head and leans forward a bit. I slump further in the chair, presenting my hind hole to him. He has large, powerful hands, but he is tentative and gentle, wiggling his way through the ring of muscle guarding that passage. I press my bum against his hand, forcing him inside. I shudder with pleasure at the delicious desecration.

It is difficult to concentrate, as he stokes my fires with his nimble fingers. But I am not one to renege on a promise. I reach for the flogger, which I left conveniently at hand.

"Prepare yourself," I gasp. I bring the leather thongs smartly down on his shoulders, once and again.

At the first slap of the whip, he moans. The second makes him squirm and thrust his fingers deep into me. It is not the pain, I know; in my supine position, I cannot really swing the instrument hard enough to do much damage.

He is intoxicated by his own submission, and by my power. The thongs whistle through the air again and land smartly upon his hairy back. Another swipe, and yet another. With each one, he works me harder. He has two fingers in my arse now, spread apart so that the rich, dirty sensation is edged with pain.

I cannot control my strokes anymore. I drop the flogger and lean back. "Bring me off," I say huskily. He is like a machine, his fingers pumping piston-like inside me. A racecar sweeping around the track, my climax approaches. Acceleration. Frenzy.

I lift myself off the chair with my hands and force my pelvis down on him. I explode into fiery shards. "Come now," I hiss at him. "Come in those fancy suede pants of yours."

His whole body jerks convulsively, but he keeps his hands where they belong, in my streaming openings. Through half-closed eyelids, I see the stain spreading at his crotch. Oh, how fine he is, perfectly tuned to my will.

Even now, he would like me to beat him some more, I can see it in his face. But suddenly I am limp, drained. I wave him away. He slides his fingers out of me, reluctantly. A trail of moisture follows his hands and dribbles along my skin. He leans forward and laps at the droplets, worshipfully.

"Go now," I whisper, too exhausted to encourage him further. I must be more stressed by this Malaysian affair than I had realised. "Go home, and imagine how hard and cruel I might have been, if I were not feeling generous tonight."

He smiles a bit shyly, bows, and slips away between the curtains. I just lie here in this obscene pose, my thighs damp and open. I wonder, suddenly, just what I am doing here. I should be devising a strategy for my meeting with Martell, or practicing my Tai Chi to center myself, or at least getting a good night’s sleep.

"Bravo." A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. "I’m extremely impressed."

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful, drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer him my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. "I gather you were spying on me and my admirer."

"Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau." He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. "You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline."

"Hardly," I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. "I am just beginning to explore the possibilities."

"But," I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, "I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners’ desires to yield to my power."

"I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him." He paused, and searched my face. "But, do you know what I want?"

Truly, I had no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

"Tell me what you want," I purr. "I am feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request."

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

"I want you to take me home with you," he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

"You seem most enthusiastic," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "But why should I allow you into my personal space?"

"Because you want to," he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. "And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage."

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

"Let’s go, then," I say, trying to take the offensive.

"Just one moment," he replies, and swallows me up in another one of those kisses. My resistance is even more feeble than before. After all, I tell myself, it is only a kiss.

_______________

For more information about Ruby's Rules, click HERE.

Lisabet Sarai has been writing ever since she learned how to hold a pencil. She is the author of three erotic novels, "Raw Silk", "Incognito", and "Ruby's Rules", and the co-editor, with S.F. Mayfair, of the anthology "Sacred Exchange", which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships. Visit her website, Lisabet Sarai's Fantasy Factory for more information and samples of her writing.

Ruby's Rules © 2003 Lisabet Sarai