Affairs Of A Wicked Heart by Lizbeth Dusseau
Blackmailed and forced to surrender…degraded, bound, whipped and humiliated by a man she fears…a master she obeys…a dominant who moves her submissive soul…
By day, Lana Desmond is in charge of acquisitions for a major museum, by night she submits to dominant men and sexual masters. Once a nubile innocent…her world has transformed. In scenes of pain, degradation and bondage, her private obsession comes alive while she carefully guards this tawdry secret.
The ambitious Lana has every reason to despise her arch business rival, the unseen and mysterious Ellery Graham and his agent, Jordan Lucas. But as the war for several valuable paintings heats up, so does the sexual chemistry between Jordan and Lana until they take it to bed, screwing like minks in a downtown fleabag hotel. Risking everything, their one afternoon of unbridled sex turns into a hot affair and covert rendezvous, where their real lives fall away, lust-filled passions rule, and the novice to S&M, Jordon, soon learns that his lover thrives on sexual submission.
In the real world the battle still rages: Jordan has a sassy, spanking-loving fiancé to please, and Lana’s torn between her secret lover, her long term companion, the gentle Armando, and a long string of exacting, ruthless masters in the art of S&M. But when her newest master, Allegro, finds his way deep into her submissive soul, the delicate balance of her love-life threatens to tumble. And who is this master, really? Where did he come from? And why is it so important for him to spirit her from her life into his private domain?
“Masters and slaves, it’s not a made up world,” Ellery rises from his chair and struts about demonstratively, cocks his head, going into and out of the bright sunlight like an apparition mutating from ghost to flesh and back. “It’s not fantasy, Jordan.” He turns and strolls away, still talking, “It’s the 21st century, but we still ache for 7th century values—if you can call it ‘values’. We’re seduced by our own previous reincarnations is the only way I can explain it. The memories are shrill; they climb from tombs of centuries ago and haunt us, specters in our dreams. We don’t have to think about it, we don’t need the media to sell us the images, we find them on our own, seek them out when we’re little, sprinkled in fairytales that our parents read to us as innocent stories. We grow up with the passions desiring expression and gravitate to those who share our secret kink—sometimes without even knowing. Of course, now we have an Internet that floods us with information and every graphic rendering of our darkest thoughts—we don’t need our imaginations to fuel the desire anymore. We can even create it in those for whom it is not naturally there. But our Miss Desmond, there’s a real slave under her skin. She’s a breath of fresh air for a man like me.” He lights a cigarette from a gold case that lies on the table next to the pictures. He’s forgotten that he’s trying to quit, and as he puffs vigorously, the smoke curls into the hazy, sparkle of sunshine, getting lost.
“I rather preferred it when it wasn’t so ‘out there’, when our lifestyle remained a pure secret. Oh, how the desire could melt you then, when no one knew, no one could know, except those special few.”
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