You’ll Answer To Me


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You’ll Answer to Me by Lizbeth Dusseau
Alexa Dupree returns to Tatum Winery after a six year absence, flooded with memories of her five year tenure in this beautiful Northern California valley. In summers she was nanny to Warren Tatum’s adolescent son. For the rest of the year she was his housekeeper and outrageously kinky love slave. Warren’s home became her sanctuary when at just 21, she fled England to avoid murder charges in connection with her father’s untimely death. The rebellious wild child of a famous concert pianist, her bad behavior and multiple arrests had been tabloid gossip since she was a teen. Relieved to have escaped an aggressive manhunt by Scotland Yard, Alexa readily agreed to sign Warren’s ten year contract, effectively making her his indentured servant in exchange for providing her a safe haven. As far as the man’s kinky sexual appetites, they were no problem for this promiscuous slut.
However, when Warren dies in a freak accident after just five years, Alexa quickly splits, ready for a taste of freedom. Now she returns at the request of Warren’s 21 year old son, Luke, and is shocked to learn that the boy she once took care of plans to enforce the contract terms he claims are part of his inheritance. With incriminating evidence in his father’s safe, a signed contract, and intimate details of her Master/slave relationship, he has all he needs to win her submission. The swaggering sexy youth intends to make his former nanny his sexual plaything. While powerful urges draw these two together, Alexa resists the sudden end to her carefree life. Theirs will be a troubled love-hate relationship. But with Luke holding her ultimate freedom in his hands, what choice does she have but to surrender? Contains bondage, whipping, Master/slave, corsets, sexual service, multiple partners, humiliation, and, believe it or not, a steaming hot romance.

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Weight 0.99 lbs
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Cover image VeraSmirnova –

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While on her way to a new life…


Rebecca balked when he ordered her into the trunk of his car.

“You signed the papers, girl. You either climb in on your own, or I’ll tie you up and throw you in.” The bald, gruff, barrel-chested brute was definitely big enough to follow through and not break a sweat.

“My choice, right?” she spit out the sarcastic reply.

“Yep. You refuse, you can always stay here. Doesn’t matter much to me. I get paid either way.”

Rebecca didn’t know what to make of the man. He was obviously not impressed with who she was, and yet, she found that strangely refreshing after putting up with sycophants for so many months. Besides, his rugged working class demeanor was curiously attractive, and so unlike the men she was accustomed to.

“All right. So I ride in the trunk. But this better not take long.” Without another protest, she climbed in.


Arriving at the wharf, Rebecca was quickly hustled out of the trunk and into a small room in the back of the warehouse behind dozens of packing crates headed for shipment overseas. Strickland shoved her into a chair, and leveled her with an imperious stare. “Stay put until I get back.” He turned, about to leave the room, but then abruptly turned back; and though he’d been in a frenzied rush before, he took his time now. “You have a reputation for being a real slut. That true?”

The question took her by surprise, and quite out of character for Rebecca Wittendon, there was no flippant comeback on the tip of her tongue. She was dead tired from the chaos of the last 24 hours, her body ached from the miserable ride and her nerves were shot. She wanted to do nothing but put her head to a pillow and sleep. Still…she couldn’t ignore the man. Something in his dark brown eyes, something distinctly sexual and raw provoked her. She responded with a shudder that began at her hunched shoulders and traveled all the way through her to the fiery swamp deep inside her crotch. Somewhere in the rough journey from the trunk of the car to this back room, her sexual body had awakened. Maybe it was his forceful hands, his unwavering resolve, the brusque words. Maybe she was just an adrenalin junkie and this was her latest fix. Regardless of the cause, the eroticism that gripped her now was as fierce as it was bewildering, and though she’d had no intention of seducing the man, the female wiles that served her well as a promiscuous socialite seemed to kick in unconsciously. She coyly gazed at the hovering man with her eyes exuding the seductive allure of a woman on the prowl. Speaking in a deep and breathless whisper, she said, “Why would you ask?”

“You look like you’d be easy,” he replied.

Her eyes lit flirtatiously. “I should be offended by your question, Mr. Strickland.”

“And are you? Offended?”

In the space of minutes something had shifted between them, a certain understanding reached.
She smiled as if that were answer enough, and strolling back to her, he placed a hand on her cheek, and gave it a soft tap. When she failed to balk, he slapped a little harder and she flinched, feeling the force of the slap all the way to her toes.

A third slap and her sex burst with desire falling out all around her. “Tension… just the tension,” she explained to herself, though there was no use arguing with the fact that the man turned her on, the situation turned her on; in fact, she’d drawn from this startling series of circumstances the most exhilarating thrill she’d had in months. She didn’t know how to react any other way than sexually.

When he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her to her feet and shoved her toward the wall, she practically sighed with relief. Strickland saw it all, everything about her desire, the seduction, the need to be fucked, as if she were an open book. “You know, you’re as real as your reputation, Miss Rebecca Wittendon,” he announced.

“Oh, I’m that and a lot more.”

Laying a palm against her crotch, he squeezed. “Pussy hot?”

Hot, throbbing and wet, she wanted to say. Instead, she answered with a lust-filled gaze and ground her sex against his hand.

“You wanna get fucked, don’t ya, babe?”


Maybe?” he laughed darkly. “There’s no maybe here. You want it and you want it bad.” He was right about that. He squeezed her crotch again, shaking it hard. “So beg,” he said.

“I never beg,” she said. Although she tried to mimic the proud defiance she was known for, she was already too weakened by his dominance to give her protest much strength.

Strickland smirked from ear to ear. Then tugging her skirt up over her hips, he wiggled a finger inside her panties, slipped it beyond the wet doorway, and brought it out again with juices glistening on the surface.

“Lick it, slut!” he said and he shoved it into her mouth. She licked because she had no choice, because she couldn’t stop herself, because the rebellious wild girl thrived on challenges such as these. When he finally pulled the finger out, he sneered as he had before, knowing he had the upper hand. He repeatedly smacked her pussy with his palm, then for a time he fucked her with his fingers; then he moved back and forth from smacks to fucking until her body writhed wildly against his hand and she was about to explode in a violent orgasm.

“Yes, yes, fuck me!” she seethed in a heavy whisper. Then more urgently, because he continued the unbearable tease, she practically screamed, “Fuck me, you bastard! Just do it!”

“Ah yes, that’s what I like to hear. Say it again, sweetheart…and look in my eyes this time.”

She scowled, angry and frustrated, then met his horny gaze with her own. “Fuck me! Please will you fuck my cunt!” She never needed it more than now.

His torment finally stopped, though his hand remained pressed against her pussy.

“’Fraid it’s not your pussy I want, slut,” and he withdrew his hand from her steamy cunt. “I either sink my cock inside your ass, or walk away and leave you hanging.”

She wanted to lash back and fight him off; take a day’s worth of grief and spew it out with the explosive anger that fired within. Yet, just as demanding was that something desperately needy inside her that wanted him no matter how roughly he took her.

“Do I have to beg for that, too?” she asked.

“You do what you’re told…that’s the life that awaits you, girl. No more little rich girl. No more calling the shots. Better to get used to it now,” he mocked. Before she could respond, he spun her around and pressed her hard against the cold brick wall. He tore at her thong until it was little more than shreds, then pried apart her round, rear cheeks, fishing between them for the tight backdoor.

After rubbing the entrance with her own juices, he pressed his hard-on against the taut rosette and suddenly lunged full force, spearing her body with the hefty organ.

She momentarily flinched, feeling the erection stretch the opening wide. Then as he began to slowly piston in and out, her body bristled with emotion. Overcome with grief, tears spilled from her burning eyes, while a glut of images flooded into her mind of past scenes, old flames, rough sex. As the fucking picked up speed, he pounded her into the brick, and the pictures vanished. All that was left was the feeling in her ass and the steadily rising pleasure. The pleasure wasn’t pretty in scenes like this; it was hot and raw and exactly what the dark heart of her spirit yearned for and what her hungry body craved. The life she knew had been destroyed, what remained was sex, the only something that could stem the grief and propel her forward into a new life miles and miles from home.

For a moment when he paused mid-thrust, their tiny world fell silent. From the warehouse beyond they heard voices and a noisy racket close by.

“Shush!” he hissed in her ear. “Don’t make a peep or I’ll slap you back to next Sunday.” He grabbed her long dark locks inside his fist and held her face tight against the hard surface. He lunged hard again, sending his spear deeper into her anal cavern.

As Strickland’s erection swelled within her, the tension in her body gave way and began to move its way outward from her dark center. She wanted to scream, “yes yes yes” as he drilled her, but her pretty pink lips were sealed shut, wanting no part of ‘next Sunday’, whatever the hell that meant. What mattered now was getting off and nothing would get in the way of that. Maybe for once she’d have enough of the hard sex her demented fantasies craved.

She hoped whoever took her in would use as she was being used now, ruthlessly and without mercy, not caring if she hurt. She relished the hurt. She wanted the searing pain to feel alive. The ‘sassy brat’ inside her wanted to be punished – in the opinion of her inner judge, she’d never been punished enough.

Rebellion had taught her a few things – that men coveted her well-toned body; that she could have anything she wanted when she turned on her charm; and that hard anal was better than vaginal any day. Not that she’d complain about any kind of sex. Once, an exhausted lover called her a narcissistic masochistic nympho. She couldn’t tell if this reflected his admiration or disgust, but she didn’t care; she treasured the name as much as she did her secret sex life.

She was flying in subspace by the time Strickland pulled out of her ass and dripped the remains of his cum down the back of her thighs. She continued to spasm, her inner muscles clenched and her clit was alive like it had never been. However, before she had enough to suit her, before her fingers could manipulate the stimulated bud, Strickland yanked her from the sensuous ecstasy and without giving her a chance to clean up, he marched her out the door and through the rain-swollen night to the freighter on Pier 13.


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