Title Page

Spontaneous Combustion

An Erotic Novel
by Lizbeth Dusseau

ISBN: 978-1-938897-60-3

A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

For information contact:

Pink Flamingo Publications

www.pinkflamingo.com

P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083

USA

Email Comments: comments@pinkflamingo.com

Cover Art ©Igor Borodin, Shutterstock.com

Dedication

To the man who inspired this sexy, lust-filled ride,

whose words are woven throughout this narrative,

whose fantasies became my fantasies,

who brought the spark back into my life.

My heartfelt thanks for giving me a chance

to feel the magic once again.

Spontaneous Combustion

Part One

Spontaneous Combustion

Eleven o’clock, I’m ready for bed. It’s been raining all day and there’s another storm passing through…thunder, lightning, driving rain. Suddenly the tornado siren in town is going off, and the ‘take cover’ announcement interrupts my TV show. I grab a flashlight, just in case, and fly down to the basement to wait…

Wait

Wait until the siren dies and I tiptoe back upstairs.

Nothing is damaged, nothing undone.

As I slip off to bed in an attempt to sleep I hear another storm coming through, though this one won’t be as severe as the last my local weatherman assures me. And yet…left in the wake of that last furious frenzy, my muse strikes like a thunderbolt. Here’s what poured out…

I want you to tie me to a tree,

thrust me against an old tree stump,

order me over a table, over the end of the bed.

After yanking down my pants, you draw your leather belt from your jeans …

Doubling it in your fist you begin to flail it against my ass…

Hard

Fast

Until white turns crimson, until my ass is scorched and

I’m groaning deeply, crying out for mercy

Ah! But mercy will wait until later…

Until you’ve dropped your belt, unzipped your jeans

Until you’ve rammed your way home inside my cunt

Hard

Fast

I explode and you explode

almost belligerent but strangely beautiful

like the storm that just passed through on its way to elsewhere

Before you’re done with me you have me in your bed again

Hard

Fast

Inside my ass this time, driving through like a man possessed

I explode and you explode again

And then…

When the fury dies you hold me, you kiss my lips and run your hands

over my sweaty skin.

Hurts are healed, a day’s worth of trouble forgotten

Worry quits its anxious grip

and wounds bound up with tenderness are carried away by love

In the long twilight thereafter, we stretch out in each other’s arms

Later in the evening, I sit at your feet and rest my head against your knee.

Prologue

The fury of inspiration left her sweating in bed, words spinning inside her head, tie me to a tree, thrust me against an old tree stump…the wellspring from which all the rest flowed free, arriving with the first bolt of lightning, disappearing with the last rumble of thunder as the storm moved out. She tried to remember the gist of it, grabbing words out of the ethers like a child grabbing for lightning bugs on a summer evening and shoving them into a mayonnaise jar for safe keeping. The light went on in her bedroom as she reached for her metaphorical mayonnaise jar – her journal – and began to jot down the substance of her scattered thoughts in a rushed, chaotic scrawl. There was little but a disordered array of word pictures when she finally turned out the light. But she needed sleep. Even if it was just a few hours, her psyche needed rest and, more importantly, some distance from the tumultuous meeting of storm and muse.

Six am in the morning, she awoke again, driven to the computer before the sun rose, before thoughts lost their urgency and passion died.

Oh, but passion was going nowhere that morning but into keystrokes and the frenzied minutes when the words spilled from muse to computer in one singular burst of inspiration, the first of many such spontaneous combustions she would experience in the weeks ahead.

She dashed to her blog and posted the piece before she lost her nerve. And with the same rash of thrill and fear, she sent a link to knighthawk925:

PLEASE READ THIS FIRST she wrote in the subject line. In the body of the email…

“…I woke early, driven to my computer. Doesn’t happen very often (in fact, I can’t even remember the last time it did) but I’m not entirely surprised. Oh hell, I’m not surprised at all. May sound a bit personal, because it is. But it’s good enough to post on my blog. Don’t worry, no names mentioned.”

She included the link, hit send, then waited staring at the monitor as if she actually expected him to open the email and reply within a minute’s time.

She waited two fucking days, from noon to noon to noon, 48 hours of anxious wondering, left suspended and stunned by what the storm ushered in and this man had done to her peace of mind. What were you thinking, girl! She’d manufactured a chorus of second thoughts, one after another drifting into her mind, only to be shoved aside so another could compound her anxiety. Why the hell did she attribute this crazy explosion of writing to a man she barely knew? She could be dead wrong about him and he was nothing but a lecherous pervert who just wanted inside her pants. Still she knew. Some uncanny intuition spoke to her about honest motives and inherent kindness. In her gut where it counted, she knew he wasn’t the kind of pervert to take advantage of a vulnerable woman fresh out of a long term relationship. No, he was the clean, wholesome kind of pervert, with common decency and a sincere desire to know her as more than the sexual slut she was. Spontaneous Combustion was all about what their brief weeks courting on-line had done to her. Sending him her explosive writing was the right thing to do. She was certain.

If he bolted because she was too much slut for him; if he was turned off by this small taste of her flaming passion, then she’d be better off having driven him away. Might as well send him off to a woman who’d be happy with mild manners, kind conversation, and a little bit of kink on the side, but nothing more than that.

Clearly, her kink was front and center in her world, and it was too late in the game of life to deal with men who couldn’t handle her sexual inclinations.

She would readily insist that she wasn’t too much to handle. She was an easy woman to read, with simple needs and much to give. No mysteries, nothing crazy about her; just an uncomplicated woman at heart who wanted someone with whom she could share her lust, and provide for her a safe place to bare her soul. Her requirements were few – a self possessed man she could respect, sexual chemistry, heartfelt compassion and a strong sense of authority. That was it in a nutshell. The man she would submit to could be no less.

Her mind might have been filled with chaos and wild imaginings that could resemble a whirling dervish, but that was just smoke and mirrors to one who looked a little closer. She was perfectly sane, perfectly normal, a perfectly regular woman of her times. A slut, yes, but a perfectly normal kind of slut, and a woman on the brink of change.

Forty-eight fucking hours later word came back, the email simple:

“Did I cause all that?

I have the trees, I have the rope, I only need you.”

She almost laughed out loud. Did I cause all that… She shook her head and smiled. Her heart warmed and she giggled at a typical clueless male with his almost bashful response.

But the message had been delivered, and desire swept through her again with such sudden urgency that she dashed off her reply and hit send before she could give it a second thought…

“Yes, yes yes! You caused all that.

Along with that darn thunderstorm…and that slave scene you told me about, the one at your lake house that’s been going through my head like a broken record.

I’ll be waiting.”