Story of L Copyright
© 2017 by Debra Hyde
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without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is
For more information
5676 Riverdale Avenue
Riverdale, NY 10471
Cover by Sarah Stump
published by Ravenous Romance, 2009
Praise for Story of L
“Story of L
is a story of love, not just a romance but the story of a woman
loving her true self. L’s journey of devotion and submission is as
tender and sweet as the bite mark left by a passionate lover.”
-- Cecilia Tan
Author of Slow Surrender
Winner, RT Booklovers
Career Achievement Award: Erotic Fiction
“Any reader sharing
Liv’s journey will be drawn into the realism of the story world and
mesmerized by the way Hyde brings this homage to life. This is a
definite recommendation for all lovers of lesbian romance and those
who enjoy contemporary interpretations of classic erotic literature.”
How to Write Erotic Fiction and Sex
relationship is untraditional but no less beautiful than any other
couple falling in love. Everyday life is interjected in the book,
keeping it grounded and allowing readers to see these characters as
real. Secondary characters were utilized perfectly in further
developing the main characters and adding depth to the story. Such
rich description leaves readers feeling as if they are immersed into
the story, as if they are experiencing the transformation alongside
--Paloma Beck, Author
“This is a story
with some real depth to it, one that forces us to explore our own
ideas of dominance and submission, even as Liv learns about hers.”
--Sally Bend, Reviewer
Bending the Bookshelf
“I would run to the
store to pick up a second novel with these characters if one was ever
--BDSM Book Reviews
me I could do this, then kept the faith that I would.
keeps my writing alive through her support and guidance.
Dusk on a Saturday
night brings many things to people: dinner and a movie or cocooning
at home with the television, a fine meal or snacks and sports,
meeting friends for drinks, or hitting the local music scene. But to
Liv Alderman, single and unattached, those things represented the
satisfying solitude of couplehood or loneliness amid the throng. Her
options were different. For her, dusk on a Saturday night brought her
elsewhere, to Hippolyte’s.
Some would shrink at the notion of
Hippolyte’s. With its notoriety for whips and chains and women
only, rigid moralists would certainly stiffen at the thought of such
deviance. But they were few and far between in the college towns
surrounding Hippolyte’s. Minding your own New England business was
customary here and it allowed everyone a quiet live-and-let-live
And living here freed Liv to seek what
felt innate to her—innate and necessary. With daylight waning, she
grabbed a weathered leather backpack from the backseat of her car. A
rubbery orange wristband fell against her hand, as if to escape the
competing band of stiff leather she also wore there.
Her right wrist.
I’m going to make a few people angry
tonight, she thought as she locked her car.
Around her, women arrived, converging
at Hippolyte’s by first laying claim to parking spaces out on the
street. Liv decided she was lucky to get a spot so close to the club,
especially since she’d arrived late enough to avoid the dull
chitchat in those tentative hours before people got naked and got
busy. Instead, she’d help shape the emerging mood that would define
Hope I’m as lucky, getting a play
station, she thought.
The last thing Liv wanted was to wait
for a station to open up. Her hunger wouldn’t stand for it.
She called that hunger the Void, an
inner beast that had seized her midweek. Born of a wet dream, one in
which a woman unfamiliar to Liv had pinned her down and deliciously
plied her with rough kisses, fierce caresses, and absolutely
torturous bites, it had come upon her like a vengeful angel. Its
dream had been a vision so vicarious that she woke, coming, her
orgasm so strong that its throbbing cadence almost hurt. In its wake
stood the Void, demanding and all consuming.
Sating the Void was no easy task, but
Liv had no choice but to try. She’d do no topping tonight, not even
for the best of her bottom-and-bosom buddies.
They’ll understand. Everybody knows I
get this way.
But few liked it. Greedy bottoms rarely
saw beyond their own rampant urges, herself included. The Void saw to
Halfway across the parking lot, Liv
heard a lilting, enthusiastic voice call her. It was Fiona, a sweet
high femme of a woman, recognized by the click of her heels
scampering toward Liv. Or as close to scampering as one could get in
heels. Liv turned to face this whirlwind of joy.
“Liv! Hello!” Bubbly was an
understatement when applied to Fiona.
Fiona threw her arms around Liv’s
neck and gregariously planted a kiss on her, leaving Liv licking the
taste of Fiona’s thick lipstick. Pulling back from her vivacious
greeting, Fiona eyed the backpack on Liv’s shoulder and chirped,
“Your toy bag! Wonderful! Is there something in there for me?”
Liv half expected Fiona to play like a
child quizzing Santa, but one glance at Liv’s wrist, and Fiona’s
glee evaporated in a deflated “oh!” of recognition. Liv shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” she lamented.
Fiona responded with a lopsided smile,
its meaning clear. “Sorry. Haven’t got a drop of top blood in
me.” Catching sight of another possible opportunity—one far more
butch than Liv could ever pretend to be—Fiona flitted away,
heedless of any slight her thoughtless departure might cast. Any
other night, Liv might have taken offense, but not tonight. Other
prerogatives took precedence.
Inside Hippolyte’s, Liv paid her
cover charge, stowed her backpack, and made for the club’s open
space. Named for an Amazonian queen, Hippolyte’s bore little
resemblance to its long-ago tenure as the gay bar Roo’s. Where men
once danced in wild abandon, women now played in heated passion. Loud
music and brash disco lights had given way to a subdued
environment—Enya instead of Abba, and soft florescence instead of
glare. But where the tenor had changed, the need to meet and hook up
had not. Women came to Hippolyte’s for the same reason men had once
partied here: Sex. And, truth be told, all it took to get Hippolyte’s
as hot and noisy as Roo’s was a whip, some bondage, and a woman
willing to take whatever was dished out to her.
Running a hand through her hair, Liv
surveyed the room. Play was just getting underway: a flogging at one
of the upright St. Andrew’s crosses, a hardy butch working a rope
dress onto a slim femme, two tops sensually caressing a lucky and
apparently ticklish bottom with the sharp ends of their knives. Yet
these scenes were mere preliminaries, scenes typically of people just
warming up to one another. The night had yet to reach out, pluck
drama from the air, and make it real. Stuck in the tentative, no one
dared to let loose and scream. At least not yet.
Liv felt the Void roil, already
impatient. Like a racehorse ready to bolt from the gate, it chafed at
the bit. It wanted its head. Whoa, Liv cautioned, whoa.
The Void heeded her and calmed, but
however well she reined in that impulsive beast, Liv knew it would
not remain in hand for long. She needed to get things in place, be
ready for its next advance, but she couldn’t do it alone. Liv
scanned the room a second time but failed to see the women she needed
to assist her.
They must be socializing.
Liv crossed the room, barely aware of
the soft groans and heartier cries of play. She focused on one thing
only: finding Quinn and Tara.
She spotted them sitting in the social
area, Tara on Quinn’s lap, giggling as one of Quinn’s big butch
hands squashed her close, the other hand tickling and groping. Liv
chuckled. A hornier pair of lovers, she hadn’t seen. And a pair
that adored each other so ardently? Rarer still. If any couple would
see each other into their old age, it would be Quinn and Tara.
Liv planted herself in front of them
and cleared her throat in exaggeration. Looking up from her squirming
captive, an already blithe Quinn brightened even more.
“You still need us?”
Tara straightened in Quinn’s lap,
tugging her tight girly T-shirt back into place—making pretty, she
had once called it. Liv adored Tara’s easy femininity. It was
natural for her, something so easy to default to that she didn’t
even have to think about it. Likewise, Liv admired Quinn’s
confident butchness, a transgendered identity so strong that she
never wavered in her manlike swagger. Her bulky female bio body,
despite its chromosomal baseline, only seemed to reinforce her
identity. By contrast, Liv fell somewhere in the nebula of androgyny.
No doubt a woman in form and soul, and a lesbian in love and desire,
but neither butch nor femme in either presentation or whom she found
attractive. Yet she did not feel undefined; being queer was being
enough, and she liked not having to fall into a strict dichotomy. It
was like having your cake and eating it too.
Quinn pushed Tara from her lap and
rose, one hand at Tara’s waist. “Then let’s make this happen.”
Liv smiled. She could always count on
Quinn and Tara. Always. Quinn patted Tara’s rump. “Fetch Liv’s
toy bag, girl.”
Tara grinned, happy to be put to
service. “Still the leather backpack?” When Liv nodded, she
added, “Still has the lucky cat key chain hanging from it?” A
second nod sent Tara scurrying.
Together, Liv and Quinn surveyed the
play space. More women had gotten busy—play had finally
accelerated, leaving fewer play stations unoccupied. Liv flinched as
a whip cracked nearby and a shuddering cry followed. The Void
stirred, provoking a throb from between her legs.
Time was running out.
Panic threatened to rise, but Liv
choked it down, unwilling to let the Void get an upper hand too soon.
Whether she’d be able to sate it tonight worried her enough. Don’t
get anxious, she told herself.
Across the room, a woman occupied one
of Liv’s favorite play stations: a Saint Andrew’s cross, modified
to seat its captive, legs spread. Spread low and wide, its saltire
was closer to that of the Scottish flag than the extreme cross from
which the saint himself had hanged. It held a captive’s arm
straight out instead of upward. And its ultimate feature? A wooden
box that descended over one’s head. Liv loved that box. It
amplified the sound of her breath, made her every moan luscious and
any scream terrible.
The last time the Void had plagued her,
Quinn had whipped Liv hard enough to abrade her skin. She had come
away from the scene well welted and with marks hard enough to leave
scabs for two weeks. She smiled, thankful for Quinn’s proficiency
with a single tail.
However, a woman already occupied the
frame, suffering through clamps on her breasts and labia.
Disappointed, Liv turned elsewhere.
A baby butch passed by, leashed and
led. Clad only in leather bike shorts and sandals, she wore a wooden
contraption that encompassed her head and wrists in what amounted to
a portable pillory. Of an exquisite, exotic hardwood, its finish a
polished sheen, the contraption was shaped like a stringed
instrument. And if the butch’s glazed eyes were any indication, its
weighted, restrictive hold produced pure bottomy bliss.
Gorgeous, Liv thought as the butch
walked away. Certainly head-turning. The Void growled. It wanted some
Quinn chuckled, amused by Liv’s
ogling. “Those things costs an arm and a leg, you know.”
“Looked more like a neck and two
hands to me,” Liv shot back.
Her quip brought another chuckle and
with it, a compliment.
“Well, you would look hot in a
That’s what it’s called? Liv filed
the information away. Arm-and-a-leg or not, she wanted one.
Liv returned her attention to the room
and scanned it again for an open play station. A spanking bench stood
ignored, giving Liv pause. A vicious spanking—the mounting blows of
a paddle against her ass, burning, stinging until it exhausted
her—had its appeal. But no. That particular bench had a knee rest
and required her to keep her legs together. The Void wanted her
spread and vulnerable.
An overhead winch likewise stood
vacant, and a scene of shibari and suspension struck Liv with
possibility. She imagined herself facedown, in a spread hogtie,
gagged and blindfolded, two sturdy bamboo rods anchoring the rope—and
one of them acting as a delicious spreader bar for her legs as well.
Her arms would be tied behind her, their rope tautly joining the rest
of the rigging at the rods.
Quinn could do it. She could rig the
entire thing and hoist me into the air. Anyone and everyone could
have at me!
But the very instant Liv latched on to
the idea, a threesome approached the wench, the top grabbing one of
its heavy-duty chains, nixing her idea. More people were crowding
into the room, some to play, others to watch. She had to decide and
“What’ll it be, Liv?”
Quinn, bordering on impatience,
becoming vexed by the quickening pace around them. Again, Liv thought
of being spread wide, available to all takers. Her eyes settled on
the sex sling in the corner of the room. Wordlessly, she made for it,
Quinn on her heels and chuckling yet again, this time at the obvious.
Tara, returning with Liv’s bag in hand, bee-lined for the sling,
following Liv’s lead.
There, Liv undressed as Tara held the
bag open for Quinn. Item by item, Quinn went through the bag, hanging
whips on a nearby utility rack, clothespins and clamps on an
accompanying tray. But when she pulled a heavy leather hood from its
depths—and found latex gloves and lube beneath it—she turned to
Liv. Her expression was stern, implacable, not of a master about to
punish his underling, but of a friend all too familiar with Liv’s
deep need and willing to accept its challenge.