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The Story of L Copyright © 2017 by Debra Hyde


Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, 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 coincidental.


For more information contact:

Riverdale Avenue Books

5676 Riverdale Avenue

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.riverdaleavebooks.com


Design by www.formatting4U.com

Cover by Sarah Stump

Digital ISBN: 9781626013506

Print ISBN: 9781626013513


First Edition published by Ravenous Romance, 2009

Second edition, February 2017


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.”

--Ashley Lister

How to Write Erotic Fiction and Sex Scenes


“The women’s 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 Liv.”

--Paloma Beck, Author

Goodreads.com


“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 written.”

--BDSM Book Reviews


Dedicated To


Lori Perkins

Publisher, Editor, Friend


Who told me I could do this, then kept the faith that I would.


And who keeps my writing alive through her support and guidance.




Chapter One

The Club


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 existence.

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 the night.

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 that.

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.

“Hey!”

“Hey, yourself.”

“You still need us?”

“Absolutely.”

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 of that.

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 violin.”

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 fast.

“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.


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