A Stranger Called Master (2 page)

I bite my lip. He’s right. I forgot
about this part.

“Now hold your arms up against the
shelf. And spread your legs,” he commands, his voice growing husky with
arousal.

I do as he says, feeling a thrill
shoot
through my spine as I widen my stance and feel my
pussy lips part.

He spanks me once. “
That
was for not recognizing your Master
when you first saw me.” He rips the pearls from my neck and binds my wrists
together so tight that the milky beads bite into my skin. His hand smacks my
ass again and again. “Don’t you know who owns you?” His slaps sting my ass in
the cool air of the library, but I love it. I open my legs wider and stick my
ass out farther, giving him more of me to punish.

Then he slides his hand into my
panties from behind and fingers my slit from back to front, ending on my clit.
He swirls his index finger around my hot button and I feel it growing erect,
swelling up with my arousal. I close my eyes and sink into his touch as he swirls
and swirls around my notch, leaning in close to my ear. “And this is for
wearing your collar all these years.”

He rips off my bra and underwear
and pulls me down to the carpet with him. I’m confused about the position he
wants me to be in until he clarifies, “Sit on my face, pet. You deserve a
reward.”

I gasp as he wriggles underneath my
kneeling form, so his face is directly beneath the triangle of my thighs. “Go
on,” he urges. I’ve never done this position before with anyone, but I
tentatively lower my pussy to his hot waiting mouth.

He grabs my ass cheeks with both
hands and pushes me down to his face even more, sucking my pussy like an orange
rind. His tongue parts my lips greedily and searches deep within my hot, wet
cunt, as deep as his tongue can go, the stubble of his chin brushing against my
skin. I feel his tongue sliding between the walls of my pussy, as if he
needs
to taste me, to feed on me, and I
gladly oblige. I rock back and forth against his mouth, loving the friction and
the hungry way he laps up my juice.

He squeezes my ass,
then
slaps it, while his lips migrate to my clit. He sucks
hard on my button and sticks two fingers into my hole, aiming for my G-spot. My
release is coming quickly, rising and rising as he eats me out between the bookshelves,
where anyone could walk by the stacks and see me, breasts out, riding this
man’s face. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if I’m allowed to cum or if my
Master will get angry, but it’s too late. My breath comes in rapid pants as the
surge of passion floods through my core and I’m helpless to resist. With a cry,
I squirt hot juice all over his face as I rock back and forth, my whole body
trembling on and on.

“That’s a good girl,” he says,
wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “I’ve been craving to taste you
again all these years.”

I should’ve blurted that I couldn’t
stop thinking about him too, but instead my mind and mouth refuse to work. My
Master was dreaming of me all these nights the same time I was touching myself
thinking of him? I let him untie my wrists then lift my hair so he can fasten
the necklace at the nape of my neck. I’m blushing, but I try not to think of
what my Master just said as I button my blouse, discover I missed a button,
then
have to start all over again.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand.
“I want to show you something.”

And just like that, we’re zipping
down the staircase, out of the library, into the night.

There’s a downpour outside,
blurring the trees together with the lampposts and buildings on campus. The
scent of rain mingles with the honeysuckle and roses in bloom on this balmy
summer evening, but I don’t have much time to savor it because we’re running
and slipping on the wet pavement, jumping over puddles, laughing hand in hand.
We’re both completely soaked, socks wet, shoes squirting water with each step,
but surprisingly, I don’t care.

“Where are we going?” I yell over
the rain.

“Still as impatient as ever,
aren’t
you?” he chuckles, hurrying me down a cobbled
pathway.

I don’t press further, but I figure
that the only place of interest in this direction is Duane Hall, the old campus
cathedral, renovated to hold classrooms and miscellaneous functions. And it’s
most definitely closed at this hour.

But he totally ignores the main
wooden doors and circles around to the back. Hidden in the overgrown shrubbery
is a hatch in the earth. He pulls at the heavy doors, specks of mud landing on
his beautiful face, and there--the hatch gapes open with a yawn. It’s pitch
black down below, with only slivers from a faraway streetlamp reaching the
opening, but he just smirks at me with mischief in his eyes..

“Come on.” He jumps down first,
then
looks back up at me with open arms. “I’ll catch you.”

I take a deep breath and jump. The
sensation of falling surprises me, but soon his strong arms wrap around my
waist, making me feel tiny as ever, and he gently lowers me until my feet touch
the floor. He holds me longer than he should, his breath slow and ragged. I’m
suddenly hyper-aware of every place on my body that he’s touching, his arms
against my waist and my back, my chest pressed against his. The air shifts and
I know he feels it, too.

In a heartbeat, he touches his lips
to mine.

His lips are soft and full and
sweet, so different from the touch he’s shown me before. Soon his tongue parts
my lips and
he’s tasting
me, brushing against my
tongue gently, softly.

It’s as if I forgot how to breathe
and this kiss is all I have.

Too soon, he pulls away. “This
isn’t what I wanted to show you yet.” He pulls the hatch closed so the basement
doesn’t flood, then leads me through the nave of the old cathedral. Of course,
all the pews have been removed and now it’s just a grand hallway to classrooms,
meant to impress prospective students and their parents. But the stained glass
windows are still here, as well as the towering arched ceiling. It’s darkly
beautiful at night, deserted like this, our little secret. The rain patters
against the roof, rivulets streaming down the stained glass.

It’s a shame really, that they
tampered with Duane Hall for the sake of adding classrooms.
 

A note slices through the silence
and I find him by the baby grand piano, a relic from the building’s chapel
days. “
Shh
!” I say. “Someone might hear us!”

“Who?
No
one else is here,” he says.

“You know how to play?”

He strikes another key but shakes
his head. “Not the piano. Guitar though.”

The ivory calls out to me and
before I know it, I’m running my hands along the smooth keys.

“Do you play?”

I nod. Every time I’d pass it on my
way to class, I’d wonder how it’d feel against my fingers. The piano always
looked neglected to me, roped away in the corner when it was probably once the
centerpiece of the entire chapel.

“Play me something,” he whispers.

“I haven’t practiced in ages,” I
say, but still I sit down on the bench, my fingers itching to feel the keys. My
hands have a mind of their own and find their place and soon one of my ballads
flows through me. The haunting arpeggios fill the nave and I’m swept away like
a petal in the rapids.
The crescendo, the suspense, the
waning, the give and letting go.
The song is a world in itself, gripping
me in its thrall.

My eyelids flutter closed as the
melancholy builds and memories come alive in my mind. I’m writing this song in
my living room, my mother ironing clothes upstairs. No matter how many mistakes
I fumble through, her applause would echo down the stairs and she’d call out,
“Beautiful!”
Proud of me, no matter what.
Can she hear
me now? Is she still proud of me, wherever she is?

Tears seep through my lashes and
before I know it, the final note whispers through the hall. Everything is
silent. I’m back in Duane Hall.

“That was...amazing,” he says. If
he noticed my tears, he doesn’t bring it up. “What song is that?”

“It doesn’t have a name,” I say. I
was never that great with lyrics or poetry, so I didn’t bother giving my songs
a title besides “The Sad One,” “The Catchy One,” or “The One That Makes Me
Dance.”

“You mean you wrote that? You said
you could play, but I didn’t know you could
play
.”

I blush at the compliment.
“Courtesy of years and years of slaving away at this thing, I damn well better
be able to play,” I say.

“Are you
a music
major? You should be.
At like, Juilliard.”

The reminder of what I could be
stings, but I force myself to say it. “No, I couldn’t. There was too much stress.
I blew my audition at Juilliard. I’m studying English lit now.”

I pull the cover over the keys and
push the bench back in its place. I neglect to clarify that the audition wasn’t
too bad but there was too much stress
at
home
.

“Well, then you can save all your
songs for me. A private concert just for your Master,” he says. It’s a sweet
consolation. Someone else in the world to share my music with, since my mom...

“There’s one more thing,” he says,
taking my hand. In a flash we’re bounding up flights and flights of stairs,
private passages closed to the students.

We reach a door I’ve never seen
before, but it’s locked. With a bold sign shouting DO NOT ENTER.

He nudges me out of the way,
fiddles with the knob, and it swings open with a creak.

“How’d you...?” I say, but he’s
already climbing the stone steps. I follow at his heels and when we stop, I
realize we’re at the top.

Of the tower of
Duane Hall.

We’re sheltered from the rain, but
the windows have no glass or screen, letting us peer out onto the campus. Only
ten stories high, but still everyone looks like miniature dolls below us. The
campus is dark, save for sparkling streetlamps and a few lit windows in the
dormitories. The skyline blurs with the horizon in the summer shower, the moon
dim and shy, hiding behind gauzy clouds.

“Looks like we’re in a Van Gogh,” I
murmur.
“Or straight out of
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
.”

“What are you trying to say?” he
laughs. “You’re stuck in a tower with a hunchback?”

“
Haha
, no.
More like
Frollo
the evil lecherous priest!” I joke as he swats my ass.

“Yeah right.
I’m clearly the dashing guy on a horse, whatever-his-name-is.”

“Phoebus,” I laugh. “He was an
egotistical asshole.”

“The characters in that book don’t
give me much of a choice. Meanwhile, you’d obviously be Esmeralda, the object
of everyone’s affection. I can’t win this game!” he mock yells to the sky,
shaking his fist in the air.

I smirk, but he’s right. He’s like
no one I’ve ever met or read about before. Unless maybe, if you combine the two
halves of the Beast--his dark, dangerous side with his gorgeous do-no-wrong
face.

“Well I can’t win either. I don’t
want to be Esmeralda--what girl wants to be
lusted
after by every man who lays eyes on her?”

His brow quirks, his curiosity
piqued.
“Um, only all the girls on campus?”

“Sure, you can use beauty and sex
appeal as a weapon, but in the end, it didn’t help Esmeralda get what she
really wanted.”
Love.
Affection.
Belonging
.
The
words hang in the air unsaid.

“
Il
n'y
a
qu'un
bonheur
dans
la vie,
c'est
d'aimer
et
d'être
aimé
,” he says.

A flame sparks inside me. “There is
only one happiness
in life, to love and be loved,” I
translate. “You know of George Sand? She’s one of my heroes--err, heroines.” A
woman writing under a man’s pen name, she wore men’s clothes and smoked tobacco
and showed that women have as much wit and intelligence than any man. Plus, she
dated Chopin.

“You’re surprised I heard of her? I
should be more surprised you’re into her writing. So you’re a feminist by day
and my slave by night?” he muses.

“Just because I look up to
independent women doesn’t mean I don’t like to be tied up once in awhile,” I
say.

“You don’t have to explain. Humans
are complicated, I know.”

A comfortable silence falls between
us, as if this is the most natural scene, the two of us perched in a tower,
watching the falling rain.

“Have you ever been up here
before?” he asks, his dark hair wet and adorably plastered to his forehead.

“No,” I say. Sneaking up to the
tower is forbidden, punishable by expulsion. There’s been rumors of course, but
I don’t know if anyone’s really actually gone up here. Yet again, I’m sharing
another first with my Master. So many firsts with him, yet I don’t even know
his name.

“I come here at night sometimes. To
think,” he says.

“If by ‘to think,’” I say, making
quotation marks in the air, “you mean ‘to seduce naive young girls,’ then yea.
You come here ‘to think.’”

His eyes glint with amusement,
intrigued by my jibe. “You’re hardly what I’d call ‘naive,’
pet
.”

He brushes a lock of wet hair
behind my ear then stares into my eyes. They say when two people lock eyes for
twelve seconds, they’re either going to fight or kiss. With my Master, it’s
hard to tell--rough one second, tender the next, I have no idea what to expect.

I have my answer soon enough. He
cups my chin in his hands and touches his lips to mine.
Gently
at first, then deeper and more urgent.
The slightest pressure of his
palm on the small of my back drives my insides wild. A delicious hunger grows
within me until my hands reach for his shirt and pull it over his head. He
tosses my blouse to the side, unzips my skirt and soon, my legs are wrapped
around his hips and his rock-hard cock is poised at my pussy lips.