A Stranger Called Master (3 page)

With a grunt, he thrusts inside me,
sucking in a breath at the feel of my pussy walls squeezing all around him. The
feel of him steals my breath away--it’s been so long, too long since I’ve had a
cock inside me, that I’m tight like a virgin all over again. I bite my lips and
slowly, slowly, feel my walls conform to his thick, heavy cock. I hold onto his
neck as he grips my waist and presses my back into the stone wall, ramming me
over and over while standing.

He’s huge and so magnificently
hard, I feel full.
Utterly, completely full.
There’s
something so primal, so
right
about
this, about everything.
These ancient stone walls, the wind
howling outside, the rain pelting against the tower, while this man has his way
with me.
He wants me, and I am his to take.

His cock thrusts into my walls in a
frenzied rhythm as my breath quickens and I can’t help but give out high,
little pants. He buries his shaft deep within me to the hilt again and again
and I tighten my internal muscles to match his pace, massaging my Master’s
organ. His eyes grow unfocused, his breathing unsteady, until his body stiffens
and he gushes inside my hot, waiting pussy. The surge of my Master’s cum is too
much and I finally surrender to ecstasy,
spasming
in
his arms.

He sits me down on the edge of the
window and we stay there for awhile, his creamy cum dripping out of me down my
inner thigh, as the rain pelts everything sprawled below us. When I shiver, he
draws his arm around my shoulders and I nestle my head into the crook of his
neck. In this moment, I couldn’t ask for anything more. I know I’ll have a
million questions later, but right now, everything is golden and I’m content to
just be. Here, with this complete stranger.

The rain subsides and as if by some
invisible cue, we both know it’s time to go. We make our way back down from the
tower, still holding hands, eventually popping back out of the hatch.

He walks me back to my dorm, but
stops short of entering my building. Under a streetlamp, he kisses my cheek, my
forehead, my nose,
then
my mouth. “Tonight was yours,
pet. But tomorrow is mine. Meet me at the library, ground floor, at 4pm.”

He’s already halfway across the
courtyard before I have the wits to run after him and yell out, “Wait!”

“And wear a skirt,” he adds, before
rounding a corner and disappearing from view.

Damn! Why does he keep disappearing
on me? And why doesn’t he just tell me his goddamn name?

***

As frustrated as I am, no way I’m
turning down another tryst with my Master. You better believe it--4pm sharp
Saturday, I’m at the library wearing a plunging v-neck with a skirt, as
requested, and my pearl necklace, of course. Underneath the skirt, I wore a
little surprise for my Master, black garters and thigh high stockings.

But
it’s
4:10 now and he’s still not here. I step beneath the arches into the grand
entrance and roam through the study tables on the ground floor. There’s a
smattering of students poring over books and typing away on laptops here and
there. And in the corner near a window is my Master, brows furrowed, staring
intently at his laptop.

My jaw drops and I click my heels
over to him, fuming that he forgot.

I clear my throat.

“Nice of you to
join me.
Please, have a seat,” he says, never taking his eyes off his
laptop.

That’s the hello I get? After
everything that happened last night? I drag the chair across the carpet as
loudly and dramatically as possible, then plop down in the seat. I don’t care
if I’m acting like a child. I got all dolled up for him and he just acts like
it’s nothing?

I scan the books scattered around
him. Foucault’s
Surveiller
et
Punir
,
 
Choderlos
de
Laclos
’
Les
Liaisons
Dangereuses
, Baudelaire’s
Les
Fleurs
du Mal
.
French major, I guess. I drum my fingers against the mahogany table and aim
daggers at him with my eyes. I don’t care if the late afternoon sun is striking
his face just right, silhouetting his angled jaw and revealing the rich brown
hues of his hair. Or that I’d love to run my fingers through those tousled
waves and lean in close and smell his shampoo. I glare at him even harder. I am
not
letting him off
that
easy.

“If you’re bored, pet, why don’t
you come over here and read with me?” he asks, gesturing to his laptop and
offering his lap as a seat.

Unbelievable! How could he be so
romantic and gallant one second, yet so cold the next? But curiosity gets the
better of me and with a stubborn
hmph
,
I sit down on his lap.

My eyes widen as I realize he’s not
reading at all. On the screen of his laptop is a video.

Of us.

Two and a half years ago.

In the haunted
house.

Having sex.

I swallow a gasp and look at his
face then back at the screen. “You videotaped us?”
I
whisper-yell.

“
Shh
,
pet. You should be glad I did. That’s probably the only reason I recognized
you, while you didn’t recognize me at all,” he whispers back, his voice steady
and calm. “And don’t worry. I promise that I never have and never will show
this to any other soul.”

Though I barely know this man,
something about him inspires my trust. After all, he’s my Master. He’s seen me
at my most vulnerable moments. He could’ve taken advantage of me while I was
tied up.
Could have spanked me harder than I was able to
handle.
Could have done unspeakable things to me when
I was his to take.
But he didn’t. My Master does what he wants with me,
but he also takes care of me. I skim my pearl necklace once again. I’m his
pet
.

My eyes gravitate back to the
video. It’s dim, but there’s just enough flickering light from the candle to
make out our nude forms. We’re at the part where my hands are tied to the
chaise and my ass is up in the air. He uses the flogger first, snapping his
wrist so the strips of suede bite against my skin with a sharp
thwack
. I see myself flinch,
then
relax, a flush of pink blooming on my ass cheek.

He flogs me again and again, and
though his laptop is on mute, I remember myself moaning with each hit, until
finally he drops the flogger and switches to his bare hand. The slap of his
palm against my skin had intensified my arousal even more, if that’s possible,
and I feel myself getting wet just watching it.

“You wore a skirt, just like a good
girl,” he whispers, something growing hard against my ass.

I suddenly realize what he wants to
do--and
where
. My eyes sweep across
the public study hall, panicked.

As if reading my mind, he whispers,
“Don’t you trust me, pet?”

Of course I do. It’s just...

His hand around my waist travels
down my thigh, until it reaches the end of my skirt by my knees. Then his hand
slowly makes its way back up my inner thigh. I squirm, but let him. Our legs
are hidden under the table. No one can see, as long as our faces don’t give it
away.

His deft fingers tug at my thong
until it’s around my knees. I try to look
blase
as
his fingers feel my wetness. He, too, grows harder and harder. I can feel him
through his jeans, as his naughty hands finger me beneath the desk. I moan and
close my eyes, trying to turn my expression of pleasure into a look of contemplation.
When his fingers leave me to pull down his zipper, I lift myself off him a bit
to give him room to maneuver his cock out of his pants.

His hands on my waist, he lowers me
down onto his rod until I’m pressed back down on his lap, his cock fully seated
inside my walls. I gasp and shut my eyes for a moment,
surprised,
yet savoring the feel of his hard dick inside me...in this public space...I
look around at the scribbling pens and typing hands. Most students are wearing
earphones, absorbed in their own world. I grind into his lap slightly forward,
pause, then back. One girl’s eyes meet mine, then returns to her book. No one
suspects a thing.

He flexes his ass ever so slightly,
reaching up higher, deeper within my pussy. He releases,
then
flexes his ass again in a steady rhythm, which I match by rocking an inch
forward then back and clenching my internal muscles around his cock. Our
movements are so minute, so tense,
so
careful, that
the chair doesn’t even creak. Everyone continues with their business as we sit
together in the corner, joined, fucking. A low groan issues from his lips,
which only makes my pussy juicier.

Though our faces remain impassive,
I can feel the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath me. My breath quickens as
the tension mounts. The air around us shifts--our leisurely thrusts turn more
urgent and I struggle to keep my rocking controlled. I grip the edge of the
desk and keep rocking, an inch forward, an inch back, losing myself in the
rhythm. His thigh starts trembling beneath me and a strangled groan rumbles
from his throat.

He’s close--I can tell by how stiff
he is inside me--until finally, finally, his body goes rigid and hot cum surges
through my pussy, triggering my own release. I’m clenching the desk with all my
strength to keep from shivering as wave after wave of pleasure wracks through
my body, our little secret in this quiet library. We both finally still and
relax into the back of the chair.

“Wait, don’t get off yet,” he
whispers. “Your juices have definitely left my jeans all wet.”

“Oops, sorry,” I giggle. “Maybe you
could just walk with your backpack in front of your crotch?” I giggle some more
and a student a few tables over shoots me the stink eye.

“Oh, you’ve done it now,” my Master
whispers, eliciting a harsh
shhh
from the other student, which just sets us off cracking
up. A snort escapes me and I’m completely mortified, but my Master just
chuckles some more. “You’re so cute, you know that?”

My cheeks redden and I look down at
my lap as I respond, “Thank you...Master.” Our conversation has reached a
natural lull, but it isn’t unpleasant, not in the least. I feel him softening
inside me and I finally lift myself off him onto my own seat. Indeed, there’s a
giant wet spot on his jeans.

“Look what you’ve done, pet!” But there’s
a glimmer in his eyes and it feels nice, this joking with my Master.

I hesitate then gather up the
courage to say what’s on my mind. “May I--may I know your real name now?”

A wall goes up in front of his eyes
and his lips tighten into a straight line. “Why?”

“Because...I...had fun and don’t
want you disappearing on me again?” I venture.

He turns to his laptop and shuts it
down, packing up all his things. “It’d ruin everything. Do you really want to
know who I am, what classes I go to, where my dorm is, so I’d just be another
student to you? No longer
your
Master?”

“That’s not--” I start but he
barrels on.

“You want to date and be official,
take pictures of us, have movie nights, meet my parents, and then suddenly
something changes and it’s all over.
Just another college
fling.
Is that what you want?” he asks, eyes burning.

“I don’t care about that. That’s
not what would happen.” I lower my voice as the other student glares at me
again. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”

He sighs then shakes his head. “I
finish my masters this semester. And I just got offered a year-long fellowship
in the fall.
In
Paris
.
We would never work.”

My stomach drops.
“You’re...leaving?” This can’t be happening. My mind is spinning on overdrive
to process
fellowship, leaving,
Paris
.

“What we have is perfect just as it
is, pet. Please don’t ask for more.” With that, he stands, keeping his backpack
low in front of his pants. I follow him out of the study hall, but his stride
is longer and quicker than mine.

His words sound like they’re coming
through a tunnel. A stab of dread rips through my chest, but what comes out of
my mouth is, “I’m not
just
your pet.
I have a name, you know!”

He looks back over his shoulder.
“Don’t try to find me. Perhaps one day we’ll meet again.”

He leaves me beneath the grand
arches of the main entrance, stunned. Is that all this is? A delicious,
perfectly perfect random fuck with a stranger and it’s all up to chance if we
meet again? I don’t know what kind of hippie-fate-bullshit he believes in, but no
way
I’m
standing for that.

He’s almost through the main
entrance, his figure walking away from me, possibly forever, when I yell out, “
Giselle! My name is Giselle Graham!
”
just as the door shuts behind him. Everyone in the library is looking at me,
the crazy girl in the lobby yelling her name all by herself. Even if everyone
else heard me loud and clear, I don’t know if my Master did. Cheeks scalding, I
kick at the tiles below my feet in frustration, then
speedwalk
out of the library.

Hopefully he
did
hear. If he won’t give me
his
name, well, at least he has mine.
Come
back, Master
, I send out to the universe.
Find me
.

Here’s a sneak peek of the next story in the Master of the
Flesh quartet:

A Most Wicked Master

Five Months
After
Graduation

“Are you sure this is it?” I ask my
new roommate Rose. I just moved to
Manhattan
after graduation, found an apartment on Craigslist, and definitely lucked out
that Rose and I hit it off so well from the start.

“I mean, yeah, I think so.” We
stare at the nondescript metal door with a sign that says “Closed for Private
Party”

“Damn. All this way and we can’t
get in.” We were giddy and nervous all afternoon, straightening our hair,
trying on lingerie, blending our makeup to look dark and smoky for my first
night at an S&M club. And now we find ourselves at
26th street
and
8th avenue
only to turn around and go
back home.

“Don’t be ridiculous. With your
face and my boobs, of course they’ll let us in,” she says. It’s true--girl’s a
bombshell. She heaves open the creaking door and struts down the metal
staircase in her skyscraper heels. I trot after her, chin high with my best
attempt at cool,
New York
sangfroid.
Please let us in,
I beg
the Universe.

At the end of the passageway is an
attendant behind a glass window. “Are you part of the group?” he says. He
sports a trucker hat with shoulder-length, wiry blond hair and pock marks all
over his face. Hopefully he’s not a good representation of what we’ll find
inside.

Rose must have a stomach of steel
because she just flips her strawberry blonde hair and smiles, shooting him her
Come hither
look. “No, we’re not. I’m
sorry we didn’t know it was a private party tonight. We were hoping to just
stop by, at least for a few minutes?” She bats her wide, emerald doe eyes at
him and leans closer so her cleavage spills onto the window ledge. His gaze
drops from her eyes to her chest, then to me. His attitude switches instantly
from tough bouncer to bashful schoolboy.

“Welcome, ladies. Door’s to your
right,” he says, though the sign above his head clearly states Ladies - $30.
A free pass?
Nice. As a recent college grad, I’m in no
position to be blowing cash on my vices.

“Told
ya
,” Rose winks at me when we make it in.
We shed
our jackets at the coat check to show off our sexy little numbers underneath.
Rose wears a black leather mini-mini-dress (ever the harsh mistress), while I
settled on a lavender silk slip and thigh high stockings. I figured it was
appropriate, given my inexperience with the whole BDSM scene. “You nervous?”
she says.

“A little,” I admit. It feels like
at any moment, a family of butterflies will escape from my ribcage. But at the
same time, I’m morbidly curious about what we’ll find.

The lights are dim and the techno
is loud, though not loud enough to drown the crack of a whip biting into flesh.
Rose and I follow the sound to find a bony, naked young man, not more than
twenty years old, on all fours wearing a collar and leash. His mistress rests
one leather-clad boot on his back, using him as a footstool while wielding a
whip in her hand and a drink in the other. When she quenches her thirst, she
pulls on his leash and drags him into another chamber.

“I guess we’re in the right place,”
I say. We walk past a line of men at the bar, some in regular band T-shirts,
some in leather vests, but all of whom turn their heads and appraise Rose and
me. I can’t help but feel self-conscious, especially with my nipples poking
through my negligee, but we just walk on by. We part a curtain of red velvet
and wander into a suite with black walls, a couch, wooden posts (presumably to
strap people to), and a cabinet with an impressive arsenal of whips, floggers,
canes, and paddles. Rose runs her fingertips across all the handles,
then
stops at a rattan cane, two feet long.

“This one,” she says, feeling the
length of the cane with admiration. “I want to hear it sing.”

The curtain swishes behind us to
reveal a muscular Latino walking toward us, or rather, toward Rose. “Careful
with that,” he says with a hint of an accent. “You know how to use it?”

Rose raises a brow and smirks.
“Would you like me to show you?”

The man pulls off his shirt, drops
his jeans, and bends over the arm of a couch. “Show me, mistress.”

“How hard?”
Rose says, eyeing the flesh of her prey with hunger.

“Start out soft, please. Then you
can work your way up, mistress,” he says, still bent over.

With a flick of her wrist, the cane
taps the man’s right ass cheek,
then
snaps to his left
cheek. A symmetrical pink V blooms on his ass. The cane didn’t make a sound,
though, and the man didn’t wince or gasp. Rose palms the man’s bare ass
appreciatively. “Good boy.”

The next hits are sharper, making
an audible
crack
and leaving an angry
stripe of red on his tan skin. The man closes his eyes, though not in pain but
in obvious pleasure. Rose strikes him again and I notice the man’s flaccid dick
grow thicker between his legs. She’s barely holding back now, the cane is a
blur as she hits him once again. He winces, but doesn’t complain, his cock
growing ever harder.

When her count reaches seven, she
stops. She pats his bottom and whispers, “Thank you. That’ll be all.”

The man doesn’t move for a moment,
as if not realizing his caning is over. He wakes from his reverie and picks up
the jeans pooled around his ankles. I notice his cock is as stiff as a pillar
of marble.

“Thank
you
, mistress,” he says, before turning to me. “May I...may I touch
your booty?”

I almost snort.
Booty?
Who
says
that? I give a polite smile, though, and shake my head.

We wait until he’s out of earshot
before bursting into a giggle fit.

“That’s just the first of it,
believe me. You’re fresh meat,” she says.

“Ugh, whatever.
You did great, though,” I tell Rose. I’ve never seen her dominatrix side in
action before, and any guy here would be lucky to be her sub.

“Thank you,” she blushes. “Now if
you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find someone else to play with. Try not to break
too many hearts.” She sashays out of the room, leaving me to my own devices.

I’m suddenly cold standing here
alone in just my negligee, but I suck it up and head to the upper level.
There’s a crowd gathered around something, and when I finally find an opening
where I can tiptoe over people’s shoulders, I see a woman lying on a plank
wearing nothing but nipple clamps. A man hovers over her, pinching her with
clothespins. He’s formed a straight line from her shoulder to her wrist, and
now he’s starting a new line down the side of her ribcage. She flinches a bit
with each additional clothespin, but otherwise her face is serene and
compliant.

It’s getting more painful though,
as he adds more and more pins. He gives her a few seconds rest between each
one, and now he reaches between her legs and grazes his fingertips along her
slit. She shivers and smiles, giving him the go ahead to add another
clothespin. He caresses her more deeply after this pin, to the point that she’s
grinding her hips hard against his palm. When he reaches her hip and adds the
final pin, he flicks her clit with his middle finger and she bucks her hips and
cums
with a gasping cry. She lies there panting while
everyone watches, a few men stroking themselves. The woman sits up, wraps her
legs around the man, and kisses him. A
real
kiss reserved for lovers. Out of everything I’ve seen so far, their show of
intimacy in a place like this shocks me the most.

Show over, the crowd breaks apart.
A man with a Bob Ross afro sidles up to me. “Are you looking for a slave?” he
asks.

His eyes are completely earnest and
I’m flattered, but I just give a nervous chuckle. “No, thank you.” I wouldn’t
know the first thing to do with a slave. And I don’t really gain pleasure
ordering people around. As soon as Rose explained the roles to me, it was clear
that I’m a sub.

It isn’t even two seconds before
someone else approaches me, this time an older gentleman who looks like he might’ve
recently retired from the police force or fire department. “Would you like a
back massage?” he offers. “Or a foot massage?”

Though back rubs are always
tempting, for some reason, I just don’t want to be touched right now. I decline
again. I don’t know what I thought I’d find here, but to be honest, I’m kind of
disappointed. Besides the lovers’ kiss, everything else seems...clinical.
Staged, almost, since everyone knows that everyone is watching, so
they’re just going through the motions.
I guess what I wanted was to
feel
something. Like when my Master used
to touch me.

Okay, so I’m not being completely
honest. I’m not a complete novice at BDSM. I suppose what I did with my Master
last year counts as sub-
dom
stuff, though we were
never in an official club or anything. He was a stranger. Who tied me
up.
Spanked me.
And
had his way with me.
We first met when I was a freshman, then we lost
touch and didn’t meet again until I was a junior. Then I never saw him again. I
didn’t even consider our play as BDSM when we were doing it. But one night,
over one of my first dinner-and-a-movie nights with Rose, my strange and
surreal love affair from long ago came rushing out of me.

“You’re into bondage?” Rose gasped.

“Uh, I guess?” I said.

“We have to go to Carnal!” she
squealed. So here I am, at an S&M club, but it’s nothing like what I hoped
it would be. When that stranger, my Master, bound my wrists, it
felt--ironically--liberating. When he caressed me, it felt intimate, though to
this day I don’t even know his name. And when he fucked me, I could think of
nothing else but the feeling of his cock burying deep inside my walls. I
sigh
just thinking about it. How could I feel such a
connection with a complete stranger?

Not
again
, I tell myself. It’s over. He’s never coming back. And even if he
were
to walk in here right now, I should
run in the opposite direction. No, first slap his face,
then
run away. Who does he think
he is, dropping in on my life whenever he pleases,
then
disappearing at the drop of a hat? Acting all romantic, playing with my heart
one second,
then
leaving me cold? I was really messed
up after he left. I can’t go through that rollercoaster again. I thought I was
ruined--no other man could live up to the Master I built up in my head. But
slowly, I healed. Or at least, time helped me forget. So here I am.

I guess I was hoping to find
some
sort of substitute here, though.
Something to remind me what it felt like to be bound and completely
possessed.
But this all feels empty.
And
they’re not exactly supermodels, either
, the shallow part of me whispers.
Not like my Master who was built like a god. I roll my eyes. Ok, so there’s
that, too. One look at my Master had sent my pussy dripping with juice. But I
wasn’t exactly eager to drop my panties and get spanked by anyone here.

Maybe it’s just me, though.
Everyone else seems to be having fun. No big deal--I can take care of my own
needs just fine. I fish my cell phone out of my purse to shoot Rose a text that
I’ll meet her back at the apartment. It’s a Sunday (for some reason, the
S&M crowd likes to party on Sunday nights) so I really should get to bed
anyway.

Just as I shrug my jacket back on,
a distinguished, older gentleman appears beside me. “Such an exquisite
creature,” he
says,
his voice like black oil, slippery
and slick. “What’s your name?”

“Giselle,” I say,
then
curse myself for not giving him a fake.

“Leaving so soon?” The word
“slither” pops into my mind as he circles me.

“Yes, I--I don’t think this is
really my style,” I say, though I don’t know why. It’s not like I owe this man
an explanation.

He gives a small knowing smile,
then
reaches into his inner jacket pocket with a gloved
hand. “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for here,” he says.

It’s a black card with an address
in red ink.

Creatures of the Night

are
cordially invited to

The Rouge Chateau

371 West 11th Street

on
the fifth of October

10 pm

Masks Optional

“You can bring your friend,” he
says, before tipping his hat and disappearing in the crowd.

I can hardly keep down my
excitement. A private masked ball at some loaded guy’s house next Friday?
Scenes from the movie
Eyes Wide Shut
flash through my brain. I don’t care if that guy kind of gives me the creeps.
This is an
exclusive
soiree. I bet
everyone here would die to go, but only a few get an invite. I read the card
over a few more times before slipping it into my jacket pocket. I’m
so
there.

*End of Sample*

Read the rest of Giselle Graham’s romance with her Master in
A MOST WICKED MASTER and A MASTER CALLED MINE.

Olivia Laurel graduated from a Catholic university with a
degree in English, which she now uses to pen erotic romance. She makes her home
in
Brooklyn
.