A Stranger Called Master

by Olivia Laurel

  “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 co
me 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.

  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?”