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A Stranger Called Master

Page 3

by Olivia Laurel


  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 reach
es 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.

 

 

 
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