Master of the Flesh Read online

  Master of the Flesh

  The Complete Quartet

  Olivia Laurel

  Works by Olivia Laurel

  MASTER OF THE FLESH:

  Bound by a Stranger

  A Stranger Called Master

  A Most Wicked Master

  A Master Called Mine

  This series is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Olivia Laurel

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Part I

  Bound by a Stranger

  Freshman Year

  Midterms are next week, so remind me again why I’m in line for a haunted house at 1 am on a Tuesday? Oh right, because Sara is obsessed with these Halloween gimmicks and could I please please please go with her just this once? She knows I have a hard time saying no, and considering she’s the one and only friend I’ve made since the beginning of freshman year, here I am. $25 poorer, waiting in the cold.

  Apparently, every year, the theater kids put together a haunted house--off campus, though, since our Catholic university is anti-Halloween, along with anti-condoms, anti-sex, anti-fun. So we’re waiting outside an abandoned warehouse at the edge of town. Everyone’s excited and tickets are sold out already because this year, the theater kids are doing something different instead of the run-of-the-mill ghost and zombie type of haunted house. This time, each person has to go into the house alone, fifteen minutes apart. In complete darkness. And the actors can touch you, grab you, push you, whatever they want. “Not your ordinary haunted house,” a sign reads. Right.

  When I get up to the booth, Sara and I leave our coats at the coat check then look over the waiver. Yes, I am aware there will be flashing lights and No, I am not epileptic. Yes, the actors may talk to me. No, I am not allowed to talk back. Yes, I understand the actors may touch me. However, I will not touch the actors under any circumstances. Yes, I am fit to run and crawl. Yes, I may be bound. Yes, I may get wet. The safe word is SAFE, which I may yell at any time to be escorted out of the house.

  Seems a little excessive for a waiver, but I suppose the pre-law students made them include all that. I sign, Giselle Graham.

  It’s chilly, even for October, and I wish I wore a sweater rather than just my white v-neck t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I cross my arms over my chest to warm up while Sara bites her nails.

  “I thought you loved haunted houses,” I say.

  “I do! But that doesn’t mean I don’t almost pee my pants every time. You first, Giselle,” she says, pulling me in front of her.

  Fine by me. The attendant guarding the door listens to his earpiece. I shift my weight. The person in front of us has been in there for well over fifteen minutes.

  “Sorry for the hold up,” the attendant says. “Someone...had an incident. But she’s ok now,” he smiles, as he unlocks heavy metal doors of what looks like a freezer or meat locker. Without a word, he holds up three fingers, then two, then one. He pushes me into the darkness.

  I stand there for a few seconds, thinking my eyes will adjust and I’ll begin to make out shapes. I don’t. They weren’t kidding when they said pitch black. There’s nothing but oily darkness. And the cold. The hairs on my arms stand on end, my skin tingling with the cold all over. I take a tentative step forward. Then another.

  Is it my imagination or is that hot air against my neck? I spin around. My eyes dart wildly all around me, but there’s nothing. I hear a footstep to my right, so I scurry to my left.

  “Lost, little girl?” a gravelly voice rasps in my ear. I turn again but strong arms grab me by the shoulders and wrap something thin and plastic around my wrists. Tight--it almost cuts through my skin. Before I know it, a bag is pulled over my head. Fuck. Not that I could see anyway, but now I feel claustrophobic, with my hot, stagnant breath trapped in the bag with me.

  “Move,” he growls, pushing me forward. He holds me by the arm brusquely, his hand so large that his fingers wrap all the way around my bicep. I stumble forward for I don’t know how long--ten feet? twenty? The heat of his body is against my back the whole time, and despite the fact he just bagged and tied me, I find myself wanting more of his warmth in this frigid warehouse.

  We finally stop walking. “Kneel,” he commands.

  There’s nothing I can do but obey. He rips the bag off my head and I squint as he aims a flashlight in my eyes. Jeez, these theater kids are good.

  I catch a glimpse of my attacker--tall, muscular, stubble along a square jaw--but a split second later, he pulls another bag over my head. This time, plastic. It sticks to my mouth each time I inhale. Don’t panic, don’t panic. I take little sips of air and try to push the bag away from my mouth with my tongue. Little sips, little sips. You can do this. God, I paid $25 for a ticket into this thing. I’m not going to up and say the safe word and miss the whole thing!

  “Scream,” he rasps.

  I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic wheeze. I can’t get enough air to breathe, much less scream.

  “SCREAM for ME,” he growls even louder.

  I whimper and the plastic sticks even more to my face but I close my eyes and give it all I’ve got. A blood-curdling scream fills my ears.

  I peer up at him through the plastic. Maybe I’m going insane in this darkness, but I think he looks satisfied. Can a silhouette look pleased?

  Before I can ask myself why I even care if he’s pleased, he gives another command. “Look up.”

  Good girl, people-pleaser that I am, I lift my head. The beam of light is still pointed at my face, so I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.

  Something cold splatters onto my nose, my mouth, my forehead. Water? All at once, I have no air. The wet plastic clings to my nostrils like second skin and no matter how wide I open my mouth, how hard I gasp, no air is getting in. Water falls on my face like a fountain, I’m drowning, I’m choking. How long can I do this until I have to breathe? Even if I could blurt out the safe word, would he even hear?

  He stops pouring the water and lets me lower my head. I stick my tongue out and try to push the plastic away from my face again, creating a little pocket of air. Sweet Jesus. Air. While I pant on my knees, chest heaving, he stands over me. Watching. He’s letting me catch my breath.

  A warm feeling washes over me as I realize he’s making sure I’m ok.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? It hasn’t even been five minutes and already I have a full-blown case of Stockholm Syndrome. And yet I peer up at him again, the stranger in the shadows. He holds the flashlight beam lower, just enough to cast a dim glow on my face. Just enough to make sure I’m still game.

  Can he tell I’m pretty through the plastic?

  Before I can fully catch my breath, he rips the bag off my head and wraps a black lace blindfold over my eyes--tight. Then he grabs my bound wrists and yanks them up over my head. I feel my t-shirt rise over my navel and the fuzzy blonde hairs on my abs stand up with the rush of cold air. My nipples harden, poking through my sheer top.

  He ties my plastic cuffs to one of the many pipes running along the ceiling. It’s a bit too high--my toes just barely brush the ground--and I’m swaying, dangling by the wrists. He stands still, watching. Perhaps admiring. Can he see my slender waist? Or how low my jeans ride on my hip bones? I squint through the lacy fabric, trying to feast my eyes on him, too.

  A raspy voice like that with a forceful touch--surely, he must be hot. But frankly, I don’t even care how he looks. Hanging from this hook, vulnerable with my ribs exposed, my abs i
n plain sight, I feel a throbbing in my pussy. In complete darkness, all my senses are heightened and there’s nothing to feel except the plastic cutting into my wrists, the icy air against my skin, and the juices dripping out of my pussy lips.

  My breath grows ragged. I whimper, and it’s not because I’m scared.

  Why is he just standing there, watching me? I want to feel his hands again, on my waist, on my ribs, on my breasts. I’m here, tied up and ready for a predator to come and take me.

  As if he could read my thoughts, the shadow is suddenly beside me, bending down to me, taking in the fragrance of my neck. So, so close I can almost feel him brush against my skin.

  “You smell delicious,” he whispers, “good enough to taste.”

  My heart beats faster. I’m not sure if that’s still part of his script. I hope it’s not.

  He circles me with a feral grace, a wolf eyeing his prey. “You’ve been a very good girl,” he muses. “Better than most.”

  I beam inside. He noticed! I want to purr, to ask him to pet me, touch me, but I keep silent. I’m not supposed to talk.

  “This game, I think, is not enough. You want something more,” he pauses. “Nod if you want more.”

  I nod. My panties are soaked.

  “Good girl,” he says, barely above a whisper. I feel a thrill as his fingers brush my face, a feather-light caress, but the moment ends too soon. He hoists me up by the waist, so my handcuffs unhook from the pipe, then he whisks me over his shoulder with ease into a fireman’s carry. I almost grunt with each step he takes, slumped over his shoulder like this, but I bite my lip and keep quiet--I have to be a good girl for my captor. Instead, I focus on the tantalizing scent of his musk, aftershave, and laundry detergent. His strong hands squeeze my thighs and I can’t help but wish his hands would wander higher...

  He takes a series of turns, then descends a flight of stairs. I’d never be able to find the way out of this labyrinth by myself. Part of me worries if maybe I should kick and scream and cry for help--after all, I don’t know anything about him--but the danger just feeds my desire. I’m so wet that I wonder if he can smell my arousal, with my thighs so close to his face.

  He stops abruptly; a lock turns and a door creaks open.

  Placing me gently on my feet, he says “Close your eyes. No peeking.” As if I could see much through this blindfold even if I tried.

  My ears strain in the darkness and I hear the strike of a match, then some shuffling. Finally he takes me by the hand and leads me inside.

  There are candles, that much I can tell. Small orbs of light all around us, casting shadows in this cozy, intimate chamber. I can make out an opulent crimson chaise with gold tassels a few feet away. I take a few steps closer, and when he doesn’t object, I run my cuffed hands over the soft tassels. Seems kind of fancy to be stage props for a theater club. And with the luxurious Persian rug on the floor and a vanity table with tall mirrors, what the heck is this place? Is it still a part of the haunted house? Or a dressing room for the actors?

  The sound of a wooden door slamming shut startles my thoughts. I spin around and find him locking the door and dropping the key in his pocket. I’m trapped. I’m trapped in this luxurious sex chamber and my kidnapper is a tall, gauzy shadow. By the soft glow of the candles, I can see his dark hair and swarthy complexion. Like he just stepped straight out of my favorite fantasy...

  In two strides, he’s beside me, but instead of heading for the cushioned chair, he hangs me up by my wrists from another pipe in the ceiling. I’m exposed again and my chest can’t help but stick out in this position. I try to wriggle off the hook, but it’s no use. He closes in on his prey like the Big Bad Wolf about to eat Little Red, checking out the firmness of my tits, the curve of my ass, and the slope of the small of my back like a connoisseur.

  He stops in front of me and holds my chin up with his finger. “You’re even more beautiful than I thought,” he murmurs. He reaches behind my head and my blindfold falls to the wayside.

  I let out a gasp--he’s more than I could’ve hoped for, too. I see him stretch to his full height, six four at least. Broad shouldered with a jaw that looks like it could take a few punches, he could easily be on the cover of some NYC firefighter calendar. But what really takes my breath away are his eyes. Powerful and dark, his eyes are fiery with the intent of giving me a good ride.

  He runs his thumb from my cheekbone down to my chin. “Do you still want to play?”

  I bite my lip and nod. I’ve never seen anyone this devastatingly handsome, much less get fucked by them.

  “From now on, you will call me Master.”

  He bends down low to reach me--making me feel tiny and delicate next to him--and he sucks at that sweet spot where my neck meets my shoulder. His lips flutter up to my ear lobe, tickling, suckling, teasing, as if I’d break if he kissed me too rough. “Do you understand?”

  I nod again, but he surprises me by giving my neck a sharp bite. “Answer me.”

  “Yes, Master,” I reply. Gentle kisses one second, primal bites the next--either way, the feel of my Master’s lips against my skin ignites an aching in my clit. I lean into his kiss, enveloped by his dark, spicy musk.

  “I will taste of you until I have my fill.” His mouth wanders lower to my collarbone and his hands travel up my t-shirt, skimming my belly. Chills jolt through my body as he reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. His hands cup my breasts and finally, finally, he draws a nipple into his mouth.

  “Oh, God,” I moan, as his tongue swirls around the swollen, rubbery tip. I want him to drink me, all of me, but he’s taking his sweet time.

  “You are mine to taste. Every. Last. Drop,” he says in between sucks. “But you, my pet, are not allowed to cum. Not without my permission.”

  I gulp at this. How can he expect me not to? He chuckles as he unbuttons my jeans, as if he can read my thoughts. “I can tell you’re impatient. But you’ll just have to wait, pet.”

  He slips his hands into my panties and runs a finger along my dripping wet slit. “My, my, my. What an eager little pet,” he smiles. He brings his finger to his lips. “Delicious.”

  “Suck me, please,” I beg, then remember to add, “Master.”

  “As you wish.” My Master strips me of my jeans and panties, then kneels before me. A river of honey is trickling down my inner thigh, and I moan as his tongue laps it up. He finally reaches the source and I watch as he slowly licks the hot cleft between my legs. He suckles my clit and I feel my orgasm mounting, escalating so swiftly that it’s out of my control. Just as my hips tense, he pulls his mouth away.

  “Tsk tsk, pet. Not yet,” he says while wiping his chin. “You’re going to cum with my cock inside you. I want to feel every last tremor of that tight little pussy.”

  He takes out a folding knife and cuts my plastic cuffs, then throws me down onto the chaise. My whining and pouting from my almost-orgasm is cut short when he throws off his shirt, drops his jeans, and pulls out his dick. Rock-hard and smooth, his organ stands erect past his navel. Holy. Shit.

  He’s right. I’d much rather cum while filled with his cock.

  “Suck me, pet.”

  I gladly obey my Master and take him into my mouth. I savor the syrupy taste of his pre-cum oozing from his head, then lick him up and down, coating his shaft with the natural lube of my tongue. While I pump his rod with my hand, I duck down and suck on his balls, massaging my Master until he moans. I feel his palm on my head, petting my hair and murmuring, “Good girl. That’s my girl.”

  He’s so hard, thick veins snake up his cock and his head is fully engorged. I stop sucking and look up at him, begging him with my eyes to fuck me already.

  He understands and pulls me up to the chaise, sitting me on the very edge. He grips the base of his cock and guides his head to my wide-open slit. He strokes my opening, smiling as I whine some more.

  Then, with a thrust of his hips, he’s inside me, filling up every inch of me with his marble-hard cock. I grind up aga
inst him and we find our rhythm, moaning in agonized pleasure. His cock slams against the back of my pussy as my clit rubs against his pubes, the exquisite friction sending me closer and closer to the edge.

  He holds my arms down over my head and presses against me, his muscular chest bearing down on my breasts. I’m so tiny beneath him--I’m overpowered, overwhelmed, enveloped completely. The strength of his hands, the weight of his chest, the power of his dick ramming into me again and again. I’m losing my mind, moaning uncontrollably.

  His stiff cock seated inside of me, his balls slapping against my pussy lips...I can feel the wet, hot walls of my pussy contracting around him, massaging him, milking his cock for cum. In a flash, I buck my hips, writhing beneath him as my orgasm goes on and on and on.

  “Fuck yeah,” he groans, as my tremors grip his cock.

  When my shudders subside, he bends me over the chaise. I barely have time to catch my breath before he’s got my hands bound again and tied in some kind of sailor’s knot to the top of the chair. I struggle against the rope, but the scratchy fibers cut into my wrists. He pushes my face into the cushion and spreads my legs, my ass in the air.

  “Naughty girl. I told you you’re not allowed to cum without my permission,” he says.

  Shit. I forgot all about that.

  Thwack. My ass stings and I whimper in pain. I strain against my binding and look behind me to find him wielding a flogger. I guess I was too spent from cumming that I didn’t notice where he picked that up--

  Thwack! A dozen strips of suede slap against my skin, a hot sting followed by cool air. I bite my lips and welcome the sensation. After the initial hit, it isn’t so bad. It’s actually...delicious.

  I hold my ass out even higher, tempting him. He pets my ass cheek with his hand, then winds up for another hit.

  “Oooh,” I wince, but somehow I can’t get enough.

  “Very bad pet. You need to learn your lesson,” he growls. I hear the leather whistle through the air as he flogs me again--a biting sting then cool relief that just has my pussy feeling empty, missing his dick.