A Stranger Called Master Read online

  A Stranger Called Master

  (Master of the Flesh part II)

  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 story 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.

  Junior Year

  The textbooks and tomes drop with an echoing thud in the deserted library. Friday 9:45pm, finals week. Is no one else on this campus stressing except me? I haven’t cracked open my textbooks all semester and now I’m paying the price. Two papers, four exams, just shoot me.

  It took a superhuman amount of self-control to turn down all the parties tonight--one of which was an exclusive, invite-only hot tub party at some senior’s sweet apartment. Looking around the empty stacks of the fifth floor reference hall, I wonder if I made the right choice.

  Nope, definitely not. But it’s too late now. I’m resigned to slave away the rest of the night reading dusty books, bullshitting my way through thesis statements.

  Though I’d much rather be soaking in a hot tub, there are worse places to spend your Friday night than the St. Ignatius library, I suppose. The library is actually a thing of beauty, with ornate chandeliers hanging from high ceilings and leather couches facing baroque windows. It definitely has charm, I’ll give it that, like it was taken straight out of Beauty and the Beast or Pride and Prejudice. If I had the luxury, I’d curl up on one of those couches with a book, but alas. It is crunch time.

  The faint sound of a laptop booting up reaches my ears. So I’m not alone after all. Across the room is another late-night trooper, flanked by towers of books and academic journals. He looks striking, actually--from this distance, at least. I steal another glance at the tall, ripped jock, his black shirt holding on to dear life around his biceps. Sweet Jesus, what’s a guy like that doing here? But despite his gorgeous physique, he’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses and obviously staying in on a Friday night. He stares at the book in front of him, running his fingers through his hair as he thinks.

  I giggle, realizing how much he looks like Superman posing as Clark Kent, and he shoots a glance in my direction, the intensity of his eyes piercing me from across the room. A tiny bell rings in my head, like deja vu, but the moment passes. I almost give a nervous wave, but I know that’s just the procrastination talking. He looks back at his laptop and I turn my attention to the matter at hand: the sympathetic portrayal of Lucifer in Milton’s Paradise Lost.

  After reading the same sentence for five minutes--the chandelier’s mood lighting does nothing to help my heavy eyelids--my skin prickles as if someone’s watching me. I flick my eyes toward Mr. Studious over there, just as he looks back down at the book in front of him. My heart breaks out into a victory dance in my chest--so we’re going to play eye tag, are we? I feel my cheeks burning as he almost catches me staring. Play it cool, Giselle. Just because I haven’t slept with a guy in two and a half years doesn’t mean the next guy looking my way wants to get it on.

  I sigh. Has it really been two and a half years? A familiar heat washes over me when I think about the last time. It was so unreal, sometimes I wonder if I dreamt the whole thing. But then I remember the soreness of my ass cheeks, my skin pink and raw from getting spanked. Later that night, I found a violet bruise on my neck--I hadn’t even remembered him biting me, but I guess he must have.

  And then of course, there was the rose, the necklace, and the note.

  My darling pet-- A pearl necklace for a collar. A black rose for our darkest desire. And a map for your (temporary) freedom. Until we meet again, Your Master

  For that one night, my darkest fantasy came true. A stranger in the theater club’s haunted house possessed me completely, made me his like no other man ever did before. Since then, no one else could really compare. College guys? Forget it. Not with their glazed eyes, beer breath, and limp whiskey dick. Even when they’re not drunk, well, boys nowadays are sometimes too nice--asking permission to kiss me instead of just capturing my lips.

  I blush as I feel the sex between my legs growing moist. I finger the pearl necklace along my collarbone. Undoubtedly a fake, stolen from the theater club’s prop room, but it was a gift from my Master nonetheless, a “collar” as he called it. A sign that for one night, I was his.

  How did it start? He had tied me to a pipe along the ceiling, letting me dangle like raw meat. His rough, calloused hands grasped my breasts...his face buried between my thighs, his mouth tonguing my clit...And that was just the beginning. Lying back on that chaise and taking all of him inside me, then standing with my ass in the air letting him flog and spank me. And finally, riding his eight inch cock until we both reached release...

  I scootch closer to the edge of my wooden seat and turn to the side, so my slit balances on the edge. I’m tempted to slip a hand between my legs and rock just a little bit back and forth, but I can’t. The library isn’t brightly lit, but it’s still lit and the stranger across the room might glance up and see me. I shut my legs and sit back. There’ll be enough time to play with myself later, after I finish this paper. I’ll be half-asleep by then, but I’ll still make time for myself. I always do.

  I shake off my lust and look at what else needs to be done. Apparently, I never bought one of the required readings, but hopefully it’s somewhere in the library. The scraping of the wooden chair against the carpet is deafening in the silence of the hall. I didn’t notice him leave, but Mr. Studious is gone from his table. My heart sinks and I chide myself for hoping our game of eye-tag would lead to something more. Honestly, Giselle!

  The library is a labyrinth to me, even though theoretically, I should know my way around after three years of college. PR3593.V3 V.1. is scribbled on my post-it, so I need to find the stacks labeled “PR.” I follow the signs, but somehow get turned around because I’m back at my table. Each floor of the library is shaped to be circular, like a half-hearted attempt to replicate The Guggenheim Museum. A circle sounds simple enough, but I can’t make heads or tails of the layout in my mind, because there’s also halls that run through the center of the circle. Though breathtaking, the architects definitely didn’t have accessibility in mind.

  When I finally reach the “PR” stacks, the shelves are empty. An apologetic note says they’re reorganizing and all books have been temporarily moved to the seventh floor. Great.

  The elevator is unresponsive, so I head for the emergency staircase, which has a patina of dust on each step and smells unsurprisingly stale and musty. A dead cockroach lies on its back in the corner. I shudder and quicken my pace.

  I freeze.

  Was that--no, it couldn’t be. And yet, I thought I heard a footstep that wasn’t my own.

  I peer over the railing, down into the center of the metal staircase. The fluorescent light flickers, but I don’t see another soul. It was clearly just my imagination.

  And even if someone is there, it’s not like this is my personal library. Someone else might be studying late and using the stairs, too.

  But ever since I stopped to listen, there hasn’t been any other sound.

  As if whoever was moving is listening, too.

  Don’t be so paranoid. I grip the sloppily painted railing, ascend a few more steps, heave all my weight against the metal door and emerge back into the stack
s.

  The seventh floor looks like the library’s embarrassing, dark secret. A recent addition, naked wires snake out of outlets, while rusty pipes crisscross over the low, sloping ceiling. While the rest of the library’s architecture resembles a cathedral, this attic looks like a dungeon, as if any moment, Mr. Rochester’s deranged wife is going to jump out of the stacks (sorry, all this studying has got my mind on English lit). No windows, no computers, no chairs. Because who would ever want to sit here? Students were probably never supposed to see this attic, but the librarians had no choice and just needed a placeholder for the books until they’re finished reorganizing.

  After a few minutes of searching, with no other sound but the hum of the air conditioner, I finally spot the “PR” shelf and scan the spines for the correct call number. It’s too high for me to reach, so I weave through the shelves once more, in search of a stool.

  The ding of the elevator startles me. I peer into the main hallway, only to find the doors open to an empty elevator car. Weird.

  I turn back to my quest for a stepping ladder when again, I hear a muffled step ever so slightly out of sync with my own.

  Fuck this. This place gives me the creeps and there’s no point in being a hero and staying. I break into a run for the elevator. I don’t need the book that badly.

  “Come on, come on,” I whisper under my breath, as if cheering it on will make the elevator climb faster. At this rate, I could’ve made it to the first floor by now if I’d just taken the stairs. I give up on the elevator and run for the staircase on the other side of the library.

  This time, there’s no mistake.

  Rapid footfalls thunder after me, no longer caring that I can hear. I spare a glance behind me but my pursuer is hidden by the stacks. My pulse spikes when I realize the stairs aren’t where I thought they’d be.

  No time to stand there in the open--I dart between the stacks and try to think where I might’ve gotten turned around.

  My pursuer slows his pace, as well, as if checking between the shelves. Pulse racing in my ears, I try to steady my breath and hold perfectly still.

  Who is he? What does he want? Never in my life have I wished to see a security guard as badly as I do now. But I hadn’t seen a guard all night. My heart pounds even louder when the realization hits: I’m alone in a dark library with no one to hear my screams.

  The footsteps have stopped. At least, I haven’t heard anything in the last thirty seconds.

  Where is he now? What’s he doing?

  Instead of sticking my head past the stacks to peek into the main aisle, I stand on my tiptoes and peer in between the books through the shelf.

  “Lost, little girl?” My pursuer is on the other side of the bookshelf, staring directly at me.

  My breath catches in my throat. Something about his voice, that line, sounds familiar. Like something I might’ve heard in a dream.

  He walks out from behind the books and I see it’s the jock, Mr. Studious, from the table across the room.

  I breathe half a sigh of relief. But only half. He could, after all, still be out to kill me. He’s even larger up close. My eyes flicker to his bulging biceps, the musculature of his chest visible through his thin shirt.

  Yes, he could still very well kill me.

  “What do you want?” I stammer while backing away to the opposite aisle.

  “I think you know what I want,” he rasps. And there again...that voice...This feels like a puzzle in a dream that my mind is struggling to solve.

  Even if I ran, he’d catch me in two bounds. “Please, I...”

  “That’s a very beautiful necklace,” he says, never taking his intense eyes off of mine. “I would’ve thought you’d remember who gave it to you...pet.”

  I gasp. Could it be? I peer up at him, but it’s hard to tell. That night was two and a half years ago, and I spent half the time blindfolded and the other half in the dark. Since then, time has made his face more and more unfocused in my memory, until I just skimmed over specifics and thought of him as the swarthy, breathtaking god who possessed me for an exquisitely delicious night.

  “Master?” I ask.

  He responds by claiming my lips, claiming me. In one motion, he pushes me against the stacks, grabs my wrists and holds them above me, and everything comes rushing back. “It really is you,” I murmur.

  “Have you missed me, my pet?” he mumbles into the kiss.

  Miss him doesn’t even cover it. I yearned for him every night since then, relived every touch, every lick, every spank as I touched myself alone in my bed.

  “Oh God, yes,” I breathe, as his lips find the erogenous zone by my earlobe. “Why didn’t you leave me your name? Or your number?” It’s hard to think with his tongue against my skin, something I’ve fantasized about every night, but I need to know. All those frustrated nights and unanswered questions are on the tip of my tongue.

  “Shh, not now, pet. There’s time for that later.” He silences me with a deep kiss while unbuttoning my blouse, excruciatingly slow, one button at a time. He cups my breasts through my bra, eliciting a moan from me, then unzips my skirt.

  Is this really happening? Has my Master really found me once again?

  Clad only in my bra and panties, he turns me around to face the bookshelf. But I can’t help it--the questions are burning inside me.

  “Why did you wait so long? I tried to find you but the theater club said they didn’t know--”

  “If you speak again, pet, I’ll be forced to punish you. Have you forgotten the rules already?” he warns.

  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..