Master of the Flesh Page 2

  “I’m sorry, Master,” thwack. “I promise I won’t do it again,” thwack.

  I hear the flogger’s cushioned fall onto the carpet as my Master switches to spanking me with his bare hand, as if he wants to feel for himself the damage he’s inflicting on my smooth flesh.

  Spank. His palm hurts even more than the flogger. I hiss and collapse onto the chaise and yet--spank--he strikes again, winding up from his hips.

  “Did I give you permission to speak?”

  I bite my lip, but I don’t know how much more I can take. “If you--” spank “untie me--” spank “I could--” spank “--make it up to you.”

  That catches his attention and he stops mid-swing. “But you’ve been a dishonest pet. How do I know I can trust you?”

  Good point. But my ass is burning and I have to take the chance. “You don’t. You just have to let me show you. Please, Master?”

  He saunters over to my hands and cuts me loose. “You better not disappoint me, pet.”

  I sit him down on the edge of the chaise and kneel before him. I daub my finger into my sex, then caress the length of his shaft with my slick fingertip. His erection had softened during all that talk, but his cock stiffens now with each stroke of my finger. And, well, I can’t help it--I slip my other hand between my legs and circle my middle finger against my hot button. I let out a soft moan as I stroke his cock, and just hope he doesn’t mind if his pet plays with herself, too.

  When it doesn’t look like he can take any more teasing, I wrap my lips around the head of his cock, letting the soft warmth of my mouth surround him. I work up and down his shaft, going deeper each time, until finally, his head is in the back of my throat and all eight inches is in my mouth. He lets out a growl and grabs a handful of my hair, pushing my face harder into his groin, grinding his cock deeper into my throat. My eyes are watering from almost gagging, but I keep deepthroating my Master. I want to show him...I just want to please him...

  “Get on top,” he growls.

  I pull his cock out of my throat and finally take in a lungful of air. “What? Me?” I thought he was the Master.

  “You’ve been such a good little pet. I’ve never seen anyone deepthroat all of me. Get on top,” he says again.

  My pussy’s still so wet and swollen, he doesn’t need to ask me again. I straddle my Master, hovering my slit over his rock-hard cock. He’s so stiff I can barely adjust his cock, but I manage to point it into me. I hold onto the hard muscles of his chest and sit down a millimeter lower, letting his head part my glistening lips. Then with a wicked smile, I plunge down onto his dick, taking all of him into me at once.

  I watch him grit his teeth and groan beneath me, but it just makes me ride him harder and faster. I grind against his lap, feeling every inch of his cock pressing inside of my pussy. My back arches and all my muscles tense--my abs, my ass, my pussy--all working to grip his cock tighter and tighter. Sweat trickles down between my breasts, pooling in my navel, but none of it matters. I ride his hard cock until I feel that familiar heat rises from my mound up to my chest.

  “Fuck yea. Ride me, little girl,” he says under his breath. “I’m going to cum...And I want you to cum with your Master.”

  His strong hands grip my waist and push me down harder into his lap as he explodes inside of me. I can feel spurt after spurt of hot cum gushing deep into my pussy, and then it’s game over. The jet of hot cum pushes me over the edge and now I’m cumming all around him, too. The spasms shake my whole body and it isn’t for awhile until my shudders ebb and I realize I had dug my nails into his chest, leaving bloody crescent moons in my Master’s skin.

  I lie still on top of him, too spent to move. He strokes my hair and my back as he rests with his eyes closed. Who knew those powerful hands could feel like a feather grazing my skin? We lie there for I don’t know how long, our breaths long and languorous.

  His dark eyes study me. He doesn’t say a word, and the expression in his eyes are too hard to read. I want to ask him, but I know words would ruin this moment. Instead, he leans in and brushes his lips ever so lightly against mine.

  That kiss was everything he wanted to say, and it was all I needed to hear.

  He lies back down and I nestle into his chest.

  His caresses whisk me away.

  I must’ve dozed off because when I open my eyes, I’m alone with a blanket pulled over my shoulders, my clothes folded in a pile at the foot of the chaise. The candles have almost burned out.

  Fuck. What time is it? Sara is definitely fuming that I wasn’t waiting for her by the exit. Eighteen missed calls on my phone.

  I yank my clothes from their neat pile and almost miss the black rose and small box lying on top. A note flutters to the ground.

  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

  I bring the rose to my face, careful not to get caught by the thorns. The velvet petals feel as soft as a kitten’s ear. Well, this certainly feels and smells like a real rose. But how did he dye the petals black? Curious, I move on to the box and lift the lid, to find gleaming pearls curled inside. Where did he even get these? More stage props, or does my Master always carry pearl necklaces in his back pocket?

  On the other side of the note is a crude map of the layout of the building to the nearest exit. I read it over a few times, incredulous that he didn’t leave his name or number or Facebook or anything. How the heck are we supposed to “meet again” if I don’t even know his name? How can he be so sure?

  I sigh. Such a thoughtful, considerate Master to draw me a map and all these gifts, but I’d rather he just left me his name.

  I give the room one last look to make sure I didn’t forget anything, then head for the door. Even if it’s just a one-time thing, he was my ultimate fantasy come to life, and that’s still more than what most people get. I’d never experienced anything like this before, and everything just felt so right. As I climb the stairs and see the red EXIT sign, a little bud of hope blooms in my chest.

  Something tells me we’ll find each other again.

  I fasten my pearl necklace, my collar. I’m his pet, after all.

  My Master will find me.

  I know he will.

  Part II

  A Stranger Called Master

  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 stacks.

  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 s
helf.

  “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.