Free A Stranger Called Master by Olivia Laurel Page A

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