Master of the Flesh

By Olivia Laurel

The MASTER OF THE FLESH complete quartet contains four stories about Giselle Graham's chance encounter with a mysterious stranger.

BOUND BY A STRANGER: College freshman Giselle Graham enters a haunted house unlike any other. In an interactive theater show held in a pitch black warehouse, where actors may touch, bind, and gag the participants, Giselle finds herself unexpectedly aroused by her captor. The stranger senses Giselle's desire and he is more than willing to comply. What follows is Giselle's darkest fantasy come to life.

A STRANGER CALLED MASTER: College junior Giselle Graham is chased through a deserted library by a stranger. She succumbs to his dark desires, but sees a glimpse of the brooding man behind his hard exterior. She's falling fast, ready to give him more than just her body. But is he willing to take her out of his fantasy and into the rest of his life?

A MOST WICKED MASTER: Recent college grad Giselle Graham moves to Manhattan and accepts an invitation to a masked ball. The exclusive soiree is held at The Rouge Chateau, where every guest's carnal desire is gratified. Giselle finds the sexual freedom fascinating, but feels intimidated by the experienced guests. That is, until she meets Wyatt Daniels, a striking and eminent member of the soiree who claims her as his own. Devilish yet tender, Wyatt shows Giselle that a true Master can ravish a woman's body--and her heart.

A MASTER CALLED MINE: Giselle Graham returns to The Rouge Chateau for a masked soiree, excited for another night with her new master, Wyatt Daniels. Their passion sizzles into something more when Wyatt confesses that though he possesses her body, she reigns in his heart. But when Giselle discovers a secret, her trust in Wyatt is shattered. Torn between craving his touch and fearing future betrayals, Giselle must decide if her dark and wicked master is worth risking it all.

At 26,000 words, this quartet contains light BDSM scenarios and is intended for mature audiences only.

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nora Wolfe
• Release date: Mar 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301859726

Olivia Laurel

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.

Book preview

Master of the Flesh

The Complete Quartet

Olivia Laurel

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Published by Olivia Laurel at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Olivia Laurel

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

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Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

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.

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.