Meet Thy Master 1

The scent of stale beer and tram dust always brought him to mind. That voice, a low growl that seemed to coil out of the phone receiver like smoke, a gravelly baritone with a faint, incongruous Tasmanian drawl. It was a voice that had taken her to places she had only read about in the dog-eared paperbacks hidden in her bedside drawer, heights achieved without a single touch.

They ‘got on’, as he had put it in that blunt, no-bullshit way of his. But it was a black hole of need, a gravitational pull that had sucked the light from everything else. Months of digital whispers in the dead of night, a slow, salacious reveal of two trapped lives. Both married, both stranded. His wife, a ghost in a Toorak mansion, fading from some obscure illness. Hers, a successful, impotent architect who preferred the clean lines of his blueprints to the messy curve of her hip. They were the same age, shared a love for Nick Cave and the grim poetry of the MCG after a loss, but it was the depraved, explicit promise that truly bound them. She was drowning in love for him, or the idea of him, and now she was flying across the country to find out which.

The drive from Perth was an eternity. Her alibi was airtight, a ‘girls’ weekend’ in Melbourne with her best mate, Chloe, who was currently snoring in the passenger seat after one too many wines at the Norseman roadhouse. But her mind was a single, screaming frequency: him. His voice. The hard, weathered face from the photos they had exchanged. The explicit, filthy instructions that played on a loop. She had packed the black lace bodysuit, the seamed stockings, the viciously high stilettos. The ‘toys’ they had used over the phone were nestled in silk. He had promised to bring the rest: the clamps, the flogger, the things that made her shudder with anticipation.

He had booked two rooms. One for her and Chloe, a façade of normality. One for them, a dungeon for the weekend. He had demanded complete ownership, absolute privacy.

They checked in, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hold the key. She and Chloe dumped their bags in the first room, making strained, cheerful small talk about hitting Chapel Street later. A pathetic pantomime. Then, clutching the second key and her overnight bag - containing the costume, the toys, her makeup - she crossed the cracked pavement and entered the other room.

The air was thick with the smell of cheap disinfectant and old cigarettes. She did not care. With frantic fingers, she undressed. The stockings first, meticulously straightening the seams. The red-soled stilettos that made her legs look endless. Then the piece de résistance: a black lace basque, the cups pre-emptively cut away to bare her nipples, a surprise she hoped would earn his approval. A tiny black thong, already damp. She examined herself in the fly-spotted mirror. She applied a slash of red lipstick, the only colour he allowed.

His final commands echoed in her skull as the time neared. She took her position in the centre of the worn floral carpet. Legs spread wide, wrists crossed at the small of her back, head bowed. A supplicant. Her heart was a wild animal trying to escape its cage. And then, the lock clicked.

Her senses exploded. The rich, smoky scent of his leather jacket. The clean, sharp bite of his cologne. The underlying, musky scent that was just him. She drank it in, her knees threatening to buckle.

She heard him move around the room, a predator surveying its territory. He deliberately unpacked his things, the rustle of a bag, the clink of something metallic placed on the dresser. The silence was a torture. He was ignoring her. A hot wave of shame washed over her. He is disgusted. He does not want you. The urge to grab her things and flee to the safety of Chloe’s room was almost overwhelming. But she held her position, a statue of fear and desire.

She saw his boots move a wooden chair, scraping it across the floor to place it directly in front of her. He approached. Stopped within inches. She could feel his gaze like a physical touch, scalding every inch of her exposed skin. He still had not spoken. The silence was maddening.

He began a slow, circling inspection. She felt the air move as he passed behind her. The fine hairs on her nape stood up. She felt his heat, then his breath, warm and moist on the back of her neck. A full-body tremor wracked her.

Then, a single calloused fingertip traced a line down her spine. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her. God, she wanted this stranger. His touch was a taunt, a promise of brutality. His finger slid lower, over the curve of her ass, pressing insistently against the tight ring of muscle beneath the flimsy lace. He leaned in, biting her earlobe, his voice a dark whisper that vibrated through her skull. "I'm gonna ruin this pretty cunt, baby. Gonna wreck this ass. Make you forget your fucking postcode."

His finger never left her skin as he circled to face her. It trailed up over her stomach, tracing the edge of the lace, then circled a hardened nipple, squeezing it viciously. She gasped as pain lanced through her, a direct line to her throbbing clit. Wetness soaked through the thin fabric of her thong. Both hands were on her breasts now, tugging, twisting, stretching the sensitive flesh. He leaned in, his teeth sinking into the soft skin of her neck. "Nice touch, slut. Wanted your nipples ready and waiting for me, didn't you?" Her voice, when she tried to answer, was a shattered thing. No answer was needed.

His tongue, hot and wet, slid down her neck, over her collarbone, lower. His hands gripped her hips as his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking it deep, then the other. She was panting, her cunt clenching around nothing, her clit a live wire. With no warning, he bit down, hard, on each peak. She screamed, the pain a bright, white-hot shock that seared straight to her core. He chuckled softly, the sound dark and approving.

His fingertip trailed down again, over her quivering stomach, through the damp thatch of hair, pushing the thong aside and plunging two fingers deep into her soaking heat. Her inner muscles clenched around him instantly. "Want me, baby?" he growled, his fingers sliding in and out, coated in her slickness. He laughed, a low, gravelly sound, and withdrew his fingers. She nearly sobbed at the loss.

His hands slid down her stockings, kneading her thighs, then moving up her inner thighs, pushing them wider apart. He crouched before her, and she saw the dark grey of his hair. He nudged her legs wider still, his hands gripping her ass as his tongue stabbed deep into her cunt. He moaned into her, the vibration making her cry out. Her hands flew to his shoulders for balance.

He pulled away, his voice cold and steady. "Trust me not to let you fall, pet. Hands behind your back. Now." The reprimand was a lash. She obeyed instantly, humiliation and arousal burning through her.

He rose, kissing and biting a path up her body, his hands cupping her aching breasts. Then one hand cupped her chin, forcing her head up.

Finally, she saw his face. It was harder, more weathered than his pictures, his eyes a fierce, stormy grey. They held no softness, only a predatory hunger. She stared into them, searching for the soul she thought she knew. His mouth crashed down on hers, his tongue claiming her, fucking her mouth with the same brutal promise he had whispered. His hand at the small of her back was her signal; her arms flew around his neck. He ground his hard cock against her through his jeans, and she shook apart in his arms.