Chapter 7: The Library Is Not for Sex Play Either

Author’s vanity note: Fun fact: this was originally the concept for Chapter 4 before Alice pushed her way into the plot. Would it be a better story with her or without her? I’m conflicted.

Tristan lay on his bed in the darkness. Silence covered his dorm room, a thick blanket trying to suffocate him. His brain fizzed restlessly, excited, sketching phantom shapes in the gloom of his ceiling. Anything to distract him; he was waiting for something which might never come. His roommate’s irritating snores were the only way he could mark the passage of time. In the past he’d found this normality reassuring, but now it was oppressive. He reached for his phone again and tore his hand back. For the hundredth time, he wrestled with his own impatience. It was just waiting for his guard to drop.

Why hadn’t Stacy responded? Maybe he’d made a mistake. She had asked him to meet her - at night! What sane man would pass that up, even if she just wanted her shoes shined? No - have confidence. Of course she would reply to him; this was part of the roleplay. She wanted to explore. He exercised patience. He had to, she wanted him to be in control. It wasn’t easy. After an age, his phone vibrated.

“Here is your bribe.” she sent.

Just that? That was weird. As if she’d heard his thoughts, another message arrived. This one was an image. He opened it quickly.

He squinted at the glare of his screen in the gloom. It was a picture of a woman, but only from below the neck. She was blessed with both a svelte figure and large ... assets. She was a vision in her stripy top and casual jeans. Her golden blonde hair was down, framing her neck and shoulders to perfection. The fingers of her right hand tugged her neckline down, flagrantly exposing her black push-up bra and ample cleavage to the viewer’s lusty gaze.

So Stacy had sent him a hot picture of a random woman. Tristan was confused - he felt she’d missed the point. Sure, the woman Stacy had shared was hot enough to be in his top ten. Was this the sort of woman Stacy thought was pretty, was that it? If so he wished that she’d included the face so he could find more of her work. She looked familiar; he’d probably seen her before, perhaps in a porno or a Hollywood movie?

Even though it sounded ridiculous for him to complain about a woman sending him dirty pictures of other women, this was a bit disappointing. It wasn’t quite enough to satisfy him as her Master. Yes, he liked the image, it was very much to his taste, but he had seen dozens like it on the internet, but ... Wait, that was odd. Wasn’t that outfit exactly what Stacy was wearing earlier today, when she’d kissed Alice in the hall?

It WAS her. His heart skipped a beat. He looked at it as if seeing the photograph for the first time. His eyes widened, drinking in every photon they could. His cock throbbed painfully beneath the sheets. Calm yourself, Tristan. Take a deep breath. Another. She is expecting a specific style of response from you. You know that personality, the one you’ve been trying to hide for years? Remove its shackles, let it run free. Don’t fuck this up. Take another look. Examine her photo for ... clues. Stop that! Look for clues, pervert.

“This could be anyone.” he sent.

“I’m not showing my face! Your phone might get hacked. Think of something else.” Her response was immediate.

Interesting, she wasn’t worried about him leaking this picture. Not that he would, but she couldn’t know that. For some reason, she clearly trusted him. Of course he’d keep her safe, but how did she know that?

“Show me your ti...” what would that prove, you idiot virgin?! He deleted it, reluctantly. He couldn’t ask for that, not yet. She had to do that herself. Tristan knew this whole submission thing was about her, not him. He was just the conductor, she was the orchestra, she had her own sheet music. He merely directed pace and volume, but got all the credit. “Write your name on your hand.” he typed out. Send.

She replied very quickly. Just two minutes passed this time.

“There. This is what you asked for. Are you on your way now?”

He didn’t even have to open it. He’d already known it was her, that was obvious. No, asking for proof of identity was more about reestablishing their positions. Even Stacy knew that. Of course she knew that.

Okay, he didn’t have to open it but he would of course. He wasn’t made of stone and Stacy was fucking gorgeous. This image was at a slightly lower angle - just her torso this time. In the background he could see her top stretching over her rounded bosom. Nice. In the foreground were both of her hands. Stacy’s first hand had the middle finger extended, a carefully-manicured fingernail reflecting light from its burnished burgundy surface. Cute. She’d need to be punished for that.

Stacy’s other hand had all fingers extended, her palm facing the camera. There was a large formless scribble which dominated the center of her palm, with some smaller writing underneath, at an angle. The small letters said “Stacy”. Her name was artless, as if it were done in a hurry. She must have spent most of those two minutes trying to obscure that bigger, hidden word. What did it say?

A stray thought gripped him and wouldn’t let go. This was something she both wanted him to know, but didn’t. This was the key to understanding what she wanted, not just now but overall. People might say he was reading into things, but he’d watched too many detective shows to be dissuaded.

He looked closely. He zoomed into the screen. He noted that his fingers looked like they were stroking her breasts. He snickered. He was such a virgin. Lucky Stacy wasn’t here to see that. Focus, loser, he told himself.

“What the hell?” He muttered after several minutes’ investigation.

It didn’t make sense. The issue wasn’t that it wasn’t legible - no, with a little effort he could pick out the letters under the scribbles. People were useless at making things illegible, and humans were excellent at finding patterns. The confusing thing is what she’d scribbled out was just her name again. ‘S’, ‘T’, ‘A’ and the last one was an ‘E’.

Had he riled her up so much she’d forgotten how to spell her own name? Why had she bothered camouflaging it? Was that it, she was just embarrassed? No, something told him that didn’t quite fit. If he squinted, it looked like there was maybe a fifth letter, between the A and E. Was that a V? S-T-A-V-E? What, like a stick, a big piece of wood? No, with those lines through it that T could also be an I, or an L, so ... S-L-A-V...

The realization smacked him right between the eyes. He leapt to his feet.

“Fucking hell!” Tristan exclaimed loudly.

“Fuck off, asshole!” Hank shouted, sitting up. “Let me sleep!”

Tristan frantically pulled on his clothes while writing a message. Now he knew what she wanted, he couldn’t get there soon enough. As soon as he physically could, Tristan left his dorm room, ran outside and...

Wait, wait, wait. He was forgetting something. Something else was needed. Hadn’t she called him an asshole? And given him the middle finger? That couldn’t go unanswered. That would be fatal to the game, would give her carte blanche. It would be out of character, no matter what she’d written. Especially with what she’d written. Despite the fact she’d crossed it out, Stacy clearly wanted to play a specific part in this opera.

His slave.

Stacy sighed, slumping down onto her pillow. She should never have done that research. She knew far more about that BDSM stuff now than she had done several hours ago. At the time she’d reasoned knowledge was power, and if there’s one thing that being part of her weird family had drilled into her, it was that power was king. So did her research, on and off, with some ... breaks. For, erm ... comfort. Some of it was horrifying. Other parts were confusing. And the final category was ... ermmm ... distracting ... yeah ... and now ... well, now she had a much better idea what she wanted, she couldn’t even look herself in the eye anymore. Regretfully, she now knew what the path she was on looked like, and it almost broke her. Mentally, that is. Physically, it’d been the most eye-opening experience of her life since the first time Tristan had bound her.

Luckily she didn’t have a roommate. Her normally immaculate room at the sorority was a mess, clothes strewn around, her things out of their places, all the lights on full. If she’d been in her right mind the disorder would have driven her insane. It looked like the place had been burgled. There was a strong smell in the air - but that was to be expected, she’d been masturbating on and off for hours. She knew she’d be so sore in the morning, but for now her pussy ached, yearning for more, despite her best efforts to quell her burning lust.

“You can shut the fuck up, you got us into this mess.” she said to it.

Now Tristan had her talking to herself like a lunatic. Just look at this place. Look at her. Her hair looked like it didn’t even know what a comb was and everything from her waist down was ruined. Wasn’t she supposed to be the smartest girl - sorry, woman - on campus? A genius? Sending pictures of herself flashing her bra to a random poindexter didn’t exactly exemplify that appellation. Not to mention frenching a random woman in the hallway. Or the fumbling in cupboards and restrooms.

Writing the ... word she’d first written on her palm was the opposite of all she thought she was, what everyone in her life expected her to stand for. The letters burned her, penetrated into her soul. Despite scribbling them out they were visible to her through all the layers of obfuscating ink. She could even see it through her flesh when she turned it away. She could see it through her body right now, as she lay on her hand, trying to hide it away.

She’d written it. She’d branded herself. Of course the pen would come off, but she would never be the same, could never take that back.

She sank back into the sea of humiliation she’d been trying to keep at bay. Her thighs were soaked in her arousal, her skirt, even her bed too. Her towel sat forgotten at her side. She’d given up on that half an hour ago. Maybe another round would...

Her phone chimed and she snatched it up, hating how eager she was. Feeling ashamed at how her heart leapt.

“Acceptable.” he’d written pompously.

Of course it was! Stacy wanted to scream at him. She couldn’t even count the number of times her previous partners had tried to coerce, beg, or outright force that type of dirty photo from her. She had sent it to Tristan because he hadn’t asked for it - or more accurately because he’d let her choose. Because he was her Mas ... Umm...

Anyway, if this photo got out it would ruin her! She wasn’t stupid enough to think people wouldn’t link it back to her. Sure, her face wasn’t in it so she could plausibly deny it, but ... Well, it was safe with Tristan. She knew that.

Her conscience stirred. She’d had that expedient boyfriend who satisfied her criteria, Ralph. No, Brian ... Ryan. It didn’t matter, Stacy explained to herself. They were on a break - she’d had to explain that to him three times in the end. Anyway, she wasn’t going to have sex with Mast ... Tristan. So as they weren’t going to have sex, and as neither of them were emotionally entangled with one another, she wasn’t cheating, not really. Her conscience reared up, incredulous, and she tried to smother it with her lust. Stubbornly it resisted, trying to speak, to guide her. So she tried reason. Logic had always worked for her.

It’s undeniable her situation - the equation - had changed. Right? Undeniable. So she’d have to solve that. Right? Right, plus it had to be in a way which fit with her plans. That would be undeniably complex, particularly as her future plans had become somewhat more hazy lately. She had no chance of deriving the correct answer, she needed a calm mind. Her ... efforts to calm herself had failed, so she needed a hand from her Maste ... she needed someone’s help. Fair? Her conscience settled, quiescent, for now.

Her phone vibrated in her hands.

“But...” he’d sent.

But what? WHAT?!

“You didn’t learn your lesson.” a new message appeared.

She almost launched her phone back at the wall as her rage flared, incandescent in its intensity. How dare he! After what she’d just done! How...

“I will not tolerate rudeness.” she read, her mind conjuring his voice as if it were right beside her.

She shivered at the sound of him. It was both erotic and commanding. A part of her mind relaxed, as if this is what it had been waiting for. Angry? Had she ever been angry?

“I won’t...” she started, and deleted it. “Haven’t I given...” No, that wasn’t right either. “Come and I’ll fuck...” No, Tristan wouldn’t like that, it was too blatant, too crass, beneath him somehow. It would have worked on any guy on campus. If she was honest with herself she knew that sex would probably also work on Tristan, but she didn’t even want to try. He was more difficult to manipulate. She NEEDED him to be more difficult to manipulate - whoa, she wasn’t going to examine THAT feeling too closely, lest she find out something about herself she wasn’t quite ready for.

“I’m sorry” That was okay. It wasn’t perfect, though. Deleted - come on Stacy. You’ve got this. What should she write? Why was she taking so long to decide? Well ... why not take a leaf from his book and show him how it felt, that horrible uncertainty. She copied her earlier message and pasted it. “F-I-N-E. What do you want?” Send. She smiled with smug satisfaction. It was poetic. She revelled in the feeling.

Tristan’s answer was immediate, as if he’d already written it. It wiped the smile from her face.

“Make it worth my while.” he’d sent, again.

It was that same - FUCKING - message! She threw her phone - gently, it was still useful to her - off the bed. It fell onto the floor. To her shame, she didn’t even let it rest for half a second before she lunged after it.

Her body half on her bed, half on the carpet, she started typing furiously. “You ASSHOL...” This time her anger dissipated before she’d even managed to finish typing. Delete that, you know what he’s going to say. He won’t take it well. She had to behave. He was infuriating.

“...” she wrote, and sent it. He could parse that while she decided what to do.

Obviously it was going to be a picture. Men were visual animals - emphasis on the animals - hungry for glimpses of meat. Besides, she couldn’t risk sending him her voice, that was too recognizable should he lose his phone. Tristan would know that any promise she’d make she could just deny when she got what she wanted. It had to be something tangible but deniable. That’s why she’d settled on a picture the first time. It was the right choice; she knew the value of her body.

Was she even the kind of girl to send a naughty selfie to a guy? She already knew the answer to that. The ship had sailed a few short minutes ago. So now she’d established what sort of woman she was. She felt a rush of shame, but pushed through it. Right. She needed to send him a picture, another one. One to apologize for being rude. Anything below her waist was out of the question, it was a swamp down there right now, just - icky. Her - her breasts? No...

Wait - why did Stacy want to do this at all? Don’t go there, she told herself. She couldn’t bear to examine her motivations for behaving this way, she already knew she wouldn’t be able to survive the answers. Not yet. Simply, there was something she wanted. That was enough to justify all of this without looking deeper, without opening Pandora’s box. What did she want? To meet Tristan on neutral ground. Why? To discuss their ‘sessions’, to continue them, to set up a framework. To make them fit in her life, otherwise they were liable to destroy it. As if it was someone else, she’d looked at her behavior, extrapolated the impact. As she did with everything, she turned it into a scenario. Actors, input, output, impact. So she found the optimal solution; define a framework. Perhaps Master could instruct her.

Um - that - that last thought wasn’t meant to happen. Stacy had finally called him Master, in her head. She shivered. Her heartrate leapt. The sea of shame became a whirlpool, sucking her under. She shook her head furiously, trying to erase her short-term memory, overwrite the words. She had meant to think that she and TRISTAN would BOTH agree a mutually acceptable framework together. A framework for tying her up and making her cum her brains out. Argh - that track wasn’t helpful either. She needed to think of something else.

She was procrastinating. Now she’d done her research, Stacy knew about the type of stuff her Master liked. She knew there was one easy option, a single way she could incontrovertibly make it worth his while. And it wasn’t more nudity. This would be riskier than simply sending him a picture of her bare tits. With this idea, she would be far more exposed. Stacy started right away. First, she touched up her makeup - something which took far more time than those simple words would imply.

Then she went into her closet, retrieved an old black leather belt and a pair of scissors. She wrapped it around her neck, testing to see if it would fit. She had something that could poke a hole through the leather right there. She unwrapped it before the unintelligible swell of emotion in her chest could break her concentration. She dug out some charm jewelry, and she got to work - trying hard to avoid thinking too much about what she was doing.

Tristan shivered in a random doorway halfway to the campus library. It was a cold night out here. The same trees and flowers from earlier had taken on a harder, more forbidding aspect.

“...” Stacy had sent. Was he asking for too much? No - she’d started today’s game - she knew his rules. In this conversation he was merely her foil.

He continued walking slowly to the library, stopping to check his cellphone every few steps. He was almost chilled to the bone when he finally arrived.

His phone vibrated. A call?

“Hi son.” his father’s voice drawled over the speaker. “How’s my big college man doing? Are you self-actualizing?”

There was a commotion in the background, the smash of crockery. Tristan had to hold his cell away from his ear it was so loud.

“Oh, is that little tree? Why didn’t you warn me, you silly man? You knew I was missing him.” her voice came closer. “Little tree! It’s momma! Do you miss me? Did you meet your soulmate yet?”

“Hey mom, hey dad.” Tristan sighed.

“Uh-oh! You sighed, are you okay? You know you can talk to us about anything disturbing your inner peace.” his father assured him.

Fuck, that’s all he needed. Besides which his freewheeling parents would never understand his ... proclivities.

“Is it girl trouble? Boy trouble? Both? Another gender?” his mother jabbered, barely pausing. “Little tree, was it you? Is your heart chakra blocked again? Wait, you are keeping up with your meditation, right?”

“It’s not always about sex! Honey, you’re as randy as a stoat! Champ, you still there? Look, whatever it is, you can only do what you can do. Whatever it is, son, if it’s tough it’s okay to give up.” his father said. “Whatever helps empower you to be your most authentic self. Find your light.”

“Oh, but if you got someone pregnant” mom blurted, “Then remember you should offer to marry her. But it’s her choice, not yours, right little tree?”

“No-one’s pregnant.” Tristan said, already feeling a pain building between his eyes.

“Great,” his dad sighed in relief, “because we’re calling to let you know...”

“Your daddy got swindled again, little tree!” mom wailed, interrupting him. “Those tricksters!”

“Shush you mad old woman!” his dad hissed at her, getting distracted. “Yeah, baby, I called you old. Really? I’d like to see you go that long without sex. I can do it. You can’t. Did you forget...”

His voice faded away into the background as they bickered. Would it kill them to plan what they were going to say? Come on, guys. Do the whole comedy routine later. Tristan was expecting a text from Stacy any moment now!

“Unhand me you horny...” his father’s voice said in mock sternness as he approached the microphone. “Look, Tristan, I’ve got to go, your mom’s in a ... mood.”

“Sure, dad. Speak with you guys later.” Tristan shook his head, trying to clear it of their nonsense.

“No, wait! I called to say we’re running a little low on the old cashish. Barer than a pregnant stripper’s g-string. So, er ... you know...”

“Yeah, I’ll help out if I can. But if you’re worrying about me then don’t - I’ll be fine, dad.” Tristan said, resigned to his fate.

He wouldn’t be fine, especially now Alice had crushed most of his inventory. It would be tuna and noodles, forever. Maybe he could get by on just one of the two? Or a loan? No - he refused to get into the same situation as his parents.

“Thanks son. You’re awesome.” his dad said, relieved. “I’ve still got some pride though - you keep your ill-gotten dollars for you. Your foxy momma and I will get by. Remember to live your truth.”

Tristan heard amorous kissing sounds over the speaker before the call cut off.

He put his cell phone back in his pocket, filled with a familiar mix of familial love and impotent frustration, a hallmark of dealing with his parents. Belatedly, Tristan remembered what he was out here for in the first place, fished out his phone and re-checked his messages. Damn - he’d received a message during that call! How long had he kept Stacy waiting? Stop thinking about that, idiot, just read! He opened the message as rapidly as he could. Oh - another image?

Stacy had photographed her neck. She wearing something; her slender white neck was desecrated by glossy black leather. It looked like a choker, one with a pendant attached. On her it was somehow profane, erotic, titillating. Tristan’s mouth fell open. His cock surged back to full hardness. That was ... what had she done to herself? Words couldn’t express how much he loved this gift. This was far beyond anything he’d expected.

If he tilted his head, it kind-of looked like a dog collar. There was something makeshift, hurried, stuck onto the dangling silver like an afterthought. A little piece of paper held on by basic cellulose tape. Her owner’s name. It said “Tristan”.

Tristan felt his body heat up, his spine straighten. Nothing could stop him. The night felt warmer, the moon providing ample lighting, chasing away the creeping demons, unmasking them as mere pretenders. This night was his. The midnight shadows were his cloak, the stars his options, stretching out infinitely. His doubts vanished, perhaps gone forever.

His reply was never in doubt.

“Wear it. Come now.”

He ran off to meet her.

Stacy stepped out into the cool night air, freshly showered, feeling like a hundred eyes were on her. She took a step backward but felt the door shut behind her with a magnetic click. Cutting off the way back to her normal life.

Little fingers of frigid air crept up inside her long coat and through her damp hair, as if exploring her body. Of course it was the coat from the restaurant, she couldn’t help being a little bit sentimental. Cinching her belt tighter, she took a step into the open. Her collar was a reassuring yet constraining presence around her neck. That was a weird feeling.

The campus grounds were well lit, but darkness contained many predators. She knew how to defend herself, but there was always that threat, at night. She clenched her fist. Luckily there were still groups of people milling around. There was always someone about on the campus grounds. Look, right there was a boisterous group of people, their friend creeping up on them from behind and causing them to shriek and run about. Some guy chatting with a girl - boy she looked pissed off. Stacy caught the girl’s eye and cocked her head, sending her a wordless offer of assistance. The girl shook her head minutely in response; she was fine. Stacy didn’t envy the guy his groveling. She smiled, remembering the many times she’d been on the receiving end of those pleas. Tonight would be something very different for Stacy.

Running toward her was a tall slim man, looking a bit shellshocked, in an awful hurry. He looked kind of familiar. Recognition struck.

“What are you doing here?” Stacy hissed at Tristan. “You’re supposed to be at the library!”

He stopped a few feet away, panting, undignified. Typical. His hair was a mess, as always. His wide shoulders heaved, those hands she liked so much on his knees. He really did have nice legs, she thought to herself. He’d clearly thrown on the first t-shirt he’d seen - a nice simple black one which complimented his slim physique - and his shoes were on the wrong feet, but ... he had been hurrying to meet her. She felt a warmth shining in her heart and a smile crept onto her lips.

“I-I came to collect my property.” he said briefly.

He drew himself up to his full height, his eyes looking through her, daring her to contradict him. Arousal warred with insult inside her.

“I - I’m not your property!” she exclaimed, scandalized.

“Are you wearing your collar?” he asked.

His question was devastating, cutting through her, laying her bare. How could he bring it up like that? Of ... of course she was. She felt her cheeks almost sizzling as they heated. She hung her head.

“Just take it off and you’ll be your own woman again.” he offered.

She looked up at him, eyes blazing.

“We agreed you wouldn’t offer to stop anymore. I trust you. You’re Mr Nice Guy...” Stacy said, trailing off at the end.

His hard, glittering eyes reaped her defiance, slicing it to chaff.

“I believe you begged me to stop offering you a way out, slave.” his tone was glacial. “I don’t remember agreeing. Now, tell me why I’m here.”

Stacy tried to speak but couldn’t form her thoughts into a coherent sentence. How could she? She barely understood why herself, even after agonizing over this all she had were a flood of emotions. How could she properly convey the fact that after their ... meetings, she was feeling the least stress she had in years? Like she’d taken a weight off her back, relieved a pain on her temples she hadn’t even known was there. She couldn’t even contemplate giving that up. Besides, it wouldn’t be efficient. Maybe she should explain that for days after their dalliance in the restaurant, she hadn’t needed any chemical help to sleep, focus or settle her stomach?

Stacy couldn’t deny it had helped her. She wanted - no, needed - to be tied up. She shouldn’t want it. She didn’t know why it worked, but that didn’t matter. She was a pragmatist. Her conclusion was pure logic. She’d asked her ex, the person who should have done the job, and it had been a disaster. Something about the way Master did it had infected her, his mix of tentative and confident, caring and cruel. And he could keep a secret. She was still terrified Ryan would blab. It would be catastrophic for the respect people had for her. It would cut the intricate tapestry she was trying to weave, slice the bottom out of her hopes for meeting her parents’ expectations. For a smile or kind word from them.

That was why. Did you get that, Tristan?

“So you want me to guess. Fine. Let’s get to the library and I’ll show you Mr Nice Guy.”

He marched off without waiting for her response. Stacy trotted behind him.

“Yes.” she said, breathlessly.

He stopped, turned and stared at her. Stacy grabbed his hand, trying to pull him along the path, but he wouldn’t budge. He just looked at her expectantly.

Fuck, he wanted her to say it. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t ... But she already had, if only in her head. What was the difference? The point in resisting? Her collar subtly hugged her, new and different, making itself known with every breath. A mark of submission, of freedom to simply feel. She knew what she’d say. He knew it too. Why delay it?

“Yes ... Master.” she said, so quietly she barely heard it herself.

Her knees weakened as shame tried to sweep her away. She’d told him. She’d actually called him Master out loud. She’d barely even admitted it to herself, and now he already knew...

Tristan, attentive as always, caught her, propped her up. Put her arm around his shoulder until she could walk under her own power. He was beaming a megawatt smile, his satisfaction obvious. Strong when she was weak. Asshole. This couldn’t be happening. She had completely exposed herself to him. In a daze, she allowed him to lead her though the quad to the library. She just meekly followed his back, still reeling as they reached the building. Absentmindedly she scanned her pass, and security let her through. The musty smell of books and dust barely registered. They descended some stairs, went through a couple of rooms of books and ended up in a part of the library that seemed even quieter than the rest.

Finally they stopped. What she saw of the floor was clean, but it smelled disused, alien, like the place had barely seen a human in months. Racks of the cheapest metal bookshelves she could imagine stretched to the edge of the room over a hundred feet away. There was an abnormal hush in the air, like a blanket lay over everything, muffling it. The place drank in sound. Their footsteps and breathing sounded odd.