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.
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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 two hours ago. At the time she'd reasoned knowledge was power, and if there's one thing her parents 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 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 usual places, all the lights on full. If she'd been in her right mind the disorder would have driven her crazy. 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 almost two hours. She knew she'd be 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...
