The Stranger I Know (Dark Romance)

Title Page

The Stranger I Know

First edition. January 13, 2015

Chapter 1 — Marcy

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Further Reading: Dark Exposure

Also By Amy Isan

About the Author

~*~*~

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

The Stranger I Know (Dark Romance)

Copyright © 2015 Amy Isan.

Written by Amy Isan.

Cover design by Kevin / www.kevindoesart.com/

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I
SBN-13:

978-1507650448

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I
SBN-10:

1507650442

***

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"A
h," I moan quietly, as he teases me with his fingers. Cold metal, dewy with sweat, touches my neck. The chain it's attached to clinks each time I twitch from his touch.

I expected this. I'm a prisoner of his, strapped to the hotel bed and face down. His hand gathers up my wrists and cinches them against the headboard. My face scratches up against the rough fabric on the bed, and I squeeze my eyes shut to focus on the sensation. He spanks me. Flames lick the inside of my legs. I hang my head and gaze at the sight of his knees planted between my legs. Muscular and carved from stone, his legs are just an example of the rest of his body.

He releases my wrists only to grab a fistful of my hair. He yanks my head back. I catch a glimmer of his eye. I can't see much, because I've never seen his face. He's wearing a mask, large enough to cover his face and leave his eyes exposed. The mask seems to be light enough that it never gets in the way...

And this is exactly how I wanted it. I didn't think that we'd still be meeting up at the same hotel after six months, but I never declined the invitation, and I never canceled. Most weeks, it was the only thing I had to look forward to.

"Master," I whisper, just tapping my tongue on my teeth as I breathe the last syllable between gasps.

"Yes?" he coos. His voice is tough as sun-beaten leather and every time I hear it I get chills up my spine. "What do you need?"

"More..." I beg him. He's been teasing me for what feels like hours now, and I can't handle it any more. He never goes on this long, but he seems to be taking special pleasure in watching me squirm tonight.

He pulls on my hair again and brings his face close to mine. I can smell whatever cologne lingers on his skin, and it has a kind of mint in it. At least, I don't think he'd put it on just to meet with a stranger. I drink the scent in and for a moment, feel myself lose my words. His breath curls out of his mask and around my face, warming my cheeks and neck in the chilled hotel room. "You know the rules, Eve, you have to be more specific."

I blink myself back into coherence and fix my gaze on his. He smiles, at least, there is a twinkle in his eye that is a dead give away. I'm sure it's a sinister one too. My jaw drops, and he takes his chance and slips another finger into me. I moan again and lose my idea.

"Your cock. I want it," I barely mumble out. My legs feel weak and my arms are heavy in the straps. They aren't enough to keep me up, so I have to push against them. "I can't..." I gasp. "Put up with this."

He nods and stands up. His hands are on my hips, and before I know it, he's flipped me onto my back. My arms twist at the elbows and push on each other, but I don't care. I stare down my body up at him and watch as he slides a condom on. I never even heard him tear the package open. I never do.

He slides his palm against my inner thigh and it feels like electricity arcing across my skin. He brings our hips closer together and dips his cock between my legs, before piercing me with it. I let go of the fists I've been making as the relief washes over me.

His eyes are on fire. He groans loudly as his cock reaches into me. I grind against his hips and feel the hard edge of his waist against me. His warm skin brushes my thighs with every stroke, and I wish I could reach out to touch him. He grabs my shoulders and uses them as leverage. He starts pulling me onto him, each time piercing me, and I feel like I'm going to faint. That is, if my arms don't dislocate first. The collar wrapped around my neck tugs against the chain looped around the frame of the bed. It goes taut and clinks together.

"Master!" I gasp between gulps of air. His arms and chest are red with energy and sweat, and he only goes faster as I cry out. He's unstoppable, and I've never been able to even wrap my head around how he can pound away at me so fast. No other man has even come close to making me cum as hard as he does. I'm star struck.

He grunts and tells me he's going to finish. I've always been on birth control, but he insists on the condoms anyway. At first, I thought he was just cynical, but I now appreciate how easy it is to clean up and leave. We both have lives outside this room. I don't have a husband or anything waiting for me, at least. I have no idea about him. And I like it that way.

His moans only turn me on more. My arms are pretzeled around each other and feel like they might snap from the force of his thrusting. He shudders as he climaxes. A barrier comes down when he does, a brief glimpse of the man beneath the mask. The man beneath those eyes. I let out a cry as I cum, too, always in unison. We've never missed that beat together, and it always makes me a little sentimental that we only do this once a week.

I couldn't have it any other way though, and I wouldn't. It would be too messy, too much of a pain. My work is more important. He withdraws and moves to the bathroom to freshen up. I lay limp, my arms still bound and my neck still held in the metal brace. I'm helpless for these few moments, and in some ways, they're the most arousing. When he steps out, he unlocks the brace from my neck and loosens the straps that bind my hands. I climb off the bed, gather up my clothes, and step in to the bathroom. I study myself in the mirror to make sure there isn't anything too obvious, like splashed cum or something. I don't know how that would happen, but I always look just in case. I gather my frizzy and messed up hair in a fist and pull it back before I lock it with a bobby pin or two.

Severe and distressed is the look I'm going for. It makes everyone take me a little more seriously. It helps since my legs and arms are weakened from how forceful he was. He usually goes a little lighter, but I'm not going to say a word. I needed it this week. Another company is being brought into the fold to discuss a merger, and with my recent promotion, it'll be something I'll have to deal with. I don't want to suck up to some prick from another corporation, but I don't have much choice.

If I want the big paycheck, I have to do the work for it.

As I step out of the bathroom, I click the door closed and look at the stranger. He's fully dressed again, in an ashen suit and tie and with his mask still on. I always arrive at the hotel second, so I have to leave first. Those are part of the rules we've developed.

To be honest, he developed the rules and forced me to adopt. I never minded.

Without so much as another word, I leave the hotel room and reach the elevator to return home. Work is over for the week, and I can try and relax for the weekend. The past can predict the future though, and I know I'll be getting calls and cries for conference meetings all weekend long, giving me almost no free time at all. The only free time I really get is between four and six on Friday night. When I'm with the Stranger.

I don't have to be myself when I'm with him. At least, I don't have to be what I'm expected to be at work. I can be a tool used for whatever he likes. If he wants me strung up from the ceiling and hanging by my wrists in searing chains, I'll do it. If it means he'll give me just a little tease, a little taste, a little something of himself to me. That's all I want.

And he finds a part of me I thought was lost in the chaos of the week. And he'll dig it free again next week. I can always count on that. I already know that work will unmake my weekend plans.

I have that much. And a six figure job. Both of those things help the same amount.

***

M
y car is parked in the hotel's garage. I come here so often, I've considered buying a parking pass to get in and out easier, but for some reason I can't bring myself to. It would leave a trail. I unlock the driver's door with the keypad on the handle and climb inside.

My purse is where I left it, propped up on the passenger seat. I brought it the first time I met with the stranger, and he scolded me for it. He insisted I leave it behind after that because it was too dangerous for us to learn who we are if we brought our personal things with us. At the time, I was frayed and a mess, but I agreed anyway. I'm glad I didn't back out and run away. Even though the thought of him being a murderer crossed my mind.

Alone without my identification, surely I'd be a goner if I followed his rules. But one time I noticed his wallet was never anywhere to be found. He informed me that he always arrived first so he could put it into the safe. I remember agreeing it was the best idea.

I pull out of the garage and head down main street to my apartment. I'm on the outskirts of the city, where the condos are a bit bigger, a bit cheaper, and much quieter. It's a pain in the ass to get into work sometimes, but at my position, it isn't really a huge deal if I'm ten minutes late. Besides the conferences and calls and meetings, I have free rein on what I do and when I do it.

The joke being that 80% of the job is all three of those wretched things, usually wrapped with a bow made of garbage. Sometimes I even get a bit of gift-wrap, but usually it's just the box.

I arrive back home and park my car in my garage. I'm glad I don't have to walk through the cold air, and having the car parked inside is that much safer from getting robbed.

Once I'm back inside my apartment, I flick on the heating and make sure it's set to a toasty level. With a sigh, I strip off my clothes. They're slightly damp with sweat, even though I took them all off before the Stranger and I had our little playtime. Regretfully, I know the quick shower I'll get to take will be the only other relaxing part of this week.

My fingers and toes still tingle as I twist the tap for the hot water and jump into the shower. That man seems to be getting better and better at making me squirm and shiver. I'm almost worried he'll become so good at reading me that he'll be able to read my social security number back to me from just touching my skin.

I laugh and a bit of water sprays into my eyes. Wiping it away, I gather up my hair and twist it into a knot, before slapping it on my shoulder. With it wrestled down, I take some shampoo and start kneading it into the strands. I fucking hate how wavy it is. It's always such a nuisance to deal with.

If I don't wrangle it into something controllable before work tomorrow, I'll lose that much amount of credibility. It's ridiculous, I know, but trust me. Having worked at Hollet-East for the last several years, I've learned how important presentation is.

I nearly lost a promotion because I had the audacity to wear something a little more comfortable for one day. My supervisor at the time pulled me aside, a woman named Susan, and warned me about my attire. It wasn't anything extraordinary, but since then I made sure to wear the most boyish and boring dress suits as possible. Only very rarely will I go so far to wear a long skirt. Other than that, I do my best to hide my cleavage and bra.

Pinning my hair back is just that extra step that keeps men from making passes at me or trying to squeeze my ass.

I shut the water off and let it drip off my body for a few seconds. The quiet is unsettling. I squeeze my hair with my hands and wring as much water out as possible, letting it fall in huge globs onto the shower tile, like falling leaves. Heavy, fallen leaves.

Judging from the hot air passing over my wet toes as I stare into the mirror, the apartment is the right temperature. My hands are splayed out on the counter, my knuckles whitened and fingers strained.

I look exhausted. The bags under my eyes reveal my workaholism. I pull the skin from my temple back and watch the forming crow's feet vanish. That must be the trick, huh? Noticing a red mark on my hip, I twist and see the imprint of a hand. I run my fingers along the edge, admiring how hard he must've spanked me to leave a bruise like that, but how lost I must've been to not know he did it.

I put on a light facial scrub before moving back downstairs to grab an ice pack from the freezer. I have to get the swelling down. I switch on the television for a few minutes, but nothing is on. I didn't expect anything to be on. It's late and work is early.