The Stranger

Chapter 2 - Cassandra

By Friday afternoon, I could barely hold back my impatience for the week to end. The back-to-back meetings had been manageable, sure—I was used to those—but it was that strange note from earlier in the week that had left me unable to focus. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Or, more accurately, I couldn't stop thinking about him. Ever since he slipped me that note, he hadn't approached me, which only heightened my frustration. He'd smiled at me in that meeting, his voice smooth and assured as he'd asked if I was "coming," all while the vibrator he controlled hummed inside me, driving me mad.

But what if it hadn't been him?

I'd hated him on sight, especially when he started making sweeping changes that disrupted my work. We'd never even spoken, yet just his presence grated on me. It wasn't only his arrogance; he was attractive, though I'd tried to ignore it. He looked to be in his mid-to-late 30s, tall but not overly so—maybe 180 cm. Slim but toned beneath that perfectly tailored suit, with a natural tan, neatly trimmed facial hair, and those dimples. I hadn't realised just how good-looking he was until that one smile. But since then? Not a single approach, no acknowledgment. Maybe it hadn't been him, after all.

Since that day, the texts from the unknown number had stopped, and though I'd been tempted to reply, I resisted. I didn't like being told what to do, yet those messages—and that vibrator he controlled—had left me wanting to obey. I even tried putting it back inside myself, hoping that might draw him out again, but nothing happened. It wouldn't respond. I couldn't even turn it on; I had no control.

When five o'clock finally rolled around, I felt a rush of relief. I needed a drink. Usually, I'd head to the Four Seasons with Lisa, my one friend who got my work-driven life. But Lisa was in Madrid, leaving me alone. For a moment, I considered going home, but something about the idea of a quiet drink alone felt right. I needed that drink.

At the Amaranto bar in the Four Seasons, I slid onto a barstool and ordered an espresso martini. I reached for my purse when the bartender interrupted, "Your drink has already been paid for."

I blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. "Sorry, who paid for it?" I asked, glancing around. But the bartender just moved away without answering. Confused but intrigued, I took a sip.

Then my phone vibrated.

"You look amazing."

My heart skipped a beat as I read the message from the unknown number. My pulse quickened, excitement swirling with anticipation.

"Who are you?" I typed back, my fingers shaking slightly.

"Shhh. No talking."

A thrill shot through me, and I stared at the screen, feeling the tug of something both thrilling and unnerving.

Someone appeared at my left. I turned—and there he was. Mr. Dimples, the man who'd been haunting my thoughts all week. For a second, I thought to speak, but the look in his eyes stopped me, that silent command from earlier echoing in my mind.

"Shhh. No talking."

He held my gaze for what felt like an eternity, then turned and simply said, "Come." He walked away without another glance, expecting me to follow. I didn't know where he was leading me, and somehow, I didn't care. I trusted him, though I couldn't explain why.

Hypnotised, I followed him down the hallway to an elevator. He didn't glance back, but I felt his control over me like an invisible tether, pulling me in. Every detail of him—his perfectly styled brown hair, that navy suit, the crisp white shirt, his shoes that matched his belt—was flawless, magnetic. As he pressed the elevator button, I stole a glance, committing every detail to memory.

When the elevator doors chimed open, he turned to me, his voice low and commanding. "After you." I stepped inside, feeling my heart hammer in my chest. The doors closed, sealing us in a silence thick with anticipation. He moved closer, reaching past me to press the number nine, and I could feel his warmth, his scent filling the small space around me. My body reacted instantly, a surge of desire flooding me.

The elevator chimed again, and for a brief second, I shook myself from the trance. But only for a second. I followed him down the hallway to a suite. The room unfolded before me: a massive couch in the centre, floor-to-ceiling windows offering sweeping views of the city, bathed in the last light of evening. I stepped inside, taking in the luxurious space, my heart racing.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I turned to face him. His eyes swept over me, appraising, intense. He closed the distance between us, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Tonight, you belong to me," he said, his voice a mix of calm control and promise. "You will please me. I will use you, and in return, I will be yours. You'll address me as 'Sir.' You're free to leave whenever you want, and if you're uncomfortable, use the word 'red.' Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered, barely recognising the sound of my own voice.

"Good girl."

He lifted a finger, gently tracing it down my cheek, brushing my hair back behind my ear. The simple touch sent shivers through me. His finger continued down my neck, grazing my shoulder, and with the lightest pressure, he guided me to my knees. His smile deepened, satisfaction lighting his gaze.

"Show me your wrists," he instructed. I lifted my arms, holding my wrists together, silently offering them to him. He unbuckled his belt, slipping it off with a smooth motion and binding my wrists. I'd never done this before, but the loss of control felt unexpectedly liberating, as if surrendering to him was a release I'd craved without knowing.

He lifted me, his eyes gleaming with approval. I could feel my arousal building, my body reacting to his every move, my underwear already soaked. Moving behind me, I felt the brush of his jacket as he slipped it off, followed by the soft slide of his tie. His hands worked deftly, securing the tie over my eyes, and the world went dark.

Deprived of sight, my senses heightened. I could hear his quiet breaths, feel the heat of his body as he stepped closer. I shivered as his hands skimmed down my back, his fingers trailing along the curve of my hips to my thighs. He tapped my calves, silently instructing me to spread my legs, and I obeyed, bending forward slightly.

His hands moved up, caressing my inner thighs, inching closer, igniting a fire within me. Just as his touch reached my soaked panties, he paused, lingering over me, a feather-light pressure against my most sensitive spot.

Then, he stopped.

I heard him step back, felt the cool air in his absence. I stood there, aching, my body pulsing with need, every nerve in my body on fire. He was watching me—I could feel it. And that only made me want him more.