Stroll

Rose was in a hurry.

And so it made no sense for her to stop. Okay, so maybe she wasn't desperately keen to get to Ancient Mesopotamia 101. Maybe she'd been strolling across campus, instead of taking the more rushed gait she needed to get to her next class in time.

But the fact remained: it made no sense for her to stop.

And yet, when the strange man had made eye-contact, her feet had suddenly become rooted to the spot. She wanted to get to her class...okay, no, she didn't want to, but she knew that she should want to get to her class.

One thing was certain: she didn't want to be standing in the middle of campus, staring at a total stranger.

He looked like he was in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Far too old for her - Rose was just twenty years old, about to turn twenty-one. She couldn't even drink, a fact that she found ridiculous; she was on exchange from the United Kingdom, where she'd been able to order alcohol for more than four years now. One plane trip later, drinking alcohol was suddenly illegal for her. Nonsense.

Why is he staring at me? Rose asked herself. Sure, men would typically hit on her once they heard her strong Scottish accent, but she hadn't even met the man, let alone had a chance to show off her thick burr.

Not that she would ever show off. Rose, for all her courage in moving to a foreign country to study, was deathly shy.

That's probably why I can't move, she justified to herself. It was true - since the man had made eye-contact, the idea of breaking his gaze, moving her legs...they weren't options. Like eating the sun, or juggling mountains - it wasn't a case of wanting or not wanting to.

It was simply impossible.

It could be...my looks, Rose admitted, an hint of self-awareness managing to break through her thick layers of modesty.

Rose's Scottish heritage showed in her hair - she had red hair which she kept long and wore loose. As she stood, uncontrollably staring at the stranger across the campus, it was draped across her shoulders. A few strands had fallen across her face, but she never moved them. They made her feel safe, almost...hidden. Like a tiny barrier, protecting her from the big bad world.

Rose stood at just under five feet - average, but she tended to come across as short. No, not short: they normally called her "tiny". Weighing less than 100 pounds, men felt - not inaccurately - like they could throw her over their shoulder and run away with her.

Not that anyone ever had, of course. A blush began to spread over Rose's face at the thought.

Rose, despite all the flirting she found herself on the receiving end of, was a virgin. Not for moral or religious reasons; the right situation had simply never come up.

As her friends had begun sleeping with their first boyfriends, and then their second, third, fourth...Rose had realized that she'd fallen behind somehow. The worst part was that because of her looks, everyone assumed she'd been seduced years ago, and now when things began progressing in a hopeful direction with boys, Rose would freak out about how to tell them.

Ultimately, it became easier not to tell them, and hope that the relationship ended some other way. And, of course, once you're looking for a reason to end courting, one always presents itself...

It was a vicious cycle. She knew that, but being aware that you're trapped doesn't make one any less trapped, and Rose wasn't sure how to get out of it.

The stranger raised one eyebrow, almost as if he was aware of what she was thinking about. But no, that didn't make any sense - how could he know that she was a virgin, that she was desperately seeking a situation that would mean getting her oh-so-important "first time" out of the way?

The corner of the strange man's lip twitched, and Rose's blush deepened.

Maybe...maybe he could be her first time.

He was too old for her, that much was obvious. She'd always imagined her first lover being her age, maybe a year or two older. This guy looked like a player. He'd make her feel embarrassed, like she didn't know what she was doing.

But...maybe he'd tell her what to do.

Rose's heart began racing with embarrassment. She was standing in the middle of a crowded campus, staring intensely at a strange man, picturing him in the bedroom, ordering her around.

Dominating her.

A chill ran up her spine. Now that was a thought.

Rose hadn't spent much time thinking about her kinks. She hadn't even questioned if she had any. When you're not getting laid at all, going into the specifics can seem like a waste of time. But a few times a week when she played with herself, she had to admit - it was thoughts of dominant men that filled her head.

Strong, attractive, self-assured men. Men who knew exactly what they wanted from her lithe body, and weren't afraid of making their desires clear.

Men who would tie her down, command her.

A man who she could call Master.

The unblinking stranger looked like a Master.

Rose wanted to shake her head to clear it of that strange thought, but she couldn't. She couldn't move a single muscle, not if it risked breaking eye-contact with the strange man.

She hadn't even spoken to him, and already he was controlling her. Things wouldn't change when they moved into the bedroom - he would control every part of her. He'd tell her what he liked, what to do, what to wear.

He'd order her to take his thickness in his mouth, swallow it down until she couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but think about how good he tasted, how good he felt against her soft tongue.

She'd never even given head before - truth be told, she hadn't really understood the appeal. Now, for some reason, imagining swallowing down the thick man's cock, she got it. It was an act of devotion, of worship.

It was a selfless act, one that properly announced her status. It told her lover that she cared about his pleasure...no, more than that. It was an act that told him that she existed for his pleasure. Her role in the bedroom was to get him off, and what showed that better than sucking his cock?

Her mouth. His pleasure. Her servitude.

His cock.

A shiver ran down Rose's spine at the thought. What on earth was wrong with her? She should be getting to class, not standing in the middle of a crowd, staring at a man she'd never met, imagining deviant acts that she'd never performed.

By now, she realized, people must be staring. She'd lost track of how long they'd been staring at each other. With no way to check the time, she had to guess it had been fifteen minutes, maybe more.

Fifteen minutes. A young woman stops in the middle of the path and doesn't move, keeping eye-contract with a man ten years older than her for fifteen minutes.

Yeah, people should definitely be staring.

But from what she could tell with her peripheral vision, no one was. That was weird, but she immediately noticed something even stranger - no one was crossing between them. No one was walking between her and the dark-haired stranger, no one was interrupting the eye-contact.

In fact, more than that - people were actively avoiding it. When people got close to walking between them, close to stopping the strange man from staring into her light blue eyes for even a second, they'd abruptly stop. They'd stop, turn ninety degrees, and go around them.

A tall blond student, a professor that Rose was vaguely familiar with, a guy she'd seen her room-mate Alison flirting with...they all did the same thing. As they approached the pair, they'd stop and carefully circumnavigate them.

Strangest of all, none of them even seemed to notice.

Suddenly, Rose's actions didn't seem so strange. At least she'd noticed she was acting oddly. At first she'd justified it - reluctance to go to class, shyness - but now, she knew that something was wrong.

Again, the strange man's lip curl slightly, the moment she had her thought.

He knew.

Rose didn't know how, but he could tell what she was thinking. He'd been the one to stop her, he was the one making people walk around them, and he could read her thoughts.

He had total control of her body.

Why did that thought make her so wet?

Rose had been trying not to think about it, but she knew it was true. Ever since she'd started imagining going to bed with the older man, her pussy had been pulsing - by now her panties were almost certainly soaked, and she wondered if her tights were wet as well.

If they were, no one would be able to see (she hoped) - she was wearing a denim skirt over them, and a white tank top with a black jacket over it. The top showed more cleavage than she typically presented while walking around campus, but she'd been feeling adventurous.

Perhaps that was why the strange man had picked her from the crowd. Because he could have had anyone, of that she was sure. He'd managed to stop her, and ensure that dozens - if not hundreds - of others hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary as they stood there, eyes locked.

He could do anything.

He could do anything to anyone, and he'd picked her.

An involuntary moan escaped Rose's lips. Her, the girl who'd dated two dozen guys and never managed to get laid. Her, the shy immigrant who needed a special bra just to create the illusion of cleavage.

Maybe these feelings had been implanted, maybe they were completely genuine. Either way, Rose felt more turned on than she'd ever felt, and with no way to tell whether she was genuinely aroused or artificially wetter than she'd ever been, she decided to go for it.

Rose raised her eyebrows at the strange man, silently asking permission. Again, that slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, followed by a tiny - almost imperceptible nod.

Suddenly, almost to her regret, Rose felt the invisible chains lifting. She could run - he wouldn't chase her (not that he'd need to) and he wouldn't stop her, of that she was sure.

But she didn't want to run. She'd found her man.

She'd found her Master.

Slowly, she took a step towards him. It had been half an hour, tops, since she'd stopped moving...but somehow, it felt like she was walking for the first time.

Perhaps because, for the first time, she was walking with a true purpose.

He was only ten strides away, but it felt like an eternity. Rose was suddenly aware of time, in a way that she hadn't been when they'd been frozen, when they'd been learning about each other...or, more accurately, when he'd been learning about her.

As she walked, Rose learned that she hadn't been underestimating how wet she'd gotten. The thought of her own wetness made her remember what she'd been thinking about to get so wet, and the thought of the strange man's muscular form holding her down and taking her however he liked caused another wave of pleasure to pass through her body.

Her wetness was for him. Everything was for him. Her body, her mind, her soul.

Her life was for him.

Finally, she reached him. He tilted his head to the side slightly, not giving the orders Rose so desperately craved, but instead waiting to see what she did of her own accord. Rose hesitated, but only for a second - her pause caused a hint of disappointment to appear on his face, and she never wanted to disappoint him.

She wanted to please him.

Without breaking eye contact, Rose fell to her knees, staring at him. Her white, lightly-freckled face was framed by her dark red hair, and in the middle of it all were her startlingly blue eyes, staring at him.

She was his, now and forever. And as she tremblingly began to unbuckle his pants, Rose was determined to show him how much pleasure his newest possession was capable of giving.

# # #

Alison looked up with a smile as her room-mate entered the small dorm that they shared.

"Heya Rose," she said, noting the girl's ruffled clothes and messy hair. "Man, Ancient Greece 101 must have been a good time."

The two of them got along well; better than either had expected, considering that they'd been assigned randomly. Alison was much more confident than the shy Scottish girl - she was from California, and so had been able to help her exchange student with the culture shock.

There weren't many places around Los Angeles that had black pudding, but Alison had managed to find one, and the look of happiness on Rose's face had only been matched by Alison's look of disgust when the redhead had offered her a bite.

Since then, their friendship had been rock-solid. Alison would ensure that Rose occasionally stopped studying and met people; Rose would find somewhere to be when Alison brought a boy home.

And Alison would good-naturedly tease the shy girl whenever possible.

After learning that Rose was studying about Mesopotamia, Alison had deliberately referred to her course by every other ancient civilization she knew. Rose would grinningly correct her every time, and the two of them would share a laugh.

It was a simple joke, but it amused both of them well enough.

Today, however, Rose didn't react.

Alison raised one eyebrow. "You okay, girl?"

Rose just stared at her, looking slightly dazed. Suddenly, her dormie's rumpled clothing and messed-up hair had a different, much darker explanation.

Why had she made that stupid joke?

"Oh my god, Rose. Rose, are you okay?"

When Rose didn't answer, Alison was at a loss as to what to do. She wanted to draw the tiny redhead close and hug her, but also didn't want to inflict even more unwanted personal contact on her friend.

"Hmmm?"

"Rose, who was it?"

"Who was what?"

Alison hesitated. Rose seemed to be genuinely confused by the question. Maybe she'd gotten the wrong end of the stick somehow.

"...where have you been, girlfriend?"

"I just..."

Rose trailed off, staring into space with a smile on her face.

"Rose?"

"I just had the most wonderful experience. Can I show you?"

"Of course," Alison replied immediately, confused. "Just let me get my jacket."

"You won't need it," Rose said dreamily, and Alison decided to trust her friend's instincts. Whatever she'd just been through, it had apparently blown her mind, and Alison was curious to experience whatever the heck it was.

Rose marched uncharacteristically a few steps in front of Alison, dragging the taller blonde by the arm.

It was an odd sight, and a few people stopped to check it out. It was snowing...well, as close as L.A. got to snow, and Alison immediately regretted her decision not to put on another layer.

Not just for the warmth.

Alison stood half a foot taller than Rose. She had an athletic build, except for the pair of C-cups that sat pertly on her chest. As Rose determinedly pulled her through the crowd, her breasts (which attracted attention at the best of her times) bounced uncontrollably, and several male students - and one professor - stopped to smile at the sight.

The blonde's eyes sparkled with a mix of emotions - annoyance at Rose's lack of forethought, indignation at the unwanted attention, and (if she was being honest with herself) pride that her figure was enough to make people halt as the pair passed them by.

"Rose," she said through gritted teeth, "where are we going?"

"Almost there," the Scottish girl replied. Her accent grew thicker when she was excited, and the young woman was so worked up that it took Alison a moment to interpret what she'd said.

The wind whipped Alison's blond hair, and a wave of goosebumps ran across her body as she shivered.

"Okay," she said. "But this had better be worth it."

"Trust me," Rose said, enthusiastically rolling her 'r'. "Trust me, you'll be glad you came."

###

Alison stared at the painting, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed.

"This is it?"

"Yup!" Rose said brightly.

"This is what blew your mind?"

"Uh-huh!"

"You dragged me across campus, not even letting me stop to get a jacket...to look at this?"

"That's right," Rose said, barely able to contain her excitement.

Alison squinted, tilted her head, and eventually turned to her glowing redheaded friend.

"I don't get it."

"Keep looking. Seriously. You'll see it."

Alison stared at the painting. The College Art Gallery was closing in 45 minutes, so she knew that at worst, her ordeal would last less than an hour. Earlier that day, she would have said that there was no way that Rose would make her look at a painting for that long, but now...she wasn't so sure.

She seemed to be pretty devoted. Obsessed, even.

It was weird that such a drab painting had inspired such devotion. It was a woman in a white dress, holding a green umbrella. By her side was a small child in a sunhat; the painting's name suggested it was meant to be her son.

Pretty, sure, but not something worth rushing across campus for.

As she leaned forward, Alison suddenly became aware that they were being watched. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see someone checking the two of them out.

Not wanting to alert the stranger that she could see them, Alison continued staring at the painting, twisting her head, acting as though she was trying to see whatever Rose had seen in the photo. All the while, however, she was really just focused on catching a glance of the stranger in her peripherals.

It was a man, she was fairly sure of that. Yes, definitely a man. He looked like he was older, maybe twenty-five or thirty? Alison had just turned nineteen, and hadn't really worked out how to guess the age of anyone more than a few years outside of her own age group.

He was cute, Alison suddenly realized. He was standing still, staring straight at them, and even though she never looked away from Monet's carefully messy brushstrokes, she'd somehow managed to catch a glimpse of his face.

No, not just cute: hot. There was something about the dominant way he was standing, the absolute surety of his gaze. He didn't care if the girls noticed him checking them out - he was going to do it anyway.

Alison found a heat growing between her legs at the thought. He looked like the kind of man who would do what he wanted most of the time.

Suddenly, the blonde teen was glad that Rose had insisted that she come to this art gallery without a jacket - there'd be no way to casually remove it, but her current garb meant that she could stand up straight, push her shoulders back, and manage to look like she was accidentally thrusting her boobs forward, making sure that as much of her generous cleavage was on display as possible.

The stranger noticed. Alison didn't know how she knew that, but she did. He'd noticed her showing off, showing off her body.

Despite her efforts to mask it, he'd known it was for him.

The thought caused another warm pulse to travel through Alison's body. She was now doubly glad that she wasn't wearing a jacket - as the warmth between her legs grew, a blush had begun to spread over her face and shoulders.

Maybe the stranger had noticed.

She could only hope.

Without ever taking her light green eyes off the painting, Alison quickly checked the area for guards. None.

If the stranger wanted to, he could walk up to the two girls, send Rose away, and take Alison as his own. He could push her legs apart with his, bend her over, lift up the black, knee-length skirt she was wearing, move her soaking panties to the side and fuck her.

He could fuck her in front of the painting, and no one would notice. No one would know.

Or - even better - instead of sending Rose away, he could get her to watch.

A soft pant of desire escaped Alison's mouth. She hoped Rose hadn't noticed...while, on some level, desperately hoping that her room-mate had noticed.