Synopsis
New storyyyy........
My name is Disha, and I'm a sophomore at a bustling university in Haryana. From the outside, my life looks pretty normal—classes, assignments, the occasional chat with roommates in the dorm hallway. But no one knows the secret I've been hiding for months. His name is Aryan, and he lives in my room. Secretly. Completely off the grid. He slipped in one night after we met online, a shadowy figure with a laptop and a backpack, promising thrills I'd never imagined. Now, he's my invisible master, working remote gigs from the corner of my tiny single room, chain-smoking cigarettes that fill the air with a hazy, forbidden scent. No one knows he's here. The door stays locked, the curtains drawn. And me? I'm his plaything, molded to his whims every single day.
It started innocently enough—or at least, that's what I tell myself. But now, my routine revolves around him. Mornings begin with his voice, low and commanding, as he stirs from the fold-out cot hidden behind my wardrobe. "Wake up, pet," he murmurs, his fingers already tracing my skin under the sheets. I don't get to choose my clothes anymore. He does. Today, it's a short plaid skirt that barely covers my thighs, paired with a tight crop top that hugs my breasts, no bra allowed. "You'll feel me all day in class," he says, smirking as he slips a small vibrating plug into my ass before I leave. It's remote-controlled via his app, and he buzzes it at random—during lectures, in the library—making my core clench and ache with denied release. By the time I hobble back to the room, my legs are shaky, my pussy dripping, and everyone just assumes I've pulled a muscle from "yoga" or something. If only they knew.
He works online, tapping away at code or whatever freelance crap keeps him funded, but his real job is owning me. The room is his domain—smoke curls from his lips as he exhales, watching me strip the moment I shut the door. "Kneel," he commands, and I do, right there on the worn carpet. He uses me casually, like I'm part of his workflow. Mid-call with a client, he'll mute himself, pull me onto his lap, and fuck me slow and deep while typing one-handed. His cock stretches me, filling me completely, as he whispers degradations in my ear: "You're just my little fucktoy, aren't you, Disha? No thoughts, just holes." I moan into his shoulder, biting back cries so the thin dorm walls don't give us away. He smokes during it all, the ash tray overflowing on his desk, the nicotine scent clinging to my skin like a mark.
Lunch is sacred—or twisted, depending on how you look at it. I used to eat in the cafeteria with friends, laughing over greasy parathas. Not anymore. He texts me midway through morning classes: "Come back now. Bring food." I sneak takeout from the mess hall, claiming I have a "study session." Back in the room, he decides what I eat. Sometimes, it's whatever I brought, fed to me from his fingers while I sit naked on the floor at his feet. Other times, he makes it kinky—drizzling honey on my nipples and licking it off before letting me have a bite. Or worse, he cums on my meal first, stirring it in with a grin. "Eat up, pet. Protein's good for you." I obey, my cheeks burning, my body humming with arousal. No one questions why I skip group meals; they think I'm just introverted or on a diet. But really, it's because he's waiting, cock hard, ready to bend me over the desk the second I'm done.
Afternoons blur into evenings of his control. He rarely lets me out unless it's for class—study groups? Canceled. Parties? Forgotten. "Why go out when everything you need is here?" he says, chaining my wrists to the bedframe with soft cuffs he ordered online. He experiments, pushing boundaries: nipple clamps that make me gasp, a flogger that leaves faint red marks on my ass (hidden under clothes, of course). He smokes between rounds, blowing rings while he edges me with his tongue, denying orgasm until I beg. "Please, Aryan, let me cum," I whimper, but he just chuckles, stubbed cigarette in hand. Then he takes me roughly—from behind, my face pressed into the pillow to muffle screams—pounding until my core throbs with that deep, constant ache. It's why I walk funny, hips swaying oddly as I navigate campus. A "cramp," I lie to curious friends. But it's him, his relentless use, leaving me sore and satisfied in ways I crave.
Nights are the deepest surrender. He works late, but I'm his break. Tied spread-eagle, blindfolded, he teases me with ice cubes melting down my body, followed by hot wax from a candle. "Feel that, Disha? That's me marking you." His online meetings drone in the background as he fucks my mouth, smoke from his cigarette wafting over us. No one hears the wet sounds, the gasps, the way he growls when he cums inside me, filling me up. He decides when I sleep—curled against him, his arm possessive around my waist—or sometimes, plugged and cuffed, alone on the floor as "punishment" for some imagined slight.
It's addictive, this secret life. The risk of discovery heightens everything—a knock on the door sends us freezing, his hand over my mouth mid-thrust. But he owns me completely: my body, my schedule, my desires. And as I limp to class tomorrow, core aching deliciously, I'll smile to myself. No one knows. Just our filthy, hidden world.
Continue reading on Scrollstack
https://krishu699.stck.me/story/1650386/Secret-Master
