Read Mastered 2: Ten Tales of Sensual Surrender Online
Authors: Opal Carew,Portia Da Costa,Madelynne Ellis,T.J. Michaels,Emily Ryan-Davis,Jennifer Leeland,Cynthia Sax,Evangeline Anderson,Avery Aster,Karen Fenech,Ruby Foxx,Saskia Walker
Mastered 2: Ten Tales of Sensual Surrender (84 page)
# # #
Avery Aster
For fans of the dark comedy BDSM film Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down comes an erotic exploration in domination and submission where Ivy League students let their kinkiest desires run wild, and Blake shows you just how good it feels to be on top.
If you think my besties Lex, Taddy, and Vive have had some bad luck earlier this year, cut to me at Glamorama. Last thing I remembered was dancing with Diego and Miguel from my English class, when the room started... spinning. And not in a good way! We got sick. Think Regan in The Exorcist. Taddy was rushed to the hospital. Holding on for dear life, I was carried out by the boys and taken back to their dorm.
Now I'm waking up in Diego's bed and Miguel keeps staring at me from across the room. I've wanted to get into these dudes' pants since the first day of class. But Diego told me he likes to be tied up and--wait for it--spanked. WTF! The news on TV reports that last night we all got roofied. And Vive just texted me saying that someone is out to kill her. Could this semester get any more bizarre? --Blake Morgan, college freshman, gay best friend, virgin
The Undergrad Years is a naughty new adult contemporary miniseries about first loves, independence, and everlasting friendships.
Copyright 2015 Avery Aster
Table of Contents
Hold Up. Not So Fast!
Often while reading Avery Aster’s books, readers have been known to experience hot flashes, orgasms, and laughter to the point of peeing in their pants.
It’s suggested that you have a bucket of ice nearby, along with a chilled glass of champagne and your favorite sex toy—fully charged—before reading this story.
Please note that Avery’s writing is not suitable for prudes, slut-shamers, or uptight readers who don’t have a sense of humor about money, sex, or fame. Avery’s books are not intended for anyone under the age of 18.
Have fun!
To Shane, the knucklebones king of our class who I told every secret to in the first grade. You are my nearest and dearest. Thank you for always making me smile when I wanted to cry, for standing by my side when no one else wanted to be my friend, and for giving me a place to call home when I first came to New York City. Here’s to many more steak
au poivre
dinners.
Love, Avery
Hello, Gorgeous Reader,
Welcome to
The Undergrad Years!
If you’re new to this series, don’t worry. Each book may be read as a stand-alone and in any order. I promise you won’t be lost.
Blake is
the
gay best friend that Lex, Taddy and Vive lean upon and can’t seem to live without. Why? Because he’s fucking fabulous! *wink* I hope you fall in love with Blake as much as I did while writing his story.
XO, Blake
(
The Undergrad Years #3
) takes place in 2002 and is a naughty, new adult prequel companion to the full-length, stand-alone erotic romance novel
Unsaid
(
The Manhattanites #3
) which takes place in present time.
For ‘Man Candy’ and fun quotes, tweet or Instagram with me @AveryAster while reading this story and let me know what you think. I swear on my lifetime supply of Diet Coke I’ll message ‘ya back. Get a FREE book when you join Avery’s newsletter
http://eepurl.com/CQ665
Hugs from NYC,
Avery
A Coming of Age Poem
They call me Blake
I always knew I was different
My voice would go up just a bit too high
I played with dolls and kept my sights on the sky
The first time I was called a faggot…I was seven
Although I didn’t know what
that
word meant
I knew it was intended to make my spirit descent
I wanted to kiss boys by the time I was eleven
I always knew I was different
Regardless, my parents adored me
My friends protected me
In time I learned to like me, too
But I wanted to be loved by that one special boy
I always knew I was different
As I’ve gotten older the gays have, too
We’re no longer boys but men
Some have fucked up their lives with drugs
Others have gotten sick with bugs
We’re still loving like there’s no tomorrow though
And in the end…I’m still a different kind of boy
Please, just call me Blake
Major Players
Blake Morgan III:
(18) He’s starting to have feelings for Diego and discovers that being on top has its advantages. Especially when his own life is spinning out of control.
Alexandra “Lex” Easton:
(18) Daughter to famed rockers Eddie & Birdie Easton, she is dumped by her hot cop boyfriend after breaking the law…again, and wants to try and leave her past behind.
Tabitha Adelaide “Taddy Brill” Brillford
(18): Roofied at a club and faced with doubts about college, Taddy questions staying in New York City or moving to France.
Viveca “Vive” Farnworth:
(18) Lhaso Apso lover and heiress to Farnworth Firewater Liquor Company, Vive is a party girl who is convinced someone is out to kill her Manhattanites.
Supporting Cast
Diego Oalo:
(19) He takes a liking to Blake and teaches him the art of rope in bed.
Miguel Santana:
(18): As Diego’s roommate, he’s not sure what to make of The Manhattanites. He thinks they’re trouble.
Thor Edwards:
(18) Blake’s roommate at college. After being dealt some life-altering news, he’s thinking of dropping out.
Birdie Easton:
(39) Lex’s rehabbed mother, she suffers from sexual compulsive disorder, and is a heavy metal music icon.
Paulina Morgan:
(age unknown) Blake’s protective mother who has special ESP powers and always knows when her son is in trouble.
Leon Lartique
(19): Taddy’s European boyfriend who lives in Paris. They met on a fashion shoot and have kept the flame going, albeit long-distance.
Never Drink the Free Cocktails
“Blake Morgan III is what Lex, Taddy, and I call a goodie-goodie. Unlike his fellow Manhattanites, he comes from a loving and supportive home where his parents encourage him to be just who he is—gay and proud! Oh, and boy, is he. Regardless, it seems anytime one of us tries to lose our Lady-V, we end up in some horrific accident. From doing time in juvie to Soho penthouse explosions and nose-diving airplanes into the Atlantic Ocean, the white wine spritzers we drank that night were no different. You ask, why does this shit-on-a-stick keep happening to us? Well, duh, you ninny. Someone is out to kill us! Isn’t that obvious?” —Vive Farnworth, wealthiest teenager in New York, socialite and aspiring gossip columnist.
From the Desk of Fairfield School for Boys
September 21, 1988
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Morgan,
We enjoy having Blake in our school. He is bright and enthusiastic about his studies. However, it has come to our attention that he brings his Barbies to class. He talks to them, gives them names, and is convinced they are his real-life friends. He admits that you’ve even built him a dollhouse in your backyard. Good for you!
While his teachers are amused by his delights and encourage him to have an active imagination, we find his attraction to these specific kinds of toys alarming. With that said, I’ve attached a list of suggested games and toys for young men his age which are more appropriate. Please call my office if you have any questions.
Yours Fondly,
Principal Mark Strickland
* * *
April 18, 1993
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Morgan,
Today, your son wore makeup to school. While we applaud his chutzpah, especially the fuchsia-colored lipstick and matching sparkly nail polish, we do not allow ten-year-olds to wear cosmetics to class. It’s distracting, draws unwanted attention, and causes him to be taunted by his peers.
When questioned as to where Blake got them, he says you gave him the cosmetics, at his request, and told him to do with it as he pleased. This age can be trying, and we want to make it as easy for Blake to come into his manhood as possible. We care about his well-being and have sent him to the infirmary to wash his hands and face.
Take Care,
Principal Mark Strickland
* * *
June 3, 1996
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Morgan,
Blake’s test scores are exceptional. He doesn’t let his dyslexia get the best of him. He remains one of our top students and is on the road to great academia. Regardless, after the recent mishap where his classmates baited a pack of dogs to maul your son on his way home from school, we fear for his safety. We empathize with him and you during this troubling situation.
Nevertheless, because Blake continues to express his newfound sexual orientation freely and with such an in-your-face manner, he poses a threat to our entire student body and himself. We cannot invite him back in the fall and are truly sorry.
I’ve attached a letter of recommendation for Blake to attend Avon Porter Academy. This private (and selective) college preparatory was named the number one girls’ boarding school by the
Manhattanite Times
and will be going co-ed in the fall. They should welcome Blake with open arms. And again, we’re sorry to hear about the dog attack. It didn’t happen on our grounds; therefore, it’s out of our hands.
Goodbye and Good Luck,
Principal Mark Strickland
Mr. Yoo-hoo
December, 2002
Glamorama, Upper West Side, New York
My mother, Paulina Morgan, had told me while growing up that I was always early for everything in life…
She’d said, “When you were born, you weighed two pounds, six ounces, and were three months ahead of schedule. Shoot, you were so tiny I had to bathe you in a mixing bowl because I figured you’d drown in the kitchen sink.”
Isn’t that cute?
As I got older and learned how to read and write, I often inverted my letters and sometimes words. There was a period of my life around the age of nine where I’d speak and say things sorta backwards, too. The boys in school used to say I was dumb, only the teachers had diagnosed me as dyslexic.
Refusing to put me in a ‘special’ school, my mom had stated, “Honey, your brain is just running so fast that your tongue can’t catch up with what you’re thinking. Slow down. You don’t always have to be the first at everything. Take your time.”
I never did.
When puberty had struck, I’d started getting hair under my armpits, and I noticed I got an erection every time I—thought about/caught sight of/stood next to/got a whiff of—the older boy who lived across the street from where I’d grown up.
His name was Dale Carothers. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? He had short brown hair, jet black eyes, olive skin, and he was h-o-t.
From afar (think like a stalker) I’d loved Dale Carothers with all my heart, until he went away to college and his parents moved. Or were they arrested for mortgage fraud? Hmmm. I couldn’t remember which.
Note to self: look Dale up online and see if he’s still got that yumfactor.
Anyways, right then and there, I knew I was different. So I’d stated, “Mom, Dad, I’m a homosexual.”
My father had smiled at me, and the hard wrinkles around his blue eyes softened as he’d replied, “Son, that three-syllable word seems mighty big for something which isn’t that much of a deal. Being a
homosexual
is no different than being a heterosexual, you just like dudes is all. We clear?”
“Gotcha,” I’d replied, somewhat relieved and possibly disappointed that it was pretty anti-climactic at the Morgan’s house. Maybe I’d subconsciously hoped for a parade or at least a pizza party.
Years later, I’d learned from my fellow LGBT peers that my ‘coming out’ experience had gone rather smoothly and that was I was lucky.
Dad wasn’t a philosopher of sorts. He liked his life the way he liked his dinner: simple, well done, and on time. That usually meant meat and potatoes with small talk about the weather. Nothing more. Nothing less.
My folks had never made a fuss over me being gay, so they’d never treated me different. However, everyone in the seventh grade had thought I was a drama queen, that eventually I’d come around to liking girls, but no. I never did. I’d tried, though. It just wasn’t for me.
See…that’s the thing about me…I’m always willing to try anything once. Sushi: so meh! The rollercoasters at Cedar Point in Ohio: talk about a thrill. Pussy: been there, done that. And yes, even a little BDSM with a boy I’d been crushing on since the first day of college, but more about my kinkiness later.
Much later.
In the tenth grade, I’d wanted more from my education and begged my parents to let me move out and attend boarding school. And so I left home before I could even drive a car.
Mom was right. I was always a few steps ahead of everyone else.
With that said, it seemed logical that on that night, at the age of eighteen, I, Blake Morgan III, would be sneaking into a ‘twenty-one and up’ club with a fake ID (that we got from my mafia friend Toni Borgata) along with my three besties, Lex, Taddy and Vive. Why wait till we’re twenty-one, right?
Right!
Ontz Ontz Ontz!!!
The DJ spun Birdie Easton’s latest hit
No More Drama, Mama
over the speakers, filling the room with an urgency to dance.
Don’t want no more hurt. Don’t want no more tears.
I swayed my hips back and forth, but not too much. Hello! I didn’t want to look like a flamer.
Getting all agitated as if someone had poured fire ants in her pants, my best friend for life (BFFL) Vive Farnworth stood next to me.
“Well, for the love of debauchery. I could cunt-punt the moron who invited us to this place!” she shouted, looking up from the cocktail menu, probably realizing the VIP section of the club where we were lounging wasn’t serving her favorite liquor brand—the one her parents owned—Farnworth Firewater. She carried her Lhaso Apso, Hedda Hopper, with her like it was that year’s handbag. “How could they
not
carry my signature spirits?”
Oh. Gawd. Here she goes…
For Vive’s recent birthday, her parents had launched a new branded beverage with her face plastered all over the bottle. It was called Vive’s Vodka. The slogan and advertising campaign had read:
Party with our girl Vive
.
Isn’t that memorable?
According to the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, who’d recently placed Farnworth Firewater under investigation for marketing an alcoholic beverage to minors, most places in Manhattan had stopped carrying Vive’s Vodka because they deemed it inappropriate for Farnworth Firewater to coin a liquor after anyone who wasn’t of legal age.
Even though Vive’s folks were from Sweden, where it was okay for anyone over the age of eighteen to drink, I could see their point.
“Stop your bitching. We just got here,” sassed my best friend forever (BFF) Taddy Brill, who was trying to score us a few drinks. At nearly six feet tall if anyone could get the server’s attention it would be her.
“Let’s have some frickin’ fun,” demanded my very best friend (VBF) Lex Easton as she gave Hedda Hopper a love pat on the top of her furry head. “I haven’t had a night out with you Manhattanites in forever.”
“What did you tell your boyfriend we were doing tonight?” Taddy asked, as I noticed Lex was wearing a full face of makeup.
“Nothing…” Lex glanced away from us and licked her pink, glossy lips.
“Liar!” Taddy’s laugh was scornful.
“What did you say to him?” I probed harder.
“That…we were going to study…you know…for our midterms.”
Snort.
We’d had our fake ID’s for only a few months and were putting them to good use. Hell, we’d paid enough for them. They sure as fudge weren’t cheap.
Lex’s boyfriend, Officer Ford Gotti, worked for the NYPD. Hot as Hell, inked from head to toe with a jacked body like a superhero. He loved Lex. However, if he found out we were at Glamorama, he’d for sure kick her juicy booty to the curb,
and
probably arrest us.
“We might as well be at the library studying,” Vive whined. “This place stinks, literally. What
is
that smell?”
At only eighteen, Vive had already developed a discernment for the finer things in life, such as top-shelf alcohol, couture fashion, and fine perfume.
“I think that’s marijuana you smell,” I clarified. Personally, I’d never smoked the stuff, but my roommate, Thor Edwards, sure did. He had pipes, bongs, and rolling papers stashed all over our dorm room.
Yuck.
I hated the stench it gave off, which was why I never lent Thor my clothes. They’d always come back smelling like a cat peed on them.
Regardless of the odor, I didn’t mind Glamorama.
The 25,000 square feet models-and-bottles swanky joint debuted the previous year. It was comprised of a multi-level main room, a lounge, and a rooftop terrace boasting panoramic views of the George Washington Bridge. I set my sights on the laser light show and the fact that Diego and Miguel stood a few feet from us. I could almost taste them. Almost.
I’d been crushing on, lusting after, and yes, totally jacking off thinking about those two men since school had started and I’d first met them. I had them both in my English class. They were Latin and spoke okay English. Because of my dyslexia, I was always stuck in the most basic classes. Annoying, right? But I’d gotten used to it.
Just then, Diego glanced at me with those hauntingly dark eyes. The corners of his full, kissable lips curved up into a smile as the apples of his cheeks popped.
Dang! Good God, I wanted to drop my pants and sit on his face. He looked like a good kisser. With lips like that, he
had
to be.
“Uhhh-Ohhh. The Latinos are staring at our sweet virgin again,” Vive murmured. “They got lust in their eyes.”
“Shut. Up. Viveca!” Mortified, I elbowed her, causing Hedda to bark.
Her furbaby was the only dog I could ever be around without having a panic attack. When I was a little, I got nearly eaten alive by a pack of Rottweilers. The boys in school had sicced them on me because I’d tried to kiss one of them who I thought had liked me. A boy. Not a dog.
Gross!
Diagnosed by the doctors with Cynophobia, they’d suggested exposure therapy.
No, thank you!
I could barely say that word, spell it or be in the same room with a furry animal. Except for Hedda. She was different. Nearly human.
The longer Diego’s eyes rested on mine, my feelings for him intensified. I wanted to run over to him, rip his red button-down shirt off (which encased his pectoral muscles so perfectly, with capped sleeves highlighting his biceps) and say, “I’m gonna
fuuuck
you!”
But I didn’t.
Hell to the no. I was wicked nervous. There were too many people around us.
A glow, feeling like hot Hawaiian lava in my veins, ran through my six-foot-two-inch, 30” waist, 36” inseam of a body, along with thoughts of Diego shoving his thick tongue down my throat.
Had I subconsciously picked him over Miguel? I guess so…
Did I have much of a choice? Probably not.
Diego Oalo was two or so inches taller than me. He had muscles. And I don’t mean just ripped-up-ness. No. From the neck down, his six-foot-four-inch body resembled that WWE wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin. He had to weigh at least two hundred and twenty-plus pounds of pure alpha machismo. His face, on the other hand, was Latin and romantic. From the neck up, he could pass for Enrique Iglesias’ twin.
So frickin’ sexy.
The mere sight of him made my dick lurch toward my bellybutton. I adjusted myself.
His bestie and roommate was Miguel Santana, a cocky artist who hailed from Mexico. He never made eye contact with me, ignored me in class, and was kind of a dick to me and Thor. But fuckable all the same. Totally! Some gay guys were just like that. You know, unfriendly to their fellow homosexuals because we’re ‘out’ and enjoy being ourselves. Not some straight-acting, masculine-obsessed, ‘I’m not gay but still suck dick’ wannabe. I don’t know why I found Miguel attractive, but I did. He was less intimidating than Diego. His face had those cute dimples on it like that actor Mario Lopez on
Saved by the Bell
.
Oh. God. I wanted to be naked between them like a piece of pork (the other white meat) stuffed in a taco shell. They were both exotic and beautiful. Surely we didn’t have men like them back in Fairfield.
Birdie sang:
Free from all the addictions. No more drama, mama!
The music pumped through the room.
Ontz Ontz Ontz!!!
People danced.
“Fuckidy fuck fuckin' fuck,” Vive griped, trying to drown the words out. “I fuckin’ hate this song.”
Ughhh…I know what you’re thinking…
How mortifying it must be to have a potty-mouthed friend such as Vive Farnworth on my arm. Nevertheless, I loved her. Always have. Always will. And if I liked women in
that
way, she’d most certainly be my girlfriend. But I didn’t. Like any good Episcopalian, I’d tried a few times to take one for the team. Kitty just wasn’t for me.
“Drink up!” Taddy bossed as we each finally took a flute from a passing server wearing fancy white gloves who’d told us the cocktails were on the house.
Love that.
We all chugged.
“Tastes bitter,” I said after taking a shallow sip.
“Nothing tastes better than f-r-e-e,” Taddy stated, reminding me we were both on a budget. She barely had enough money for that semester’s tuition. Her modeling assignments were starting to pay more. But since emancipating from her parents, she’d had to start over, and that meant with nothing in the bank.
My respect for her mission to become self-made was certainly there. Unlike my besties, I’m not a socialite. My parents aren’t famous like Lex’s. I wasn’t born into wealth like Vive. I didn’t come from aristocracy like Taddy.
And although I’m gay and out, I haven’t had anal sex with a guy…yet. Not like my friend Thor (who you’ll meet later). He’s already onto double-digits. Come to think of it, I’m the only one left in our group who hasn’t done the nasty.
“Why does everyone keep staring at us?” Vive asked, eyeing people up and down defensively, clutching on to Hedda as we remained in the VIP area.
“Could it be because you just threatened to cunt-punt half the room?” Lex sneered, smoothing her pink stretchy dress over her sucked-in tummy as she stepped closer, behind Taddy. She hated to draw attention to herself. “Never mind the fact that you’re carrying that dog around like it’s a Cabbage Patch doll. And I don’t even know what
cunt-punt
means, but it sounds disgusting.”