Master Daniel: MASTER DANIEL

By B.G. Rogers

Master Daniel is an erotic thriller by B.G. Rogers. It is the first instalment in the Master Daniel novel series and it follows the unusual love affair between a 24-year-old prostitute, Daniel, and his older ex-madam, Seraline. Set in Paris, France, it follows Daniel's recovery from a horrific chidhood to becoming the most in-demand escort in French high society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.G. Rogers
• Release date: Feb 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201781613

B.G. Rogers

EB.G. Rogers is an American author. She wrote the erotic thriller, So completely Ugly, under the pen name Quarkscrew Jones

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Daniel quickly exited the palace carrying a large duffle bag full of money and shouting, That’s right...MURDER, into a confiscated mobile.  

Yes, Château de Pascal, he further stammered into the speaker. How do I know it is murder? Daniel froze with terror. What could he possibly say about what just happened inside those walls? How could anyone outside of their unique community ever understand? There was no time for the truth, so instead he said:

I know because I am the one who did it. My name is Jerome Pascal, and I have just killed my lover. If you do not come quickly, I may kill again!

Daniel hung up and wiped the mobile on his clothes, removing all fingerprints. He then flung it expertly into an open window on the palace third floor. He was relieved to know it had landed safely inside the castle. Now the police had no excuse but to investigate.

Daniel looked around the large, empty driveway. It was all so different from the crowded party, just two nights ago. In a blink of an eye, Jerome’s horrible act had changed everything.

But there was no time to consider it all. The local police might be slow, but they were not that slow. So, Daniel took a deep breath and firmly secured the bag’s strap across his broad, young chest.  

And then he began running.

IT TOOK LESS THAN TEN minutes for the police to declare the entire estate a crime scene. Thanks to an anonymous tip, they had already covered the body, and they were now taking photographs and fingerprints of the presumed murder weapon: a broken marble bust.

Elsewhere in the castle, police searched for security cameras and were shocked to discover there were none. No security systems or video monitoring at all on an estate this large? It did not add up.

They wondered aloud who had called in the crime. There was no way that naked buffoon screaming in the Parlor Room had phoned them, he was too much a clinical mess to think that lucidly. Someone else had to have been there, but without security footage there was no way to know who it was or where they went. No cars had passed the Police on the main road leading on and off the grounds and this place was at least a hundred acres wide. That was far too large to run away so fast. Perhaps the accomplice was still inside the house?

The police were at a total loss.

DANIEL RAN ALONG A secret back entrance on Jerome’s vast estate. He was on-foot through the thicket, but he felt safe because Jerome had explained how no one knew this entrance existed, not even Jerome’s long-suffering wife, Lisette.

Jerome had carved out the path with his own hands, just to ensure that his future role-playing rendezvous with Daniel remained private. As a result, there were no zoning maps for it on-file anywhere inside Paris City Hall. There was no evidence of this new way in and out of Le Château de Pascal.

Given the expanse of Jerome’s holdings, Daniel estimated it would take the police several days to stumble onto this path: perhaps even an entire month, even by drone or helicopter. That would give Daniel and Seraline plenty of time to settle into a rich new life together in Lisbon. And they would do it with all of Jerome’s filthy money.

If Seraline approved, of course.

THROUGHOUT THE CASTLE, officers probed endless corridors and pushed back secret doors they thought were made of gold, only to discover they were just bits of rubber and plastic all painted to look regal. It quickly became apparent that nothing in Le Château de Pascal was as it appeared, especially in the Master Suite, where officers discovered the owner’s collection of torture devices, a sex swing built over the bed, and other bizarre items.

As they packed up all the evidence, the officers did not hide their disgust.

AS DANIEL RAN AT A breakneck speed, he flashed back to his MMA training in Bangkok, and the long runs he had been forced to endure barefoot in pouring rain, up mountain tops, down steep terrains, and across muddy trenches. Compared to that, this was an easy sprint, with a path already carved out and no brush to push aside.

Normally he could have made it to the secret gate in under fifteen minutes, but the image of Seraline impatiently waiting at the airport made him run faster. Thus, it only took Daniel seven minutes to reach the iron gate, and he quickly tossed the duffle bag over, into the back road.  Then, he climbed over it himself.

DOWN IN THE PARLOR Room, a female officer entered with the victim’s mobile stuffed into a pristine evidence bag. She had found it in a guest room on the third floor. When she tried to show it to a Sergeant, the Sergeant quickly shushed her and pointed with horror towards a truly riveting sight: a small team of officers were desperately trying to pry a ranting, naked billionaire from his velvet Versace chair.

NOOO! I CAN’T LEAVE! Jerome Pascal screamed at the police as he clung to the chair for dear life. MASTER DANIEL ORDERED ME TO STAY! HE’LL NEVER RETURN IF I DISOBEY HIM! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!

Jerome fought the police hard. Kicking and screaming, his fingers bled from his vice grip on the chair. Under no circumstance was he going to disobey a direct order from the powerful and majestic Master Daniel.

As Jerome was covered in blood and piss and sweat and shit, none of the officers really wanted to touch him, but he was their only suspect in the crime, and they had no choice but to wear gloves and masks and body cover while they attempted to unhinge Jerome’s fingers from the fabric. But it was all to no avail, as the crazy old pervert simply would not budge from that chair.

WHEN DANIEL HIT THE ground with a thud, he needlessly worried that someone might have heard him. He felt guilty, terribly guilty, as he had just removed evidence from a crime scene. A crime scene where his friend lay dead.

But something told him taking the money was the right thing to do and so Daniel did it. He took the money, and he ran and now he was secured directly behind Jerome’s estate, and it was a long way to the airport to meet the only person he had ever loved.

Seraline! I did it for you, for us, I swear! I love you. Please, dear god, wait for me!

There had to be at least one million euros in the bag, perhaps two. With those kinds of riches, Daniel could easily build a new life and provide for his woman just as every man should.

Was it wrong to want to use Jerome’s money for Seraline? Perhaps he should give it to Lisette, Jerome’s soon-to-be ex. If anyone had earned it, she certainly had.

Where did the money come from anyway, and what the fuck really happened in that Parlor Room? Obviously there had been a fight, but why did the two men fight at all? They were both selfish, depraved bastards who wanted the same things in life and hated the exact same people. Why turn on one another?

Perhaps it was bad cocaine cut with a dirty psychedelic that set them off? But then Jerome was dancing naked while covered in brains and blood! What the fuck was that about? Whatever happened, it did not warrant the total obliteration of a man’s skull, and Jerome celebrating his kill by dancing and singing was just vile. It was as if Jerome was casually awaiting the next murder.

Daniel’s murder, perhaps?

Daniel could not wrap his head around any of it, but as he quickly walked the back road of Paris’s oldest oligarchs, he plotted his next move.

Obviously, the goal was to get to Seraline at the airport, but would she allow him to take the money with them to Portugal? Would Seraline get into legal trouble if Daniel used her private jet to openly transport money stolen from an active crime scene?

Should he even tell her what was in the bag, or should he hide it from her entirely? Perhaps he should bury it nearby and come back later? Lisbon was only a few hours by car, less by plane or train. He could return alone one quick weekend, when the world had long forgotten about Master Daniel, and retrieve it then, and buy Seraline an incredible gift during his journey back to her.

If he did bury it, exactly how would he come back for it, and when? Soon this entire region will be a full-on crime scene and the police will comb every meter of land. A rich man kills his male lover and goes insane? The scandal will be fully exposed, and Lisette will be the toast of Paris.

If during all of this, the police found the hidden money, then the result would be the same as if Daniel had left it on Jerome’s coffee table, and all this risk would have been for naught.

Daniel was busy crafting these scenarios in his mind when there suddenly came a loud car horn directly behind him.

Daniel turned with a fright!

WHO THE FUCK IS MASTER Daniel? the police pondered as they stood around smoking in the long Château driveway. They had retreated from the filthy palace in utter shock as the stench of fecal matter smeared over graffitied walls finally outweighed the madness of fighting with an insane old man. They all firmly agreed that none of this was what they had signed up for.

They were thankful when a large police truck suddenly appeared on the path and drove up to the castle door and a wily police Captain jumped out, smiling. He had gotten a brilliant idea, he loudly declared as he eagerly led them all back inside the palace.

Moments later, that army of French officers carried the deranged Jerome Pascal out of his gaudy fake castle, chair, and all, and secured him onto that police truck headed straight to jail. His crime, beyond bad interior design and horrible personal hygiene?

The gruesome and deplorable bludgeoning of a Parisian sex worker named Pierre.

THE DRIVER OF THE LUXURY vehicle was waving from the road and begging Daniel to get in the car. Daniel quickly sized the pervert up. He looked harmless and horny. A typical le con living here in castle-land. Daniel wondered where the fuck he came from. He had not seen or heard any cars on the road. Did the Driver see Daniel climb over the gate? Was he a witness to Daniel’s crime?

The horny Driver waved again, and Daniel studied him severely. It was a gamble to get in that car. Rich people were so weird! He wondered if all this sudden money would make him strange, too. Would the money change him? Would it change his relationship with Seraline?

What about all the money Daniel had just gifted to Myifa? Heaven forbid her little daughter, Prisca, be raised on Daniel’s money and then blossom into an insufferable asshole. Perhaps Myifa had been correct. Perhaps money was indeed the root of every problem, great and small.

He should have never touched that bag.

I said, do you need a ride?, the Driver yelled, and Daniel realized he could suddenly hear the stranger. Daniel looked around and was shocked to discover that he was now extremely far from Jerome’s estate and any cameras Jerome may have installed.

So, Daniel had walked swiftly towards Paris? Or had he run? Internally, he began to panic. Did the Driver see him running, or walking? Did Daniel look suspicious of a crime? Was he now running during his blackouts?! Dear god, he had to save himself!

Seraline... Only she could save him. She was older, wiser, and calmer. Only she could help him make sense of it all. Now more than ever Daniel had to make his way to her, so he peered at the horny, rich man and said, What time is it, please?

The Driver smiled, happy to be of service and tapped the gold-plated clock embedded in his car’s tiger-wood dashboard. It’s three thirty, Monsieur. Can I drop you somewhere?

Do you know me? Daniel peered again. His mind was racing with suspicion. Is this a game? Are we role-playing? You are Jerome’s neighbor and where you also at his party two nights ago, perhaps in a costume, so I did not see your face, but you saw mine?

The Driver looked utterly confused. ‘No...I don’t know you. But I would very much like to," he smiled, sheepishly.

My name is Pierre, Daniel lied. Does that sound familiar to you?

Not at all. The Driver shook his head, feeling ashamed. He should know this, he felt. His opportunity was slipping away!

I’m late, and I need a ride to the train station. You will take me there, yes. It was a command, not a request and the Driver nodded in full agreement.

YES, the Driver gasped. Anything you wish, Pierre!

Daniel lit a cigarette. He could tell the fool had never done anything like this before, had never heard of ‘Master Daniel’, and he probably just craved a few moments to fulfill a long-buried fantasy.

Daniel quickly calculated the risk. If he accepted a ride all the way to the airport, he would be there in thirty minutes, but then there would be a strong witness left behind who could give the police his description and information about where Seraline’s plane was parked.

However, if he accepted a ride only as far as the local train station, and he let this fool park nearby and get the fantasy out of his system, Daniel would reach Seraline within the hour, with no witnesses beyond being seen standing on the cold train platform.

He felt the long option was the better one because it was safer for Seraline. It distanced her from all responsibility. If anyone was going to hang for all his poor decisions, Master Daniel insisted it should be him.

Daniel leaned into the car window and rested his arms on the frame and poured his most seductive smile ever into the man’s longing eyes.

Do you mind if I smoke in your car, friend? It relaxes me a great deal and I am so much more pleasant when I am relaxed.

The Driver nearly orgasmed with delight and gulped hard. This Pierre was the most extraordinary creature thing he had ever seen! If he was reading the matter correctly—and he prayed to God that he was—it was probably his only shot at the sublime, and he did not want to get this wrong.

Not at all, Pierre, the Driver responded, passionately and Daniel smirked. That was the correct answer.

Very good, Daniel said, as he opened the car door and slipped into the leather passenger seat with the duffle bag. What is your name, friend?

Bernard, the Driver eagerly replied. My name is Bernard Montague-Laurent.

Daniel relaxed fully now, as he knew with certainty that he had nothing to fear from this rich twat. Only guilty men ever introduced themselves by full name, and it was rarely ever their real name. Perhaps, he too, was fleeing a crime in a nearby castle. Perhaps he had also found a dead body and then become a full-blown thief by snatching up millions of unclaimed euros. Perhaps this was not even his car!

Or, perhaps ‘Bernard’ was in fact an undercover policeman who had followed Daniel the entire time and now intended to quickly molest him before arresting him as an accessory to murder.

Either way, ‘Bernard’ would prove an unreliable witness for the prosecution and that was a good thing because there were only two paths for Daniel now: Seraline, or prison.

"It sounds like we are going to be very good friends, Bernard," Daniel purred, and the Driver smiled at his good fortune and revved the engine. As they sped away, Daniel calmly exhaled a huge nicotine cloud into the afternoon air.  Having seamlessly slipped into Master Daniel mode, he was no longer scared of what was to come.

Instead, he was already bored.

CHAPTER 2

Four days ago...

S'il vous plaît, Master Daniel! I beg you, have mercy! a timid, male voice cried out from behind what was arguably the most solid door in all of Paris. Unlike the melting fakes in Jerome’s castle, this door held the same pedigree as the owner of that timid voice: it was unmistakably French royal.

It was attached to the master’s suite inside one of France’s grandest palaces—Le Chateau de Fermat—where the door’s 17th century copper crown moldings and turquois swirls solidly confirmed that cuffed African hands uprooted it from an ancient rain forest, that splintered Portuguese and Irish indentured sailor hands delivered it from port to port, and that clannish French artisan hands passed generations carving it—as well as every other door on the estate—into a sustainable, timeless work of art.

WHACK! was the sound a thick leather strap made behind that door, as it flogged royal flesh with unmeasured vigor. Whack, whack, whack, whack, WHACK!

PLEASE! I beg you, Master Daniel! I will do anything you desire! the voice begged again. It belonged to the very prominent and now, completely compromised 9th Duke Marcel de Fermat, who, just like the previous Marcels de Fermat, had been born in that room behind that door, in a far corner overlooking a large balcony.

Just below that balcony were the private tombs and splintered bones of all the previous marcels, whose ancient specters no doubt were growing weary of the 9th Marcel’s unyielding sexual explorations.

Each week there was a different dance of foolishness. Each week a new visitor proved to be more benign than the last. Tonight, however, as their progeny screamed in both French and English, it was assured that at least a modicum of their paternal interest was piqued, if not an outright curiosity had blossom, about the fresh young visitor who wielded so much power over their scion.

Surely those old bones wondered amongst themselves, Who the fuck is Master Daniel? especially when they heard a familiar 17th century drawer slide open, followed by the languid shuffling of pristine adult toys. Not a use the original Grand Duke could have anticipated when he commissioned that antique desk so many wars ago.

A toy was finally chosen, and a long steel chain began to unwind.

OH NO! NOT THAT PLEASE! PLEASE NO!, the current Marcel cried out, after which there came a WHOOSH of chain-link cutting the thick air, and then a Thrack! that landed so precisely against the Duke’s bare backside that he let out a primal SCREAM that woke all the ancestors and shook all the doors.

And then...Silence.

The kind of deep, meditative silence enjoyed only when one’s mind has completely shut down and one’s breathing stabilized to the point of nirvana redefined. Some call it ecstasy; others say bliss or subspace. For the current Marcel, these words did not meet the moment.

Rather, it was a space between the spaces between the cells, a gentle rush of DNA splintering and rejoining in coagulated hues, and for the 9th Grand Duke Marcel de Fermat, it was the new syncopated rhythms that surpassed the zenith of his outer reality.

Finally, he understood the mastery of it all.

DANIEL SPRAYED DOWN Marcel’s pristine toys with a strong antiseptic, and then he laid them out to dry. It was quick work, as he had only used three silly items from the Duke’s private stash, and they were not even very stringent options. In fact, most of the toys in Marcel’s ‘secret drawer’ were still in their original packaging, all of them offering possibilities that had yet to be explored.

The Duke, as it turned out, was a bit of a poser when it came to kink play. Seemed he much preferred talking about sex than doing it. That was just fine by Daniel, as he too was not a big fan of the lifestyle. It was not a moral complaint. He just found all the theatrics involved to be quite ridiculous.

For Daniel, domination was just a job that paid well. It never once invaded his private imagination.

It was mere coincidence that Daniel was the absolute best at this work and that ‘Master Daniel’ had become a highly demanded prize amongst Paris’s ultra-elite. The Duke winning a night with Daniel in a high-stakes auction was the only thing that brought Daniel to this palace, and it did not take long to get the 9th Marcel to surrender to the bliss. Now Daniel was repeatedly looking over the Duke, whom he had carefully placed on the bed after wrapping him in a bedsheet, as he was constantly checking for any signs of cranial stress.

Daniel frowned at the sleeping royal. Marcel was very fragile, and that was by far Daniel’s least favorite kind of client. It was too bad, too, as Marcel seemed pleasant enough upon meeting him. But as the hour went on, Daniel realized that what Marcel truly craved was affection, not pain, and Daniel’s affection was something he could never sell because it all belonged to his one and only Seraline.

Seraline!

Daniel’s heart ached to think of her, and so he tried not to think at all by walking the length of the massive bedroom and studying all the artwork. It was the typical stadium-sized hovel steeped in colonial entitlement, but unlike previous palaces Daniel had visited, this one had a lived-in warmth, and it was not fake. Since the atmosphere of a home was always set from the top down, it was nice to spend time with a man who was the genuine article and not just a wealthy pervert looking for a cheap thrill.

Still, Daniel was disappointed by the priceless paintings hanging everywhere. They might have been antiques worth a fortune, but they were not art, as art was supposed to move you, and Daniel felt the only people who could ever be moved by portraits of these slave owning picaroons were their bored and grateful descendants.

Daniel glanced back at Marcel to check for signs of subspace. If it was taking hold, then that meant the Duke was about to experience the best sleep of his life and Daniel could now return to inner-Paris. He was desperate to check on Seraline’s flat in Paris 8 and see if she had returned from Lisbon. But at the same time, he also worried how deeply Marcel would sink into the subconscious and if it would become dangerous for him later.

Marcel had been woefully naïve about this whole adventure and no doubt he had never gone this far with a Dom before. Should he awaken alone and try to stand up too quickly, or if he rolled over in his sleep too fast, the consequences of an extremely low blood pressure could be dire.

But was Daniel’s presence really necessary? It was not as if they were even alone. Clearly someone was lurking in the