by Violet Blue
Louise negotiated her rental car back toward Bellevue. While waiting in traffic, she kept thinking about how strong Peter looked. During dinner, she managed to forget about him long enough to hold up her end of the conversation with her parents and brother. But as soon as the meal ended, she excused herself. “My flight leaves early, I need to pack and get some sleep. I’ll probably be gone before any of you get up in the morning, so I’ll say good-bye now.”
Once in her room, Louise pulled out the napkin and her cell phone. She dialed *67 before the number Peter had given her to mask her own.
“Good evening, this is Peter.” His deep voice resonated through her and she imagined his hot breath caressing her neck.
“Hi. It’s Louise.”
“My dear Lady, I’m so very glad to hear from you. I hope you can spare some time for me before you depart for destination unknown.”
Louise looked at her watch. “My flight leaves Sea-Tac in twelve hours. I need about half an hour to pack and another half an hour or so to drive to somewhere near there.”
Peter chuckled. “You do me great honor, dear Lady. May I be so bold as to book a room at the Hilton?”
“I’ll meet you in the restaurant there in an hour.” Louise ended the call. Most of her things were already in her suitcase—the drawers in her parents’ guest bedroom were full of their off-season clothing. She changed into her travel outfit: closed sturdy shoes, jeans instead of shorts, and a denim jacket over the silk shirt. Not exactly sexy, but practical. Retrieving her toiletries from the bathroom, she stuffed them into her oversized purse.
Her brother had already left for his home in Everett, and she could hear her parents settling in for the night. Louise unmade the bed so it would look slept in and snuck out the back door with her luggage. At the bottom of the hill, she hesitated. What was she thinking, sneaking out of her parents’ house to drive to a hotel and meet a man with whom she had exchanged a couple of hundred words in a coffee shop? Yet she headed toward the freeway entrance rather than return to the house. She pulled into the hotel parking lot with just enough time to make a pit stop before sashaying into Spencer’s.
The moment she entered, Peter jumped up from where he lounged in one of the overstuffed armchairs across from the host stand. He kissed her hand and the touch of his lips on her fingers sent a charge of electricity racing through her, leaving every nerve tingling. Why had she decided to meet him in the restaurant rather than just go to a room? Oh, yes, negotiations. When he released her hand, she stuck both in her jacket pockets and stiffened her spine. They followed a waiter to a corner booth at the back of the dimly lit restaurant.
“Since you’ve already eaten dinner, how about dessert? They have a marvelous chocolate and fudge cake, perhaps with a glass of port?”
Louise smiled. “Chocolate cake yes, port no.” She slid into the booth, deliberately staying near the edge, forcing Peter to sit opposite her, a large round candle flickering in between them.
When the waiter returned, he set a large piece of chocolate cake centered in a pool of hot fudge with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on one side and whipped cream on the other, in front of Louise. Peter slid around the table to sit next to her and picked up one of the two spoons from the plate. “I was hoping you’d share.”
She nodded and dipped her own spoon into the cake, scooping it up with some of the fudge, ignoring the sweet white accompaniments.
“Besides,” he said, as he dug into the ice cream, “I don’t think you want our discussion shared with the waitstaff.” He winked.
Louise let the velvety chocolate melt on her tongue and savored its richness.
“Perhaps you’d like to specify exactly what types of games you enjoy playing with dominant males?” His hot breath against her skin sent waves of desire through her.
Louise grounded herself with another mouthful of chocolate delectability before responding. “I don’t like pain. Bondage is okay, if it’s not too tight. I won’t accept any form of humiliation play, you can’t tear my clothing, and I do not do anything submissive.” She turned to stare at him while she stuck her tongue out to lick the chocolate off her spoon with the tip of her tongue in slow sensuous strokes. “But you’re bigger and stronger than I am, and I couldn’t stop you from fucking my brains out, even if I tried.”
Peter’s smile made his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “I see. Any physical limitations or medical conditions I should be aware of?”
She shook her head.
“Anal?”
She grimaced and shook her head more vigorously.
“Oral?”
Louise sunk her teeth into another spoonful of cake. “I bite anything that goes into my mouth.”
“Gags?”
She shrugged. “Ambivalent.”
“Hair pulling?”
“No pain.”
He reached behind her and his fingers caressed the back of her neck. Then he bent them into her hair, and pulled her head back onto his shoulder. “This okay?”
Louise felt herself getting wet. She could never understand the pleasure she took in this type of sex. She controlled every facet of her world, including the lives of the two men in her service. But sometimes, when the right man made himself available, she just liked to let go and let him take over. She smiled.
Peter leaned over and captured her lips with his own. His tongue took possession of her mouth and she pushed closer. He pulled away, frowning. “I thought you would fight me off.”
She opened her eyes wider. “Not here.”
“Safeword?”
She couldn’t think of anything and wondered if she would be able to use one when he had already gotten her so aroused. “Chocolate cake.”
Hot breath on her ear made it difficult to parse his next words. “Then let’s go upstairs.”
She nodded. Peter pushed her out of the booth, his hand still caught in her hair. He tossed a folded-up bill on the table, grabbed her purse and guided her through the nearly empty restaurant toward the elevators. When the doors slid shut, he pressed her against the wall with his body and kissed her again, hard. His hand slid inside the waistband of her jeans and his fingers found their way between her legs. He chuckled deep in his throat when he discovered how wet she’d become, his laughter rumbling in his chest.
He strode down the hallway of the fifth floor pushing Louise in front of him. She struggled to keep pace, worried someone might misinterpret their body language. Before she could even see the room number, he had a door open and was thrusting her inside. He paused long enough to turn the safety latch and toss her purse onto the desk chair. Then, he threw her onto the softness of the bed. She tried to get up, but he flipped her over on her stomach and used his belt to bind her wrists behind her back. She twisted away, but that only made it easier for him to remove her shoes and unbutton her jeans.
“No,” she shouted. “Stop.”
“Hell, no.” Peter’s voice had deepened and sounded ominous, sending a thrill of fear down her spine. “You’re mine until your flight leaves, assuming I’m done with you by then.” He pulled her jeans and panties off together.
She tried to crab walk away from him, but he grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs apart. Using his pelvis to hold her in place, he unbuttoned her shirt and undid the front hook on her bra. Still clothed, he used his weight to keep her from escaping while he sucked on one nipple and forced his hand in between her legs. He rubbed her slick clit with his thumb until she stiffened, close to the brink. He stopped and she screamed in frustration.
“What makes you think I have any intention of letting you enjoy this?”
She opened her mouth to answer and he stuffed her panties, fragrant with her own musk, between her teeth, cutting off her response. Before she could spit them out, he tied them in place with a bandana. Still on top of her, he grabbed both her breasts, pinching her nipples between his thumb and middle finger. She squirmed, but he stopped just before pleasure turned to pain.
Damn, he’s good
, she thought in a moment of lucidity. “Stop it you bastard,” she mumbled around the gag, making sure she could still safeword if she needed to. She very much doubted that would be necessary.
Without getting off of her, Peter managed to remove his pants and she heard the reassuring rip of a condom package, one thing she’d forgotten to mention downstairs. He shoved himself into her so hard, her head pushed into the down pillows leaning up against the wooden headboard. Her breasts jiggled up and down with his thrusts and once again, she found herself near the edge. She attempted to disguise her approaching orgasm by trying to squirm away, but he pulled out, leaving them both panting.
“Absolutely no way.” He flipped her over on her belly and piled the pillows under her stomach. “Not gonna happen.”
Louise cried out, desperate for relief. Every inch of her skin burned with heat, her swollen clit ached, and her juices had soaked the bedcover and made her thighs sticky. Peter slammed into her again. She went limp, letting him fuck her, letting the tension build, she hoped, unnoticed. It took longer in this position, but his cock massaged her G-spot, pushing her toward the edge again. When he pulled out this time, she sobbed.
“You’re one hot little number aren’t you?” He ran his palm across her asscheeks. “Maybe I need to throw you in the shower to cool you down.”
Louise knew no amount of cold water would ease the heat between her legs. She tried to rub her clit against the bed, but the pillows positioned her so she couldn’t get any contact.
“No, you don’t.” He flipped her back over.
Pissed, she kicked at him, but he caught her leg with one hand. He produced a leather cuff with the other and buckled it on, then grabbed her other ankle. She discovered the cuffs were attached to chains. Her legs were now pointing at either corner of the bed and she had very little range of motion. Straddling her waist, his still-erect cock on her stomach, he reached behind her and removed the belt. He took off the rest of her clothing and produced two more cuffs. She tried to prevent him from capturing her wrists, twisting her upper body, pulling her arms out of his grasp twice. But her strength was no match for his, especially with her legs already bound.
He ran his hands up the length of her legs, across her hips, and up to her breasts. She squirmed. She needed to come so badly, she’d do almost anything to get relief. Except beg. He pulled his own shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it and lay down on top of her. She pushed her hips up into him, but he kept his cock on her stomach, out of reach.
Laughing, he kissed her neck, her breasts, and nibbled on her ears. He dry-humped her belly and for a moment, she feared he would come that way. Finally, when she worried that she would pass out from frustration, he slid back into her. He rammed himself in and out of her so hard, the bed shook and the headboard banged against the wall. The tension that had been building in her clit all evening became the only thing that registered in her consciousness. The heat of his skin against hers, his heavy breathing, the pressure from his cock thrusting into her, all just pushed at that tension. She couldn’t hide what was happening any more than she could shove him away and get off the bed. Her whole body stiffened, her pussy twitched and pulsed and she exploded, sobbing with relief and ecstasy. She was vaguely aware of him shuddering inside her and the pounding of his heart against her chest. When her breathing had slowed to normal, he kissed her. She didn’t remember him removing the gag, but she kissed him back. She had never had such an intense orgasm in her entire life.
Somehow, the cuffs were removed and she ended up under the down comforter, snuggled in his arms with her head on his shoulder, her pussy still twitching.
“My flight…” Panic surged through her for a moment.
He stroked her hair. “Don’t worry pet, I set the alarm. You can get a couple of hours’ sleep.”
She snuggled closer and closed her eyes.
TOURNAMENT
Abby Abbot
I do it for the money. That’s what I tell people—University isn’t cheap, I say, a girl’s gotta eat. But what I really get off on is something else entirely.
I guess I’m rare. Whatever people say as to why they’re attracted to someone—personality, intelligence, yadda, yadda, yadda—looks usually have something to do with it. But I couldn’t care less. I never see my partners, and I don’t want to.
Tonight I have an especially exciting partner.
All right, I’ll clarify. I play chess. Competitively, online. And I’m good. I know, I know it’s not cool. People say, Why don’t you go out in the evenings, Anna? You’re a good looking girl, why stay inside on the Internet? But I’ve got no interest in going to a bar and making small talk. What I love—lust for—is competition, pitting myself against someone else. It’s a kick, trying to second-guess and outmaneuver a stranger. The money’s a sideline, though I do love taking it from people.
And here’s the thing: it makes me wet.
Hey JazzStar, r u ready? I type.
Hey girl. I’m always ready 2 take u.
My body temperature rises. JazzStar has never beaten me. But he’s come close and we both know it. The timer blinks zero onscreen, ready to set off, and my palms are already warming. You see, it’s always just possible that this time the power will tip the other way.
JazzStar moves the first pixelated pawn over the green board; the timer starts.
There’s not much instant messaging banter as we play. That’s not the point. I focus on planning my moves. Also on my own tension. What I know of JazzStar’s game-play is that he’s a fast learner, and that’s nearly caught me out before. Anticipation is such a huge part of this game. It’s a delicious feeling, suddenly realizing that the metaphorical rug’s about to pulled out from under me and then righting myself triumphantly at the last second. Why wouldn’t it?
When I take his first pawn I ease in my chair with pleasure. Is it wrong that this arouses me too? Because my desk is up against the window I can look out into the student rooms opposite. To anyone peering in I look so conscientious, tapping away at my essays into the night. What they don’t know is that beneath the desk my legs are spread wide, all the better for me to grind myself against the chair.
JazzStar takes one of my rooks. I sacrifice two pawns and am rewarded by capturing a bishop.
Gud move, JazzStar types. I revel in that, slip my hand down to my jeans. JazzStar doesn’t know I do this while we play.
Three moves along my opponent unexpectedly surrounds one of my bishops, or at least I see that he will if I don’t make a quick evasion. I did not see that coming; my breath catches in my throat and the flash of danger enthralls me. But I figure my way out and, pleased at my own cunning, reward myself with a quick rub of my thumb through my denim. We both promote pieces and I’m getting warmer. Christ, I hope my roommate stays out long enough for me to finish this. As JazzStar considers a retaliation I ease open the sash window and let some cool air waft over me. One of the students in the room opposite catches my eye; as I sit back down I unzip my fly and wriggle down my jeans, holding back my grin. I keep my right hand working my virtual players while my left plays with my slick cunny. JazzStar keeps slipping out of my traps tonight. Each time I’m nearly caught it heightens my arousal with this twisted power-play. Here I go, inserting ring finger, middle finger, forefinger and thumb, one at a time and back and forth and—
The doorknob screeches from behind me, and here I am so close. I’m so caught up I slam the laptop lid down, so that when my roommate enters she thinks she’s caught me looking at porn. My trousers are down and I’m flushed as a summer apple. Damn.
JazzStar doesn’t return for days. When he does he interrupts another game I’m playing while I’m hunched at one of the long desks in the library, keenly missing my privacy and wanking in a figurative sense only—my roommate had had keen words with me about “working” in our room again.
U withdrew, he types.
Did not! I reply, feeling a flush flood me. Got interrupted.
U withd
rew, he repeats.
Play again? I ask. God alive, it’s good he can’t feel my heat through the ethernet. If we play, maybe I can hold myself till the end, then sneak into the toilets to relieve myself. I’ll have to be damn quiet.
I’ll let u off, if u play Thursday.
Why Thursday? I think, but type, OK.
Face2Face.
I draw my breath. This is breaking my rules.
Nuh-uh.
Scared?
I shift in my seat; the student sitting next to me glances up.
I always win, I type. My fingers are trembling—all right, they’re shaking.
Yeah.
How should I read that? Plain acknowledgment? Or sarcasm? Is he saying the game would run differently if we met? Would it be…closer?
Not poss.
I’m passing thru.
How does he know where I am? Ah, my university email address. A giveaway.
Pub by the coach station @ 7.
And then his online status clicks to offline. I feel my heart hammering as temptation nags me. I know I’m good player. But what if JazzStar’s been losing deliberately? Playing me? The possibility is so intoxicating that my legs totter as I exit the library.
I am dressed to kill because I make my own advantages. The pub is mostly locals, and I turn heads as I enter. I like that. And it’s no trouble to recognize JazzStar because he’s got a chess set all set up and ready. It can’t be a pub set because it’s complete and well cared for. I knew he was pro. Turns out JazzStar is a man after all. I slide into the seat opposite, in the eaves alongside a staircase to the upper rooms.
“This is a first,” I say with a smile. Like I said, I don’t care for looks, but I’ll describe him. JazzStar is a man fifteen, maybe twenty years older than myself. This gives me a kick already; I know I can hold my own against players twice my age but visual proof is good. His chin is pointed like the man in the moon’s, he has full lips—something my roommate once complained she finds a complete turn-off—and groomed eyebrows. He’s in a suit.
