Game Over

by Sahara Kelly

  His shoulders broadened enough for him to wield the sword effortlessly. His chest filled out with muscle as did his biceps. His waist narrowed slightly and beneath his green tights—Sir Lincoln felt his world shift a little.

  Beneath the spandex, hanging—as always—to the left, was one hellaciously fine cock doing its best to thrust through the thin fabric. It was thick, solid and even in its resting state, pretty fucking impressive. Even his balls had developed into a sac that looked real fine from where he was standing.

  He thought of what his new and improved cock could do when introduced to Zara's pussy and began to grin.

  "Now that's what I call a Magic Sword."

  - - -

  The soft and unusual chiming from her LCD screen roused Zara into wakefulness. She'd hustled her two street fighting would-be lovers out of the room after letting them grab half an hour's nap. They'd been apologetic, embarrassed, anxious to try again and a little unwilling to leave.

  Finally, she'd shoved them physically through the door, shutting in firmly on one last hopeful smile. It was a case of "Hai" and goodbye. One shot was all they got and they'd taken it. And missed.

  It was what it was. She bore them no ill will. At least they hadn't broken anything.

  She'd changed the sheets, poured herself a nice glass of blue potion and taken a refreshingly long nap herself. It would have been more of a sleep than a nap if the wall hadn't dinged and told her something was up. One glance at the power meter told her exactly what it was that was up...Sir Lincoln's life bars.

  Zara's spirits soared to match. He'd finally pushed past the glowing yellow zone and was nearing the red end of the scale—something he'd never done before. "Go, dude." Zara punched a fist in the air.

  A bubble of anticipation rose in her throat and she laughed aloud, dancing around her chamber with the skirts of her robe twirling around her. She sang her theme song, not caring that it was off-key, off tempo and probably shattering a few of the more fragile items in the castle.

  So what if she couldn't sing? She could scream and that scream was going to happen soon if Sir Lincoln managed to achieve the near impossible and make it to her door unscathed.

  Hell, she'd even take him scathed a little. Just as long as all his working parts still worked.

  She darted to her desk and pulled a large book out of the pile of novels scattered across the surface. Maybe it would be a good idea to brush up on the essentials before Sir Lincoln arrived. Never hurt to be prepared.

  The Idiot's Guide to Fabulous Fucking fell open to her favorite section—the one written by some guy named Carpenter. It was a very detailed and comprehensive study of oral sex, divided into various subsections covering everything from how to not sneeze with a nose full of pussy hair, the best way to tongue a clit and at exactly what moment to withdraw to avoid having one's head cracked like a walnut between a woman's thighs.

  Zara hoped Sir Lincoln had read it. She'd hate to crack his skull open in her enthusiasm. Of course, the writer probably had a tongue long enough to lick his own eyebrow, but what the hell. Any hints along these lines would be nice. Even though she had yet to figure out how a carpenter would actually know this much about a woman's preferences...perhaps it had something to do with a hammer. Or nailing your tootsie to the bed?

  She shrugged. Whatever. Just reading about what she hoped Sir Lincoln would do to her was enough to put her so far into the mood she felt her thighs get sticky and her breasts begin to ache.

  When she moved on to the chapter about how to experience multiple orgasms, she broke out in a sweat, totally ignoring the rule that Princesses weren't supposed to actually do anything as plebian as sweat. They were supposed to glow or something.

  Obviously that stupid rule had been written by somebody who wasn't hornier than hell, whose womanhood wasn't aching to be penetrated and who had never screamed out an orgasm, multiple or otherwise, in their entire life. She absently licked her finger and turned a couple more pages, flipping past the section on anal sex—not real high on her list, but she'd consider it if it was a last resort.

  A few positions caught her eye, the ones with rather flamboyant names like "The Twist of the Phoenix", "The Ride of the Comet" and the euphemistic "All the Way to Heaven and Then Some". Since the latter seemed to require gymnastic contortions and might result in some serious dislocations, it got a pass from Zara. She'd have to work out a bit more regularly if they were gonna have a shot at that one.

  She'd take "Halfway to Cruising Altitude" and be damned happy with that.

  Nipples hard and pussy slick with her juices, Zara fidgeted as she read on, arousing her mind as much as her body. She was so fucking ready to get nailed—and this time it looked as if it might be on her horizons. Sir Lincoln's lifeline was glowing strongly, high up on the yellow section and definitely not showing any signs of diminishing.

  She slammed the book shut on the section about how to shower with your lover. Showering would come afterward. After she'd come. Maybe several times, since this was a fantasy game.

  Her heart thundered beneath her swollen breasts as she stood and drew in a breath of excitement. Her eyes darted around the room. Hmm. Quickly she tidied up, straightening the bed, tucking in the bedclothes neatly and fluffing the pillows.

  A quick flitter of her handkerchief whisked the worst of the dust off the bedside tables—tower chambers weren't the easiest places to keep clean—and Sir Lincoln's picture was positioned neatly facing the bed. Her Playpixel magazines were shoved beneath the massive mattress with a quick thrust of her foot.

  There. All ready.

  It was growing dark now, the skies gently fading from bright blue to a deeper shade that would eventually turn to starlit blackness. Time to light the lamps.

  Zara tossed her hair over her shoulder and reached for the matches. She could have just flicked a switch and turned the lights on, of course, but this was so much more sensual—more romantic.

  The candle sconces over her fireplace gave off the most delectable gleam when flickering and incidentally made her skin look a lot better, not to mention throwing her cleavage into much fuller definition and diminishing the appearance of the mole inside her upper thigh.

  As she lifted her hands to light the second sconce, her door crashed open with a massive...um... crash.

  She blinked. Sir Lincoln's lifeline wasn't red yet, so it couldn't be him. Could it?

  Something gleaming and black flashed past her shoulder and extinguished the candle in the sconce. A whip cracked and she felt the air fanned beside her cheek. Very carefully, she stepped to one side as she turned around.

  A deep voice came from a tall figure swathed in black. "Greetings. I have come to rescue you. I am Samuel Belmint." There was a flash of lightning behind him, illuminating his silhouette briefly. "I kill vampires, ghouls, zombies, send ghosts back to their graves—and if you have a termite problem, I can take care of that too." He reached into the depths of his massive cape as he fumbled for something, tossing his long blond hair out of his way. He produced a small white square and offered it to Zara with a slight bow and a clicking of heels. "My card."

  Zara slowly closed her eyes.

  Oh no. Not again...

  Chapter Five

  After passing her his card, Samuel glanced around the room and casually flicked his whip again, straightening one picture on the wall. "Sorry, Princess. I have a thing about crooked frames."

  "Also a thing for that whip." Zara gazed appreciatively at the coiled black length. "You're pretty good."

  He closed the door and stepped into the room, letting his cloak fall onto the floor behind him, a dark puddle he promptly ignored. "So I've been told." A quick smile passed over his handsomely somber face. "If anyone can relieve your needs, it is I, Samuel Belmint. I come from a long line of...um...really fine fuckers." He paused. "Make that vampire fuckers." He frowned. "No, that came out wrong."

  Zara waved her hand. "I get the picture. You zap vamps as successfully as you fuck."
>
  He nodded, a look of relief lighting his features. "Yeah, that just about sums it up."

  Zara glanced at Sir Lincoln's lifeline indicator. No movement as yet. It looked as if she had time to explore some possibilities with this vampire fucker. Or whatever he claimed to be. "You don't—like—do dead people, do you? No sixth sense sort of sex?"

  "Eeeeuuuwww."

  "Just thought I'd check on that."

  Samuel busied himself removing his clothing. A black vest fell to the floor, followed by his black shirt. Black boots and socks followed. Finally he wriggled out of his snug black leather pants to reveal a tiny black leather thong, from which he began to extricate himself with difficulty.

  "I sense a fashion theme here." Zara observed the puddles of dark clothing now littering her chamber. "Although I think the black skivvies thing is taking it to extremes, myself."

  "Do you?" Samuel glanced at himself in her mirror. "Actually, I rather like them. They get a bit snug around a few places when I'm vamp-zapping, but there's not a visible boxer line anywhere when I stride boldly around in my leathers."

  "Point." Zara nodded.

  "So...you want to dump the robe and have at it?" Samuel dropped the thong and sighed as his cock and balls, freed from their restraints, erupted into a more natural position between his white thighs. He looked at her expectantly.

  "Oh sure. What the hell." Zara dropped her robe. Then picked it up, shook it out and folded it carefully over a chair. Didn't hurt to show a dude like this that good clothes care was important in the overall scheme of things.

  She also showed him a few other things he liked, to judge from the instant response. His cock lengthened and swelled quite nicely, bringing a gratifying sense of feminine accomplishment to Zara's bosom. And other places. "Any particular position you prefer?"

  "Hmmm. Don't move..."

  Samuel's wrist twitched and Zara gasped as her nipples felt the slightest of pinches. "Shit. You whipped me."

  "Yep. Isn't it fun?" Samuel's blue eyes sparkled. "How about this one? I call it the pussy whip..."

  Once again his wrist made that tiny little move, only this time it was Zara's pussy that took the little pain, a stinging flick that was gone before she'd had chance to even register it. "Wow. You really are good."

  "I know." Modestly, Samuel nodded. "More?"

  "Mmm." Zara stood quite still, not exactly knowing if this was good or bad, but it sure as shit was different. And yeah, it was getting her pretty fucking hot. Of course, given her constant state of unfulfilled arousal, it didn't take very much, but this was better than reading about sex.

  Sort of in between reading about it and having it. An interim stage of foreplay, so to speak. She could feel the blood rushing to her genitals and her breasts, exactly as her book told her would happen in the section on "Your Physical Responses to Various Kinds of Stimulation".

  Perhaps the Idiots who wrote the guide weren't quite so Idiotic after all.

  Samuel kept up his sensual punishment, the tip of the whip cracking now and again as he whirled it around like a cheerleader's baton set on "high". He adjusted two more pictures on the wall, straightened a pillow and neatened her dressing table in between arousing her breasts and her pussy.

  Pretty damn talented fellow. Almost a maiden's dream—he was handsome and well hung, and could get her hot from a distance of four or five feet. In addition he could tidy her room. Not bad, all things considered.

  Zara panted as her arousal heightened. "You know, I'm getting rather hot and happy here, Sam." She parted her thighs invitingly. "You wanna take this to the mattress?"

  He narrowed his eyes. "There's a joke there someplace. Cannolis? Leave the gun?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Just turn around."

  Curiously, Zara did so, watching him over her shoulder as best she could. One more flick and she felt the lash wrap tightly around her wrists, binding them together. Oh yummy. A bit of bondage never went amiss. She swallowed down a lump of excitement and waited for his next move.

  A strong hand slid up her spine and planted itself firmly between her shoulder blades, pushing her face-down onto the bed with her nose smacked into the quilt and her naked ass pointing north.

  Christ. This wasn't her best angle, for sure. In spite of all the carrot sticks Bobsy kept bringing her, Zara still had a weakness for a nice cream-filled donut. And, like donuts everywhere—not just in the world of video games—they went straight to a Princess's hips.

  Samuel apparently didn't mind being mooned. In fact the feel of his cock as he gripped her buttocks firmly signaled his approval. Zara shifted a little so she could actually breathe and survive long enough to enjoy the experience—and waited. Perhaps from this angle he could slip past whatever invisible obstruction was protecting her from pleasure.

  He was hard, something she appreciated. However, when that hardness missed its target and started pushing someplace where the sun didn't shine, she winced. "Whoa. Sammy-boy, your aim's a bit off there. We don't know each other well enough to go that road. You haven't even bought me dinner."

  There was an instant of silent stillness behind her. Then a huge sigh. "Sorry dear. For a minute there I forgot who you were." Shuffling sounds preceded the removal of his cock from her ass.

  The fingers flexed and shifted her hips a little, but she'd sort of lost the moment. "Sam? What do you mean by that? You forgot who I was?"

  There was no answer.

  With difficulty, Zara heaved her face and upper body out of the muffling quilt, rolling over and taking a quick glimpse at her would-be fuck buddy's face. To her astonishment he looked rather morose and there was a definite glimmer on his cheek that could only be a teardrop.

  Unless he'd come already and shot himself in the face by mistake. Which would probably please her aspidistra but wouldn't do much for her. "Sammy? Talk to me, honey. What's wrong?"

  He heaved a huge gusty sigh this time, flopping down on the bed next to her with a droop to his lips. Absently he untied her wrists. "Nothing."

  "Oh come on, I don't believe that." She patted his arm. "You can tell me. Honest."

  "No, I can't. I'm supposed to fuck you."

  Zara sighed. "Don't worry about it. Wouldn't have happened, dear. I've got this magical sort of chastity belt. I reckon there's only one man who can get past it and into me. And it isn't you. But I do appreciate your trying. And that whip stuff was really cool." She stroked his pale muscled arm. "Now supposing you just get comfortable and tell me all about what's bothering you."

  "You sure?"

  "I've got nothing better to do, Sammy. Unload on me."

  Obediently Samuel settled himself into her pillows. "Don't suppose you've got any cookies around, have you?" His eyes were big and blue and winsome as he asked the question. "And maybe a glass of milk?"

  It was definitely a Mommy-complex. Next he'd be wanting her to tell him a story. Zara threw her mental hands in the air and gave up. She'd join a nunnery. If Sir Lincoln didn't get his green ass up to her chamber this time around, she was gonna take her vows, shave her head and deep-six the notion of ever having sex again. With anybody.

  Ever.

  - - -

  Meanwhile, outside the walls of the Tower of Chaos...

  "Hello?"

  Sir Lincoln of Green strode boldly—at this point he couldn't really walk any other way without feeling like a limp-wristed pansy—into the lair of Noxious, the five-headed ferret.

  He couldn't see a damn thing. No multiple-headed ferrets, no single-headed ferrets, in fact no rodents of any description. Just an odd bird or two, plenty of foliage and a pile of grey-brown garbage mounded up against the walls of the old tower.

  A chicken buzzed by him. Absently he whacked it with his Magic Sword, then spent the next five minutes fending off the fifty chickens his attack had created. He swore he'd never eat chicken again for the rest of his life.

  He took out the last one with a savage chop of his blade. Eggs are out too. Fuck the protein.

  "
Nice form there, buddy."

  Sir Lincoln stopped dead and looked around. To his surprise he was being addressed by the mound of garbage. "Er, thanks." The "mound" moved, resolving itself into a sort of fuzzy heap from which two heads emerged. "Noxious, the five-headed ferret, I presume?"

  A gusty sigh, accompanied by some really bad breath, answered him. "Yep. That's me."

  "That's us, dear." The second head butted the first affectionately. "You must be Sir Lincoln of Green, come to put us out of our misery?"

  Sir Lincoln stared. The second head possessed huge brown eyes fringed by long black lashes and a set of brightly shiny red lips. There was an incongruous pink bow between its ears.

  He looked back at the first head. Definitely a moustache. He blinked. "Uhhh...how...wha—"

  The second head giggled. "I'm Susie Ferret. This is my husband Ted."

  Sir Lincoln struggled with this for a few moments. "Uh..."

  The Ted-head grinned. "Bit confusing for ya, fella?"

  "You could say that, yes." Sir Lincoln surreptitiously checked to see if his ears were bleeding. He couldn't get a grasp of this situation at all. "Any chance you might want to explain this whole thing? In simple words, please? It's been a long day."

  The Susie-head looked sympathetic. "Poor dear. And you'll be wanting to get to your Princess, won't you?"

  Sir Lincoln's cock shifted at the mere thought. "You have no idea."

  The Ted-head butted Sir Lincoln's shoulder. "Oh we do, laddie. Make no mistake, we know the feeling all too well."

  "We do indeed." Susie nodded.

  Sir Lincoln looked around, found a convenient rock nearby and planted his ass firmly on top of it. "Okay. Spill the story. Looks like I've got time here since you're not chomping me or anything."

  Shpaaaaazzzzt.

  There was a hacking cough sort of noise and Sir Lincoln automatically grabbed his sword to fend off a rather disgusting lump of something yellowy-green and gooey.