G Is for Games

by Alison Tyler

  I sit opposite him, legs stretched out, not brushing against him but close enough for him to feel my presence. We chat, small talk at first but soon progressing to our usual joking, teasing, and eventually, flirting.

  At every point that things look like they could go further, one or the other of us makes an excuse to break off conversation; another round, a trip to the loo, or a visit to the fag machine. We’re both enjoying the power game, unsure as to who’ll crack first. It’s like playing chicken, but rather than seeing who’ll veer away first, we’re seeing who’ll take that final step over the mark.

  And we’re both playing to win.

  I enjoy looking at him—following the contours of his face with my eyes, trying to identify exactly what it is that attracts me to him. The eyes, still glinting with promise—whether he intends to keep it or not? The bone structure—traditional, strong, classically appealing? The lips? Not full but not thin; I can tell to look at them that they’ll feel good against mine. As I said, I’m a slut. I can just tell.

  Maybe it’s his body. It’s certainly toned enough, and I know from hugging him good night that it fits well into mine.

  But no, as he makes some dry comment and lust shoots through me, I know it’s got more to do with his mind than the way he looks. The packaging is just an added bonus.

  I smile, make some crack of my own back, and there’s another eye meet. I hold his gaze longer than strictly proper, lick my lips, just slightly, nothing porn star about it, then carefully push my tight skirt up under the table to just above my stockings. I checked earlier in the mirror: I know there’s a slight time lag when I stand up, when my stocking tops show. I also know it looks accidental.

  “Another pint?”

  “Sure.” He seems glad that the moment is broken. I stand up to go to the bar, struggling not to look back to see if he saw my flash—and if he did, what his response was.

  When I return, I sit almost imperceptibly closer, near enough for me to feel the heat of his body against my leg but still not quite touching. I can hear my heart in my head, feel it in my clit with every pulse, but still we talk. I notice him shift in his chair as I make some particularly provocative comment, and hope it’s because I’m making him uncomfortable.

  He stands to go to the loo and I see his jeans are bulging. I feel proud. Until I realize the bastard is playing me at my own game. My cunt is flooding and I’m mentally picturing his cock. Is he cut or uncut? How big is he? What does it taste like? He’s returning the flash. And it’s working.

  He doesn’t look back, either.

  I can feel my arousal rising. My pelvis is warm, tingles going from clit to chest, nipples stiffening beneath my T-shirt, clearly visible. Which will show him he’s winning when he gets back—but, I realize, will also help me reassert control. Because men are easy like that. Rather than batting away the thoughts of his cock, I dwell on them, imagining taking him into my mouth, feeling his cock stiffen further, tasting his salty pre-come and breathing in his scent as I slide my lips millimeter by millimeter down his shaft, not moving at any point until I hear him groan.

  It has the desired effect.

  I’m lost in my headfuck when he returns, and I catch him shooting a glance at my nipples.

  One–love to me.

  He leans over. I think he’s caved as his hand slides toward my neck. He touches me. Softly. Raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I can’t suppress my shudder. Then, “Ow!”

  I see him holding a fine gray hair between his fingers.

  “Thought you’d want this pulled out.”

  Love–all.

  His eyes are dancing now. I know he felt my response. I need to score some points back. And quickly.

  I start chatting; nonflirtatious—something to do with work. As I talk, I gradually lean forward, by a process of animated hand gestures. I know he can see down my top. I chose it because it gapes at the front. I love cowl necks. I remember the feeling of his hand on my neck, controlling the delicious shiver at the memory but ensuring that my nipples stay stiff. And then, the gamble. I make sure I’m drinking quickly so I constantly have a mouthful of beer. At the next joke he makes, I laugh harder than normal, beer spurting from my mouth. Only a small amount, but still not a good look. But it does mean that beer is drizzling down my neck, heading toward my breasts, which he—and no one else in the bar—can see.

  He shifts again, as I feel the drop trail down my collarbone, between my breasts, one trickle sliding toward my nipple.

  He’s still talking but then he stumbles across his words; something he never normally does.

  One–love.

  I want the game to move on.

  “Shit.”

  I put my hand on my collarbone, leaning back, and wipe my breast clean of beer. He can’t see me stroking my breast close up. But he can clearly see the outline of my hand under my top. I rub myself clean then bring my hand to my mouth and lick my finger clean. Again, more perfunctory than porn star, but I take rather longer about it than I otherwise would, glancing down “Princess Di style” as I do. After all, I’m not flirting. I’m simply sucking beer from my fingers.

  “Shame to waste it.”

  He doesn’t reply. I look up.

  “Bitch.” His tone is light, but he’s slipped. He’s given a response.

  Thirty–love.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He realizes he’s losing. The clock is ticking. The pub is only open for another thirty minutes. And I need him to invite me back.

  “Did I tell you about Ella?”

  Oooh, he’s playing dirty. The “see if I can make her jealous” ruse. I get a flicker of indignation but push it back.

  “No. Go on.”

  “Met her at a party last week. One of those instant lust things. God, could she suck cock. Might have to see her again.”

  He’s playing really dirty. He knows I consider blow jobs “my territory.” My gut instinct is to brag about my own abilities, but no. I hold back.

  “Men and blow jobs. You’re so easy. And you all think you know how to give head.” I laugh.

  The ball is in his court.

  “Some of us do,” he says.

  Forty–love.

  “And I’m going to have you coming in my face by the end of tonight.”

  Game.

  I do like to win.

  BONNIE DEE

  SHOWTIME

  GAMES BRING A LITTLE EXCITEMENT and joy into our humdrum lives. Everybody wants to play at being a little nasty. Nobody wants to get caught.

  Well, maybe they do, a little.

  I used to play a game that let me walk on the wild side without actually doing anything too wild. Although in my late twenties, when I put on my old high school uniform and pulled my hair into pigtails, I still looked enticingly illegal. I wore that classic pleated skirt with no panties underneath, slipped my patent-leather shoes on over white bobby socks, buttoned my white Oxford shirt over my braless breasts, and strolled down to the Blue Heron Theater, where the triple-X movies were shown.

  On the few short blocks from my apartment to the theater, the constant breeze in the Windy City threatened to lift my skirt like Marilyn Monroe’s. I struggled to keep the plaid pleats in place. Okay, sometimes I didn’t try very hard, giving passersby a glimpse of rounded ass or smoothly waxed pussy beneath the skirt.

  Paying for my ticket at the dingy box office, I slowly counted out dollar bills, allowing the ticket seller a long look at my barely covered cleavage. Since only one or two buttons of the shirt were fastened, there was plenty of skin for him to admire.

  The ticket guy was young, probably a college student who was happy to have a job that gave him plenty of time to study in between selling tickets and manning the concession counter. His floppy brown hair straggled down over his eyes. As he sold me my ticket, he shook his head and half smiled.

  I smiled back, took my ticket and twitched my ass as I walked from the lobby into the darkened theate
r.

  These days, most guys prefer their porn in the privacy of their homes on their computers or TV, but at the time, there were still a few die-hard theater devotees getting their rocks off watching Barely Legal XVIII: Fuck Me Tender, Fuck Me Sweet. When I sashayed into the rundown theater looking like a fresh-faced, sex-bomb teenager, all eyes locked on me instead of the screen. But just to make sure I had their attention, I made my presence known, sometimes pretending to drop change and bending over to pick up imaginary coins from the floor. I flashed the fellows an ass they’d never see the likes of outside of electronic images or strip clubs. I was their fantasy come true and I was glad to provide that service. Made me feel kind of like Florence Nightingale tending the wounded.

  I scanned the theater for a likely subject, then sat only a few chairs away from my mark, perhaps a middle-aged man in a baseball cap.

  Catching his gaping gaze, I nodded and smiled, then turned my attention to the movie. For his benefit, I stared wide-eyed and shocked as if my virginal eyes had never seen anything like it before.

  If the guy’s gaze wandered to the movie, I let out a little gasp to bring his attention back to me. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe this!” I murmured low, a hand covering my mouth. I giggled and cast a sideways glance at my mark.

  When I was sure he was watching, I began my private show. I squirmed in my seat, making the sexy schoolgirl skirt ride higher and higher on my thighs. “Ooh! That’s disgusting,” I repeated my expression of shock over the action on the screen, but my legs pressed tight together, squeezing my clit. Reaching down, I casually pulled the skirt up until my naked pussy was revealed.

  I whimpered, moaned, and squirmed some more and it was hardly an act. My pussy was hard and aching with need by the time my hand reached it. I traced a finger along the hot, wet seam in between the folds of my labia then drew the juices up onto my clit. I tickled it in little circles, gasping at the sensation and half closing my eyes.

  A quick glance confirmed my audience of one was still engrossed.

  I let my legs fall wide open, allowing him an up-close-and-personal view. After diddling my clit for a while, I slid my hand back down between my thighs and plunged several fingers into my hole. It was slick, the muscles clenching tight around my probing fingers. I moaned a little louder with each thrust.

  My silent partner had his cock out, stroking briskly up and down in time with my finger fucking. He gave a choked groan as our mutual rhythm sped up.

  I gasped and writhed in my theater seat. Juices trickled down my thighs, wetting the rough, worn upholstery beneath me. My fingers didn’t measure up to a good, thick cock, even when I drove four of them in and out of my cunt. Soon I had as much of my hand as I could fit thrusting into me. The naughtiness of my erotic show enhanced my slowly building orgasm. Sparkles of delight gathered from the dark reaches of my body to coalesce in my sex.

  Another glance at my partner in crime verified he was ready to come, too. His hand slid up and down his cock with dogged persistence. If I was truly Florence Nightingale I’d have been down there with my face in his lap, giving head, but mutual masturbation was all I cared to share with this stranger.

  I was scarcely aware of my audience now, but if I looked around I knew I’d see necks craning as other patrons of the Blue Heron tried to view what was going on in row twelve, seat three. I applied the finger of my other hand to my clit, giving the last bit of stimulation I needed to put me over the edge. I cried out and bucked into my hand sharply several times, then collapsed back in my seat, letting my hand fall slack from between my legs.

  A muffled cry to my left alerted me that my seatmate had reached orgasm, too. He jerked and twitched in his chair. I looked with interest at the pale jet of come spilling onto his hand in the dark theater. He panted heavily for several moments. After he’d caught his breath, he opened his eyes to look at me.

  I lifted my hand from my lap and licked my fingers as carefully as a cat cleaning its paw. Smoothing my skirt back down over my crotch, I faced him with a sweet smile. “Have a nice day.” I rose and walked from the theater, skipping the rest of the movie now that my private show was finished.

  With a few subtle variations, this was my game.

  But one evening when I walked out of the theater after I’d done my public service, I found the ticket seller sweeping up the lobby. I’d rarely seen him outside his booth, and I was surprised to see that he was pretty hot, with a lean build and sultry, dark eyes. Leaning on his broom, he stared at me, his bedroom eyes reawakening the sparks of desire I’d just laid to rest.

  “Finished your business?”

  “I’m not a whore,” I snapped. “I just like to play.”

  “You like to play?” He shook the hair back from his eyes and gave me a long, slow once-over that burned my skin like a fever. His eyes locked on mine. A whisper of a smile curved his lips as he reached down and brushed a hand over his crotch. “How’d you like to play with this?” The game turned on a dime. The young ticket guy was hot and I was still horny. Putting on my sex show for the patrons didn’t seem like enough anymore. I craved another level of danger.

  I sucked my lower lip into my mouth, then let it go. I scanned his body as he had mine, trying to make him squirm, then nodded my head once. “Okay.”

  A flicker of surprise shot across his dark eyes. Maybe he thought we were going to stop at flirting. He should have known better. Covering his momentary shock, he reached for the zipper of his fly.

  “No.” I slunk toward him with a hip-swaying gait. “Not yet. You go down on me first, then I’ll blow you.”

  He shrugged. “Whichever.”

  I liked his compliant attitude. It earned him my smile.

  “Let’s see what you got.” With more force than finesse, he pushed me up against the wall and ripped my shirt open. My breasts bobbed free, heavy yet firm and round. He bent his head to suck my nipple into his mouth. A sharp, pleasurable pain shot like a bolt of electricity from my breast down to my crotch, and I gasped at the unexpected speed of his attack.

  He licked and nibbled one rosy bud, then the other, his hand lightly squeezing the breast he wasn’t sucking on.

  I moaned and arched my chest toward him.

  “Oh, baby,” he murmured, fondling my tit. “You like that, huh?” He alternated nipping and sucking, twisting and pinching until the powerful surge of neural signals to my crotch almost gave me orgasm number two for the evening.

  “Yesss,” I hissed. “Now go down on me!”

  I liked the ticket seller for obediently dropping to his knees. He pushed up my skirt and covered my smooth cunt with his hot, wet mouth. He gripped my hips in his hands and sucked and licked at my clit.

  I thrust my pelvis toward his marvelous mouth and talented tongue. My second orgasm of the evening swelled inside me, much bigger and deeper than the one I’d achieved with my own hand. It burst like fireworks against the dark screen of my closed eyelids. Panting for breath, I collapsed back against the wall. Only the kneeling man’s hands kept me upright on my unsteady legs. After a few deep breaths and several trembling aftershocks, I opened my eyes. They flickered and focused, then opened wide with shock.

  We had an audience.

  Roused by my loud moans and cries, several of the movie patrons had come out to watch the live sex show in the lobby. I would have felt embarrassed if I wasn’t so high on sex that I didn’t have an ounce of modesty left in me.

  Watching the men as they watched me, I knelt down in front of the ticket guy. I pushed his pants down his hips, releasing his cock. It pulsed in my hand, the veins throbbing and the engorged head purple with blood. I continued to gaze at my audience as I placed the head of his cock between my pink-painted lips and sucked it into my mouth. With exaggerated moans of pleasure, I swallowed him deep, then released his glistening length, only to draw it back in again.

  Grabbing his ass with both hands to hold him steady, I bobbed my head up and down. My watchers were hauling their cocks out of their
pants and stroking in time with me. It was like I was blowing them all at once, and the feeling was powerful. I enjoyed both being on display and the control I had over the men.

  The ticket-taker began to groan and buck. He held my head between his hands and pumped into my willing mouth. Suddenly, I wanted him inside me. I stopped sucking and looked up. “Fuck me now!” I ordered.

  Give him credit. The boy didn’t hesitate or look surprised. He even had the sense to whip a condom from his pocket, which made me wonder if he hadn’t sort of planned this. I mean, who bothers to sweep up a XXX-theater lobby?

  He pulled me to my feet and pushed me up against the smeary candy counter. Over his shoulder, I continued to gaze at the men while the ticket guy rammed his cock into me. I was wet enough that he slid in easily, but he was big enough that the fit was tight. My inner muscles clenched around him.

  “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.” I shouted porn-movie dialogue as I clung to him.

  He pumped in and out, driving me back against the counter. I wondered if my ass would break the glass before we were finished.

  The ticket guy’s face was contorted in ecstasy, as were those of a number of the art house patrons lounging against the wall, watching us. Like champagne corks popping, they began to come, one by one.

  Turning my attention to my immediate partner, I dug my nails into his back and held on as he shuddered against me. He gave a long, protracted groan as he came. I felt his cock pulse inside me with his releases before he collapsed against me. Luckily, the counter glass held.

  By the time we disentangled ourselves, the movie patrons had dispersed either back into the movie theater or out into the street. It was a banner night at the Blue Heron.

  As the ticket guy pulled away from me, I lowered my skirt over my dripping pussy and stooped to pick my shirt up from the floor. I slipped my arms into the shirt and tied a knot with the shirttail to cover my chest. The ticket guy stuffed his cock back in his pants, and we stood for a moment looking at each other.