by Alison Tyler
“So what time do you get off?” I glanced at the textbooks stacked on the candy counter. A student, just as I’d thought.
“After the midnight movie.”
I nodded. “And what will you do then?”
He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head as he regarded me. “Take you out for coffee.”
“That’s what I thought.” I smiled.
That evening was the last time I put on one of my private shows. But it wasn’t the last time the ticket guy and I fulfilled each other’s fantasies.
RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
CHECK, MATE
IPULL OUT MY CHAIR and gracefully sit down before the sixty-four-square, black-and-white board, a refined masterpiece imbued with the art of the ancient ritual of chess; taking my place as if I were the queen on the board overseeing her minions, rather than just a decent player going up against worthy competition, with as good a chance as anyone else of coming out ahead. Sometimes that’s how I like to think of chess, especially when my opponent is a hot guy who would otherwise make me quake in my pointy heels.
I pretend each tournament is like a ball, an old-fashioned yet elegant battle of the sexes, with each side jockeying for position, eyeing one another up and down, perusing, plotting, percolating, trying to get the better of not only centuries of knowledge but of each other.
Chess is as much about reading people as it is about knights and rooks, a psychological thriller writ large as synapses fire and mind games abound. As with poker, the more you can discern about the other player’s style and motives, the better off you’ll be as you get into the thick of the game, when a single crucial move can take an hour. It’s as much about what happens off the board as on, and I never underestimate the power of a little psychological warfare, not to mention the strategic use of cleavage.
Anything that works, right?
I wear business suits like the one I have on today, sleek, sharp and black, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the swell of my large breasts, which are barely contained by the demi-bra underneath a thin shell of a white top, the kind that costs a hundred dollars to look like it cost five. During the game, I get up and stride through the aisles, my eyes flitting over pieces locked into tangled configurations, elaborate schemes that require the sexiest of all activities: thinking.
When I’ve returned to my own sliver of intellectual foreplay, I’m back in power mode: I’m the queen, he’s the king, and we’re playing until one of us surrenders—or dies. The sexual tension and high stakes ratchet things up a notch for me, and I probably look like I’m fantasizing about something much more exciting than seeing his king boxed into a corner, unable to escape.
I’ve come to be at least a local chess champion, working my way up through the ranks into the upper echelons of the game, where players speak in code that outsiders cannot penetrate, rattling off moves and names and endings that only make sense to the rarified few. I can take or leave all the insider madness, the posturing and politics; when I’m here, I just want to play, and play hard. When I’m done, I let loose by fucking the hell out of whoever’s in my bed.
Reporters have commented on my seemingly lackadaisical approach, suggesting it’s a way to lull my opponents into complacency until my killer instinct picks up and I zoom in, battering away at their defenses until they have no choice but to surrender. My pussy clenches with fierce need as I think of his cock throbbing hard as the adrenaline zips through his bloodstream while we both wait for this attack to be fully unfurled. The foreplay as he staves me off, postponing what feels like the inevitable (even though it’s not), and the fact that I could topple myself with a wayward move at any moment, giving way to his sly positioning, makes nothing a foregone conclusion. By the time things get really ugly, we’re both usually poised to attack, breathing through our noses, sinking further and further into our own interior world. I imagine that our feral play belongs somewhere far less tame than under the overhead fluorescents of some suburban hotel, and think about chess being played by early sages, think of real wars being won or lost at the game’s hand. Those who miss the sexual overtones are really missing out, but I’m not an evangelist. Like most things in life, those who want to partake of the erotic side of the game, those whose bodies and minds are always primed to pervert, will call the kinkiness of a chess game immediately. For the others, the power dynamic at play is wasted, the chance to conquer, tease, invade, and capture lost when taken too literally.
I bite my lip and tilt my head just slightly to the side, knowing how my sparkly silver earrings glint in the light, how my carefully coiffed brown hair falls just so. Whether or not I win the game before me, I need to win the one afterward, the one that will get my sexy opponent, him with the light brown hair falling over to cover his blue eyes, the bitten-down nails on the oversize hands, the baggy black shirt that leaves no hint of whether he’s buff or bland beneath, into my bed. They stage these competitions at hotels that strive to be four star, but usually peak at two and a half. It’s no Soho Grand, but tossing and turning against the crisp, cool sheets while trying to fall asleep last night, I knew I couldn’t stand another solo evening and sensed that the right man would soon present himself to me, whether he was aware of it or not.
Fixating on this morning’s enemy, knowing I will eventually make him squirm, maybe even tie him to my bed and see what he makes of being bound and helpless, makes me tingle with anticipation. I look to the board, where we’re slowly shifting from a Ruy Lopez opening that I, with the white pieces, initiated, to a middlegame that’s becoming decidedly murky as we each battle for control. I’ve been on the offensive but am debating whether to push on full speed ahead or proceed with caution and wait for him to crumble upon himself.
I subtly move a pawn on the side of the board, not giving away a hint of my plans, then press the button on the clock. My mind moves back to what will happen after we’re done. For all my fantasizing, I’ve never actually bedded any of my opponents. I usually pick up men in the bar afterward while enjoying a well-deserved cocktail, men who are more than happy to pound me in ways even the most crushing of chess blows can’t do. I’ve certainly thought about fondling some of the men (not to mention the women) who’ve sat across from me, especially the ones who’ve bested me with more than bravado. Being surrounded by so much sheer brainpower is often enough to make me drip as I wonder if some of these men could come close to doing with their bodies what they do with their minds: overpower, attack, pursue, conquer. I picture them chasing me around a bedroom until they pin me down and have their way with me, or switching things up and prostrating themselves before me and allowing me to slowly stroke them to ecstasy. I never picture dainty, demure sex; someone is always screaming and slapping and riding and writhing. I picture a leisurely dance of flirtation, the kind whose power builds the longer it’s made to wait, until we rip each other’s clothes off and have at it.
From the start, during those minutes of speculation that give me pause, when it’s really too early for him to be thinking so hard, and yet he does, he’s made me keep looking. I am forced to let my eyes linger on the board as his do, see it through his eyes as well as my own. Usually, the first five moves are blazed through as if by memory, each of us waiting for the other to take things out of the familiar realm, the openings we’ve studied countless times, into a brave new world where we can’t rely on anything but our wits, but this guy knows exactly what he’s doing. As his intense eyes dart around the board, seeing possibilities that clearly only exist in his mind, I finally give up trying to second-guess him and focus on possibilities that are only in my mind as I wait for his cue. The pieces will be there when I get back from my mental detour, so I think about him standing before me while I slowly undress, removing layer after layer, just slowly enough to make him wonder what else lies beneath.
As the game gets more complex, we start to draw a crowd, pulled in by the complications we’ve brought to this uncharted territory. He lifts his hand to move his bishop, his fingers reaching for its
phallic head, then pausing there for a moment, as if unsure that his intended choice is a good one. The rule is if you touch it, you move it. But as long as he keeps his fingers there, he can still move it wherever he wants.
If we were on a date and he were deciding what to eat, I might slip my foot out of my shoe and gently glide it up his leg, not helping him make his choice but filling him with desire, nonetheless. Instead, I shift to the side, straining forward enough to let a tiny bit more cleavage show. As his brow furrows, I picture it doing the very same thing as he slides what has to be a fat cock inside me.
Thinking about fucking him not only helps pump me up to win the game, it allows me to mask my true thoughts; I’ve never had much of a poker face and have blown games when bursts of utter glee raced across my face, causing my opponents to revise their hastily drawn plans. The more he makes me wait, the more tempted I am to blow the game, fold my king in humiliation, sweep the pieces to the floor, and slam him against the wall. His slow manner seems to mock me, as if he feels none of the same urgency.
In my befuddled state, I drop my pen on the ground, and when I bend down to pick it up, I really can’t help but look up at his erection. Oh, it’s there all right, silently straining against his jeans, thick and solid and all mine. At least, it will be once we get this damn game over with. I sit back up but still feel antsy, twiddling with the pen in my lap. His eyebrows twitch and he bites his lip as his eyes careen around from one side of the board to the next. Eventually, I stand and stroll behind him, looking at the board from his angle, from his side, but even so, I miss what he’s been plotting all along. It seems so obvious once I fall into his trap, but until then, I’m utterly confident in my moves.
I have no time to be shocked or fight back; his pieces have already entered my lair. I’m exposed just as surely as if I were strung up spread-eagled, my pussy open and vulnerable. That’s what I think about as I tremblingly move my king one short step away from doom. But he comes at me again, this time moving faster, pouncing. A quick glance at his face finds it smooth, unmarked by wrinkles, as my heart pounds at this new development. The onlookers fade from my peripheral vision as we duke it out on the board. A glimmer of an exit path beams at me, but he squelches it in moments until my king stands naked, quivering, and I’m forced to surrender him to the obvious conclusion. Yet I don’t feel like I’ve lost; my brain is on fire, not to mention my pussy.
After I lean my king’s head against the board, I offer my hand to my opponent. When our palms meet, I worry that I’ve let out too loud of an exhale. I quietly help him put the pieces back in their container, wondering if he will scurry off like all the rest. But as I place the last knight in its bag, he grabs my wrist. His thumb presses against the tender underside, his grip surprisingly strong. He tilts his head, indicating he wants to speak with me.
I follow him into the hallway where he pins me against the wall. It’s lewd, hot, and nasty, our mashed-together bodies visible to anyone who wants to see. “I think I’ve won more than that chess game, Laura,” he says, pressing his cock against me. It’s undeniably hard, and I stare up at his face, so close and intense. “You got me so hard in there I could barely think, and I can tell that you’re the kind of girl who needs to pay a price for losing, aren’t you?” His fingers graze my nipple gently, but that soft touch is enough to nearly make me slide down the wall, held up by the power of his gaze, and his dick.
“Yes,” I say quietly, no longer the power player I’d been even half an hour before. Now I really am his to do with as he pleases, surrendering to him right there as surely as if I’d been playing for my freedom. He pulls me along to the elevator banks, and my cheeks burn as I briefly make eye contact with some of the other players, who look on with curiosity and more than a little intrigue, probably wishing they could join us. But he whisks me into the elevator and just stares at me until we reached his floor. I scurry to keep up with him as he charges ahead, walking so fast that I bump into his backside as he tries to slot the key card into its hole. He reaches behind him and places his hand on my belly. Not my breasts or my pussy, but in between the two, over the buttons of my suit coat, where my body was roiling the most. He holds his fingers there until the door unlocks, then marches forward and sends me lurching after him.
We don’t need pleasantries or cocktails or even lights. He pins me roughly to the wall and kisses me, his lips smashing against mine as he rips the jacket off me, sending buttons flying. I’ve always thought if that happened in real life I’d be pissed, alarmed at the cost and waste and utter disregard for my property, but with him, I simply wait for more. He coils the tank top in his larger hand, tugging at it as if trying to make it disappear, before turning me so he can march me toward the bed.
“Get undressed,” he says, pushing me onto the king-sized mattress, his blue eyes darkened with lust. This time I tremble, but without a hint of fear. I know he’s about to give me exactly what I want. We aren’t living out our chess game but the pent-up desire we’ve each held in check during it. I strip as fast as I can, leaving a sloppy pile of clothes in my haste.
He unzips his jeans and the dick I’d glimpsed earlier pops out, larger than what I’d expected. Will it be too large? It seems almost monstrous, but then I feel myself quiver. “It’s not too big, is it Laura?” he asks, walking toward me and reaching for my hand. The minute I make contact with his cock, I know it isn’t too big for any of my holes. I shake, swallow hard, blink back the tears that threaten to fall softly onto the bedspread.
“It’s perfect,” I tell him, and he turns me around again so I’m bent over the bed, legs spread on the ground, ass in the air, body arched, ready to be invaded. He pulls apart my asscheeks and for a moment I think he’s going to try to fuck my ass with his big, bare dick, and I wonder if I’ll let him. My breathing becomes fierce and loud, but before I can bite my lip to keep in the sounds, he’s plunging his fingers inside me.
“Oh, you’re ready, you little slut,” he says. Hearing his gravelly voice I let myself become his slut, become the girl with her legs open for a virtual stranger, wooed simply by his skill at moving pieces of carved wood across a glossy board, at outwitting me while I’d had sex on the brain. He adds another finger, and then I hear a condom wrapper being opened. I arch backward, raising my ass as high as it will go, and then he’s inside me, that huge dick taking what I’m giving him, giving me back a rush of excitement. I fuck him, rocking my hips as I try to get him even deeper inside. He holds me down by the small of my back, pushing me until I can’t move, must simply lie there and let him slam and slide and surge and collide into my tight cunt. I am no longer the queen or even a lowly pawn; I am a wayward peasant caught by a vicious guard, “made” to give myself to him even though I’ve dreamed of such a capture since I was a little girl.
He seems to sense that I need more, need it all, need his cock and then some, because he moves me aside and bends me over so my hands are planted on the floor, my hair hanging down, as he drills into me. His hands move to my asscheeks, squeezing and pinching them, and that, joined with his fat cock’s relentless rhythm, makes me scream so loud I startle even myself. It’s the scream I’ve held in every time I’ve gone for dainty over dick-mad, sweet over slutty, coy over cock-crazed.
I scream like he’s playing the ultimate game of life with me, playing my body with as sure strokes as his moves with the black and white pieces. He doesn’t speak or try to silence me or even react all that much, but his dick is louder than even my cries. I eventually slow down, sobbing my way to a vicious orgasm that seems to last for minutes, as only the sound of my slickness being speared again and again fills my ears. Wordlessly, he takes me to the place where I am all woman, all pussy, all sex, a place I’ve needed to go for so long but have had to wait for the right transportation to get me there. His cock is my vessel, my ride, my fantasy come true, and I let him plow me like that until it seems like my pussy might burst with pleasure. I don’t know how many times I come, just that I am so slick h
is dick keeps sliding out, making him hold me ever tighter.
When he pushes my hips forward just enough to slide his cock out, I moan with part relief, part sadness. My body has clung to his, getting used to his shape inside me. He kneels down and licks at my sex, his tongue gentle in all the ways his dick hadn’t been, and he sucks me to another climax that really does make me cry. It’s like a lullaby after a rock anthem, a gentle letdown. Then he pulls me around so my face is in his lap, the condom off, my lips sucking him slowly, gently. He doesn’t rush me either, knowing that this blow job is as much for me as for him. With tears still streaking my face, he cradles me in his lap as I coax the come out of him, too spent for a spirited up and down. He strokes my hair while I slowly work his mega-dick. When he finally comes, I have to ease back and let some of his juice drip down my chin, swallowing what I can until he is done.
I lie there with my head in his lap, his come drying on my face, suffused with his smell, the room still charged with our energy. When I finally open my eyes, the room is dark and my head is on a pillow. I sit up slowly so as not to jerk myself out of my bliss too fast. I look at the bed to find a chessboard perfectly arranged, the elegant pieces of what must have been a pricey set glinting before me by the light of a lamp.
“Ready for a rematch?” he asks, holding a piece behind each hand, the traditional way of choosing who goes first. I point to his right hand and grin.
MICHELLE HOUSTON
NINE BALL, CORNER POCKET
GRIN ON HIS FACE, Jesse leaned against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles. A cue stood to attention in front of his groin, gripped between strong, folded arms. Across the pool table, Rhiannon leaned down and lined up her shot. The tip of her tongue licked between her lips as she concentrated.
“Two ball to the nine, corner pocket,” she said.
Jesse spared the table a quick glance before giving a soft, derisive snort.
