by James Grey
My heart beats faster and I fervently hope I’ll be taken, rather than a taker. I can’t have desires in front of so many people. Can I?
Oh, but…I do have desires. Whether I like it or not. I feel seepage in my loins as I watch as Simone has her loose catsuit ripped open and is thrown onto her back...oh my…right in front of me. I don’t know the man’s name, but he’s ripped. He thrusts hard into her, and I think she comes. I want that. But how can these people let go in public like this?
I pray for someone to struggle. Petra doesn’t. She takes Rupert. Of course she does. My worst nightmare is replayed again. What are the chances of that? Her version of having her desires is…sucking on him again. I find that odd. But, like watching a car crash, I just can’t look away. I swear he glances across at me as he walks off the board. He likes these games. In every sense of the word. That much is clear.
Can it get any more depraved? I notice Miss Honeywell watching from the terrace. Clearly the sweet old lady does not offend! Because Lilia is made to take a fairly sizeable dildo in her back hole, which she then has to hold in place with one hand while pleasuring her captor with the other. I cringe and flush at the same time.
Latifa has her way with the mightily-endowed George, taking obvious pleasure in riding him inside her cloak. I find myself thinking how much nicer it would be if her full, bouncy breasts were bared to the afternoon sunshine. What a magnificent image that would be!
She is onto her second capture before I have even moved. The game must be nearly two hours old now, and it’s getting uncomfortable standing in this odd position. Though the time has flown, such has been my incredulous wonder. This time she does remove the robe – the harlot! – and makes the guy suck her nipples. Fuck, I want mine bitten. Hard!
But it’s never an orgy. It’s strictly one at a time, always following the game’s structure. For long periods, it’s just moving and thinking. The terrace puppeteers seem in no hurry, and seem serious about winning. Then there’s an exchange of pieces, and an explosion of sex ensues. I’d be lying if I said I knew what to make of it. I frequently burn up with jealous desire, but I’m also scared of being in the game. At least that decision is out of my hands.
Jane ends up as almost the last line of defence. She’s Frederick’s third capture. She’s the cape-wearer, with just a bikini for modesty. I’ve never seen anyone look so vulnerable. He pushes her roughly down to her knees and guides her head onto his manhood. I’m jealous and I’m not. He fucks her standing up. She catches my eye a couple of times as he jerks through her and spasms. It’s a glazed look, one that chills me. I wonder if I’ve looked like that in my sessions this week. It’s surely not a good look.
And though I don’t like Jane, I feel some solidarity with her when I see those taken eyes. I wonder if this afternoon will turn out to be a bonding experience for our group. As icebreakers go, public sex acts outdoors must be pretty near the top of the list.
I’m paying no attention to the actual game, of course. Even with only six pieces left on the board, I’m still being shocked to the point of going slack-jawed. The crowd, the submission…it’s taken things to a whole new level. That, and doing it outdoors. I glance at the sky, and note with relief that there are no low-flying planes about. My, what sights they would see!
I still can’t believe any of this is real. And I note with some satisfaction that I’ve forgotten about Rupert and Petra. My mind has been consumed by other things. Mostly shock and astonishment. And need.
The captured sit on the grass at the side of the board, our team’s fallen remaining in whatever state of undress they left the scene, watching the final battles. I have long since forgotten my own ridiculous attire. All I’ve done, apart from watch, is advance a couple of squares in the latter stages. Just to remind them I could become a queen. If I go all the way.
“And, checkmate!”
That’s us!
I didn’t see our victory coming. What now? What happens to the, um, unfucked among us? Our queen – a busty, raven-haired woman in suitably regal robes, is the one with the honour of sealing the opposition king’s fate. It’s Harry the Scotsman. She smiles a watery, evil smile as Miss Jillings materialises without a word to hand her a strap-on and a multi-strand whip.
I have to admit she plays her role with skill. She strips him and whips him mercilessly with what I later discover is known as a cat o’nine tails. He actually cries out, but I notice he’s aroused. Then she instructs him to stand up, unclip her robe and attach her strap-on.
Then she fucks him in the ass. I’m rooted to the spot, wincing. It’s the most deeply shocking of all today’s scenes. And yet…he seems to enjoy it. In fact, there’s no doubt he does. On the strength of this submissive, painful act, and with nobody touching his hardness at all, he releases into the ground. It lands with a tiny splosh.
Then she makes him lick her clit until she comes, right there in front of everyone.
Game over.
After all that, I have been untouched.
I flop down on the grass next to Sarah. I’ve never seen such scenes. My legs hurt. I’m spent, even though I’ve done nothing but stand.
Sitting down in this dress, I feel ridiculous.
A little unwanted, too.
“You OK?” I frown at Sarah, whose paint is now decidedly smudged after she too was taken and defiled. I can’t help smiling at the get-up.
“Yeah,” she grins. “It was weird but…nice.”
“Hmph,” I say, tossing my head. “I wouldn’t know.”
She gives me a knowing look. I’ve noticed this with Sarah – sometimes we just don’t need words. I know she knows what I’m thinking. Which is that I might need a little time alone with my middle finger.
“And I need to get this gunk washed off in the shower,” she snickers.
We both burst out laughing, and head towards her room.
Chapter XVIII
Sarah’s room remains my sanctuary. Nothing bad or awkward ever happens here. I flop down on the bed I’ve started to make my own, my legs leaden and aching from all that standing up.
My brain hurts too. Not for the first time this week, I feel mentally bulldozed by the rollercoasters this place gives me. I’m fatigued beyond words again, yet somehow still tense. There’s a weird jealousy thing going on in my head after I wasn’t ‘taken’ in the game, and it’s eating up my energy. It’s a bit like when a guy teases you for weeks with his mixed messages, and you spend all day obsessing about it.
And it’s nothing if not mixed messages, this place. One minute you’re a slave, the next you’re dishing out the whippings. You never know what you’re going to get; whether to get keyed up or not. That’s the most draining thing about it all. But I guess all that not-knowing does make the orgasms pretty intense when they come round.
Speaking of which, my coiled stimulation hasn’t gone anywhere. I’m lying untidily on the bed in the backless dress, feeling the comforting sensation of today’s freshly-changed linen nuzzling my back. There’s a mild frustration creeping up on me.
Sarah is standing up near the window, looking dishevelled and helpless. Obviously she can’t lie down in her smeared coat of body paint. The poor girl desperately needs a shower. I wonder if they’re going to let her put on clothes again soon?
She seems to read my thoughts. “Guess what, Em? I can get dressed again! I just found a note on my pillow about it!”
“Hah, they like their little letters around here, don’t they!” I chuckle. “I think you might need a thorough scrub-down before you go raiding the wardrobe though…”
I curse my choice of words. Was I asking for trouble with that suggestion? I see the answer as she flicks her eyes onto mine. I’ve walked into something here.
“You volunteering to help me?” she asks, with an over-the-top pout she must have perfected at drama school.
I’m already swollen with sexual energy. Excitement rushes through my body as my mind paints pictures of her depainting. I need rele
ase very, very soon, and my affection for Sarah is growing. And yet I can’t bring myself to say yes. I baulk and stutter. I can’t agree to rub down another woman in the shower unless someone’s told me to. Can I?
And I’m not a lesbian…right? So would it be fair on her? She wants something, I know she does. Even though she got plenty this afternoon. She’s obviously got a real thing for me.
I realise that the comic-looking Sarah, a cacophony of mussed-up red hair and black body paint, and the bright white orbs that are her enquiring breasts, are all still looking at me in search of an answer.
“I, um…” are the pearls that escape my lips.
I want to do this! Why won’t I let myself?
“You know you want to!” she says, gaining confidence, putting her hands on her hips. It makes my eyes drop down to her little bush, where the paint runs out. It makes me think. “Come on! Please?”
And there it is: my trigger. Someone telling me to do it. Pleading with me to do it. The responsibility of deciding melting away as I hear the words I need. I’m just helping someone out. I’m still a good girl, really.
But my heart thuds with excitement as I smile, shrug as casually as I can and swing my legs off the bed. “Okay, alright, you win!”
I know I’m letting my pulsing clit have its way with me here. But I’m just helping a friend – letting her win – right? A friend who no doubt wants some girl-girl excitement. A friend who is looking prettier by the minute. A friend who thinks I’m hot. I’m having flashbacks to that kiss we had.
“Aw, thanks Em!” she says. “I’ll try and make it worth your while!”
I gulp, and she pulls me up off the bed by my hands. “Come on, lazy legs! I’m the one who should be tired after chess, not you!”
“Yeah but you…I mean, I didn’t get…”
She just winks at me and hands me a towel. And I decide to give up speaking for a while.
The streaming water makes light work of Sarah’s body paint. Obviously they’ve used the best stuff you can buy. They don’t cut corners on quality in this place. In truth, she doesn’t need much of a helping hand.
But she’s standing expectantly in front of me with her arms aloft, black streaks of dying paint tumbling down from her neck and shoulders, gently tarring her breasts with tiny, inky waterfalls.
And wow, her boobs are quite a sight when she stretches like this. So firm and self-sufficient, all they’ve done is glance upwards at me. Her nipples are looking quizzically in my direction, challenging me where Petra’s angered me.
We have the shower to ourselves, thank God. My nerve’s running away again. I don’t know why this is so hard. I do this with Petra every morning! But that’s when everyone knows we’ve been made to do it.
“Come on lovely,” she encourages me, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath through her nose. “I can’t wait another minute to be clean!”
Fuck, she’s picked just the right words again. I’m just washing her off. It’s okay.
I join her under the warm jets, standing close in front of her, almost nipple to nipple, but not quite touching.
A little tentatively, I start at her nape. I simply run my hands over her skin, watching the blackness vanish as I work my way from her shoulders to her throat, her collarbone and then – oh fuck it! – her breasts. Her skin feels delicious, and it’s satisfying to see my good work taking shape as her natural colour begins to take over.
I do a first and a second run down each part of her body, and I swear her nipples are harder the second time than on my first passing.
I find myself lingering there, tweaking a nipple and rolling it gently between my thumb and forefinger.
I gasp at my own audacity. She gasps at my touch.
I take her other nipple and do the same, doubling her sensations in an instant. She opens her eyes now, and looks punch-drunk. She closes them again, arching her back and moaning a tiny moan.
Something makes me look over my shoulder. I check the gallery, always expecting to see someone materialize there. But it’s empty. And the door is shut. We’re alone.
I start to fear that I might get into this.
I pinch her nipples a little harder and her mouth drops open. This woman is completely at my mercy, her nipples hard as diamonds. It scares me that I might have this kind of power. I don’t know what to do, but I know I’m turned on. Can I do this?
Suddenly it’s as though she can take no more. Her eyes open again and she steps into me, pressing up close, so close that she’s got my toes wedged under her feet. And we’re having that kiss again, our naked breasts squeezed against each other this time as our tongues lock in the warm rain.
It’s heaven. It’s better than before. Holy hell this is hot! It’s wet and steamy and this girl can kiss like a Roman goddess. She bites my bottom lip and gently sucks it in, and my breath hitches as my control ebbs away. I can feel her hands running down my back now, across my bare ass.
It’s pure and beautiful discovery as we keep on kissing and roaming our hands over each other’s bodies. I sense – I know – neither of us wants this kiss to end. And neither of us can stop ourselves taking in every inch of skin we can reach while standing pressed together.
I’m sure all the body paint must have left her now, but the washing pretext is long forgotten anyway. We’re too busy trying to burrow deeper into the other’s mouth, dancing on her palate and slathering over her taste buds. Oh, this is really good.
The kernel of doubt and guilt inside me feels like it’s slowly getting slain. So what if it turns out I like to do things with girls? So what? Emma Carling does what she wants!
Suddenly she pulls away from me, takes my hands and gazes deep into my eyes. That intoxicated look is still in her pupils. We’re both naked and dripping warm water. And it hits me again. She’s a woman.
My nerves start to fray again, but she has no idea as she sinks to her knees, pushing me towards the centre of the shower stream so that I’ll be warm while she…oh!...shoos my knees apart and runs her hands up the outsides of my thighs and brings her face, parted lips, closer to…
No!
I feel my hand jink towards my centre, that old defence reflex. She stops her approach and I shake my head stupidly, hating myself. It’s like my switch has been flicked again, the other way this time.
“I’m sorry…I can’t…I’m not ready…” I mumble without catching her eye, slapping my own words across the cheek as they pour out of me like the tears I know aren’t far away. I’m being so unfair to her. I know how much she wants this. I know how much I want it. But that fucking voice inside my head still shouts to get her way, to stop my fun, and right now I’m letting her.
“It’s okay, hun…” she coos from down below, her voice all chocolate strawberries. God, she’s going to make me cry if she’s so nice about this. I can feel the sniffles coming on already as I step out of the shower and grab my towel.
She follows me, her brow furrowed with concern. I’ve been so mean to this sweet, pretty thing! I don’t deserve…
“We can take our time, Emma, don’t worry,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I know you want this. It’s not easy. I struggle too you know. We’ll get there. It’s been a big week for us both.”
I bite my lip as I try to stop the tears, nodding because I can’t agree more. This week has been nuts. The last ten days have, in fact.
“Sorry I’m such an idiot, Sarah. I’ve ruined it…”
“No apologies, babe,” she says. “I’m more worried about your need right now. You must be dying to get there.”
Oh, yeah, that. Now that she mentions it, I still haven’t come this afternoon. And whose fault is that, huh?
“Look,” she continues, her tone dripping with concern. “I won’t be offended if you need me to leave you here for a bit of time to yourself. Maybe you can imagine how we’ll pick up where we left off. Next time.”
She winks as she says it. I feel that fire rising in my belly again, and I
have an impulse to pull her face onto mine. I fight it off, of course. Because nice girls don’t fuck other women – or random men – unless they’re told to. I can see the delusion, but won’t respond. Idiot!
Instead I just nod. She gives my bottom a playful slap and leaves the room. It’s just me now, and the only sound is the drip-drip-drip of the cooling shower.
I’m standing there naked, with my towel in my hand. And then it hits me that my reflex to wrap myself up is no longer there. It hasn’t crossed my mind. Hmm. My thoughts flick around to the positive once again. I may not be winning every battle, but in the war against myself, I’m slowly gaining ground.
Cheered by the thought, I lock myself in one of the toilet cubicles and spread the towel over the closed lid. I sit down, lean back against the sturdy, old-school cistern, and splay my legs wide.
I slip a finger inside myself, and find I’m still astoundingly wet. Soon I’m busily working my clit. For the first time this week, it’s physical pleasure where I’m in charge and nothing’s new and nobody’s watching. When did I forget I could do this?
I take Sarah’s advice and imagine where things would have gone if I hadn’t gone crazy and run out of the shower. My mind takes me to some very pleasant places indeed, and before long it’s her tongue down there, not my finger.
It’s not long before a shuddering climax hits me like a bomb. Not a moment too soon.
Chapter XIX
I’m too shy to return to Sarah’s room tonight. So I slink back to my designated quarters, where Ice Queen and I ignore each other. It’s a full turn of the clock since I whipped her, and I’m dying to see if the marks I left are still there.
But she doesn’t give me the satisfaction, staying clothed throughout the evening. And since asking her to show me would involve talking to her, I make a mental note to look out for it at showers tomorrow.
