The Games People Play - a short, erotic story
(Note: This story contains bdsm elements. If these offend, please do not read. 18 + only)
His eyes were as dark as black ink, but with a glitter in them like a flash of sunlight on a pool of water, and when he looked at me his gaze was intense and steady – a man who was used to being looked at, but who only acknowledged a privileged few. His face was lightly suntanned and clean-shaven, and his dark hair had touches of grey around the temples. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit, and a white shirt, the uniform of City businessmen and diplomats. He, however, was neither of those. He was a government minister, and he was the man I had come here to meet.
He held out his hand to me. “You must be Claire?” It was not my real name. I never used my real name. “I expect you know who I am, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.” I didn’t extend my answer into conversation. He wasn’t here to converse with me, beyond the very minimum of social niceties.
“You are happy with our arrangement? There is nothing that causes you any disquiet?”
“Very well, come with me. I have a room reserved. I understand that you’ve visited this place before, so you will no doubt be familiar with the layout?”
“And you are familiar with the club’s very strict privacy rules? I understand that you signed the contract when you joined.”
“I am, Sir, and I did.”
“A woman of few words, I see. I like that. Social chitchat is very over-rated. I have to endure it enough with the endless government functions I attend.”
I did not answer.
He took me to the room at the top of the curved staircase, which I have visited only once before. I know it is the most expensive of the rooms at the club, and reserved for their very special guests. Once inside he walked to the leather armchair to one side of the wide Georgian-style fireplace, unlit on this summer evening. A small round table was placed next to the chair, on which was a cut-glass decanter, which probably held whisky or brandy, and which sat on a round silver tray, with a single glass. He poured himself a drink, then sat back and contemplated me for a moment.
He had not invited me to sit. In fact, apart from the large four-poster bed there were no other seats in the room. I tried to stand still, without fidgeting, which I knew would probably irritate him, and after about twenty seconds, during which time his eyes never left mine, I received my instructions.
“Remove your dress and hang it up in the closet over there. Keep on your shoes and stockings.” His voice was not harsh, but the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed.
I immediately unzipped the simple black dress I was wearing and stepped out of it. I was wearing no underwear as per his instructions; so, with only black stay-up stockings and black heels I walked over the deep-pile carpet to the closet. I knew that I was being watched intently, so I made sure that my hips swayed a little as I walked.
I returned to where he was sitting.
“Kneel down here, next to me, while I finish my drink.”
I knelt so that I was within his reach. He sipped at his drink while studying my breasts, before leaning out and running the palm of his hand over them. His hand was warm, but I still shivered, and felt my nipples harden. He dipped a finger into his drink and brought it to my breast, coating it with the alcohol, before leaning forward and sucking it off, nipping me slightly with his teeth.
“Whisky-flavoured nipples are really quite delicious.”
The procedure was repeated several times on both breasts, before the glass was finally drained. He handed me the empty glass to be returned to the silver tray, even though it was easily within his reach. It was part of the power play, establishing the level of control between us, and was not unfamiliar to me. This man was an alpha male to the ends of his perfectly manicured fingernails.
He stood up and removed his jacket, handing it to me.
“Hang it in the closet please.”
I walked slowly, again swaying my hips and giving a gentle rotation of my buttocks for his enjoyment. By the time I returned he had also removed his waistcoat and tie, which he had placed over the back of the chair.
“Stand at the foot of the bed,” was his instruction.
He walked over to a rosewood cabinet nearby and perused the contents, removing several items and bringing them to the bed, where he placed them in a neat row. Included in that row were a leather collar, a paddle, a leather strap and a cane. Did he plan to use all four items tonight, I wondered? And was I to be restrained too? I was both nervous and excited at the same time.
He placed the collar expertly round my neck. Standing back to admire it, his eyes glittered more than ever, and his rich, masculine voice gave me goose bumps.
Wearing a collar feels so normal to me now, and the instant it was in place my whole inner being changed and I wanted to sink to my knees in front of him in true submission, but of course I must not move without an instruction.
“There now, you are mine for the evening, Claire. You and I are going to have a little fun, aren’t we?”
I assumed the question was rhetorical, so remained silent. He came very close to me and bent his head to my ear, whispering into it.
“Yes, my dear, we are going to have a lot of fun I hope. Come.”
He took hold of the clasp on the front of the collar and led me closer to the bed.
“Bend over the bed and spread your legs wide. I don’t think I need to restrain you, do I? I’m sure you’re a very good girl and will stay in position for me.”
My voice was little more than a whisper. “Yes, Sir.”
I did as he asked as the adrenaline surged through me, exciting me with the anticipation of what was ahead. He slid his warm palm up my leg and across my buttocks. His palms had the smooth skin of a man who worked with his brain and not his hands. His fingers slipped between my thighs.
“I see you are already wet for me. I wonder if you need this more than me?”
I did not respond. My body was talking for me. I didn’t have the words to tell him how much I needed to feel his hand, or his belt, or the paddle strike my flesh. I was unsure about the cane. It had been a long time since I had felt its licks and I was nervous, but not afraid.
“What is your safe word?”
“It’s teddy bear.”
I couldn't see him, but I sensed he was smiling. He repeated the word to me. “Teddy bear it is. Shall we begin?” Again it was a rhetorical question.
His hand came down crisply on my right buttock, followed by the left. He swung his arm rhythmically from one side to the other; while I gently groaned each time his hand made contact. He did not make me count, and I soon lost count in my head. He would stop when he was ready to move on.
The only sound in the room was the crisp slap of his hand against my bottom and my gentle groans. I trembled in anticipation of what might lie ahead. His hand ceased its toil. There was a short break while he ran his palm over my rear end, touching and squeezing my flesh and I could hear his slightly raised breathing, but he did not speak. He leaned over and picked up another item from the bed. I assumed it would be the paddle, but I couldn’t be sure. Not knowing added to my nervousness. Suppose he went straight to the cane? Could I endure that?
He moved a little closer to me and his hand pressed firmly down on my lower back. There was no need. I had no wish to move away from him. He began to beat me with the leather paddle. Left cheek, right cheek, left cheek…again he established a rhythm. The pain was intense, but I was becoming very aroused. His heavy breathing indicated that he was too. A slight groan escaped from my mouth.
He spoke to me for the first time since we'd begun, but didn’t break the rhythm once.
“I do like a woman who enjoys a good beating. Is your cunt aching for me yet?”
“Yes, Sir,” I gasped.
“Very well, but not yet. We have some way to go before that. I intend to make these globes a nice even shade of red before I move on.”
He continued, increasing the strength of his strokes. Again and again the leather paddle was thrashed across my glowing buttocks, as my groans increased in volume and frequency. I knew the rooms were sound-proofed, so had no worry about being heard beyond these walls.
The pain was unbelievable, but as it rose in intensity, so did the ache in my groin and the longing deep inside my sex. I craved this man with a feral need that only came over me at times like this. I was no longer the respectable married woman. I was a sex-crazed harlot who wanted everything this man had to offer.
I had begun drifting into subspace by the time he stopped. Maybe he realised that, and that was the reason he paused. If his pleasure lay in causing me pain, then he would need me to be fully engaged.
He reached over and stroked my red-hot buttocks, which must have been glowing like a traffic light by then. I moaned a little, but it was only a moan of deep need. I still wanted more.
“I think I will skip the strap. But I want to use the cane. Just five strokes. I think you can bear it.” He wasn’t expecting my agreement. The only word he expected to hear from me was teddy bear – and it was a word I had never had cause to use in a scene before. Would I use it now? I didn’t know.
He paused – five seconds? – ten seconds? I didn’t know. It seemed like an eternity before a white hot pain flashed through my body as I heard the first crack of the cane hitting my buttocks. I sucked in my breath and forgot to let it go again.
“Breathe,” came the instruction. I released the breath from my lungs. The second, third and fourth followed in quick succession.
“Just one more. Prepare yourself.”
The fifth stroke was the equivalent of the previous four combined. I couldn’t stop myself. I came instantly, great waves of pleasure rushing through my body in never-ending ripples. This was the release I'd been longing for.
Barely had my climax ended when he took me hard, ploughing his solid staff deep inside me again and again, until he too came with a roar and collapsed on to my sore and painful rear end. I had never felt so drained and yet so satisfied.
The taxi dropped me at home at nine p.m., stiff and in a little pain, but completely and utterly sated. My husband, Charles, had told me he wouldn’t be home until ten-thirty and not to hold dinner for him, so I prepared myself a snack and a glass of wine and sat down, carefully, into the comfy armchair.
Shortly after ten-thirty I heard the front door open and my husband came into the sitting room, where I had just finished watching the News. He bent to kiss me.
“Hello, darling. Have you had a good day?”
“Wonderful, Charles. Let me get you a whisky.” I knew he liked a glass before bed. “I saw on the News that you won the vote.”
“Yes, but it was close. The PM wasn’t very happy. What did you do this evening?”
“I met my friend, Claire. We had a wonderful evening.”
He looked at me with his dark, intense eyes, which contained a hint of mischief.
“I’m so glad, darling. You know, one day you must bring your friend Claire home with you. I’m sure I would like her.”
“I’m sure you would like her too.”
We both raised our glasses to each other in a silent salute.
I hope you have enjoyed this story. Your comments are always welcome.