Let’s play a little game

“Let’s play a little game,” she says. “Close your eyes.”

Obediently he shuts his eyes. He is slouched down in the pink
upholstered chair by the window of the twelfth-floor hotel room, his
arms resting on the chair arms, legs relaxed, extended, ankles
crossed. Midafternoon sun passing through the drawn drapes gives the
room a rosy glow. She watches his face, senses the faintest
apprehension along the edges of his willingness. He obeys to please
her, never sure what she will do with the power he gives her. She

She leans against the head of the king-size bed, the pillows piled
behind her back. She is resting on her left hip, with her left leg
tucked up close and her right leg crossed over it, her right foot
extending casually beyond the edge of the bed. Her long, soft purple
skirt falls in careless folds around her, and her small feet are bare.

She speaks in as quiet and neutral a voice as she can command, low,
unmodulated. “Now picture me in your mind with your eyes still shut.
Don’t say anything. Just think.” She wants to sound as if she were
speaking from within his own mind. When he is alone, she knows, he
does this: through all the months of their separate lives, he conjures
her in his imagination, sketching her loosely first with quick, broad
mental brushstrokes and then coming back to fill in color, texture,
roundness and depth, with fine, full detail, all the detail that most
entices him, most arouses him, drives him most feverishly to his
solitary tributes to her inexplicable allure.

She is wearing something tight on top, something black and cut just
slightly lower than absolutely necessary, and while his eyes are shut
she tucks it a little deeper into the waistband of the skirt to expose
more cleavage. She doesn’t have the slender figure she had when she
was twenty or even thirty, but the bustline still works, and sometime
after she lost her fear of appearing foolish she decided to make the
most of it while she could. Now, half reclining, leaning on one elbow,
she looks down to watch the swell of her breasts as she draws a
breath, and her breath quickens as she feels her own cycle of
self-arousal begin to mount.

She hears him sigh, a low, almost inaudible moan, and glances up.
His eyes are still closed and his position is the same, but the
contour of his body has altered dramatically. The towering hardness at
the center of his form rivets her gaze. A flush of desire passes
through her body, radiating outward from the center as if his mighty
presence were already hot within her. But no, not yet, not too soon,
wait–this will get better. She calms herself and steadies her voice.
Very soft now.

“Keep thinking,” she says. “Think of what you like best. Think of
what you want to do. It’s a pretend game, that’s all. Now–don’t open
your eyes, don’t change–just–unzip your pants.” A little gasp
catches her breath when she says “unzip,” and “your pants” comes out
in a whisper. She is staring at him so hard now that her gaze has an

His lips part, and he moans a little. He presses his eyelids shut.
He has to shift his hips a bit, and it takes him two hands to work the
zipper over the peak of tight fabric. She’s off the elbow now, sitting
up, silently, silently, sitting on the edge of the bed, never taking
her eyes off him as he works himself free, letting his left hand fall
away, and then–

It gleams in the dim light, his cock, his prick, his
hard-on–glistening with its own moisture, dark, fierce, hungry,
alarmingly frank and bestial. She is burning for it. A shudder passes
through her. She clamps down, doesn’t move. She is silent. She waits.
He is breathing hard now, and his lips move, forming silent, rapid
words. His right hand trembles in his lap. His cock throbs, the skin
so taut and shiny it could split. His eyes clench as if in pain.
Another second, another, and still she waits, her own mad heat
surging, warring to dizziness with her determined pause. She presses
both hands in her lap, holding down the welling passion, wetting her
lips in readiness.

He breaks first. With a raw sound in the back of his throat, he
frees his hand to fly to his desire. He is alone in his mind, alone in
his frenzy, alone, alone. A grasp, a stroke, a moan, a faster stroke,
and she sees it won’t be long. She moves like light, silent, headlong,
direct. He crosses the verge, his hand is a blur, he is writhing and
crying out, and THERE! her lips, her wet tongue, her seeking mouth
find him NOW, at the very instant, and he explodes with a roar, all
bursting hot come, from the depth of his fantasy straight to the
totally real.

A moment like no other. Like no other in a lifetime.

From the blackened crater of his brain, he opens his eyes. She is on
her knees on the floor beside him. She laps the creamy spill from her
lips and laughs. A fat droplet shines on her heaving chest.

“I won,” she says.