One Night Only (23 page)

He strode down the hallway of the fifth floor pushing Louise in front of him. She struggled to keep pace, worried someone might misinterpret their body language. Before she could even see the room number, he had a door open and was thrusting her inside. He paused long enough to turn the safety latch and toss her purse onto the desk chair. Then, he threw her onto the softness of the bed. She tried to get up, but he flipped her over on her stomach and used his belt to bind her wrists behind her back. She twisted away, but that only made it easier for him to remove her shoes and unbutton her jeans.

“No,” she shouted. “Stop.”

“Hell, no.” Peter's voice had deepened and sounded ominous, sending a thrill of fear down her spine. “You're mine until your flight leaves, assuming I'm done with you by then.” He pulled her jeans and panties off together.

She tried to crab walk away from him, but he grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs apart. Using his pelvis to hold her in place, he unbuttoned her shirt and undid the front hook on her bra. Still clothed, he used his weight to keep her from escaping
while he sucked on one nipple and forced his hand in between her legs. He rubbed her slick clit with his thumb until she stiffened, close to the brink. He stopped and she screamed in frustration.

“What makes you think I have any intention of letting you enjoy this?”

She opened her mouth to answer and he stuffed her panties, fragrant with her own musk, between her teeth, cutting off her response. Before she could spit them out, he tied them in place with a bandana. Still on top of her, he grabbed both her breasts, pinching her nipples between his thumb and middle finger. She squirmed, but he stopped just before pleasure turned to pain.

Damn, he's good,
she thought in a moment of lucidity. “Stop it you bastard,” she mumbled around the gag, making sure she could still safeword if she needed to. She very much doubted that would be necessary.

Without getting off of her, Peter managed to remove his pants and she heard the reassuring rip of a condom package, one thing she'd forgotten to mention downstairs. He shoved himself into her so hard, her head pushed into the down pillows leaning up against the wooden headboard. Her breasts jiggled up and down with his thrusts and once again, she found herself near the edge. She attempted to disguise her approaching orgasm by trying to squirm away, but he pulled out, leaving them both panting.

“Absolutely no way.” He flipped her over on her belly and piled the pillows under her stomach. “Not gonna happen.”

Louise cried out, desperate for relief. Every inch of her skin burned with heat, her swollen clit ached, and her juices had soaked the bedcover and made her thighs sticky. Peter slammed into her again. She went limp, letting him fuck her, letting the tension build, she hoped, unnoticed. It took longer in this
position, but his cock massaged her G-spot, pushing her toward the edge again. When he pulled out this time, she sobbed.

“You're one hot little number aren't you?” He ran his palm across her asscheeks. “Maybe I need to throw you in the shower to cool you down.”

Louise knew no amount of cold water would ease the heat between her legs. She tried to rub her clit against the bed, but the pillows positioned her so she couldn't get any contact.

“No, you don't.” He flipped her back over.

Pissed, she kicked at him, but he caught her leg with one hand. He produced a leather cuff with the other and buckled it on, then grabbed her other ankle. She discovered the cuffs were attached to chains. Her legs were now pointing at either corner of the bed and she had very little range of motion. Straddling her waist, his still-erect cock on her stomach, he reached behind her and removed the belt. He took off the rest of her clothing and produced two more cuffs. She tried to prevent him from capturing her wrists, twisting her upper body, pulling her arms out of his grasp twice. But her strength was no match for his, especially with her legs already bound.

He ran his hands up the length of her legs, across her hips, and up to her breasts. She squirmed. She needed to come so badly, she'd do almost anything to get relief. Except beg. He pulled his own shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it and lay down on top of her. She pushed her hips up into him, but he kept his cock on her stomach, out of reach.

Laughing, he kissed her neck, her breasts, and nibbled on her ears. He dry-humped her belly and for a moment, she feared he would come that way. Finally, when she worried that she would pass out from frustration, he slid back into her. He rammed himself in and out of her so hard, the bed shook and the headboard banged against the wall. The tension that had
been building in her clit all evening became the only thing that registered in her consciousness. The heat of his skin against hers, his heavy breathing, the pressure from his cock thrusting into her, all just pushed at that tension. She couldn't hide what was happening any more than she could shove him away and get off the bed. Her whole body stiffened, her pussy twitched and pulsed and she exploded, sobbing with relief and ecstasy. She was vaguely aware of him shuddering inside her and the pounding of his heart against her chest. When her breathing had slowed to normal, he kissed her. She didn't remember him removing the gag, but she kissed him back. She had never had such an intense orgasm in her entire life.

Somehow, the cuffs were removed and she ended up under the down comforter, snuggled in his arms with her head on his shoulder, her pussy still twitching.

“My flight…” Panic surged through her for a moment.

He stroked her hair. “Don't worry pet, I set the alarm. You can get a couple of hours' sleep.”

She snuggled closer and closed her eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

I
do it for the money. That's what I tell people—
University isn't cheap,
I say,
a girl's gotta eat.
But what I really get off on is something else entirely.

I guess I'm rare. Whatever people say as to why they're attracted to someone—personality, intelligence, yadda, yadda, yadda—looks usually have something to do with it. But I couldn't care less. I never see my partners, and I don't want to.

Tonight I have an especially exciting partner.

All right, I'll clarify. I play chess. Competitively, online. And I'm good. I know, I know it's not cool. People say,
Why don't you go out in the evenings, Anna? You're a good looking girl, why stay inside on the Internet?
But I've got no interest in going to a bar and making small talk. What I love—lust for—is competition, pitting myself against someone else. It's a kick, trying to second-guess and outmaneuver a stranger. The money's a sideline, though I do love taking it from people.

And here's the thing: it makes me wet.

Hey JazzStar, r u ready?
I type.

My body temperature rises. JazzStar has never beaten me. But he's come close and we both know it. The timer blinks zero onscreen, ready to set off, and my palms are already warming. You see, it's always just possible that this time the power will tip the other way.

JazzStar moves the first pixelated pawn over the green board; the timer starts.

There's not much instant messaging banter as we play. That's not the point. I focus on planning my moves. Also on my own tension. What I know of JazzStar's game-play is that he's a fast learner, and that's nearly caught me out before. Anticipation is such a huge part of this game. It's a delicious feeling, suddenly realizing that the metaphorical rug's about to pulled out from under me and then righting myself triumphantly at the last second. Why wouldn't it?

When I take his first pawn I ease in my chair with pleasure. Is it wrong that this arouses me too? Because my desk is up against the window I can look out into the student rooms opposite. To anyone peering in I look so conscientious, tapping away at my essays into the night. What they don't know is that beneath the desk my legs are spread wide, all the better for me to grind myself against the chair.

JazzStar takes one of my rooks. I sacrifice two pawns and am rewarded by capturing a bishop.

Gud move,
JazzStar types. I revel in that, slip my hand down to my jeans. JazzStar doesn't know I do this while we play.

Three moves along my opponent unexpectedly surrounds one of my bishops, or at least I see that he will if I don't make a quick evasion. I did not see that coming; my breath catches in my throat and the flash of danger enthralls me. But I figure my
way out and, pleased at my own cunning, reward myself with a quick rub of my thumb through my denim. We both promote pieces and I'm getting warmer. Christ, I hope my roommate stays out long enough for me to finish this. As JazzStar considers a retaliation I ease open the sash window and let some cool air waft over me. One of the students in the room opposite catches my eye; as I sit back down I unzip my fly and wriggle down my jeans, holding back my grin. I keep my right hand working my virtual players while my left plays with my slick cunny. JazzStar keeps slipping out of my traps tonight. Each time I'm nearly caught it heightens my arousal with this twisted power-play. Here I go, inserting ring finger, middle finger, forefinger and thumb, one at a time and back and forth and—

The doorknob screeches from behind me, and here I am so close. I'm so caught up I slam the laptop lid down, so that when my roommate enters she thinks she's caught me looking at porn. My trousers are down and I'm flushed as a summer apple. Damn.

 

JazzStar doesn't return for days. When he does he interrupts another game I'm playing while I'm hunched at one of the long desks in the library, keenly missing my privacy and wanking in a figurative sense only—my roommate had had keen words with me about “working” in our room again.

U withdrew,
he types.

Did not!
I reply, feeling a flush flood me.
Got interrupted.

U withdrew,
he repeats.

Play again?
I ask. God alive, it's good he can't feel my heat through the ethernet. If we play, maybe I can hold myself till the end, then sneak into the toilets to relieve myself. I'll have to be damn quiet.

Why Thursday? I think, but type,
OK.

I draw my breath. This is breaking my rules.

I shift in my seat; the student sitting next to me glances up.

I always win,
I type. My fingers are trembling—all right, they're shaking.

How should I read that? Plain acknowledgment? Or sarcasm? Is he saying the game would run differently if we met? Would it be…closer?

How does he know where I am? Ah, my university email address. A giveaway.

And then his online status clicks to offline. I feel my heart hammering as temptation nags me. I know I'm good player. But what if JazzStar's been losing deliberately? Playing me? The possibility is so intoxicating that my legs totter as I exit the library.

 

I am dressed to kill because I make my own advantages. The pub is mostly locals, and I turn heads as I enter. I like that. And it's no trouble to recognize JazzStar because he's got a chess set all set up and ready. It can't be a pub set because it's complete and well cared for. I knew he was pro. Turns out JazzStar is a man after all. I slide into the seat opposite, in the eaves alongside a staircase to the upper rooms.

“This is a first,” I say with a smile. Like I said, I don't care for looks, but I'll describe him. JazzStar is a man fifteen, maybe
twenty years older than myself. This gives me a kick already; I know I can hold my own against players twice my age but visual proof is good. His chin is pointed like the man in the moon's, he has full lips—something my roommate once complained she finds a complete turn-off—and groomed eyebrows. He's in a suit.

“So you're a businessman, then?”

“You sound surprised.”

His voice is slightly deeper than I'd imagined. We measure each other up, openly.

“I still didn't withdraw,” I say.

“Huh.” He leans back, grinning.

“You know, we normally play for money.”

“And I thought it was for the thrill of pitting our wits.”

Instinctively I cross my legs under the table—I wonder if he sees.

“That too. I just figured you'd like to know how confident I am.” I flash a wad of my student loan and am pleased to see JazzStar's eyebrows rise appreciatively. “Shall we start?”

As we play a crowd gathers. The pieces gather at the sides of the board. So do the glasses—people keep buying us drinks. We keep them mostly virgin. Hell, I'm intoxicated enough. Normally, I'm meditative about my moves, taking my time to ensure I'm doing the correct thing, drawing out my pleasure. But we're beating our pieces on faster and faster, pushing our pawns up the ranks. My play increasingly takes on the feeling of wanking in front of the open curtains. I see a line of moisture form above JazzStar's full top lip, feel the crackle of escalating aggression between us. Damn, it's such good foreplay. How can anyone mistake the vibe humming over the table?

In a disastrous move I lose my queen early in the game. The crowd, the ones who know what is going on, gasp. Even JazzStar looks surprised. As I take my next move, my fingers are shaking.
But there's still that buzz telling me that the stakes are raised, I can pull this off. Between our alternating attacks a bishop disappears, two knights and several pawns. But I'm the first to get a pawn to the eighth rank on the board. JazzStar gives me a quick look. I get to promote this pawn now to another piece. Of course, there's the obvious one to choose. I choose my most powerful missing piece. That move's called queening.