Fiction: The Game

He is done with me, this stranger stepping back from my mouth. His eyes, gray and squinted from his release, angle down at me. I am kneeling. I am naked.

My face looks up in shame, striped with his cum, still warm and liquid, now dripping onto my pale breasts.

He laughs at me, a condescending cackle of pity, even though his pleasure has been served by my disgrace.

The stranger zips up, turning to thank my master for providing me. He hands over an envelope of money.

He is done with me.

It was just the one time, until it wasn’t and became more.

They were all strangers. Strangers to me, though Master seemed to know them somehow. Every six or seven weeks, it was, often Fridays. Master marked me for them on a calendar in the kitchen, pairing me with a stranger’s name in red, like lipstick on cock.

It was a near-evening ritual, like vespers. They’d arrive late afternoon when the sun fell behind the roof line, executive suits dabbed in faded colognes of forest moss and juniper and cedar. 

Master would have me collared and leashed as the slave I am, dressed in a skirt and sheer top and tall heels, my lips painted in slick cherry red and my auburn hair styled into curls and waves over my shoulders. Done up for the “date,” so he teased — this way I presented more elegance for the stranger to deface.

The visitor would enter, and I’d be introduced. I’d stand to the side in silence as the two men talked and sipped scotch. There would be words about me, my slavery, how he keeps me, what I do for him and others. 

In time the conversation would lull, last words hanging in the air like the end of a chant in a church, and the liturgy would move on: Master would say to the stranger,  “Are you ready?” and the stranger would nod with a leering grin.

Master would raise a finger, and I would obediently unbutton myself, opening my top, my melon breasts falling out. The visitor would sigh, making a comment to Master about my “flesh tits” or “sweet jugs” or “crazy boobs” — each had his name for them, for me, for my topless identity.

Another finger raised by Master and I would untie my wrap skirt, peeling apart the panels and pulling the cotton away from my waist and thighs, revealing my pussy, hairless and pink and wet.

And now, more chatter about my body and sex, comments about my nipples, extended and pink, my pussy lips glistening. How long has she served you? they would ask and How have you trained her? and What’s her best, ah, skill?” — variations of questions corporate vice-presidents commonly use in hiring employees, now readily adapted to me, slave and cocksucker.

A nod from Master would send me to my knees, my naked breasts jouncing, with my face looking upward to a man I had never met before this day.

Kneeling, as at an altar, I would place my hands behind my back in submissive posture. The stranger would look down on me and ask “Yes?”

I would be nervous and overwhelmed, always, jittery in submission to a stranger, and I’d beg in a hushed voice, “Please?”

“Please what?” he would say, in voice of authoritative timbre that CEOs develop over the years.

“I wish to enjoy your cock, Sir.”

The script would be different from man to man, but it always was that kind of short back-and-forth recitation between us, a catechism of sorts, a required verbal debasement, as if everything else wasn’t defilement enough.

The stranger would then unzip.

Master said to the men that I wanted it. That I wanted men to do me like this, to shame me with their cock-sex. That my arrangement with Master “begged for this.” 

No, but also yes, and my further humiliation is that I cannot say all of that is untrue.

Sometimes you don’t like wanting what you want.

In time, the visits were made into a game.

There were two rules: (1) I was to make the stranger last for twelve minutes. (2) If he ejaculated sooner, the stranger would be allowed to whip me.

Twelve minutes was a long time.   

I took to slowing down my efforts, lessening the contact of my hands and mouth — anything to avoid a whipping.

But Master observed my strategies and imposed a new rule on me: I had to physically touch the stranger’s cock the whole time with my mouth or lips or hands, and there had to be movement always — any pause of more than a few  seconds was forbidden. Master would watch closely and monitor my adherence to the regulation. 

Still, I learned how to edge a man longer. I could minimize contact when a man was in my mouth. The grip of my hand could be softer. It was a lighter friction. It was the art of making a man come, but not making a man come yet.

Master always set a timer which dinged at twelve minutes. It was a mixed satisfaction when I heard it, for while it marked for me a “win” in the game, I would continue to suck the stranger’s cock until he was on the brink and took matters into his own hands, milking his load onto my face and into my open mouth.

I would “win” the game about half of the time, but always, inevitably, I would still be drenched with the sticky shame of a stranger’s liquid manhood.

Master kept count of the number of different men I had “cocksucked,” as he put it.  He took to putting my humiliations into a spreadsheet — all to be expected, perhaps, from a VP of finance. Master also created one spreadsheet column to note “time to ejaculation” and another for the “number of strokes” in my whippings.

At one point Master announced there had been twenty-nine different men, from his company as well as other associate companies. He said, “you’ve cocksucked most of the top brass of four corporations.” He said it with twisted pride.

And now some men were returning for seconds and thirds.

He printed off this spreadsheet regularly and tacked it up alongside the calendar in the kitchen for my further indignity.

It’s this man’s third time having me, which makes no real difference except that the catechism is more familiar. It seems folly for me to pretend it’s our first time.

I am kneeling, as I am every time, naked and bare, my hands behind my back, looking up to him.

Mr. Diaz looks down and asks, “What do you want this time?”

“I think you know, sir.”

“Yes, but you must say it.”

“I request the pleasure of your cock, Sir.”

“And what about it gives you pleasure?”

“It is heavy in my mouth, thick and weighty, and I like that.”

“Have you thought about me, my cock, since the last time I did you?”

“Yes,” I say in a hushed voice. I imagine he assumes this is the pretense of our catechetical script, but in fact, it’s true. I have imagined him again. In my mouth. I have longed for this.

He unbuckles and unzips, pulling down his pants and briefs. His cock springs out from its confinement, half-erect and beautiful.

“May I, sir?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

He does not answer.

“Please, sir.”

Finally, I hear from him a little laugh and the words, “You may.”

I bring one of my hands underneath it, buoying its weight. I can’t help that a sound escapes my lips: “Ohhh,” I say, my hushed wonder burbling out with genuine desire.

Mr. Diaz is of average length, but bears a slight curve at the end. This makes his cock special to me, along with its fleshy girth, a weight of manhood like none other. Yet his curve poses a problem — as it has the previous two times he has done me.

The curve in his cock makes it difficult for me to mime the contact of my mouth. Yes, I go down on him, taking his whole length into my mouth, and, per my strategy, keeping my cheeks and tongue apart from his flesh. But each time as I draw him back out, the curve of his member catches on my mouth parts, sliding across my inner cheek and tongue. It becomes unavoidable friction, which does not augur well for staying power and the twelve-minute timer.

There is another problem, though — namely that I long to make serious love to his cock, this cock especially, without restraint or strategy. I want to feel its full weight on my tongue, its fat flesh scraping between my lips.

I have never made Mr. Diaz last more than ten minutes, and it seems a lost cause. I will lose the game anyway.

This perhaps is simply a deal with my own devil. If I am destined to endure a whipping, why not enjoy my path to punishment?

And so I kneel naked before this senior vice-president, my mouth wrapping around his member, my lips and cheeks making full contact with his meaty cock. Soon my tongue swoons in succulent pleasure.

I cover his cock with kisses. I bathe it with my tongue, under and on top and on each side. I angle my face under and slather his balls in my mouth-watering desire.

I now open my mouth and place the full weight of his cock, hard and long, on my extended tongue. My eyes strain upward to see him looking down at me —  the circumstance of his physical position as well as his moral judgment, both. To executive Diaz, I am just a girl-whore who does this, pity and shame. His only conflict is that he right now feels damn grateful that I am a girl-whore who does this.

I take him slow into my wet mouth, where I let him lie a while and take up residence. Maybe he will remember me. The head of his cock tickles the back of my throat. I feel it pulsing. I pull him out slow, and his cock is greased with my saliva.

It goes on, my elegant cocksucking of this man, and I have gloriously lost track of time. I am drowning in lust for him. Who knew that the way to win the game was not to play the game?

I hear Mr. Diaz breathe in sharply, and I know it is time. I release my hand and let his cock rest along the length of my tongue inside my mouth, until he takes himself for his finish.

He pulls himself out, and strokes himself a few times. He clenches. He explodes. 

He lays a thick line of cum on a diagonal across my face. A second jerk shoots a load directly into my mouth. A third sends a dollop into my right eye and sprays into my hair.

He milks himself more, additional droplets straight into my open mouth, all of it precious and thick and tasting of a sweet earth.  

I sit dripping, the businessman’s ooze now falling over my breasts.

Master announces the time, but I don’t care.

Master has me stand as he leashes me, my face a holy mess, dripping in cum. He hands the leash to Mr. Diaz and leads the way into another room.

There my wrists are shackled and attached to an overhead beam.

“You know the rules,” Master says to Diaz. “Ten strokes with the flogger for your win. Then one stroke with the sharp whip for each minute under twelve. I have you at 9:56 — rounding down to 9:00, you are alloted three whip strokes.” He added with a laugh, “Make them count.”

Mr. Diaz takes the flogger and walks around me, observing my nakedness and his random paint job on my face and breasts, like a de Kooning hanging in a museum. He tells me to look at him, and I raise my head in my disgrace, my mascara running from my right eye, now red and swollen, a bull’s eye for his cum.

He makes a comment about my extended nipples, aroused in the midst of everything. He laughs at me, at my desire poking out through my degradation. 

Mr. Diaz positions himself to my side. My flogging begins.

He has done this before and knows the effect of a flogger is not in its sting but its weight. He throws his body into the stroke and it lands hard on my ass, forcing from me a loud open-mouthed moan and making me stumble forward. My shackled wrists suspend me until I get my footing again.

There’s another hard stroke and another. In my mind I do the count. He’s soon up to five, and my ass cheeks burn. Tears well up in my eyes.

It painful, of course, though a pain confoundingly gift-wrapped in arousal — my submissive need being triggered again and again, my body recoiling at every stroke even as it absorbs it, and ever so greedily as if it were foreplay.

He’s at nine, now, and my breasts are flushed, my nipples are hard like small pebbles, and my pussy is throbbing and oozy.

Now I feel the tenth blow with the flogger, his hardest yet, and again I stumble forward as if he had picked me up and thrown me across the room.

He pauses, and now picks up the single-tail whip.

I close my eyes. This his third time beating me, and he now has expertise: he knows the whip’s effect lies in his wrist action not the force of his body, and depends on angles and positioning. He arranges himself accordingly, with precision and care, as if perfecting his approach for a tee shot on the golf course.

I hear him draw the whip back, its whoosh through the air. It hits me low on my ass cheeks. I scream. 

As its sharp biting sting bores into me, my body starts to shake.

He draws back again, swings the whip again, lands it again.

I howl, start to cry. I am losing myself in it all — in my utter degradation, in my punishment for something unknown, in my deep shameful submission to male strangers. Something else takes over.

Mr. Diaz prepares to land his third and final stroke of the whip, but Master stops him. “Wait,” Master says. “Just watch.”

Mr. Diaz walks around to my front, and the two men observe as my orgasm overtakes my naked flesh. It rolls up from the fire in my ass and through my breasts and then down, settling into my pussy and further, into the depths of my vagina.

I can’t help but whimper through it, my pain still pulsing, while now my climax curls through me like a wave. My body starts to shudder.

“Oh, my god!” I say in breathy helplessness. The room whirls around me, and I start to spasm uncontrollably. It rolls through me, but then there’s another wave, and another, more body quakes, over and over.

The two men watch my final jitters until it finishes me.

It is rare I get to wear an evening gown, but the charity banquet tonight is such an occasion.

Master has me high-heeled, as always, and also in a metal collar,  a slave collar, though rounded enough to pass as jewelry. My gown is floor-length, the rich color of raspberries, with spaghetti straps and a low V-neck that fashionably shows my assets, yet is elegant and proper in ways I am not.

The charity is for disabled veterans and their families, a good cause, funding hardship cases that fall through the cracks of VA benefits and provision. It is massively attended, some people flying in in from other parts of the country. Master says there are some 500 in attendance this night. The event consumes three different reception areas and two ballrooms. 

There is an open bar, and Master has me bring him a bourbon on the rocks. My subservience may be cloaked in this public setting, but underneath my gown I still am without bra and panties, as always, a constant reminder of my place and purpose. So I will serve him his drink. I ask if I may have a red wine, and Master gives permission. I fetch him his bourbon and my Pinot Noir, and we stand in the midst of everyone in general and no one in particular.

I don’t know how he got connected with this charity, and I imagine that if he knows anyone here, it will be a distant acquaintance or old college friend. It seems impossible to find anyone you know in this sea of humanity. Yet, just as I think this, Master sidles off to one person in the corner next to the wet bar.

It is while he is schmoozing that I recognize someone. And then another. 

Strangers who have had me on Friday afternoons.

It is unnerving. My face flushes. Master finds me again, and I ask if he needs another drink. I want to hide — going to the bar allows me to dodge the two men from my past. I dawdle there, idling my time, hoping for some official signal for everyone to enter the ballrooms and find our tables.

In time, I get Master’s bourbon, and make my way, slowly, back to him. He takes the cocktail glass from me, and immediately sees someone across the way. Good. Maybe he’ll walk over for his conversation, and I’ll find a corner to fold into.

But Master waves to this person across the reception area, and it’s a beckoning wave. The acquaintance walks through the crowd to us. Master greets him:

“It’s good to see you again, Diaz.”

Mr. Diaz nods his greeting and turns his eyes to me.

His gaze bores through me, making me blush. My mind is flooded now with images of myself strung up to the ceiling, my face slathered with his cum, my body enduring the last stroke of his whip, and my flesh shuddering in helpless orgasm.

Master is talking: “I’m sure you remember my wife, Shae.”

Diaz looks at me through a crooked smile and says, “Yes, of course. I remember her very well. How could I forget?”

By the end of the evening there are seven men Master has been able to unearth amidst the crowd — men I stood before in a different setting, men who “well remembered wife Shae.”

I say hello politely, my chest reddening each time.

As we are leaving, Master pulls an envelope from his pocket, showing me a check made to the veteran’s charity: Five thousand dollars. 

He places it in a donation bucket.

“That’s a lot of cocksucking,” he says.

8 thoughts on “Fiction: The Game

  1. The way you wrote this, every word, every phrase, is poignant and visual with just the right amount of elegance. And then, a sudden crude or crass term to keep your readers fixated on the already vividly described scenario which inevitably draws them into your, or your dominant’s personal experience.

    It takes talent to achieve this sort of magic with words. I am attracted to this style of writing, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned a few times before… 😉

    Beautifully written, Shae.

    By the way, your story has finally re-awoken my very dormant erotically infused creativity. 😉

    Liked by 3 people

    1. This is what makes me so happy:
      “By the way, your story has finally re-awoken my very dormant erotically infused creativity.”
      YAY!!!! 😃
      Thank you so much for the generous words, Cassandra.

      Liked by 3 people

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