The Play

by Karina Halle

  “Get on the bench, right there,” he commands, opening his eyes as the water runs over his head, flattening his hair, his mouth open with that puffy bottom lip just asking for trouble. The look on his face is absolutely hedonistic.

  I do as he says, getting on my knees. It’s such a fucking turn-on when he’s bossy. This whole scenario is like a porno waiting to happen.

  “Turn around,” he says, turning off the shower. “Face the other way.”

  “I’d rather look at you,” I tell him. “Have you seen you?”

  A slight smirk tugs at his lips. “Do as I say.”

  I glare at him. “Can’t we both win?”

  “Aye. You’ll win. Now turn around.” He storms toward me, his dick bobbing with each stride, menace in his eyes.

  I obey but only because I know it will pay off.

  I wait, ass in the air, the top half of me still clothed, balancing precariously on the bench.

  I hear him come up behind me, feel his presence. His shadows looms over me and I instinctively grip the edges.

  Seconds pass and I’m dying from the anticipation. I feel like I’m blindfolded, every part of me on alert and waiting for what sinful thing is going to come.

  I open my mouth to beg when suddenly –

  CRACK

  – his large, strong, wet hand spanks my ass with so much force I nearly fall off the bench.

  I yelp, loudly.

  It stings.

  Oh god, it stings and my eyes are watering.

  But then the pain starts to fade as quickly as it came on and I’m breathing hard, chest heaving, waiting for more.

  “Did you like that?” he asks, voice so gruff and low, it relays every single dirty thought he has in his head.

  I catch my breath. “Yes.”

  CRACK.

  He spanks me again, the other cheek.

  My back arches and I cry out. “Fuck!” My head feels hot, like it’s going to burst and my ass is tingling from the strikes, but I’ve never felt more dirty, more sexed up in all my life. This doesn’t feel like playing, this feels excitingly real.

  He places his hand on my hip and flinch from his touch, expecting more. He holds onto me, then I feel the head of his cock slide over my sensitive, raw skin where he spanked me, still damp from the shower.

  If he’s trying to soothe me with his penis though, it’s not working. This just riles me up. I want him deep, deep inside until I can’t see straight.

  I tell him so and it brings out a thick grunt from his throat.

  He steps back from me and smacks my ass again, harder than before.

  “Holy shit!” I scream but then before I can even process the pain, his tongue is on my ass, licking over every welt, with soft, smooth strokes. He moans into me and I’m so fucking gone. The push pull of pain and pleasure is making it hard to control myself and I jerk my hips up and back, wanting him in.

  He gets the right idea.

  He grips my waist with both his hands, nearly reaching all the way around, that’s how large he is compared to me.

  I’m so damn wet that all he has to do is inch forward and he slips inside.

  It feels.

  Too.

  Fucking.

  Good.

  The angle is everything. He pushes himself in to the hilt and I feel myself expand around his thickness, his cock dragging over every wild nerve inside me.

  A long, aching groan pours out of my mouth.

  “You like that too, aye,” he growls. “Your greedy little noises and your greedy little cunt.”

  I gasp, gripping the edges of the bench harder but my hands are so sweaty that I can barely hang on. If he lets go of my waist, I will go flying because my limbs are loose and I’m so full from him inside me, stretched like silk, that nothing else matters to me now except coming fast and coming hard.

  He slams into me, his hips circling quickly, hitting the right spot every time and the feeling in my core grows and builds and tightens until I feel like I might pass out. Our skin slaps loudly against each other, a frenzied soundtrack to our animalistic fucking.

  With one smooth movement he pulls my hips up higher, angling himself down in a long, powerful thrust and he’s hitting my G-spot with the perfect hot grind.

  All the tension snaps, a wire pulled too taught.

  I cry out, unraveling and unraveling until I fear there’s nothing left of me but hot blood and instinct.

  He moans as I pulse around him and his pace quickens. He’s driving himself inside me, so hard and thorough and punishing, as if he’s punishing me again and again. And I’m still riding my orgasm, each brutal thrust keeping me going on the wave, like I’ll keep coming for as long as he’s in deep. I’m up so high, high, high and I can’t come down, even if I tried.

  It’s pure, primal bliss.

  “You fucking ruin me, love,” he growls, so savage and frantic in his rhythm, and then he slows with one, heavy push. His fingers dig into my skin, hard enough to leave bruises and his loud, wild groan fill the room, tangling with my own.

  “Fuck,” he gasps roughly. “You ruin me.”

  He stills against me, drops of sweat falling on my back, our heavy breathing in unison, and it feels like he has to pry his fingers away from my hips, he was gripping them so hard.

  Eventually he pulls out and I feel his cum spill down my leg. He puts his hand up my thigh, wiping it away and then leans forward, placing soft kisses down my spine.

  “Thank you,” he says softly, voice beyond husky, as if he drank a gallon of gasoline. “I won’t forget this.”

  Getting spanked and fucked in the locker room of a rugby star? Yeah. I’m not going to forget this either.

  ***

  I’m excited for the first real pub night with Lachlan and his friends, even though I’m a bit on edge with what Lachlan revealed last night. I won’t bring it up because I don’t want him to think I’m watching him, and I also know what he told me in Napa, about his relationship with alcohol. I just have to trust that he knows what he’s doing. He’d told me that it was all over and done with, that he wouldn’t backslide, and I just have to have faith that he’s right.

  I spend some time trying to select the outfit that’s just right for the girlfriend of a rugby star. Not that I’m his girlfriend but…fuck. I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to be.

  “Are you ready?” Lachlan asks while I try on a white lace tank top for the millionth time. I settle on skinny jeans and high heels, but I still feel it’s not enough.

  “Ugh,” I say, making a face at myself in the mirror. “I don’t know.” I turn to face him as he leans against the bathroom door. “Do I look okay?”

  He raises a brow. “Are you taking the piss?”

  “No, I am not taking the piss, though I’m still not sure what that means.”

  He shakes his head, walking over to me. He studies my face, blinking in almost disbelief, before brushing my hair off my shoulders. My eyes close, surrendering briefly to his touch.

  “It means you’re insane if you think you don’t look okay,” he says in a growly voice. “And that I’ll never think you’re anything other than beautiful.”

  “You know how to say all the right things,” I tell him, and he plants a few kisses down my neck, making me shiver.

  “Because I’m with the right girl,” he says against my skin.

  I swallow at that, trying to find the courage to speak. “About that,” I say softly. “Am I your girl?”

  He pauses and pulls back to observe me, brows pinched together. “What are you on about?”

  “Am I your girl? I mean, we’ve never really discussed our actual relationship, what we are with each other, and so…I don’t want to be presumptuous and assume I’m more to you than I am. So I just wanted to know, so I could be clear, you know…how you feel.”

  Oh god. I’m a rambling fool.

  He stares at me for a long moment, which only makes me wince. Finally he says, “I invited you to come to Scotland with m
e. I bought you a plane ticket just on the hope that you would come. Kayla…you’re my girl. You’re my beautiful world. And I’m whatever you want me to be, just as long as you know that I have never, ever, felt this way about someone in my entire life.” He lowers his face, eyes focused intently on my lips. “I’m losing myself in you. Every day. And it’s the most wonderful, terrifying feeling in the world. If I’m being honest here, you’re starting to drive me a bit mad in my affections for you. I don’t know if I will ever be of right mind again.”

  Jesus. My heart is near combustion. His words are like sunshine, banishing everything scary and dark. It’s everything I want to hear.

  I clear my throat, trying to act cool. “So, am I your girlfriend or what?”

  He grins at me. “You’re my girlfriend. My girl. My woman. And I’m all yours.”

  “My man,” I say, kissing the stubble on his cheek. “My beast.” I pause. “My sex slave.”

  “Bloody right I am,” he says before kissing me so deeply that it steals my breath away.

  Satisfied that I look okay, at least to him, I snatch up my purse and we head on out for the night. Lachlan calls a taxi, and it’s only about ten minutes before we’re on Grassmarket, heading for the pub. This one in particular is underground, though it’s done up with lots of teak wood and orange and green plaid seatbacks.

  Lachlan nods at a table near the middle of the room where his teammates are sitting. I recognize them both from earlier, even though I was watching from far away.

  “Hello, hello,” says one with a crooked nose and a mop of reddish brown hair. The other one, olive-skinned and darkly handsome, just nods with a shy smile.

  “John,” Lachlan says to the ginger, then nods at the other one. “Thierry.” He pronounces his name like “tea-erry,” which sounds terribly French to me. “This is Kayla.”

  “Ah,” Thierry says, and low and behold, he was a terribly French accent. “Nice to finally meet you. You must be the reason Lachlan’s been fumbling at practice.”

  Lachlan gives him the stink-eye which would make any another man shrink in his seat, but Thierry only gives us a slow smile, pleased with himself.

  “Oy,” John says, elbowing Thierry in the side. “You better watch your mouth, mate, or I’ll tell Lachlan all about your latest escapades over the summer.”

  “Latest escapades?” Lachlan repeats, clearly interested. He sits down across from them and motions for me to do the same. “What did I miss?”

  Thierry rolls his eyes but says nothing. He folds his arms across his wide chest and looks away.

  “You see here,” John says, leaning forward with a goofy grin. “And I only found this out a few minutes ago, so you can’t blame it for being fresh in my mind, but it turns out Thierry met a girl back in Paris over the summer. She broke his bloody heart, though if we know our Thierry well, he probably broke hers. Always playing the victim, eh, Thierry? On the pitch and off.”

  Lachlan is grinning at this and gives me a conspiratorial glance. “Thierry is what we call a manwhore, so even the idea that someone could have broken his heart is nearly joyous news.”

  I look at Thierry and can immediately see why he’d be breaking hearts. He’s not as tall or as built as Lachlan, and he only has a few tattoos on one bicep, but with his warm dark eyes, honey skin, smooth lips, and thick black hair, he’s pretty arresting. If I wasn’t attached to the most gorgeous, giving man on the planet, I could see myself throwing some flirts his way. He definitely looks like he’s built for speed and agility.

  “So,” Lachlan says to him with a nod. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Thierry gives him a dry look. “Right. To you, of all people.”

  Lachlan shrugs. “Fair enough.”

  “Though I have to say I’m surprised you dared to bring this beautiful woman to meet us,” Thierry says. He gives me an apologetic smile. “Rugby players aren’t known for being very classy.”

  “Only French rugby players,” John jokes. “You should see him when he makes a try. He practically ballroom dances across the line, like a fucking pansy-footed waltz.”

  “Well, I’m not very classy either,” I tell them. “Which is probably why I get on with Lachlan so well.”

  “Get on?” John repeats. “You’re sounding like him, too.”

  “I’m going to get you a drink,” Lachlan says and quickly leaves the table. I don’t miss the warning look he shoots his teammates.

  They, of course, ignore it.

  “So where on earth did you meet Lach?” John asks. “Don’t tell me they play rugby in America.”

  “Actually, they do. He joined a pick-up league for a bit,” I tell them.

  Thierry laughs. “That I would love to see. What a one-sided game that must have been.”

  “He was trying to downplay his skills, but I don’t think it worked.” I turn to John. “I met him through friends. My two best friends are with his cousins.”

  “Huh,” John says. “Seems I need to go to America to meet a good woman.”

  “No,” Thierry points at him with his beer. “You need to go to France.”

  He shakes his head. “They sound like heartbreakers over there, no thank you. As you can tell, Kayla, deep down inside, we’re all a bunch of softies looking for love in all the wrong places.”

  I shrug. “Aren’t we all?”

  They both exchange a questioning look. Thierry cocks his head at me. “Do you think you’re looking in the wrong place?”

  I’m not sure what to do with that question because it’s oddly serious for what we were just talking about.

  “I hope not,” I tell them just as Lachlan comes back, putting two big pints of dark beer on the table, foam spilling over the sides.

  “Sorry, love,” he says to me. “They’re out of cider and their house wine is rubbish.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell him, actually preferring the dark Scotch ales over the stuff at home.

  “Hopefully they weren’t giving you a hard time,” he says, eyeing them both cautiously.

  “Them?” I say. “They’re nothing but pussycats.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to you, softies.”

  We all clink glasses, and as if on cue, the music in the pub gets louder.

  More people come in.

  The sky goes dark beyond the narrow basement windows.

  By the time I’m done with my giant beer, Lachlan is on his third, as are Thierry and John.

  They are all drunk and I’m struggling to catch up. The thing is, it’s loud in here and there are a bunch of girls giving Lachlan and Thierry the “eyes” and the music is grating and I’m feeling left out of the drunken conversation. They try to bring me in but their accents get thicker and thicker until I can barely understand what they are saying. I just want to drink more so that everything stops annoying me. But the beer is so strong and thick it takes forever to get through another glass.

  Now, the atmosphere in the pub has completely changed. People keep banging into the table, spilling our drinks. I’ve seen Lachlan curl and uncurl his fists a few times, that wild, piercing look coming into his eyes, his face going red.

  But Thierry and John are too drunk to notice or care, singing along to some screeching tune.

  I lean into Lachlan and still have to shout to be heard. “Want to go and sit somewhere else? It’s so loud here and people keep bumping into us.”

  I can’t hear what he says in return, it sounds more like a grumble.

  I don’t know. I’m getting a weird feeling. He’s gone from relaxed as he was at the start of the night to tense and edgy. I don’t want to blame it on four Scotch ales but I don’t see what else it can be. I mean, I know he doesn’t like to be around people in particular, especially when there’s a bunch of them acting like idiots, so adding alcohol to the mix probably isn’t the best idea. If we could just go back home, we could settle down on the couch and watch TV or just find each other in the sheets of our bed.

  Finally some girl with mangy blonde hai
r, orange skin and tits pushed up to her chin totters on over in her heels and drapes herself over Lachlan.

  “You’re Lachlan McGregor!” she yells at him in a twangy English accent, her heavy, false eyelashes making it hard for her to keep her eyes open. “I have seen pictures of your cock.”

  My eyes widen, my skin immediately growing hot. Did she just say what I think she said?

  She looks at me briefly, enough to give me the up and down glare, then looks over at Thierry. “I’ve seen your cock too. Both very impressive. My name is Polly, by the way. You want to buy me a drink?”

  I’m really waiting for someone to fill me in on this. I’m staring at Lachlan, open-mouthed, but he’s not looking at me. To be fair, he hasn’t even glanced her way either. He’s just staring at his half-drunk beer like he wants to smash the glass over someone’s head.

  It’s John who explains to me. “They both did a nude rugby calendar a few years ago,” he says loudly. “I, of course, didn’t get the call. I think it’s because red pubes don’t photograph very well, even in black and white.”

  So the nude rugby calendar really is a thing. When Neil, even Amara brought it up, I thought it was a joke. I guess not.

  And with that, I calm down a little bit. If she’s seen his dick via a calendar then probably everyone has seen his dick and there’s not much I can do about that except be proud that the dick belongs to me.

  And even though I don’t like this bitch touching my man, I’m not going to say or do anything. Don’t get me wrong, back in San Francisco I have no problems getting in someone’s face. I remember once having to step in when some chick was threatening to beat up Stephanie over some guy, I don’t even remember who. I had to get all crazy Asian chick in her face and luckily it didn’t come to anything more than that. But I have a feeling Scottish, or English chicks as this girl is, aren’t to be fucked with. I keep my mouth closed and ignore it.

  Until it becomes impossible to ignore.

  Because now the tawdry slut is standing behind Lachlan and running both her hands down his arms and whispering something in his ear.