Come Play With Me Again

by Sommer Marsden

  And yet still he holds back from going all the way. As do I.

  Because …

  Because this is now a contest. A race in reverse.

  Let’s see who loses control and comes first!

  He understands me perfectly.

  Our bodies do the talking.

  We’re riding high and we’re holding on.

  Who is in charge?

  Who is the master of the game?

  It starts to rain.

  Splashes into the niche.

  Random raindrops hit my legs.

  Can I really do this? Can I control this unruly gamine body?

  Or will it override me and give in to the prompting of my vagina?

  Will it …

  Oh.

  For a moment I think we’ve been discovered after all, but by another species.

  Then I realise that the little yapping noises I hear come from me. The dog I saw is long gone.

  It’s me. I sound like a puppy, yelping with the effort of holding back …

  And here I come.

  Yes, I come.

  Yes, master, I come first.

  He lets out a wild laugh, mostly swallowed by my wig.

  Then he comes too. In one big final swoop that seems to pierce my cervix.

  He laughs, then sighs.

  I feel him relax. His cock slips out.

  He releases my nipple, rolls aside and rests against the wall.

  His breath is deep and ragged.

  His grip on me grows weak.

  And that’s when I take my chance.

  I am petite. I am small.

  I draw my shoulders in and lean my head against his chest.

  He relaxes even more.

  A quick glance up shows a smile and closed eyelids.

  The bane of the male orgasm!

  This is why I played this game.

  Why I pretended to race him, why I came first, why I let him win.

  All his masterful strength now makes him spent and vulnerable.

  While I feel awake and alert.

  One more glance – he’s adorable.

  I want to kiss him on his sweet, imposing male nose, but, regretfully, I don’t have the time.

  I’m small. I make myself even smaller.

  His eyelids flutter. He’ll come to in a moment.

  Small and slight, knees bent, I slip out from underneath his arms, and out of the niche.

  Not forgetting to pick up my Wild Vanilla knickers on the way.

  Drunkenly, his arm wobbles out. He tries to grab me but, as I have planned, only gets a grip on the knickers.

  He pulls. I pull.

  The expensive silk comes apart at the seams.

  I hold one half, and he holds the other.

  If I want to escape, I have to leave that other half behind.

  I do. I let the knickers tear and I run.

  He scrambles to follow but then stops.

  Over my shoulder I see a delicate piece of paper flutter to the ground.

  Will the rain destroy it?

  He has to make a choice: catch me or save the paper.

  I gain distance as he bends to pick it up.

  The document has bought me my escape.

  I throw another glance behind me. Yes!

  He holds the soft tracing paper up to where there is some light and gives a little start of surprise.

  The sheet has no writing. Instead it is covered in cryptic shapes.

  By the time he runs after me down the very narrow alley, I am well ensconced in another, even smaller niche. I’m sure it’s just as much an architectural gem as the first one.

  He passes me and turns in the wrong direction, still looking at the document. Good.

  I smile as my shoes meet the wet cobblestones.

  Because I know very well what these shapes mean and how to decode them.

  But the question is: does he?

  Hey, spymaster from the opposite side, can you decode my instructions?

  I will see.

  Game 2 Score: To Gamine

  My butt is sore and swollen, my nipples sting, and I’ve lost my knickers. My skirt is far too short and my blouse hangs out.

  On the other hand, my vagina is soft and happy. My clitoris has drawn her sleepy head inside, and my whole body glows with glorious orgasms.

  Points to him. Points to me.

  But he almost had me, and yet look at him now.

  He had a plan. I had a plan.

  And look who won.

  He caught me but I managed to escape. And why? Couldn’t contain himself. Couldn’t resist the saucy gamine with her butt cheeks spanked red.

  And the document that fluttered out of my French knickers and that I pretended to sacrifice for my escape was always intended to fall into his hands.

  He had a chance to find it, early on, but he bungled it.

  So I had to help him.

  The document is written in a language completely unfamiliar to him.

  But not to me.

  And there are others in this city who can decode these signs.

  I know who they are.

  But does he?

  Spymaster of the opposite side, can you pass this test?

  Points to him, points to me.

  But I think this game is mine.

  Game 3

  And now I’m chasing him.

  I have the advantage.

  Well, not to brag, but now I have plenty of advantages.

  I escaped. He has no clue where I am.

  I know where he is. He is easy to follow.

  Even if I have to be careful.

  And then there’s the mystery of the cryptic shapes on the paper that fluttered out from my Wild Vanilla French knickers just at the right time …

  This is a test I’ve never set him before.

  Maybe it’s too hard.

  He’s smart, for sure, my adorable spymaster, and resourceful, too.

  He’s going to have to be.

  But first he’ll have to get over his defeat.

  He almost had me there.

  Well, he did have me there.

  And then he lost it all.

  How quickly can he shake that off?

  I see him walk along the labyrinth of alleys. A little aimlessly.

  At one point he overtakes a citizen and his dog.

  The dog yaps at him.

  Is this what I sounded like, there, in the throes of orgasm in the niche?

  It’s already a fond memory.

  Something to remember when we are old.

  Should have taken a picture.

  Maybe he did. Did he?

  The cobblestones are slippery.

  He stops and takes cover. Except that I see him.

  He takes out the paper and studies it.

  I love that slightly puzzled, slightly arrogant turn of his head, I really do.

  I love how his hair falls over his forehead.

  Just that one wave of black …

  My vulva lips grow moist and warm while I watch him.

  You are just too cute, my spymaster of the opposite side.

  I can’t see his face but he must be frustrated.

  I know he is not familiar with these symbols but I am.

  And there are those in this city who are, too.

  There’s no way he can work this out himself. He’s going to have to be resourceful.

  He turns another corner.

  I have to go.

  My mission calls me.

  I will have to let the city look after him.

  The canals, the bridges, the narrow historic alleyways, to the coffee bars, the cobbled squares, the richly endowed museums …

  As soon as he decodes the shapes, he can follow the clues everywhere …

  And at the end – ah! Then I’ve got another surprise.

  * * *

  Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed to observe the success of my trickery.

  It’s made me late for my real getaway.

  As fas
t as my low-heeled patent leather shoes will carry me – and now and then slipping on the pretty cobbles, still coated with the remnant of that rain, a factor I should have taken into account when I calculated all this – I rush to the canal side.

  For a second I feel a flush of panic – what if I have become a little too smug? What if he’s playing a very devious game here? What if he only played along, pretending confusion, because he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist watching him?

  I scan the boats lined up along the canal side.

  They all look quiet and sleepy.

  Nothing stirs.

  That’s not to say, of course, that there’s nothing there.

  There are many hiding places on those boats as I only know too well.

  But I can’t wait for ever.

  Here it is. A well-made, carefully restored vintage barge, completely in style with the row of sixteenth-century townhouses lining the canal.

  I inspect the barge thoroughly in the light of the canalside streetlamps.

  This city is so civilised, so well lit. At least on the surface …

  Still, I’m very careful when I sneak aboard.

  Don’t want to alert any neighbours, any passers-by.

  Any prying eyes.

  I climb on board.

  The key is in the usual place. Nothing left but to go.

  I’ve reached the barge before him – if he reaches it at all.

  That depends on how he reads the clues on the fluttering sheet of paper.

  I should go now.

  But I wait.

  Game to me.

  I am sad.

  Game 3 Score: To a Sad Gamine

  There must be points here but I don’t want to count.

  I didn’t want to win.

  Or, at least, not in this way.

  I win, yes, but I am alone.

  Oh, well.

  Those are the rules.

  Must go on.

  The mission continues.

  I get the ropes. I untie the barge from the mooring.

  Slowly.

  I’m still hoping …

  Hope grows sluggish.

  I imagine him running through the city, becoming desperate, not finding what he needs, wracking his brains, knowing I’m slipping away … slowly …

  It’s time.

  I must go.

  Reluctantly, I start the engine.

  The boat rolls.

  Out of its mooring, out from the sleeping company of neighbours.

  The barge pulls out smoothly onto the dark placid waters of the canal.

  The only sound the reassuring tuckering of the engine.

  It’s a sound that goes well with sadness.

  What use is a game if I can only win it alone?

  It’s my fault. It was too difficult.

  Why did I have to choose a code that could be read by my eyes only?

  I thought I was so clever.

  Too clever.

  Too clever to give me what I really want.

  The city is mostly quiet, too.

  The citizens and their dogs like to get their beauty sleep.

  Here and there, a bar is open. Light spills out, people spill out. They laugh and shout.

  Then stillness again.

  Ghosts of stately buildings are mirrored in the water.

  Now and then there’s a splash.

  A fish up late.

  Boys tossing stones.

  Once or twice I pass another barge.

  We wave.

  Once I bump into something big, submerged.

  No idea what it is, but the barge is fine.

  This canal is good with sadness.

  I pass under bridges.

  Some are quite low.

  A few drunk people hang over the parapet.

  I hope they’re not going to throw things.

  The shadows play over me.

  It will be lighter when we come out on the other side.

  Bump!

  Another big thump. Almost like a crash.

  But this time it sounds as if it is right here, on board.

  What’s going on?

  That puts me in a dilemma.

  I should go look.

  But I can’t leave the wheelhouse.

  The canal is too narrow, there’s nowhere to stop.

  I think I hear the planks creak.

  My ears prick up.

  My eyes scan what I can see through the windows of the wheelhouse (not much).

  But now I hear nothing but the regular thud-thud of the engine.

  Should I turn it off? But what if I need to escape?

  Something big scrapes over the deck behind me.

  High alert!

  Welcome back, danger!

  I’m no longer sad.

  Just round this last corner, then we’re in open countryside.

  Streetlights are out. It’s completely dark.

  I have to lower the light in the wheelhouse so that I can see out.

  Roads have given way to fields.

  No bridges …

  Not long now and I can cut the engine.

  And then …

  And then I hear the door creak open behind me.

  Two steps, and he’s there.

  I reach out to kill the engine anyway.

  But he slaps my hand away.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘oh, no. We’re going on.’

  And revs the engine into high gear.

  Once again, he stands right behind me, pressing his body against mine.

  He smells of smoke and water, and a little sweat.

  Was it hard to catch me? Did he have to run?

  What made me sad a few minutes ago now fills me with a happy glow.

  Nothing like a cliffhanger to cheer a girl up.

  He reaches out and puts his arms over mine.

  This time I can snuggle to my heart’s delight.

  It makes no difference.

  Because we have already started the next game.

  Game 4

  This is the place. This is the time.

  I don’t know where I’m going.

  I have my hands on the steering wheel but he is in charge.

  Just to try out, I resist him. He overrides me immediately.

  It really is dark. Fields stretch to the horizon, presumably. I can’t see it. So maybe they stretch for ever.

  I thought there was only one way to go once we’re on the barge. According to my plan.

  But I was wrong.

  It seems that there are a number of canals out here, crisscrossing the countryside.

  When we turn the first corner, the master laughs. He’s caught my surprise. His body can read mine.

  ‘Enjoy the ride while you can,’ he says. ‘Considering what’s waiting for you when we stop.’

  I shiver.

  My vagina shivers, too. Of course. I knew she would pipe up.

  He chuckles. Then turns the steering wheel left again.

  ‘Or,’ he says, ‘you can tell me where it is. Right now.’

  I swallow.

  It’s the way he says it. My bones feel hollow.

  Good thing he’s holding me up.

  I don’t speak.

  I really have no idea where we are. Planet Europe? Lost in a sea of night-black fields.

  * * *

  He stops the barge in a dark remote place.

  Cold silence when the engine dies.

  No one is here.

  No cows, no frogs.

  Not that a frog could help me now …

  He’s stronger than me.

  He holds me firmly from behind.

  I’ve tried the snuggle-and-sneak method once already.

  Don’t think he’ll fall for that one again. Not twice in a day.

  My only chance is when he reaches for the rope.

  Don’t think I didn’t see that he’s put it in easy reach once you open the window.

  It’s not supposed to be thrown from the wheelhouse, of course, but it can be d
one.

  And he’ll have to moor us somewhere or we’ll drift. Crash, possibly.

  So he’s going to have to let go of one of my arms, just for a moment, and stretch …

  I go for the solar plexus.

  It’s the only way.

  I hit it with my elbow.

  I’m slim and small. My elbow is quite pointy. The perfect transmission device. The aim has to be precise, but I’ve knocked out bigger guys than him in training.

  But then I wasn’t trapped on a boat in the dark, out in the middle of nowhere with no frogs.

  Let’s just say it works.

  He crumples to the floor.

  Maybe a bit too dramatic?

  Should I check he’s all right?

  The barge starts to drift.

  I have to scramble to the window to throw out the rope myself.

  Luckily, it catches in some kind of bush or tree.

  Or whatever.

  Maybe that’s why he stopped here.

  It only takes a moment, but he’s stirring when I turn back to him.

  The master is tough. He must have learned that in his training.

  He opens his eyes. Shoots me a glance.

  A lava-laced glare that nearly knocks me over, too.

  Boy, is he angry.

  My body goes into full fighting mode.

  All hands on deck! And feet, too. I’m still wearing my patent-leather shoes.

  And now we fight.

  I try to kick him while he’s down, but he hooks his leg over mine.

  I stagger.

  He pushes back.

  And while I grasp for support, he pulls himself up.

  Fast and flexible. I’m impressed.

  He throws his jacket off.

  Muscles play underneath his shirt.

  Muscles play in his face. Oh yes, he’s angry.

  Makes me smile.

  That’s twice today I have employed the secret power of the gamine.

  Points to me.

  Oh.

  This always gets me. My admiration for the beauty of the male …

  While I admire him, he jumps me.

  And then it’s all hands and legs.

  And bodies pressed together.

  We wrestle on the bench.

  We wrestle against the wall.

  We wrestle on the floor.

  Then up against the wheel.

  There is a moment when he lifts me up and pushes me towards the open window.

  He could push me out. Make me fall into the water and drown in the canal. They’ll never find me.

  ‘Want to talk?’ he pants. He’s sweating. So am I.

  I shake my head.

  All it would take is a little push.

  Instead he lets me slide down and flips the window shut.

  To save me?

  He wants me alive.

  A quick, sharp glance passes between us.

  He wants me alive.

  And he wants me.