Strip Poker

by Lisa Lawrence

  “No, I’m treating you as a sexual person,” he argued. “We all are, I’m just more honest. It’s about sex. It’s always about sex. That’s what it comes down to.”

  “Uh-huh.” I gestured to the necklace still sitting in its box on the table. “And this is what passes for a romantic gesture to you?”

  “Not at all. You’re an executive. You dress well. You’re used to the finer things in life. Most guys think it’s just greed when a woman wants things—they don’t understand that certain things give them sensual pleasure, just the way men get off when they’re behind the wheel of their favourite car. And I want you to have pleasure.”

  “If you really want me to have pleasure, Daniel, there’s a gold brooch over at Bulgari’s.”

  “We’ll see,” he laughed.

  “And for these pleasurable experiences, you want…”

  “I want to teach you.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him, thinking: Is this guy for real?

  “Now that your lady virtue has been satisfied, why don’t you slip off your panties?” he purred. “No one can see you. I can’t see you. You’ve still got your dress on.”

  “My underwear stays in my handbag,” I warned.

  “I’m not into that, trust me.”

  I made a great show of propping up the dessert menu as a screen to hide my arm movements. Then I had to look like I was adjusting my chair, feeling slightly ridiculous. I slipped my hands under the slits that ran up both sides of my dress, and Daniel barely watched me, taking a sudden interest in the page on liqueurs of his own menu. I deposited my little black thong in my handbag.

  “Would you like something?” he asked pleasantly. “They have a Tiramisu here that’s exquisite.”

  “I’m pretty full,” I said.

  “Share it with me? I like the idea of you taking spoonfuls of it while you’ve got nothing on down there.” He called over the waiter hovering in the background and ordered for us.

  “This supposed to be more of your lessons in pleasure?”

  “You still don’t understand,” he said, and his bass voice dropped another octave. “I know you’ll end up with Neil Kenan.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Maybe I don’t want him,” I teased. “There are other guys besides him. And you.”

  “Well, good ol’ Lionel didn’t rise to the challenge that night, did he? That was plain for all to see. But then there’s…Oh, let me guess. George Westlake? Yeah, I’ll bet he’s fawning over you like a puppy.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “George and I are friends—”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “We are, trust me. And sometimes I wonder myself how a guy like that can be so shrewd in terms of commercial property development for tourist spots and then be like the worst, stuttering, pimple-faced gawky teenager when it comes to women. Do you know he’s only ever been with five ladies on the circuit? No one bets on him.”

  “Then maybe I will,” I said.

  “Oh, please. I’m sure his attention is flattering, but you won’t want him. Too passive. There’s no heat there.”

  I was withering. “And you think there is with you?”

  “No, but there can be. We have to build it. The most underrated sexual organ is the imagination. I think you’re just clueing in that with some guidance, you can turn yourself on better than almost any man. Neil’s proved that, hasn’t he?”

  “Neil’s proved…?”

  Oh, my God. But we were alone.

  “Don’t you know the organisers of these things always have cameras to make sure there’s no trouble?” he asked gently.

  Yes—yes, I did. First thing I learned from Helena. But I wouldn’t expect some creep to have one in—

  He knew enough not to get smug over it. “They do it to cover their asses in case things get out of hand. Most games the cameras just roll, and no one’s minding the fort. You and Neil were gone quite a while, and I happen to know where the monitors are. I’ve played games there before.”

  Oh, man. It had never even occurred to me. The washroom. There are limits, the bastards.

  “Before you get cross with me,” he put in quickly, “think about it. You were already naked. You show up at the games, knowing you would perform sexually in front of others, and you did—you just gave Lionel a blow job. Do you really think it’s such an intrusion on my part? You must know it’s considered a faux pas for a couple of players to steal away like you two did.”

  He shrugged and leaned in to whisper, “What’s pissing you off at the moment is that you thought I was full of shit, right? The American who knows everything?”

  I didn’t respond. Hell, I couldn’t think of any response.

  “Teresa, I don’t want to take you home tonight. That’s not what I’m after.”

  “What are you after?”

  I had to wait for a response because our dessert arrived. Daniel scooped up the Tiffany box and dropped it casually into my handbag, and I let him do it.

  He didn’t lie about the Tiramisu.

  “What are you after?” I repeated.

  “Like I said: your pleasure. Neil had the right idea, but he’s making it up as he goes along.”

  Neil squeezing my tits and nuzzling the back of my ear as he told me to play with myself. Mmph. If he was making it up as he went along, I liked his improvisational skills.

  I glared at Giradeau. “And I suppose you’re the professor?”

  “Why don’t you find out?”

  “Why should I?”

  His eyes flicked into a dark corner, flicked back to offer me a steady gaze. “The same reason we do all kinds of things. It amuses us. I bet you think I’m an asshole, but I’m also willing to bet you’d enjoy laughing at me while you’re being fucked, knowing I can’t touch you.”

  “Being seen is part of the turn-on,” I countered. “But it’s being seen by everybody, not just you.”

  “Of course. But the rest are just spectators. An audience. There can be whole other levels of communication going on while you’re in your most intimate moment. I bet it’s already occurred to you. I bet you’ll try to send me a message right when Neil’s inside you, humping away. And I will think that’s great because you’re thinking about me, even if it’s with scorn.”

  “All these head games you’re playing,” I told him, “why don’t you go out and find yourself a nice girl who likes BDSM?”

  “I’m not into that scene,” he sneered. “Dog collars and caning? That’s Halloween shit. I’m talking about communication. When you were in the bathroom with Neil, he told you what to do, and you submitted. He’s very intuitive—I’ll give him that. He knew that you liked touching yourself that way in front of him, that you could do better in that moment than if he touched you. But being submissive that way is at its most powerful when someone knows how far you’ll go, how much you’ll give. I want to see you get off and have another man’s dick inside you and know that you’re talking to me and only to me. Maybe you’ll tell me you wish it were me. Maybe you’ll tell me to go to hell. And all of it while it’s happening to you, while he’s fucking you. I bet you come like a banshee when you do.”

  “Or there’s my third option of just ignoring you completely and having a good lay,” I pointed out.

  “There’s that. But you lose nothing from a little experiment. Go ahead and think I’m a fool if you like. You’ll see.”

  I stole the last bite of the Tiramisu.

  Daniel flagged down the waiter to settle the bill. As we waited for his credit card to return, he asked me casually, “Have you ever ejaculated?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You must have heard of it,” he laughed. “Female ejaculation. I guess you’re one of those who don’t believe in it, but it is possible.”

  Yes, I had heard of it. Since it’s supposed to happen through your urethra, I’d assumed it was g
irls peeing helplessly when they came. Ew, how gross.

  “You’re not urinating, believe me,” he said. “I could make you come like that, easy.”

  “Well, you’re not going to try!”

  “I don’t need to give you a rug burn. As a matter of fact, it’s far easier with my hand. I thought you had a sense of adventure.”

  “This is supposed to be in the interests of science, huh?”

  “You’re the sceptic.”

  I gave him a healthy contribution for our tip, and then I led him by the hand. We walked out of the restaurant and through the lobby of the hotel as if we were paying guests. Security could be pretty lax with their conference rooms, making them ideal spots for quickies with a spice of danger. We were soon in darkness, and I reached out to turn on one of those green-shaded lamps on the speaker’s podium so that we could at least see each other’s faces.

  He hesitated, standing there looking at me for a long instant, smiling, and when he kept his mouth shut, he could be very handsome. I told him so.

  “I see you’re getting into the spirit of things,” he commented.

  “Oh?”

  “Insulting me.”

  “I thought you liked that. You said treating you with scorn showed I was thinking of you.”

  “I think I meant that for when you’re fucking someone else.”

  I stayed flippant. “But that’s so limiting! So. Where do you want to do this, Master?” I could see in the shadows a long table near the podium, and I chose this as my perch.

  “That’s fine, as long as you’re comfortable.”

  “I am.”

  “You might want to do something about your dress,” he suggested, and I saw that he was serious.

  It would have been rather cumbersome to lift the front panel and try to hold it aside. In for a penny, I thought. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen me before. With a stripper’s flourish, I gently tugged on my straps and let the silken fabric plummet to the floor. Naked, I slipped out of my high heels and took two steps up to him.

  “Let’s see what you got with those magic fingers,” I laughed.

  At first he looked deep in my eyes, and there was stern judgement there—plus an open resentment that I doubted him. He was really pouring on his whole Smooth Operator, Man of Mystery act, and he should have known by dessert I wasn’t buying it. I would play along to an extent because he was another suspect to learn about, and in the damn silliest sense, he was right, it was amusing. It actually did turn me on to play the staring game with him. And being naked in this dim light did nothing to make me vulnerable. If he changed his mind about our ground rules and tried to rape me, I’d kick his ass with my tits out as easy as when I put that guy down to save Shondi.

  Janet was right. What had she said? Me, personally, I find being nude is when I have the best psychological advantage.

  I was wet before Daniel’s hands even reached me.

  We kissed, and he tasted good. For a moment, my hands fumbled blindly to embrace him somehow, but his own caught mine and laced our fingers. My nipples hardened with the stimulation of our mouths exploring, and my legs fidgeted, opening unconsciously, my back arching. I was ready to have more, but he kept his fingers tightly laced with mine, and no body language would rush his timetable. Okay, okay, I thought. My fingers lifted to loosen the grip and surrender, and only then did he let go and reach for my waist. I slipped out of his arms, backed up and sat on the long table, lifting my knees.

  Caressing me, very pleasant but nothing special, fondling my tits, and I found myself growing a little impatient. Perhaps he sensed it, because at last he put all of his right hand to cover my pussy, and I welcomed the warmth of his fingers on my outer vaginal lips. I wanted something to happen. I actually didn’t want to be disappointed, but as he played with my clit, I settled down and relaxed, deciding it would be enough to come, to have a regular orgasm.

  After a moment, he put his middle and ring fingers into my vagina, and I heard my breathing become ragged with the stimulation. The attention of his mouth shifted from my lips to suck on my left nipple, and now I felt his probing fingers in my pussy just behind my clit, expertly locating my G-spot. I keened in shock at the sudden ecstasy, wrapping a tight arm around his neck while he kept applying firm but gentle pleasure. My juices were flowing, and I felt light-headed, dizzy.

  “I’m gonna black out,” I muttered.

  “No, you’re not.”

  There was a distant feeling inside my body, searching for a definition, and I had to settle for the idea that it was like a prick of a pin. His fingers were vigorously shoving in and out of me, and then I felt an ocean roar deep inside. Oh, my God, and I had never felt that before, and as the eye of the hurricane struck, I mewled and cried, and the tingling in my spread legs intensified like an electric shock, and I saw my pussy squirt over his hand and arm in an obscene display. I couldn’t believe this was me. I wasn’t peeing—I knew this. My juices. Incredible.

  “Oh, fuck,” I cried out. Soaked between my legs, my honey running down into my ass, down to the table. He kept his hand in me for a minute, still gently stimulating my pussy as he kissed me in after-play, and I had another mild orgasm. I felt a higher lift of euphoria than usual, Daniel kissing my breasts and my belly almost apologetically. My arms gave out, and I shivered a little as my shoulder blades touched the cold wood.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ve never been happier to say I was wrong.”

  I felt exhausted, gratefully accepting his help in order to sit up again.

  “I don’t want to abandon you, but maybe I’d better get some towelling or something from the men’s room,” he suggested. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  I nodded weakly and watched his shadow move towards the heavy door. It was a bit disorienting, the descent after orgasm and Daniel Giradeau suddenly behaving like a gentleman. Then he was gone. Alone and still naked, I jumped off the table to hide better in the darkness, and I actually staggered. Better sit down again, Teresa. I rested for a long moment until I was awake enough to feel a bit on edge at every passing footstep and noise beyond the conference room doors.

  Daniel returned, whispering, “Hi” and bringing me over wet towels. I wiped myself and hurriedly slipped my dress back on. After a few minutes of fixing myself up in the ladies’ room, I met him at the front door of the hotel.

  “I’ll get the doorman to hail you a cab,” he said, his voice still pleasant but more formal. “I had a really good time. I hope you did, too. I’d like to see you again.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “I don’t know what to think.”

  He shrugged at that. “Well, I would like to see you again,” he repeated.

  He smiled and opened the door of the cab for me. No attempt to kiss me goodnight, no gesture of warmth at all except for that smile. Weird. Like he was driving home his point about the sheer ruthlessness of any relationship between us—sexual experimentation and thrills, nothing more. And I got the eerie sensation that he wanted me to feel deflated, emotionally let down after the high of the orgasm.

  If I remarked on his coldness and detachment, he’d no doubt offer a reminder that he’d been honest with me. After all, what was different tonight than fooling around at the games? None of us looked for emotional involvement there.

  I got into the back of the cab and dismissed all the irrational responses that popped into my head, like telling him to go fuck himself or that he could just forget it. I nodded, and the cab pulled out from the curb. Okay, I thought, we’ll play for a little while, long enough for me to learn what you’re about.

  Bluffing is when you pretend to have something you don’t. And as I hooked up with these guys one by one, evaluating my suspects, I slowly came to one conclusion. Our blackmailer would turn out to be someone who wasn’t what he or she appeared to be.

  I don’t know what he did to me back there, but later on that evening, I felt helplessly, overwhelmingly horny. I used my trusty little tripl
e-A battery friend I keep in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, but it wasn’t enough. I was so sexually charged, I could barely think straight. I dialled Fitz’s number three times and hung up each time before the call went through. I liked him, and he was a good friend these days, but what was between us was in a nice, safe compartment, and if I went over to his place tonight out of the blue, I might give him mixed signals and screw it all up. Shit. It would be very nice if I knew how to reach Neil Kenan, assuming he wasn’t lying curled up with Janet Marshall at that very minute.

  I jumped into Helena’s rented Beamer, driving around and trying to tell myself I was just going for a ride. First I ended up outside the dominoes nightclub in Finsbury Park, parked with the engine running until I realized what I had in mind would be totally insane. I pulled my mobile out of my handbag and dialled George Westlake’s home number.

  He wants me. He’ll do for tonight.

  No. It would be cruel. It’ll mean something to him, if not to you. I hung up.

  Shit. Soooo horny.

  I turned the car around and headed back home.

  Big house near Chelsea Harbour. The scene of the latest poker game. Just a short walk down to the Conrad Hotel and various celebrity homes, and here we were in what I was told was a “his and hers” S&M brothel. No one apparently lived here, but there were plenty of bedrooms for short visits. The organiser had discreetly put away all the flails and whips, but when I poked my head into the wine cellar, I saw nothing could be done about the iron-bar cage in the corner—thankfully empty.

  Ground floor lounge about as nouveau vanilla as you could get. Gilt frame mirror above mantelpiece. A genuine Aubrey Beardsley on the wall. Big plaster cast of that exhausted horse head with the tongue lolling they’ve got in the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum. I don’t know when they’ll declare pastel colours for settees a war crime, but it has to be soon.

  I looked around the table. Some new players I didn’t know, a couple of poker virgins, and several familiar faces—George, Daniel, Ayako, Cahill, Vivian. No Lionel tonight.

  But Neil had shown up.

  “Sit next to me, Teresa,” said Ayako in her soft Californian accent. “Safety in numbers.”