Game of Throbs Complete Series (Books 1-3)

by Piquette Fontaine

  Chapter 1

  It was that time of year again, ladies and gentlemen- the Christmas season. Ah yes, the holidays... With the scents wafting constantly through the air making a gradual transition from pumpkin spice to peppermint, and people fighting tooth and nail over the best deal on holiday shopping... Peace on Earth, good will toward men, all that joyful nonsense.

  And okay... Really, I'm not that much of a cynic about Christmas. I know a lot of people who pretend to be, and I think that probably gets me saying these types of things. I actually really love the holidays, and mostly everything about them. Aside from the almost toxic levels of assorted spices in the air around that time of year, it really is a pretty magical season, and for the most part I could still enjoy Christmas and all that came along with it the same way I did when I was just an innocent little girl.

  But these days, I was far, far from innocent...

  Although the holidays themselves weren't a problem for me, I had to admit that this year in particular, I wasn't exactly feeling the holiday spirit. All of the decorations and the artificial cheer all around me were starting to annoy me somewhat, but only due to the fact that my life itself was as much a far cry from where I wanted it to be as you might care to imagine.

  On paper, at least, there wasn't really much that I was lacking. I was in my late twenties, successful at my job and sharing a beautiful apartment with the man I'd fallen in love with and married. And, what was more, my devastating sexiness was showing no signs of diminishing now that I was rounding the corner of my third decade, and I rather savored the knowledge that I could still turn all the boys' heads whenever I walked by, popping my tight booty at them at just the right angle.

  Hell, sometimes I would even mesmerize myself if I looked at my face in the mirror too long. I was, quite frankly, a dark skinned angel, with hypnotic eyes and an almost excessively perfect face. And I don't mean to sound like I'm bragging about that, either. I'm just stating the facts as plainly as I can, and the fact that I'd practically set out on a modeling career only a few years earlier should speak volumes as to the authenticity and appropriateness of my rather high self-esteem.

  But, life had sort of interfered in that plan, and by life, I mean specifically, my prudish mother. It wasn't like I was intent on posing for Playboy or anything, or as though by “modeling” I was secretly saying “having sex with random men in pornos.” No, this was honest to God, real life modeling, for fashion magazines and advertisements, and really high paying work as far as that went. To any rational person, that would have been a perfectly acceptable, even highly sought after career path, given that you had to meet extremely high standards in order to lay claim to real success, and the fact that real modeling agents thought I fit the bill should have been as telling an indication as any that I should have gone for it.

  And these weren't just some scam artists, either, the modeling agents, I mean. I'd done my homework, checked up on the people interested in hiring me, and I made sure that anything I might be getting into would be entirely on the up and up, with no funny business.

  And for a brief, shining moment, I'd thought I was on my way, dipping my toes into the water, and ready to kick up waves in the industry with my uncanny good looks. That is, until my mother came a long, and essentially poked a big gaping hole in my balloon.

  Almost immediately upon sharing my life plans with my mother, she began to fill me with horror stories of what the modeling industry was really like, and by the time she'd said her piece in its entirety, I was fully convinced that at least one, if not more, of her forecasted tragedies would take place if I went through with it against her wishes. Most likely, she said, I would end up becoming anorexic, or possibly strung out on drugs and totally eff up my life. Or, alternatively, I would find out that the industry was a hell of a lot seedier than naïve little me thought it was, and I would be expected to have sex with lowlife agents in exchange for favors in my career. And then there was her theory that modeling and being around all those other bombshells of women would turn me into a lesbian. Now, all of the other possible scenarios at least seem like plausible worries, but I have no idea where she pulled out this last little scare tactic. But, given my conservative religious worldview at the time, you can bet that it did the trick of frightening the bajeezus out of me (I don't hold such worldviews anymore, by the way. I've done a lot of growing since then.)

  All in all, though, the underlying theme in all of my mother's objections was that I was trying to become little more than a painted a whore, tempting men with photos of my nearly naked body, and purchasing myself a straight, one-way ticket to hell if I even thought about going through with all of it.

  And so, sheepishly enough, I backed away from my dream. And although, in retrospect, I can admit that going to college and furthering my education might have been the better route to take, if for entirely different reasons than the terrifying ones she spouted at me.

  Still, though, over the years, I had had my fair share of having men become enamored with me, their eyes following me wherever I went like one of those paintings on the wall. And there's definitely a lot negative to be said about this sort of attention, of course- it's really a fine line, I think. A girl doesn't want to be objectified because of her looks, but at the same time it can definitely be a booster to one's self esteem, as long as the attention received remains respectful and unobtrusive in nature.

  But for me, on a personal level, my perfectly symmetrical face, and my flowing, sumptuous curves, my supple, perky breasts, my tight stomach, and my luscious caboose, all posed their own very particular set of problems.

  As mentioned, I was brought up in an especially old-fashioned household, brought up with strict Christian ideals, and after having had the same old spiel about lusts of the flesh and fornication being a tool of the devil being driven into my head, I'd actually been sort of trapped into thinking my own beauty, as well as my physical (ahem) assets, were something dirty. And the attention I so often received from any heterosexual male with functioning genitals therefore left me almost dizzyingly conflicted, torn between a desire for purity in the eyes of the Lord and a desire to pounce on some ripped hunk of a stud and ride him off into the sunset.

  And I'm not talking about just when I was a teenager or anything, either. This was something that was happening when I was a fully grown adult, living on my own, but the low ceiling of my mother's moral policing causing me to routinely bump my head and end up more confused and repressed than ever.

  I had had boyfriends over the years- a fact which seemed like a miracle in itself given the oppressive eye my mother kept over my every action. But, suffice it to say, the relationships I was in never managed to creep into any sort of physical nature given the restrictions that had been placed over such things all my life, and most of the time after only going so far as letting men hold my hand and kiss me on the cheek after months of dating, the relationship would sort of collapse and vanish, and I would be left right back where I'd started, all on my own.

  And it wasn't like I would have been an unwilling partner, either. I craved sex, dreaming about the day I would have my cherry popped and would know the sheer carnal joys of physical intimacy. But sex, I'd been told all my life, was only for marriage, and even thinking about these sorts of things in my unwed state made me feel dirty and unworthy, not to mention wholly perverse.

  And so, for so long I'd held myself back, “behaving myself” for the sake of my eternal soul, and trying to avoid the almost constant obstacle of sexual temptation and frustration.

  And that was when Bryan had come along...

  He'd shown up one Sunday in church, and had caught my attention almost immediately, tall and studly as he was and, most importantly, lest my attraction to him fall into the forbidden category of sinful physical lust, a member of Christ's holy body.

  But God, talk about holy bodies...

  For starters, he looked dashing in his Sunday attire. Dressed to the nines and fine as hell, wearing a damn s
uit and everything. I had to squirm in my pew just to avoid the nagging thought of peeling the beautiful bastard from the thing all through services, and my mind raced with what wonderful, juicy features must lie underneath it. I could almost see it, right then and there- his broad chest, with sharp delicate nipples, his sculpted abdomen, thick arms, and whatever the hell sort of cargo he might be packing below the belt... And that ass of his...

  God, it made me sweat just thinking about it, and at one point during communion, he made me spit out the holy sacrament when I caught him looking back in my direction, causing quite the scene, and pissing off my mother to no small end.

  I was smitten from the very start...

  The service that morning seemed to span on forever, which I guess wasn't really all that unusual given how boring our preacher was. At last, though, things drew to a close, and for once in a blue moon I was actually grateful for my mother's penchant for talkativeness after services were over. She was always welcoming new people into the fold whenever she got the chance (or possibly scaring them away, I sometimes thought, but politely avoided saying,) and it was thus that I made my introduction to the man of my dreams.

  Apparently, Bryan's brother and his girlfriend had been coming for a few weeks and had decided to invite him along that Sunday, which I guess later explained away the suit he was wearing as a fluke- our congregation was really not that fancy, and he'd apparently overdressed not knowing exactly how pious the members of our church were or if God expected a certain level of flashiness in his pews. He shook my hand, and I loved the thickness and warmth of his palm closing around mine, so that some pretty dirty fantasies began to swirl around in my head from just that gesture alone.

  The two of us talked for a while, and seemed from the get go to get along quite well. I began to look forward to Sundays now that I had something a little bit more engaging to keep my interest, and after so many conversations after services, he at last asked me out on a date for the first time.

  Before either of us knew it, we were in a relationship, and for me it was the most satisfying connection I'd ever struck with a boy. Or, well, a man really- we were both nineteen at the time, having breached into adulthood, and the temptations each of us presented to the other seemed more severe and irresistible than ever.

  There was one major difference with Bryan compared to pretty much all of the other guys I'd been with, though. Although he hadn't been raised in the same church as me and had come from another denomination, he shared a lot of the same old-fashioned values as I did, seeing chastity as a positive thing, and therefore never asking me to do the nasty with him, regardless of how long the two of us had been dating.

  I could tell he wanted me, though, badly, almost as much as I wanted him, and that turned me on like you wouldn't believe. He would try to conceal hard-ons whenever the two of us held hands, and would get all sweaty anytime I happened to get in too close to him. And Jesus, the sexual tension became almost palpable between the two of us... How the hell the two of us managed to resist biting into that juicy, overripe forbidden fruit for as very long as we did was something close to a miracle to me, and eventually the maddening temptation became entirely too much for either of us to withstand any longer.

  At the fresh young age of twenty years old, I found myself a married woman. Given how very limited my exposure to the world was at that point, I'm sure an outsider would view the decision to wed at that age to be rash and, frankly, desperate. And in hindsight, it probably really was. But, the two of us were quite simply too fed up with waiting for the chance to have sex, and although that factor alone was what led us into entering our supposedly permanent life together at that young age, we told ourselves regardless that it was a holy union, brought together by the Lord God himself, and that our lives would both flourish abundantly for the fact.

  My mother, for her part, wasn't all that thrilled about the fact of the two of us getting married. I mean, reasonably, she should have been fine with it, because the two of us had gone along exactly with what God's plan supposedly was. Her problem, I think, was secretly that Bryan and I were an interracial couple- he was white, if I haven't pointed out that fact already, his skin like cream atop my own ebony flesh. I don't think she was openly bigoted in general or anything, it was just that I think she'd envisioned any potential son-in-laws and grandbabies in her life would all share at least a relatively similar skin-tone, but because she didn't really have any scriptural justification for this notion, she didn't overtly say a word about it, and with time I think she adjusted pretty well to the idea of us being together. And at any rate, she doesn't really hold much more of a bearing on the story from here on out aside from her past contributions to my life, so she can probably be left out of it all henceforth.

  At last, after so very long of waiting, Bryan and I's wedding night had come. The night of consummation, dripping with so much pent up sexual angst and carnal want, ready to be detonated, to burst until it rocked the bed frame, and left us so exhausted from smashing our genitals together that the two of us would be left unable to walk for weeks after our honeymoon was over.

  It was actually all pretty awkward...

  Or, well, at first it was at least.

  Because we were both virgins as fresh and as clean as newly fallen snow, neither of us knew what the hell we were supposed to do with one another. Or, well, I mean, obviously we knew the basic mechanics of it all. Even dummies like us had taken sex ed classes in high school and knew where everything went, but that's hardly the same as feeling competent or comfortable with how it's all supposed to go down.

  Bryan, for his part, started off just a little bit too gentle. I think he sort of overestimated the fragility of a female body, and was afraid that if he climbed on top of me or put his weight down too hard he might crush me beneath his weight. I, meanwhile, just wanted to be plowed into next week by his rock hard cock, but I was entirely too sheepish to make the first move to that effect.

  It started off with him carrying me into our honeymoon suite in my wedding dress, in the most archetypical of fashions. He sat me down on the bed, and the two of us sat there kissing one another for some time, not even putting our tongues into one another all that much, but pecking kisses upon kisses that were as virginal as either of us were.

  It was, I suppose, a little bit cute at first, but quickly grew tedious, and it seemed as though things might never progress to anything beyond that overly sterile starting point.

  At last, though, with shaking hands, the two of us made it down to the point of undressing one another, and I loved equally feeling his hands sweep across his body all over, and in turn pulling him out of his tuxedo. Cautiously, I put my hand on his crotch, and he shuttered as I stroked his cock through the fabric of his underwear, to the point that I almost thought he would cum before I even got his pants off of him.

  Eventually, he got me down to my tight little bra and panties, hugging my dark features in white lace, and from here I could tell he got really confused with just what he should do. I helped him off just the least bit by taking my bra off for him, because admittedly, I could imagine that being tricky for a man. I refused, however, to do the work of taking off my panties for him, expecting as I did that at some point he was going to have to nut up and get this show on the road himself.

  The poor bastard seemed absolutely blown away by his first sight of my dark chocolate tits. Initially, I'd felt just the least bit self-conscious about revealing my nudity to him in this way, not sure what I should do or how I should act in this vulnerable state of undress. But gradually, I began to realize that he was paying far more attention to my breasts themselves than he was to me, and I began to relax somewhat as he stared at my nipples, almost annoyed by how dumbfounded he was, and burning for him to start touching me in the manner I had for so long craved.

  After so long of his astonishment, I reached over, and lifted his hands onto me, pressing his palms down onto my breasts, and shuddering as I felt an electrical current of his warm
th come shivering through my body. I arched my spine up from the mattress just a bit, pushing myself further into him, and at last this seemed, to some degree or another, to get him started in the direction he needed to be taking.

  I began to moan as he leaned down, lightly pecking my body with kisses all over, rolling his tongue around my nipples, but still only just barely scratching the surface as far as really pleasuring me was concerned. The light tension of his initial touches quickly began to grow old when it seemed that no intensification seemed in sight, and once again, I began to feel compelled to carry things further along on his behalf.

  Shocking him just a little bit, I think, I took hold of his hand once again, and this time I brought it downalong my body, to a bit of nervous resistance at first. He didn't seemed to comprehend what I was wanting almost, and he tensed just a little bit as I slid his hand down into my panties, and pushed his fingers up against the sensitive, fleshy mound of my mons pubis.

  Now we were getting somewhere, I thought, and I moaned harder than ever, letting my legs close around his hand as his grip tightened against me, and him, I think at last seeming to settle into his role just the least bit. He didn't stroke my pussy, however, as I'd been hoping when I slipped his fingers down there, but just seemed to grip tighter, tighter, almost petrified. And as he clutched me in one hand, he continued to squeeze one of my breasts with the other, and to run his little kisses all over my prone body, and finally I resigned myself to just lying there and waiting for things to progress.