Already uncomfortable, I start to feel awkward. It’s embarrassing to just stand here, dressed for sex, while none of the men in the room display the slightest bit of interest in me.
Eventually, one of the older ones looks up. ‘Ah, you’re here,’ he says.
Self-evidently.
‘Uh, yeah,’ I say. ‘What do you want me to do?’
He sweeps his gaze around the other three players. ‘We thought you could add a little incentive to our game. We’re playing five hands. The winners of the first four get a sexual service of their choice. The winner of the fifth gets to take you home for the night. What do you say?’
Lloyd’s silence deafens me from across the room.
He wants me to say yes? He wants me to say no?
No would be a fail. Of course he wants me to say it.
‘Yes. That sounds fine.’
‘Good. Well, take off your jacket and let’s have you standing on that chair in the corner. Give us something nice to look at, and something to play for.’
The other gents smirk and chuckle, watching me take my display position. It’s not easy to maintain in these shoes, but I strike a pose, hand on hip and watch them from my height.
They are not playing poker, or even whist, but pontoon, or blackjack as the American gentleman in the party calls it.
I take a good look at each of the four, trying to figure out which would be the best to spend the night with. Lloyd, behind me, is quiet and discreet, only making a sound when one of the players calls for more cigars or a drink. I want to forget that he is there, but I can’t.
The young guy has the face of an assassin. I really hope I don’t get him.
The American looks kinder, in a silver foxy kind of way. He has broad shoulders and looks a bit like a newscaster for CNN or something – avuncular but sharp.
A third man at the table appears to be Russian. He is thin, a little haggard, not wearing as well as the American, though just as expensively dressed. He has astonishingly blue eyes, though, that transform his face from tired to alert in the time it takes to blink.
The final man looks familiar, and it takes me about five minutes to realise, with a frisson of shock, that he is a Cabinet minister. One of those expansive Old Etonian types that our prime minister is so fond of, greying at the temples, heading into jowliness and gout.
Play is desultory, but eventually the Russian wins the first hand.
I expect him to ask for a blow job, and he does.
I step down from the chair, moving towards the lewd smiles of the gamblers until I am beside the Russian.
Without ceremony, he unbuttons his trousers and removes his semi-erect cock.
‘Get on your knees,’ he orders gutturally.
Maintaining perfect expressionlessness, I drop to my haunches in front of him, then kneel. I put out a hand to touch him, but he bats it away.
‘Use your mouth only,’ he instructs. ‘Hands off.’
I shuffle closer and bend forwards, licking the curving underside of his shaft first in an effort to bring it to full erection. It isn’t a huge organ and should be easy enough to take the full length if I keep my throat relaxed. I breathe gently on it, kissing it, feeling it harden under my attentions.
‘Stop playing with it and suck it,’ scolds the Russian, putting a hand under my chin and nudging my mouth over his cock tip. Those are the last words he addresses to me for some time.
While I gobble and suck, the men discuss great blow jobs of their life.
The Cabinet minister’s took place at the Playboy mansion, apparently. The Russian got his mistress to suck him off in the royal box at a football cup final. The American enjoyed three episodes of fellatio in quick succession at an orgy in San Francisco, but he wasn’t able to stretch to a fourth.
As for the younger man, his took place in an alleyway, the girl on her hands and knees in the dirt. He took his cock out of her mouth and came over her face, then made her go into the neighbouring pub for a drink with him.
‘Shall I do that?’ asks the Russian idly, while I bob up and down on his stiff cock. He must feel the tension that takes momentary hold of my body at the idea – I don’t like it on my face, never have done, though sometimes it seems like the right end to a particular encounter. But not this one. There are still four hands to play, for heaven’s sake. He laughs. ‘I don’t think she wants me to.’
‘Make her,’ says the younger one eagerly, but the American demurs.
‘Hey, no, we want her in a good mood for the rest of us, right?’
‘I suppose,’ the Russian concedes. ‘OK. Just because I’m a good guy, I’ll make her swallow instead. Oh yes. That’s good. Keep sucking. You’ve got a great mouth for it.’
‘She’s got a great everything,’ remarks the Cabinet minister. ‘Lovely arse. I can’t wait to get it out of that skirt. If you can call it a skirt.’
‘Is she deep-throating you?’ the American wants to know.
But I have tipped my Russian oligarch just over that edge where speech becomes too difficult.
‘I don’t know what to ask for,’ the American continues, canvassing his friends for their opinions. ‘Such a lot of possibilities. Well, that’s if I ever win a hand, of course.’
‘Unlikely, with your record,’ chips in the younger man.
‘No need for snark, Egerton. You’re only here as a substitute anyway, remember.’
I rub the Russian’s balls with my chin and he comes, spurting richly into my mouth, grabbing my hair and mussing it, rather to my chagrin. I gulp it down, give his shaft a final circular lick then remove myself from the rich man’s tool.
I keep my head bowed, not sure if I’m allowed to look him in the face.
He strokes the bit of my hair he’s already tousled, a gesture of vague goodwill for a job well done.
‘That was good. One of the best. You guys could do much worse than ask for a blow job from her.’
They take note and I rise to my feet, ready to take my position on the chair, but the Russian clicks his tongue and halts me with a hand around my lower arm.
‘Hey, hey, one more thing. You lose some clothing every time.’
Oh, I see.
I kick off my stilettos and go to stand on the chair in my stockinged feet. I wonder what will happen if the Russian wins the next hand too. Will he ask for the same thing? Will he be able to get hard again so soon?
As it happens, the dilemma doesn’t arise. The next winner is the American, despite the scoffing of Egerton.
‘Awesome!’ he exclaims, throwing down a perfect hand. ‘And now, let me think. What wish can this sexy little genie grant me? Come over here, honey.’
I approach him with more confidence than I did the Russian. He seems a little more human than the others in the room, bar Lloyd of course.
He makes me stand between his knees while he explores my satin-covered body with big beringed hands.
‘Can we actually fuck her?’ he asks nobody in particular. He could ask me, but that doesn’t seem to occur to him.
‘I have condoms behind the bar if you want to,’ says Lloyd.
‘So we can? OK, honey, turn around and bend over the table for me.’
Lloyd tosses him a pack of three, which he catches with one hand. ‘Years of baseball practice,’ he says, chuckling.
I hear the cellophane wrapper crackling and I pivot my hips, avoiding the eyes of the other three men, who are leaning low over the table, looking at me.
They are going to watch me getting fucked. They’ve already seen me suck off another one of them. From the corner of my eyes I catch the feral gleam in their eyes and hear the subtle sound of salivation.
They lower their heads so that they are level with my breasts. My nipples are concealed by the cups of the basque, but the flesh above them spills over in abundance.
I wait for the American to touch me. For a moment, I have the strongest urge to look around at Lloyd, to see his face.
If he looks unhappy, I’ll
stop this. I’ll fail.
I gather a hold of myself and keep my eyes to the front. I’m not going to look at Lloyd. I’m going to let this stranger fuck me in front of a group of other strangers, and my lover. And I’m going to enjoy it.
So I wiggle my hips a bit, letting the ruffle shift and shush across my bum, the frills tickling my upper thighs.
‘Mmm, hot for it, eh?’ says the American. ‘I hope you’re ready. I can’t spend time getting you warmed up, doll, we’ve got business to see to. Hands to play. Tell you what, why don’t you get your fingers down in that sweet little pussy, get it ready for me.’
The other men can’t see me do this, because my lower half is under the table, but I slip one hand inside the G-string and touch my clit. It feels dry, so I give it a rub. I need to stop thinking about Lloyd. I need to let my consciousness defer to my sex drive, in the way it usually does. Why is it being such a stubborn bugger tonight?
I push my forefinger up into my tight passage, encountering resistance when I try to fit in another. I return to my clit and rotate my pelvis, pressing down on my insistent fingertips. Ah, yes, finally, my mind swoops away and I see myself from above, a girl who needs fucking, by all of the men in the room, until she can no longer stand.
‘Mmm.’ I start to feel it, the trembling high up in the hips, the slow outward spread of the warmth. My fingers are slicked in moisture and they fit easily into my cunt now. I can even get three up there.
The other men are too spellbound to speak, but the American still has mastery of his vocal cords. ‘Are you getting good and wet for me, honey?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ve got a nice thick cock for you, gonna ride you good. You better have those legs spread wide.’
I part my trembling flanks for him. I know he can see my hand, bunched inside the tiny lacy knickers, working.
‘You like to get fucked by strangers, honey?’
‘I love it.’
I’m outside myself now, fully in my zone. I can’t wait for him to mount and push his big fat American cock up inside me.
‘This is one hot bitch,’ says the younger man admiringly. ‘I’m going to see I win the next hand.’
‘You better make sure you’re big enough to handle her, son, cos she’s getting stretched.’
The American backs up his words as soon as the condom snaps on.
He pulls my hand roughly from the G-string and pushes the gusset to one side, sinking himself in my cunt with one rough stroke.
‘Oh yeah,’ he purrs. ‘Good and tight. A real hot little pussy here. You like that, honey?’
‘Mmm, so full.’
‘Right. Now hold on tight, sweetheart, cos I’m gonna pound you. Real. Hard.’
His big hands settle on my hips, then he makes good his promise, pulling halfway out then slamming me against the table. Luckily, it’s a gaming table with a smooth padded rim or there’d be bruises for sure.
He bangs me – there’s no other way to put it – brutally and fast, lifting my feet from the floor with the force of each thrust.
‘She’s getting it,’ says the Cabinet minister admiringly.
‘She’s loving it,’ says the younger man. ‘Look at her. She’s in a trance.’
I want to shove my hand back down my knickers, but I need both hands to keep me anchored to the table while the American gives me one of the most punishing fucks of my life. I want to touch my clit, want to get myself off, but he’s not interested in me, or my pleasure.
Lloyd would be angling his cock so that it swept over my G-spot, or stroked my clit on the way out.
This man has no such consideration.
He comes in ten hard thrusts, grunting and pinning me to the table until I can’t breathe. When he releases me, my legs feel numb for a moment and I flop into a semi-crouch, hanging on to the padded edge.
The American falls back into his chair, puffing mightily. ‘That’s how a man fucks,’ he claims. ‘She can’t even stand.’
I know it was all grandstanding for the benefit of the other men, and I ought to feel affronted, but I just feel relieved to have ticked another box on the challenge sheet. Two down. Two to go, then the spending-the-night thing. I hope it’s not with him. Actually, if it’s him, I might well concede.
I pick myself up. The G-string rubs a little painfully against my swollen pussy lips. I turn to stagger back to my chair, but the American clears his throat. ‘Forgetting something?’
I shimmy off the tiny ruffled skirt, leaving me in underwear only. I risk the briefest of glances at Lloyd. He is getting something down off a shelf. Did he watch? Or did he turn his back for the duration?
The third winner is the Cabinet minister, who goes for a blow job. He is neither especially well endowed nor demanding and in a way it’s quite peaceful to just bathe him with my tongue while he lies back and sighs and the others talk about investments and world banking.
Once he has come, I swallow it down and remove my basque, returning to the chair in just suspenders, stockings and G-string.
Only the evil-faced one has not had some part of me yet. I wonder if I’ll get away without having to service him. Maybe the American will win again. The Cabinet minister might be OK to spend the night with. He seems pretty reasonable. The Russian seems more of an unknown quantity and the younger guy … just no. I just don’t like him.
Standing on the chair in just the scantiest of wisps, I feel cold, my nipples standing painfully erect. I hear Lloyd clattering glasses and I can’t stop myself from twisting my neck in his direction.
He looks as pale as death, his eyes hooded and watchful.
I want to get down.
The Cabinet minister wins the fourth hand. He isn’t up to much, so soon after I have drained him dry. He settles for a sexy lap dance and hand job, but he never gets fully erect, and lets me off after five minutes during which the others drum their fingers and roll their eyes.
‘OK, the big one,’ says the Russian grandly. ‘Get naked, my beauty.’
I daren’t look at them play the hand, so I kneel on the chair with my back to them, leaning over to present my bottom to their view. I let my hair hide my face so Lloyd won’t be able to see what I’m thinking.
Which is: Stop them.
Or at least he could join in the game and give himself a chance of winning.
Doesn’t he want to? Does he actually want to hand me over, give me away?
It occurs to me that this might be a test within a test – that, in order to pass, I have to fail. He might be waiting behind that bar, holding his breath for me to call time on it all and confess that I only want to leave this place with Lloyd.
If I did that …
There is a flurry of ‘lucky bastard’ type comments, and I gather that the worst-case scenario has come to pass and the assassin-faced one has won.
Before I can hold up my hand and pull out of this thing, though, he says something that halts me in my tracks: ‘Too bad it isn’t me she’ll be spending the night with.’
He sounds bad-tempered enough for it to be true. I turn and sit down on the chair, listening to the conversation. Of course, it excludes me. I’m just the prize.
‘You’re sure you aren’t standing in for him in every respect?’ chuckles the American, but the winner is already on the phone.
‘Yeah. You won. OK. I’ll bring her right over. Right.’
‘So, I’m not going to your place?’ I speak at last, looking between Evil Face and Lloyd.
‘I’m delivering you,’ says Evil Face flatly. ‘I’m here representing my employer tonight. He’s staying at the Hilton.’
What’s wrong with the Luxe Noir?
‘I see. So … is that it? Do we go now?’ I’m asking Lloyd.
He puts down a tea towel and nods. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he says.
Just that. But it sounds wistful, hopeful, and a bit scared.
He wouldn’t put me in danger. He’d never give me to somebody dangerous. He’d have vetted this
guy thoroughly. It has to be somebody he’s known a long time through this job. It’s OK; it’s fine.
I don’t feel fine, though. Evil Face flaps a hand at me when I start getting dressed.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he says. ‘Just put your shoes and jacket on.’
He hands me the satin tux. I slip it over my nude body and fasten the single button, just about covering my breasts, though my pussy will flash every time I take a step forwards.
‘Good evening, gents.’ I take a formal farewell of the other competitors.
They wave limply, already back to full absorption in the whisky and cigars.
‘Cheers, doll, take care,’ says the American, the only one to offer speech.
Evil Face puts his hand on my upper arm and steers me towards the immensely fortified door, which is opened by the huge goon, who has watched everything with a face suggestive of drugged stupor.
I totter in front of Evil Face. I’m still a bit sore and stiff from the American onslaught and it isn’t easy to negotiate the steep, creaky staircase.
The smoking girls are long gone, but an empty condom packet lies on a landing, next to an empty tissue box. The closed doors around it must belong to a brothel. The atmosphere is oppressive and stale, misery compacted into every molecule of air. The opposite of sexy. Why would a person come here?
We walk out through the shop front of the peep show. A punter at the desk stops counting out banknotes in order to give me a good, long stare.
‘She one of yours?’ he asks the receptionist, but I don’t hear the answer, because we are already outside on a dark, rainy pavement.
I look around for a car, but there isn’t one.
‘It’s just around the corner,’ says Evil Face. ‘You can walk.’
‘In this?’ I gesture down at my barely concealed nudity.
‘Sure. Look around you. You fit right in.’
It’s true that the area around the park gates is home to little knots of working girls in tiny skirts and lots of leopard print, but I am still one step further on than them in the flesh-baring stakes and their eyes follow me along the alleyway that cuts through from the sleazy area to the district of fabulous wealth. Funny how all cities seem to have a similar geographical juxtaposition somewhere on the map, like a topographical joke.
Game Page 18