Let’s play a little game

“Let’s play a little game,” she says. “Close your eyes.”

Obediently he shuts his eyes. He is slouched down in the pink upholstered chair by the window of the twelfth-floor hotel room, his arms resting on the chair arms, legs relaxed, extended, ankles crossed. Midafternoon sun passing through the drawn drapes gives the room a rosy glow. She watches his face, senses the faintest apprehension along the edges of his willingness. He obeys to please her, never sure what she will do with the power he gives her. She smiles.

She leans against the head of the king-size bed, the pillows piled behind her back. She is resting on her left hip, with her left leg tucked up close and her right leg crossed over it, her right foot extending casually beyond the edge of the bed. Her long, soft purple skirt falls in careless folds around her, and her small feet are bare.

She speaks in as quiet and neutral a voice as she can command, low, unmodulated. “Now picture me in your mind with your eyes still shut. Don’t say anything. Just think.” She wants to sound as if she were speaking from within his own mind. When he is alone, she knows, he does this: through all the months of their separate lives, he conjures her in his imagination, sketching her loosely first with quick, broad mental brushstrokes and then coming back to fill in color, texture, roundness and depth, with fine, full detail, all the detail that most entices him, most arouses him, drives him most feverishly to his solitary tributes to her inexplicable allure.

She is wearing something tight on top, something black and cut just slightly lower than absolutely necessary, and while his eyes are shut she tucks it a little deeper into the waistband of the skirt to expose more cleavage. She doesn’t have the slender figure she had when she was twenty or even thirty, but the bustline still works, and sometime after she lost her fear of appearing foolish she decided to make the most of it while she could. Now, half reclining, leaning on one elbow, she looks down to watch the swell of her breasts as she draws a breath, and her breath quickens as she feels her own cycle of self-arousal begin to mount.

She hears him sigh, a low, almost inaudible moan, and glances up. His eyes are still closed and his position is the same, but the contour of his body has altered dramatically. The towering hardness at the center of his form rivets her gaze. A flush of desire passes through her body, radiating outward from the center as if his mighty presence were already hot within her. But no, not yet, not too soon, wait–this will get better. She calms herself and steadies her voice. Very soft now.

“Keep thinking,” she says. “Think of what you like best. Think of what you want to do. It’s a pretend game, that’s all. Now–don’t open your eyes, don’t change–just–unzip your pants.” A little gasp catches her breath when she says “unzip,” and “your pants” comes out in a whisper. She is staring at him so hard now that her gaze has an erection.

His lips part, and he moans a little. He presses his eyelids shut. He has to shift his hips a bit, and it takes him two hands to work the zipper over the peak of tight fabric. She’s off the elbow now, sitting up, silently, silently, sitting on the edge of the bed, never taking her eyes off him as he works himself free, letting his left hand fall away, and then–

It gleams in the dim light, his cock, his prick, his hard-on–glistening with its own moisture, dark, fierce, hungry, alarmingly frank and bestial. She is burning for it. A shudder passes through her. She clamps down, doesn’t move. She is silent. She waits. He is breathing hard now, and his lips move, forming silent, rapid words. His right hand trembles in his lap. His cock throbs, the skin so taut and shiny it could split. His eyes clench as if in pain. Another second, another, and still she waits, her own mad heat surging, warring to dizziness with her determined pause. She presses both hands in her lap, holding down the welling passion, wetting her lips in readiness.

He breaks first. With a raw sound in the back of his throat, he frees his hand to fly to his desire. He is alone in his mind, alone in his frenzy, alone, alone. A grasp, a stroke, a moan, a faster stroke, and she sees it won’t be long. She moves like light, silent, headlong, direct. He crosses the verge, his hand is a blur, he is writhing and crying out, and THERE! her lips, her wet tongue, her seeking mouth find him NOW, at the very instant, and he explodes with a roar, all bursting hot come, from the depth of his fantasy straight to the totally real.

A moment like no other. Like no other in a lifetime.

From the blackened crater of his brain, he opens his eyes. She is on her knees on the floor beside him. She laps the creamy spill from her lips and laughs. A fat droplet shines on her heaving chest.

“I won,” she says.