It's Thursday, September eleventh, and time for your daily fuck. The late afternoon sun cuts through the leaves, dappling the chessboard and shifting patterns of light and shadow. The only sounds are the distant master of children on a playground and the soft, deliberate click of wood on wood. Across from me, my opponent leans forward, his brow frowed in concentration. His name is Alex, and for the last hour we've been locked in a silent and brutal war over sixty
four squares. He's handsome, with intelligent eyes and strong, capable hands that hover over his pieces with agonizing slowness. But it's his mind. I'm attracted to the sharp, strategic way he thinks, the way he anticipates my moves. We've been trading more than just pieces. We've been trading barbs, little lines of flirtatious trash talk that have turned this quiet game into a potent form of foreplay. My queen is about to put your king in a very compromised position.
I slide my most powerful piece across the board. He looks up from the board, a slow smile spreading across his face. You're leaving yourself wide open. Are you sure you want to do that? Maybe I like being wide open.
The game has become a mirror of my desires.
Every piece I capture feels like an article of his clothing I'm removing. Every advance I make on his king feels like my hands exploring his body.
And now I see it.
The final move, a beautiful, perfect, inescapable Mate in three. I wonder if he sees it, and watch after I make the first move. He doesn't, and rather than resign, he moves upond to protect his king. I pick up my rook, my fingers closed around the cool carved wood, I slide it into place with a definitive click. Mate in two. He stares at the board and he sees it. His shoulders slump into feet. Then he looks up at me. His eyes are a stunning cocktail of admiration, frustration, and
raw undisguised arousal. He lost, and he is absolutely thrilled by it. In that instant, I decide that winning the game was just the beginning of my victory.
He picks up my brook and waves it at me. You're right, it's a mate in two.
I wasn't talking about the game I slide my foot forward and run it up his calf. He doesn't speak, He just gives a single, sharp nod. His eyes are locked on mine. He has completely submitted to both my mates. I lead him away from the public chest tables, our feet crunching on the gravel path as we walked toward a secluded grove of weeping willows near the edge of the park. The moment we're hidden from view by the thick trailing branches, I turn to him turn around. He
obeys my question. I unbuckle his thick leather belt, pulling it free from the loops of his cheins. He stands perfectly still as I pull his hands behind his back and bind his wrists tightly together. He's completely at my mercy on your knees. He drops to his knees on the soft, damp earth. I stand before him, a conquering queen, a conquering queen before her captive king. I place my hands on his shoulders and push him onto his back, his bomb hands trapped awkwardly beneath him.
Then I hike up.
My son dress, straddle his chest, and slowly lower myself onto his face. His mouth meets me with a desperate, hungry, eagerness. His tongue now his only weapon is a masterpiece. He licks and the laps at me, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps against my skin.
I'm in total control.
I set the pace, my hips rocking in the slow, torturous rhythm, grinding my clit against the rough texture of the stubble. His helplessness is a fire in my blood. With his hands tied, all he can do is take what I give him, and his frantic, muffled groans tell me he adores his defeat. The pleasure is building, coiling tight in my stomach, The risk of being discovered, the smell of the damp earth, that, the feeling of his mouth working so desperately on me, It's all pushing me closer.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on his shoulders, and writhe his face with a wild, frantic energy.
My leg's tense.
He can tell unclose, and his tongue flicks against my clit again and again. The feeling is exquisite, and my orgasm rips through me. I scream a raw, unrestrained cry of victory and pleasure that's swallowed by the rustling leaves. I collapse onto him, my body trembling and spent. After a moment, I entangle myself in se stand, pulling my dress back down. I reach down and unbuckle his bell, freeing his hands. He lies there, dazed and smiling, looking up at me from the ground. Good game, I say,
with a wicked smile. I turn and walk away, leaving him in the shadows of the willows. They say chess is a battle of wits. They never mention how good it feels to clean the spoils.