Message-ID: <5792eli$9711232355@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: MarArch@ix.netcom.com (the poetic one) Subject: Checkmate (1/4 - D/s, no sex) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <3477d871.41881795@nntp.ix.netcom.com> "Checkmate" It was her eyes that did it, he thought. Those damned eyes. She didn't have a picture of herself scanned, so he'd had to rely on his imagination and whatever titilating decriptions of herself she'd been willing to let slip during their on-line chats. And those had been so playfully vague, almost challenging. In the end he'd given up trying to form a mental image of her, focusing instead on her mind as he percieved it from the words she sent in his direction through the wire...and perhaps this is what she had intended all along. It wasn't fair, he thought. He had a picture ready to upload to anyone who asked for it. A damn good picture, too. One that actually captured a bit of what he liked to think of was one of his strengths... that look of piercing solidness, as if while the viewer scanned the frozen image, the image was also scanning the viewer, and probably discovering a great deal more than was being given. Scooping up the small glass from the bar, he raised it to his lips and tipped it slightly, allowing a tiny river of the burning sweet liquid to roll over his lips and seep between them, oozing over his tongue. Although he drank carefully, almost daintily, the outside of the glass was already sticky with the almond flavored liquor, as if it had leeched through the container like icy sweat on a beer mug on a hot day. As he lowered the glass, he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the bar, pausing to study his visage dispassionately. He was fair looking. Not stunningly handsome by any means, but pleasant enough that no woman had yet felt the need to avert her eyes. But most importantly, he had that gaze.... the one he had long since learned to flick on and off like a lightswitch. And when it came on, he could see the women suddenly become more alert, like fawns in the forest when they sense.... something. It was that gaze that made him what he was.... a sexual Dominant. Sometimes he used it merely for his own amusement, catching some likely, pliant female in it's pull and toying with her, watching the blush and heat slowly rise inside her, only to suddenly switch it off and see her drift down from that rising arousal, a bit confused, wondering what might have come over her and hoping that this essential stranger couldn't smell the excitement drifting from between her thighs... The thing he most enjoyed about having positions of power over the women that he became sexually involved with was that it appealed to his basic artistic nature. Nothing was so sweet or erotic to him as to feel a woman begin to soften....melt... surrender herself to him, like some defenseless prey whose neck is clenched tightly in the powerful jaws of a predator when it finally realizes there is no escape, and submits itself to the inevitable. But in his case what he inflicted upon them was not death but exquisit sexual pleasure. His greatest joy was in gently strumming their bodies with his many skills, causing the very nerves to begin singing a melody of arousal, rising slowly, swelling and finally erupting in a climax of screaming, shivering, drenching electrical nerve-fire.... and then, like some wicked Rossini, to sustain the crecendo, allowing it to ebb only briefly before surging it up once more, sparking yet another clash of cymbal-like orgasm, and then another and another until the music of the pleasure coursing through their body became a wall of erotic noise, totally encompassing and drowning them in their own lustful fluids. He was a musician whose instrument was the finely tuned sexual organs of womanhood. And he knew from long experience that he was more than just a craftsman. He was an artist. He smiled wrying at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar, amused at the thought that here he was yet again, awaiting the opportunity to examine another potential instrument, to see if perhaps he might like to utilize it for some up-coming, as yet unscheduled concert of lust and erotic enjoyment. But this time, he felt himself to be at a slight disadvantage and that tugged at the back of his mind, causing a tiny annoyance. He had "known" her for a few weeks, at least as much as anyone can know anyone when their entire point of contact was confined to a series of sentences scrolling up a computer screen. And while he recognized in her a sense of humor, an intelligence and not a little spirit, yet she remained slippery... elusive... as if with each veil he felt himself removing from her thoughts and feeling revealed yet another whispy, protective garment underneath it. Smoke, he thought. This woman is like smoke.... Seemingly substantial yet impossible to grasp, it drifted and floated between the fingers and flowed through cupped hands. The only way to really contain it was... to inhale it, into yourself.... absorb it utterly. The smile in the reflection broadened slightly and became playfully wicked. Suddenly, he saw a form stepping up beside the reflected figure and felt the presense next to him. Turning his head, he regarded her, standing beside his stool... an attractive figure to be sure, but more than that... womanly... femenine... exuding a kind of erotic spiritual musk that could be felt rather than smelled. His gaze flicked over her in a quick upward sweep, catching first a focus of her shoulders, then her chin, her full lips, her well shaped nose and then locking on her eyes... those damned eyes... and when, in mere moments, his attention centered on them, he felt his breath catch for just an instant, the warmth of a flush against his neck and to his stunned realization it suddenly hit him.... she, too, had a gaze... He felt himself begin to lighten, as if his body were beginning to tip, threatening to lose contact with the stool and float, pulled even the foot or two which separated them, so that he might be sucked into those eyes and absorbed by her. At the nexus of his legs and hips he felt the first twitch and swelling and for a brief moment was almost tempted to simply let go and surrender to this lovely feeling of lightness and floating. Then he caught himself, and conciously yanked his mind back, suddenly, breaking the pull of those damnable eyes, casting his gaze down as if being delicately careful while he turned on the stool to face her. And this time when he looked up and locked his vision on hers, his eyes blazed with that special, long cultivated look now piercing into her, probing her, inviting her. It was as if a light had suddenly snapped on in a pitch dark room and he could see the ripple of startled shock that coursed through her, but she quickly recovered and enclined her head slightly, almost challengingly. And slowly the smiles began to spread on their lips as they each recognized the silent contest that was about to begin. She was not going to give in... and neither was he. And when the contest was finally decided, one of them would belong, utterly and eternally to the other. He wondered with some amusement if she could notice the slight swelling at the crotch of his trousers. He wondered if he could just faintly detect the scent of her arousal drifting between them. He wondered which of them would, in the end, be feasting on the body and soul of the other, ravaging the flesh and absorbing the spirit. Oh yes, he thought, his guard now fully engaged, his interest focused, his growing arousal fueling the encounter.... this is going to be fun. "Hi" he said quietly. "You must be........?" end part one -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /