Playing

I'm clumsy in heels and uncomfortable in makeup, but a debt is a debt.

And, though "dress up nice and come have a drink with me" seems a strange way to repay a $50 loan, my friend can be...adventurous. The ropes, chains and oddly-shaped toys kind of adventures. We've had mornings-after spent covering hickeys, and other marks...on both of us.

So far, I haven't had cause to regret following his lead, or he mine.

And the look in his eye when I promised to make good on this favor gave me the flutters, the ones where your body is trying to decide if it's aroused or alarmed...yeah, those.

So here I am, Friday night, in a little riverfront bar. Smoking in bars and restaurants is illegal in this state but the ghost of tobacco lingers, among all the other aromas of people crowding into a small space to drink and make eyes at strangers. He guides me to the bar. Chill air and chatter from outside filter through the room each time the door opens.

"Be right back," he tells the side of my neck, and is gone before I've fought off the shivers enough to turn and see where he's going.

He's playing and I don't even know what the game is called yet.

Fair bet it's a contact sport, though.

I order a Killian's and am two sips in when he returns...wearing a different jacket. (C'mon, damn you, what's the game...oh, I like to play. I don't mind playing rough, even. But I've never been good at patient.)

"Is this seat taken?" he asks. A stranger's friendly, innocent smile.

MIght as well play; he paid for it. "Actually, I'm waiting for someone," I say; cool, hiding the smile behind my beer. "A date."

"I think I'm him...are you Katie?"

That is annoying, actually, and he's doing it on purpose. I haven't been a Katie since grade school, and it was a hard-won freedom, involving skinned knuckles (mine) and a bloody nose (someone else's).

Whatever. I'll get him later.

"I am! Hi!" Sound happy, I tell myself; take the hand he holds out to shake. His fingers curl around mine, holding on a second longer than propriety demands, warm and intimate; he's standing very close, though that could just be the crowd.

"It's nice to meet you, um..." Waiting for him to feed me the line.

"Mike." That's not even part of his real name. I'm so confused. Roleplaying never has done much for me. "It's nice to meet you, too, Katie. You're very pretty. Can I buy you another drink?"

We linger for half an hour, until he's tiring of the act, the inane first-date chitchat. He loans me his coat and leads me out into the cold, down the 'quaint' cobbled street; chill early-spring wind curls around my ankles and flirts with the hem of my almost-too-short dress. His hand is warm on my arm, reassuring and disturbingly possessive at the same time, and the coat smells like his cologne. I still don't know where - well, OK, I know where this is eventually going, but the map between this dark, empty street and the sweaty, sated ending in a bed somewhere is still a complete mystery.

Just as he wants it to be.

I hate waiting.

He puts music on during the drive but I'm restless, trying to restart the silly getting-to-know-you conversation, anything for a clue where this is going. He forestalls me with a soothing hand on my knee, a distracted "Shhh.." So I wait, and watch the dark city swim past his car, until finally the familiar facade of his building appears. Not much longer now, surely.

I follow him inside, up the steps without a word, and it doesn't occur to me until we're in the empty lobby that this isn't right. This isn't in character.

"Wait..." well-faked concern in my voice, though he can probably hear the underlying sarcasm. I'm really tired of this game now. If he'd told me what he wanted up front - but he didn't, so now I'm annoyed. This is called 'working to book'. "You're sweet, but I don't think we know each other well enough to, um...I think you should take me home."

He looks at me. And it goes right down my spine. The syrupy-sweet, innocent Katie voice dies in my throat. Because nice, friendly first-date guy is gone now. His expression is the same, mild and pleasant and confident; it's the eyes that have changed.

"Why would I do that, Katie?" he asks, suddenly moving into my personal space, looming. I feel pinned to the wall behind me, though his hand gently braceleting my wrist is the only physical contact between us. "I paid for you, didn't I?"

Oh.

Not a first-date game, then, as such.

Understanding arrives while I'm trapped in his shadow, and a perverse thrill comes with it; a dirty, wicked rush of lust and shame making my skin redden. And he sees, and laughs. The bastard.

"Blushing?" he says - mocking - and strokes my cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I'm impressed. Are you that good an actress or are you still new enough at this to feel ashamed?"

His voice is so...soft. Oh, no. I can't do this and look at him - not sure I can do it at all. 'Shy' is not how I would describe myself - ever - but for once I falter, I look away. Blushing hotter at my own weakness. "I...don't think I can do this."

He sighs. Then his hands are on me, pushing me against the lobby wall - pinning my arms to the faux marble. "You don't understand," he tells me, pulling my head back until his mouth is so close to mine, I can feel each word as a soft exhale across my jaw. "I paid for you. You sold yourself to me. And I intend to have my money's worth of you."

We're frozen together, so close to kissing, the moment stretching to eternity; then he takes my wrist again and leads me down the hallway, into the elevator. I feel stunned. Outside myself.

"Give me the coats. Both of them," he says as the elevator doors slide shut behind us.

Up three floors in heavy silence, with chill air from outside still lingering around us, bringing my nipples up tight under the lacy bra and my thin wisp of a dress. Which, of course, is why he took the coats. He stands across the elevator from me and lets his gaze linger there, approving; taking ownership of my body without a word. Even when the doors open again and he gestures me forward, following me into the hallway, I still feel like the floor underneath me is in motion, like the world is gently trembling, everything pushed a little out of frame.

He unlocks the door to his apartment, but even these familiar surroundings don't return my equilibrium. I hesitate in the living room, shifting back and forth on the heels that are starting to make my calves ache, while he disappears into the kitchen; muted clink of glassware, liquid pouring, and after a moment he's back with an open collar and a single glass of red wine.

He walks right past me, sits himself down on the leather sofa and leans back. Utterly relaxed.

"Come here," he says, again without looking.

Part of me wants to kick him for his arrogance, for springing this filthy little charade on me with no warning, for using my obnoxious pet name. But that part is small, and rapidly shrinking, silenced and overwhelmed by the Other. In five steps I'm standing before him, hands clasped unconsciously behind my back, almost straddling his knees.

And he looks up at me. Smiling. Takes a sip from his glass, savoring it.

"Katie," he says, tasting the name. "That's a pretty name for a whore."

So fucking bold. There is an outraged feminist in the back of my head and she has very definite ideas about how I should respond to his name-calling. It's...proprietary. He's owning me with language, picking a name he knows I don't like, making it about pretend money when it's really about...well, real money. He gave me fifty actual dollars, US cash money. And this is how he wants to be paid back. And I could turn and walk out, tell him to fuck himself, tell him that I'm no one's whore and he'll have his money tomorrow when the banks open.

But I don't.

"It isn't my real name," I say, and take a little step forward, until our legs touch, the fabric of his trousers sliding against my stockings. "They told me I should pick something that made me sound young."

"You look young. Are you even twenty yet?" He abandons the wineglass on a side table and, hands freed, touches me; warm skin through the gossamer nylon, sliding up and down from my knees to just below the hem of my skirt. Fingertips almost brushing the stocking tops at the back of my legs. "Why would a pretty girl like you fuck strangers for money?"

I think I'm shivering; the gentle ache from my calf muscles has risen and become something else, a slow burn under his hands, concentrated at a tight knot in the pit of my stomach. The silk of my panties feels damp and slick between my legs. He's debasing me, being deliberately crude, making me so aware of what I'm doing. Making me participate in this game that isn't a game at all, really.

Deep breath, steeling myself to meet his eyes. "I like it," I tell him, shy-voiced, and I swear I see his eyes grow darker. Involuntary biological signals of lust. "Dating bores me. I needed money and I wanted something that wasn't so...nice."

"Mmmm. A willing whore, I like that." He sits back, hands leaving me without even touching my skin. Looking down at him it's obvious how much he's enjoying this. "Let's get started. I've spent enough time playing getting to know you."

Looking up at me. Expectant. I have to clear my throat before the next line will come out.

"How do you want me?"

And he chuckles, like I'm funny. Like I'm being cute and naive.

"Take your fucking clothes off," he says, slow and clear, so I get every syllable distinctly. "You just told me what you are. Not just a pussy for sale but a shameless slut who gets off on it. So stop wasting my time and fuck me."

It's a complex reaction. There's anger. There's humiliation, burning in my face, making me have to fight my own impuse to run away. Both emotions fuelling the fever of arousal that blankets me, racing like the burn of alcohol through my bloodstream, dizzying. Every filthy, honeyed word out of his mouth is like a soft stroke against my clit, pushing me further.

There's no stopping now.

I turn away from him. The dress - pretty little red thing - has a long row of buttons down the back. I shake my hair forward, out of the way, and let him watch me undo each one. Cool air rushing in to caress my hot skin. Peeling the fabric down over my arms, refusing to look at him as it slides down to puddle at my feet, around the shoes I wore for him.

He wants shameless? I bend over to get the dress, legs apart, giving him a good long look at the black lace and silk I *also* wore for him. At the unmistakeable darkening of the fabric where he's made me wet enough to soak it through.

Then, turning again, dropping the dress in a heap behind me as I sink to my knees on the carpet in front of him.

He's still slouched back, miming relaxation, but I can see tension in his forearms and the way he doesn't blink while staring at me. I was told to get started. The supple leather of his belt slides easily against itself, clinking when it falls open, and I don't let my gaze leave his while I unbutton, unzip, freeing the solid length of his cock. He's so ready.

I run a fingertip along him, from base to glistening wet tip, and he shudders. The hypnotic eyes drift closed, and for a moment, I feel victorious.

Then his hand twists into my hair, pulling me towards him. "That was very pretty, Katie girl," he says - growls at me. "Now open your slut mouth and give me what I paid for."

He leaves me no time for finesse or teasing - just pulls until I give in and go forward, let his cock sink into my mouth. So thick, and hot, radiating against my lips and tongue. He doesn't let go. Soft moaning deep in his throat, an almost gentle, contented sound, contrasting vividly with the way he's pushing me onto him, only letting me pull back when he goes too deep and I start to gag. Then I'm controlling the pace, at least a little bit. Sucking hard - he seems to not want any gentleness - trying to find every sensitive spot with my tongue, my hands against his thighs to push back a little when he gets forceful again. And he does. It's more a battle for control than a blowjob. Saliva drips down my chin and I can taste him, salty-bitter but not unpleasant. His body shuddering under me, tense. Every few seconds I choke as he pushes me down, further than I would have taken him on my own, and he's saying such filthy things to me while he does it. Telling me that I can do better. That I need to learn to be a good little cocksucker. It's uncomfortable and humiliating and I'm absolutely burning up inside; if I didn't have to instinctively fight every time he pushes into my throat I'd have two fingers buried in my pussy right now.

When he finally lets me back off - swollen head of his cock sliding out of my mouth with an obscene slurp - my eyes are watering down onto my cheeks and he's breathing hard, unsteady. The hand that is still tangled in my hair tilts my head up so he can see my face, and he smiles at me. "Messy," he says. "Looks good on you."

Then he's sliding off the couch, onto the floor with me. Pushing me back and down until I'm sprawled across his rug, still trying to catch my breath, while he looms over me.

I watch while his shirt comes off - tossed aside like my dress - but he doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes. The panties I wore for him have little ties at the sides and he rips them away from me. Takes a moment to admire the glistening, slick, swollen pussy thus revealed.

"You are hungry for it, aren't you," he tells me, and chuckles again. I hate that laugh. But his fingers are sliding along my slit now, pulling me open, little teasing brushes over my clit to make me squirm. "You didn't lie to me. That's good. Are you gonna come like a good slut when I fuck you?"

"Yes..." Now I can't look at him; pleasure flares every time he touches me, taking over, and in my head I'm so ashamed at how easy it is for him to take control. Shocked at my own weakness. Waiting desperately for more. "I'll come... I can't help it."

"I know you can't..." He's right over me now, pulling my legs up and apart till my knees are hooked over his arms, the pretty shoes dangling at his sides. "Look at me, Katie." Hot pressure of his cock against me, back and forth in tiny little grinding strokes over my clit. "Look up at me."

I do. And he smiles.

"That's a good whore," he tells me, and pushes in hard. Forcing me open around his thickness, the sudden strange internal pressure when he reaches the deepest part of me, searing heat and pleasure that can't be separated from pain any longer. My toes curl in the shoes, my back arches against the soft carpet beneath me; he's relentless, driving in, no gentleness, no mercy. Using me.

And I come, just like I'd told him, screaming with my head thrown back, and he laughs.

Blood pounds in my head, in time with the waves of my climax, and it's a few moments before I realize that he's pulled out of me. I'm dazed, not sure if he's finished, not sure if I care about anything beyond the pleasure still throbbing gently inside me, fading slow.

"That was pretty, Katie," he whispers into my ear. His arms sliding underneath me, lifting me just a little. "But we're not done."

Then I'm rolled unceremoniously onto my belly. He ignores my weak protest and continues arranging me to his pleasure, lifting my hips, tucking my knees underneath until I'm totally exposed for him, my ass in the air, head pillowed on my arms on the ground. He whistles low with approval, and I feel him leaning over me from behind, stroking the length of my back.

"I bet you'll like this too," he tells me, mocking, and I feel his fingers between my legs. Stretching my pussy open again, making me hiss a little where he left me sore - then out, and up, gently probing at my ass, such a strange feeling. I wriggle in wordless protest, but it doesn't stop him.

"Relax, you know what it is," he says, and something colder touches me - slick liquid dripping onto my hot flesh, coating his fingers, I have no idea where he had the lube hidden, but at least there isn't any pain when his fingertips press me open and slide inside, where I am so tight and unused to this sort of invasion.

"You're going to fuck my ass..." I murmur - not really a question, I'm still too out of it from the orgasm. Struggling to focus. The alien sensation of his thick fingers pushing into me, deeper and deeper, slowly stretching me, doesn't make conversation any easier. "Ought to charge you more."

The fingers go away, and he lands a stinging slap across my bottom. It's just another sensation, forcing my arousal higher; everything feels good right now, the filthy little game, the way he's talking to me, even the little bits of pain he inflicts feel good.

The head of his cock pushes against me, fat and solid, thicker than his fingers were. I hide my face in the carpet and whimper as I'm penetrated. It burns...so different from before. I press back against him, helping, trying to relax.

I want this.

"My Katie..." he says from behind me, rough approval in his voice. "On your knees getting fucked in the ass...worth every fucking penny." Helpless noises coming out of me while we rock together, I'm past the point of words; just mewling, crying out when he goes faster, my fingernails digging into the carpet under us. Total surrender. I want this never to end.

But he's tensing, his rhythm changing with each stroke into me, and I realize there's one more move to the game, one more thing he can do to me. His hand knots in my hair again and tugs hard, pulling me back against him, twice, three times, and I feel a subtle shuddering inside as he growls deep in his throat. Coming in my ass, filling me, using me like a receptacle. An object. What he paid for.

I manage to worm one hand down under my belly and find my clit, rubbing frantically as he shudders and moans, and bring myself to a second gasping climax just as he pulls his cock out of my ass. He slumps backward; I stay on my knees for a moment that stretches out for ever, crying, coming, finally collapsing onto my belly on the rug.

"Nice," he tells me, and pats my ass. I hear him climbing to his feet, taking off the pants that he never got around to removing before. "I'll be in the shower."

There's a rustle, something light bounces off my shoulder and lands on the carpet beside me, but he's already out of the room before I manage to roll over and blink away the bleariness enough to understand.

It's money. Two more $50 bills, crisp and new, pristine.

I lay still on the carpet, holding the money. Shivering. Listening to the shower start in the other room.