Erotic Short Story: The Game

thegamecoverwebAfter ten years of marriage, she’s found a way to reignite her passion and spice up her sex life – by playing The Game. Every Friday night she leaves her identity as mother and wife at home with the babysitter and prowls the night city, bringing her fantasies to life. From a lone guy in a car at a drive in movie, to a motorcyslist in leathers, she follows the pangs of lust and chooses her prey, then seduces them, before returning home to her husband. With her newly piqued instatiable sex drive, he certainly has no complaints. On this particular night, she enters a hotel bar, waiting to see who her lover for the night might be. When a pilot arrives, she knows she’s in for a wild night.

I step out into the cool evening and take a deep breath of crisp autumn air, wrapping my faux fur coat tighter around me. Closing the front door behind me, and with it my children, safely curled up on the sofa watching a film with a big bowl of popcorn and their favourite babysitter, a smile spreads across my face.
I feel myself transitioning from mummy to wild woman, the domesticity of my week blowing away in the gentle breeze. I don’t look back as I walk down the four concrete steps and along the path, my heels click-clacking in time with the swaying of my hips. A black cat slinks across the path, disappearing into the shadows, ready for a night of roaming, prowling, running free. Feeling a sense of kinship with the feline creature so driven by her senses and desires, my smile widens.
Closing the iron gate behind me, I look around for a moment and take in the night, feeling myself coming alive with the magic in the air. A violet twilight renders everything silhouettes, from the row of tall townhouses in our street, to the pavement-planted trees, proudly standing sentinel every few metres along the wide road. It’s silent in these suburbs, and we pay a princely sum for the privilege of being buffered from the bustling noises of the city at night, but right now it’s what I crave. I can hear her calling to me – the city – I can hear the purr and roar of the traffic, the shouts and laughter. I can feel the rush, the anonymity her vibrant cloak offers. It draws me towards her with a longing I can only set free once a week, when I play my game.
As if on cue, the sound of an engine permeates my thoughts, and my cab draws up in front of me. Sliding into the back, I’m aware of my red dress riding up, giving the young Asian driver a flash of the lacy tops of my stockings. I don’t smooth it down into place, I open my legs slightly, the sight of his eyes widening as he pulls his gaze up to my face lights a fire in my belly, hot molten lust spreading through my veins like wildfire. Tossing my long red curls over my shoulder, I tell him my destination, and with an audible clearing of his throat, he manages to turn his attention to the road and drive.

My excitement grows as we near town and the streets we travel become busier. A sweet anticipation sings inside me, a delicious hum already starting between my legs as I think about what’s to come. Who will I give myself to tonight? I wonder. Who? Where? The adventures I’ve had in recent weeks since I started this game have been out of this world. They flash through my mind in quick succession – a flipbook of images, raw, naked, covert. My body melts with the visions. It’s all I can do not to moan and I grip my handbag to stop my hand from slipping between my legs, under my skirt. I bite my bottom lip gently. I won’t touch myself, though it would be so easy to do so, a seasoned pro I am in the art of masturbation, or bringing myself to climax. I could do it right here, right now, with a few simple strokes of my fingers against my ripe and yearning clit. But I won’t. I’ll let it build and simmer – the lust. The lust that I’d once thought had fizzled out for good leaving only the burnt, barely glowing embers of comfortable sex after ten years of marriage.
I didn’t feel bad about the games, about my newfound raving desires that burn bright through my cells and moisten my pussy, about the encounters that stay with me long after the physical touch, revisiting me during the day whilst I’m cleaning or cooking, my body trembling with the echoes of passion. It’s awakened another part of me, a part I always suspected existed but kept locked away tight while I behaved like a respectable mother, a proper wife.
I remember that first time – that first game night – the motorcyclist, the wild ride through the night into the dark stillness of the countryside, the engine of that big machine thrumming between my legs. The feeling of his leathers against my naked body, the things we did on the back of that bike in the seclusion of the deserted lay-by. My body is quivering with the memory, I’m breathless with it. Desperate for release.
No, I don’t regret any of it. How can I regret something that has bought me so alive? My husband certainly isn’t complaining; my sex drive is soaring and the unexpected quickies in the laundry room or his office when I’m horny – which these days is often, are putting a constant smile on his face.
I love him, I really do, and I love making him smile. So the games will continue.
I notice the driver glancing at me in the mirror as the city lights whizz past, and I can’t help a fantasy engulfing me, my wild imagination instantly conjuring a vision up as I notice his well muscled thighs, his hand gripping the gear stick. I imagine straddling him right here in his cab. Letting my dress ride up around my waist, unzipping his jeans…
“This ok for you?” He asks, startling me out of my ponderings.
I look around and realise we’ve arrived at the hotel I’ve chosen for tonight’s hunting ground. Paying the driver, my hand brushes his, but I leave the cab without a backwards glance. No, it’s not him; he’s not the one.
I’m aware of eyes on me as I strut across the pavement – a middle aged couple, eyeing me up, him and her. Then a group of young men, city types, no doubt playing hard after working hard all week, not even trying to hide their ogling as their tipsy banter falls silent. I don’t blame them or judge them, I know I create an alluring image when I dress up – with my full lips and my green eyes enhanced by smoky makeup, with my waist length saffron curls wild and bouncing free around my soft white coat, I could be a damsel form a medieval fantasy show. With my long stocking clad legs looking fucking sexy beneath my coat and dress, just a glimpse of flesh, enough to be enticing but still classy, and with my knee-high stiletto-heeled black suede boots hugging my calves, I could be a whore straight out of their own fantasy.
I feel my pussy pulse deliciously with the knowledge that every one of those four men is probably either wondering what’s beneath my thigh skimming dress or imagining my booted legs wrapped around their waist. Hmm, four men. A vision strikes me, an orgy – me on all fours. One man underneath me, one behind, one in my mouth, and one in my hand. Moaning and groaning, hard bodies and soft flesh. Craving, groping, squeezing, filling. My nipples tingle inside my lacy bra.

What would they say if I stopped them now and asked them to take me somewhere, anywhere, to take me, to pleasure me as I pleasure them? Could they resist such an offer? What would they dream of doing to me in their wildest fantasies?
Oh God, I’m getting really fucking horny now, my legs trembling, but I walk right past them, with no more than a smile so slight it could easily be missed, and I swan up the steps to the hotel with an extra swing of my arse as I walk, certain that their eyes are still on me.
I smile at the portly doorman, fully suited and booted as one would expect from such a grand establishment. He tips his head as I enter through the grand oak doors, and his eyes never wandering lower than my face, his expression registering nothing but polite welcome. I can’t help wondering what’s going on behind the professional exterior.

***

Tonight I’ve chosen a classy hotel for my game, but it isn’t always so. Last week was an open-air drive-in cinema, rare in this country but ripe for fun and games. When the lights had gone down and the scary movie had started, I’d left my car and roamed the field, seeking that lone guy who wouldn’t reject me when I opened the passenger door and slipped inside. There were a surprising number of lone guys actually, and many had glanced my way as I’d sauntered past, their eyes more drawn to me than to the action on screen. I’d worn a short denim skirt that night and a tight soft woolen jumper. I’d had tights on but they were completely ripped at the crotch by the time I’d returned home.
Oh God, last week was fucking amazing. Despite the invitation I’d seen in many men’s faces, I’d chosen carefully. I’d found my guy and slid into his car. I wasn’t interested an iota in what was happening on screen, and once I’d unzipped him and gripped his throbbing cock in my hand, neither was he. Did the couple in the car next to us noticed when I went down and started sucking the man’s cock? I’m not sure. They must have noticed, however, when we’d slipped into the back seat, and I’d sat on his lap, both of us facing forward. That was when my tights had got ripped, so he could slide inside me and watch the horror on screen at the same time. So I could grind on his rock hard cock while he slid his hands up my jumper and filled them with my bare breasts. The woman in the car had definitely seen us then – I remember glancing to the side as I started to rotate my hips, and seeing her watching me, open mouthed. Did she reach for her boyfriends cock? Did she demand that he fucked her when they got home, all the time remembering the couple fucking in the car next door?
Jesus, I could cum without even touching myself, the memories are so potent. I force myself back to the present and pass the hotel reception desk, and the porters desk, more eyes following me as I enter the bustling hotel bar. The vibe of the room is buzzing, just as I imagined. I plan my games carefully each week, delighting in the visualization of it in the days preceding, imagining the possibilities as I work my way through mountains of ironing, wondering who my conquest will be and in what ways we will pleasure each other as I walk to pick up the kids from school. How will he be dressed? Who will he be? Will he approach me or I him? Who will make the first move and how daring will we be in our fucking? Yes, this bar was perfect. I’d never been here before, and that was important. But London is full of upmarket hotels, so even if tonight is so successful that I decide I want a repeat, I am left with numerous venues to play it again.
There’s a mix of clientele in the bar room, which is cozy but pretty full, and very succulent, all brass and cherry wood, and softly playing jazz, not quite drowned out by the hum of conversation. A couple of tables are occupied by lone suited men with laptops, no doubt in town for work, still conducting business via technology on a Friday evening, even as they sip their expensive whisky or their well deserved beer and soak up the atmosphere of upper class London. I could easily invite myself to either of those tables, sit down, invent some enticing back story, make conversation, and capture their attention. I could gradually move in a little closer, feel the unspoken conversation between us intensify, the energy sizzling and crackling as we made small talk. I could touch a hand or a thigh, as if innocently, then later – after he suggests we visit his room for a nightcap – not so innocently. I could, but I don’t. I walk past them both, breaking eye contact after a second, leaving them to watch me and wonder what might have been.
A few more tables host groups of rowdy men not dissimilar to those I’d passed outside, jostling to be the centre of attention, talking over each other, letting free some of the pent up energy after a week cooped up in an office. They don’t interest me. Nor do the couples and mixed groups chatting and laughing at other tables around the room, having pre-theatre or pre-dinner drinks, or just enjoying an evening out with friends. That was me, in my other life. When my husband and I would have an occasional night out with friends – all proper and jolly.
I pass them all and walk straight to the bar, positioning myself on one of the empty bar stools. A pair of girls who look to be in their twenties, posh Chelsea daddy’s girl types, are posing on the two bar stools to my left. They’re both attractive in a classy, coiffed way – wearing the latest trends and designer labels, all Prada and Gucci, all straightened hair and arched eyebrows. They would attract men’s attention, for sure. Those seeking status in particular, those wanting to see and be seen, to have the right relationship, to fill the successful box society had laid out ready for them. That’s not what I’m about at all, not what I’m offering, I already ticked all those boxes.
I smile at the handsome barman and see him do a double take, swallowing as he moves towards me. I know that my qualities of attraction are something much different to those King’s Road lovelies, something much less perfect but much more fundamental and wild, evoking primitive urges in members of the opposite sex. It’s the womanly curves I don’t deliberately burn away in the gym through shame and punishment but instead take pleasure and pride in. It’s the untamed mane that I allow to spring free like roaring flames fanning around me. It’s the slightly revealing clothes I choose in gorgeous tactile fabrics that defy all current trends and fashions but hug my body perfectly and beg to be touched, to be stroked. It’s the pheromones that radiate from me as I indulge mentally in the fantasies produced by my rampant sexuality. It’s the whole package of unapologetic woman that I allow myself to be on these nights, during these games I play.
“Tonic water please,” I say to the barman, who’s turned his most charming smile on me, wondering perhaps if he might be in with a chance with this lone woman gracing his bar. I’ll let him wonder. He is very attractive, in a Mediterranean kind of way. Even in the dim lighting I can see that his caramel eyes are enhanced by his deeply tanned skin, his black hair cropped close against his head. His teeth extremely white and perfectly straight, unusual in this country. Maybe a bit too perfect. I reckoned he was probably a few years older than me – early forties maybe. Old enough to have a few lines gently etched into his cleanly shaven face, tempering his clean good looks, adding a bit of character. I like character. He looks like he’d be a good lover. Attentive, romantic. Wild enough for me? Rugged enough? Probably – I imagine most men are, given the chance.
“Alone tonight?” He asks as he fetches a glass from beneath the bar and prepares my drink, predictably, checking whether the coast is clear, whether he’s safe to proceed. Asking, maybe, for a green light.
“For now,” I answer, ambiguously.
“Well, in that case, this is on me,” he says, passing my drink to me.
“Oh, I wouldn’t like to get you in trouble,” I answer, handing him a five pound note from my purse. Always cash. Always anonymous.
He holds a hand up as if blocking me, “You won’t,” he says, “I’m the boss.” Not a hint of smugness in his voice. I put my cash away with a smile and a nod of thanks.
“Well in that case,” I say, and take a sip of my drink.
“You sure I can’t add anything stronger to that for you?” he asks, leaning on the bar, giving me his full attention.
“It’s fine just as it is thanks. I prefer my life not to be blurred at the edges.” It was the truth. I’d given up drinking some years back when I realized that the bottles of wine at the weekend had crept into a bottle of wine most evenings, and that it was doing nothing more than numbing me from feeling life, distracting me from my own truth. The truth that I was bored, that I was stagnant. Not any more though. Now I live life with sober clarity and experience everything to its fullest. I appreciate that especially on these nights, when feeling is everything. I want to experience it all, with all of my being, with all of my senses, without anything being dimmed by chemicals.
“Well that makes a rare change, we don’t get many non drinkers in here on a Friday night,” he flashes that white smile again and I wonder what it will be like in here later, when it’s empty, if I was to stay behind, to linger. I wonder if he’d abandon his cleaning up duties, send the other barman home early. I wonder if he would lift me onto the bar in a moment of passion, and spread my legs wide, my feet resting on two barstools as he kisses a trail up my thighs, one, and then the other, kissing his way to my pussy, pulling my lace panties aside and tasting me gently, then less gently, lapping me with his tongue as I lean back on my elbows and moan…
“Are you staying in the hotel?” he asks, still determined to strike up a conversation despite my silence. If only he could see what lustful thoughts had silenced me. I enjoy these thoughts, even though he isn’t the one. The fantasy was nice and has made my pussy even wetter, but it wasn’t realistic – there are too many windows in here. I like toying with the risk of getting caught but blatant voyeurism isn’t my thing. I don’t want to be a sex show for anyone who happens to be strolling by. That thought is enough for me to discard him as a possibility. I could easily go to a hotel room with him – I bet he can get one for free – and fuck him in way he’s only dreamed of, but I won’t. He seems nice though. Nice enough to chat to for a few minutes, His obvious attraction to me is turning me on even more, stoking my fires.
“Not all night,” I answer.
“You’re a mysterious lady, aren’t you?” his expression tells me that he’s clearly enjoying the mystery.
“I’ve always found a little mystery makes things more interesting, don’t you think?” I ask, but he’s called away then by a group of the city lads who’ve come to the bar for refills at the same time as an Australian couple have entered the bar, enquiring about cocktails.
I’m relieved, to be honest. He isn’t the man for me, for tonight. I want to leave myself open and ready for him when he comes. I spin my bar stool around to face the room, and cross my legs. The girls next to me are now being chatted up by one of the groups of city workers, giggling and flirting. I bet none of them will fuck tonight. I bet those girls make them sign pre-nups before they drop their knickers. The thought makes me smile and in the back of my mind, I’m aware of a part of me wondering what it would be like to get these two girls in bed and show them how to let loose and enjoy the pleasures of their flesh. I wonder what they taste like, but I brush that thought away. Not my thing. I need a man.
The room is still busy but not as busy as before. There are more empty tables, as some of the pre-theatre and pre-dinner drinkers have moved on to their theatre or dinner. The room is different now, I realize. Somebody has lit candles at the tables and dimmed the main lights further. Creating a calmer more sophisticated atmosphere, and perhaps encouraging those who are out to party to move on now to a more suitable venue. I like it like this.
I sip my drink and glance around, wondering when he will show up. Wondering who he will be. My body is crying out for him, whoever he is. I like to build up the tension but I can only take it so far. It’s such a sweet agony, this potent lust that burns through me. I squirm in my stool and wonder if I should perhaps move on to another venue, or simply walk the streets, and see what the night might bring my way.
That’s when I notice one of the solo business guys heading towards the bar. He wasn’t my type. I don’t mind older men, and he was definitely older, but he looked a bit too accountant like. Not that there was anything wrong with that, per say – I’d had some delicious fantasies involving outwardly boring accountant types with hot S&M fetishes behind closed doors, but I just wasn’t feeling it from this guy – he reminded me a bit of Donald Trump, which was a definite turn off, and I didn’t think flirting with him would add anything to my desires. He definitely wasn’t the one I was looking for. But his eyes were locked on me, and I knew suddenly that he was planning to strike up conversation – maybe thinking I would keep his lonely hotel bed warm tonight while he was in town. I look away from him, searching behind me for my bar manager to chat to and put off the accountant, but the Mediterranean smooth talker is still busy serving the group at the end of the bar. Darn, I was going to have to chat to the accountant and politely put him off. He’s winding his way around the tables, still locked on me even though I pretend not to notice him, deliberately not catching his eye.
“Is this seat taken?” A deep voice asks from beside me, a drawling American accent. I look to my side and am almost speechless to find a pilot standing beside me – a fucking hot pilot at that. I know he’s a pilot because he’s wearing his full navy uniform, flight badge pinned to his lapel, pilot hat clutched in one hand. What the fuck! It’s as if he stepped straight out of one of my wildest fantasies.
“Um, no,” I stutter, “it’s all yours,” I gesture to the stool next to me, inviting him to sit down. The accountant veers past and goes straight to the bar, looking away as if that had been his intention all along.
“Oh thank the Lord for that, I’m dying to get off my feet and get a drink down me. I’m Jack, by the way.” The pilot sits down and offers me his hand.
“Connie,” I answer, “pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure,” he drawls, his voice sending goose bumps rippling all over my skin. He takes my hand ever so softly in his, looking into my eyes. For a moment I think he’s actually going to kiss my hand, but he doesn’t, he simply gives it a gentle squeeze and smiles at me. If I was horny before, I think they need to create a new word to describe what I am now. I want to lean forward and lick his face. Fuck he’s gorgeous. Tall but not lanky, broad in a way that is all man. His hair is grey but not ageing, his eyes blue, his jaw wide. He’s a man who commands attention. He raises a commanding hand to the barman – the other one, not the boss man – who immediately responds, skipping past the accountant to serve the pilot.
“A Glenfiddich please sir. Double shot, and whatever this lovely lady’s having.”
“Oh, thank you. A tonic water for me please.” I say, feeling slightly off kilter. He’s thrown me. I wasn’t expecting this at all. What a bloody fantastic development. He’s the one. I’m going to fuck him tonight.
“You’re a pilot.” I state. Perhaps not my most sophisticated opening line, but I was still in awe.
“You’re very observant mam,” he smiles and instructs the barman to charge all the drinks to his room before taking a long sip of his whisky and then turning his attention back to me. “I just flew in to Heathrow from Dallas, but I’ve got a two day layover so I wanted to come straight into the city. I detest staying in airport hotels, I see far too much of airports as it is. I’d much rather stay in town and enjoy a little local culture,” he says, his eyes glancing down as he says it, taking in the low cut scooped neckline of my dress, my plump breasts, the down lower, my legs, my boots.
“Well, welcome to London,” I say, and turn my body towards him so my arm is leaning on the bar to my side and uncross my legs, making sure my dress rides up enough to give him a good view of the lacy tops of my stockings. The rest of the room disappears. My attention is locked and fully focused on Jack now.
“Thank you Connie,” he says, his voice slightly more gravelly now, “and what a lovely welcome this is. I was going to go straight to my room and crash out after I checked in. But I’m glad I nipped into the bar for a drink first. I wanted to relax and soak up the atmosphere for a few moments before jetlag takes over.” He turns his body towards me now, mirroring me. His knee has to slot slightly between my legs for our limbs to fit. The contact sets something off inside me. Fireworks. The urge to climb astride him on the barstool is phenomenal.
“Well I’m glad you did Jack. Very glad.”
“Do you mind me asking Connie, why is a lovely lady like you all alone in the big city?”
“Oh, I was supposed to meet one of the girls from work, but she got a better offer – from her ex. I didn’t get the message til I was already here though.”
“Well, lucky me.” He says, his voice gruff. He takes another swig of his whisky.
“You must be all tense from such a long flight.” My hand goes down to his knee and massages it, a bold move. He says nothing for a moment but doesn’t move away from the contact.
“I’m very tense, yes, I’m looking forward to relaxing.”
“Oh yes, I bet you can’t wait to get to your room and chill out.” My hand moves further up his thigh, and he puts his hand on my hand for a second, before moving his hand to my own thigh, tracing a finger across the skin, up higher still, until it’s touching the lacy stocking tops. I can barely stop myself from taking his hand and forcing it up under my dress, between my parted legs. I am so fucking hot and wet.
“My room does sound rather appealing, I have to admit,” he says, his voice low.

Click here to get the rest of the story on your Kindle (HINT: they go to his room and it gets HOT!)

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There are loads of my stories available on Amazon: Check them all out on my author page here:

https://www.amazon.com/Roxy-Hart/e/B00B1V007K/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1473584089&sr=8-1

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Have a delicious day,

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2 thoughts on “Erotic Short Story: The Game

  1. charles hammer says:

    great story !!!!!

    Like

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