Game Set Up
As soon as my foot touches the platform, I know.
This is the place.
This is the time.
I take my little briefcase, plant my low-heeled patent-leather shoes firmly on the ground, adjust my beret and walk through the arches of the old railway station right into the heart of this cold but picturesque city.
Beautiful and exactly right for my purpose.
Because I am here. And he is here.
The spymaster from the opposite side.
It has been a long game.
But the end is close. I can feel it.
I’m nervous. I’m excited. I want it. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough …
I wait for the moment he looks at me.
He is a dangerous man. He can catch me, rule me, make my world explode.
With his eyes only.
Game 1
I’ve bought a dark wig with a bob. It makes me look kind of gamine, a flirty urchin from those trendy French films who promises lots of mischief. I’m not going to disguise my figure though – but what man would recognise me simply by the curves of my breasts?
It’s fun to try on the lipstick – dark red and very lush, I think.
Yes, it does make me look different. Classy but seductive.
I’ll fit right in here.
Little black skirt, high up, too high for comfort really, almost but not quite showing what it shouldn’t show.
Perfectly legal when walking – but it will reveal the tops of naughty black stockings if I should, for example, bend over. Or be bent over by, say, a strong tall man who is searching me for secret documents concealed on my ‘person’, as they say.
He’s taught me to understand the power of such a skirt.
* * *
This city is so graceful. It lies there, dressed and ready, placidly displaying its riches under the full-fleshed sunlight. Immortalised on canvas by centuries of old masters.
Nobody would suspect that, just underneath the surface, secrets simmer, boundaries are about to be crossed, prey is hunted and lost and many rules are broken.
Dressed and ready is the name of this gamine.
My heart beats fast as I hit the street. I’ll need to outfox him.
My little skirt swings. A little.
I was right, I could easily be one of the denizens of this place. I know how to blend in.
I also know what I must do.
I pay a visit to one of the city’s high-end lingerie shops, where I have ordered a very special, one-of-a-kind garment. The seamstresses here come at a price but their taste is impeccable. Superbly tailored silk (‘Natural Wild Vanilla, colour of the season, mademoiselle!’) caresses my skin with every step. But what the ladies don’t know is just how special this particular item of underwear will be when I have added a final touch of my own …
I think my plan is quite clever.
* * *
Maybe I should have lengthened my skirt an inch or so after all.
Isn’t this one of the great cities of the North?
Under a fresh blue sky a small chilly wind sneaks up my stockinged legs.
I shiver as I imagine a hunter’s hands on my thighs, my buttline and further up …
Where are you, spymaster of the opposite side?
How come you haven’t picked up my trail?
The clock is ticking on my mission.
I need to get to my destination.
Making my way in secret through dark alleys, lingering on the edge of bridges over the canals, I scan the city and its many hiding spots to catch a glimpse of him.
I see men, many men. Some of them intrigue me. Some may be on a secret mission of their own.
But none of these men is him.
I check out shadows at the back of open-air cafés, in the doorways of art dealers and wine shops.
Where is he?
Did he not get the clues? Did he not understand them?
How can a man like him be so invisible?
I’m sure he’s not wearing a wig. Or a skirt, for that matter.
Then someone is scanning me. I slide around a corner and check him out. No.
It’s not him. I must keep moving.
Let me cross that beautiful square …
If this continues, I will get to my destination before he arrives.
That was not the plan.
The plan is much more intricate, much more ambiguous than that.
What if he is not here?
The wind gets chillier.
Clouds collect.
There will be rain.
I move on, quickly, my shoes dancing over the cobblestones, beret shading my eyes.
Oh …
Over there! Over there.
My heart starts racing before I even see him. I have to stop (behind a well-placed statue of a portly citizen of old) and catch my breath.
Let me shoot a well-hidden glance. He’s far away.
Is it him?
Oh, yes. Oh, yes, that’s him.
Ha!
First point to me.
Just his silhouette. He’s careful. But not careful enough to fool me.
Tall, angular. Dressed in a charcoal suit that easily matches the elegance of this place.
I can almost feel the touch of the fabric against my skin.
I shiver.
And not just with fear …
I move around the statue for cover as he walks, briefly, into the dappled sunlight.
A wave of dark hair falls over his brow.
He sweeps it away and I get a good view of his long pale hand with the platinum ring on his finger. It sparkles at me.
Has he seen me?
For a fraction of a second, his eyes sweep over me.
He hesitates. He shakes his head.
No.
My disguise works.
Then he melts away into the well-dressed, well-mannered crowd in the streets.
I think I know what he’s up to.
The mission continues.
* * *
The shock.
As always, visceral shock at how he looks at me.
He sees everything.
I want him to see everything. I don’t want him to see everything, I mean – everything!!
Other men have stared at me.
Some have tried to waylay me on my secret path through this city.
Their eyes bored into mine. Trying to let them deeper inside but all I could see was nothing.
There’s nothing in it for me if you don’t offer me anything of yours.
I don’t play with empty husks.
* * *
Tap-tap-tap go the shoes on the old cobblestones, kept in excellent repair but a little slippery nonetheless.
Whoosh – the wind trying to slither between my naked thighs, small gusts surprising me from behind.
Always alert to danger, moving from shadow to niche to protected corner.
This city is full of irregular old buildings that no planner fitted together, only time did.
Glorious architecture. And I must say it is also very convenient for spies.
Zigzagging round the market stalls. I’m close to my goal.
This is fun. I’m going to score a lot more points over him before …
Oh.
I suddenly feel the hit.
My head turns of its own accord, I can’t stop it.
And there it is: a fierce glance from these incredible eyes.
It’s like the famous coup de foudre that goes blitzing through my bones.
He’s seen me!
All the way from the corner of the square.
The lightning bolt zonks out my brain. All light and stars.
And hits the centre of my desire.
My vagina wants me to run. Not away, but towards him. Grab him and hold him and feel his cock. Right now.
But I’m a spy!
I’m not going to take advice from my vagina. Right now.
I will admit I am caught for a second, but manage to tear myself away and escape around a magnificent display of exquisite local cheeses.
My vagina disagrees but I’m in charge.
‘Have a taste, mademoiselle!’ the stall holder cries, making a little bow. I regret that I can’t stop for him. I have my mission.
Some people come here just to hunt for these delicacies. They will leave on the train tonight with their bags full of Bries and Mimolettes.
I will leave in quite a different way.
* * *
After that, I start to see his shadow everywhere.
Right in the middle of that bridge, inspecting a sculpture.
Lurking in the window of a shop.
Walking down a dark alley, sliding into a niche between the beautiful old buildings …
I’m sure it’s him. I’m sure it’s not.
I try not to look too long. I don’t want to get hooked.
My heart flutters.
My vagina – well, I said I wasn’t going to listen to my vagina. For now.
Not too fast, not too slow.
Don’t look around, don’t look over your shoulder.
Be purposeful, appear lighthearted.
I take a very unexpected route.
Can’t see him.
Can’t feel his presence.
I’m clever.
I skip a little in my patent-leather shoes. My skirt swings extra high.
I’m pretty sure I shook him off.
My vagina is still excited but then what does she know? I’m the one who’s clever.
This street is good for cover. I stay in the shadows.
Pretty soon I will be able to leave the diversions behind and reach my goal.
I’m good at this. I’m tempted to whistle a mischievous little tune.
The buildings here don’t form a straight line. It’s part of their beauty.
People come to paint and photograph their unpredictable shapes.
There are protruding corners and sudden gaps and narrow alleys and here’s a niche …
I wonder who joined those houses together with such inaccuracy that there would suddenly be a niche – whoops!
All thought suspended.
I’ve run into an obstacle.
Hit me across my stomach.
Hard long shape. I can’t move forward.
An arm.
An arm around my waist.
For a micro-moment, I freeze. Has something gone seriously wrong?
I always knew it was a risk, playing that game. The game of spies …
What if … But then … But he …
It’s him.
I can feel his presence at my back. Some anti-ghost from an anime.
Like a shadow rising, much larger than me.
As I sort that out in my head, the other arm shoots out and wraps itself firmly around my shoulder. My own arms are caught inside. Can’t move them.
He pulls and drags me with great force.
Into the niche.
I resist.
I pull back.
I try to destabilise the master from the opposite side with all my gamine strength.
But it’s too late.
He has me.
Who’s clever now?
(At least my vagina seems to be happy.)
I’m wrapped in his scent.
So close.
I feel the fabric of his charcoal suit rub against my arms. And the top of my legs, a little. Where my skirt got pushed up in the skirmish.
Game 1 Score: To the Spymaster from the Opposite Side
For a moment, I just want to lean into him and give it all up. My body is urging me to do that.
Then my mind starts to scheme again. I’m still in charge.
Now he has me caught, he manhandles me quite roughly. Bumps and knocks where my body meets historic architecture.
I feel his hands and his elbows. With a push and a knee up my ass he forces me into the corner of the dark niche where the nice old houses meet.
My blouse snags on the rough surface of the walls.
This niche is very deep.
And escape impossible, with the spy from the opposite side blocking the only exit.
Just behind me.
No one will see us, unless they stop directly in front of the niche.
‘Got you, my little fox,’ he says. His deep voice sends shudders down my spine. I’m shaking.
I feel his breath stroking my neck. A brush of the lips? Surely not. I must be lightheaded.
My vagina says, yes, she would like that. It might lead to more … Shut up down there!
With quick, practised moves he spreads my arms out along the wall.
‘Don’t move.’
Do I hear a hint of laughter, quickly controlled?
I obey.
There’s nothing else I can do.
My thoughts are racing.
Oh!
My cheeky beret is swept off.
I can hear it land on the ground.
I liked that beret. It was pretty.
Then I feel the pressure of his long hand in the small of my back to hold me in check as he picks it up.
The pressure on my back increases. He examines the beret, running his fingers around the rim, squeezing it, shaking it out. I hear it all. There is no other sound except the faint footsteps of someone passing our niche. Closer than I thought.
I hardly breathe.
The footsteps pass.
Then I hear a tearing sound.
He’s ripping the seams of my pretty beret. In case I’m hiding something in the lining.
I hear him snort when he finds nothing.
The poor torn beret is slapped to the ground.
‘Where is it?’ he says. His voice is low. Dangerous.
I say nothing.
He leans over me and carefully pulls my blouse out of the skirt. He smooths out the fabric against my waist.
Then he reaches under my bra and grabs my nipples. Hard.
Wow, that hurts. I can’t help a quick gasp.
Again the hint of a laugh. He pulls on those nipples. He twists my whole body from side to side.
‘I knew it was you, ma petite,’ he whispers, ‘the moment I saw the shape of these breasts.’
Pain explodes from my nipples, spreading like twin inkblots all around the curves of my breasts. And inside them, too.
I feel a little dizzy.
And very, very aroused.
Oh, yes.
My clitoris grows.
My vagina pulls herself together.
Cold creeps in from my naked waist but lines of molten metal sear my breasts.
My breath goes fast and hard.
‘You don’t want to talk?’ He lays his chin on my shoulder.
His cheek touches mine. Soft and close.
An intimate little moment.
I close my mouth as firmly as I can. Just in case some sound decides to slip out against my will.
He gives my nipples another long, painful twist.
Hot pain spikes through my chest.
And somehow converts to lust in my clitoris.
I can feel the moistness gather in my vagina.
These two are turning into double agents.
‘You’ll wish you had,’ he says in that throaty, menacing voice.
Shivers crawl down my spine.
And up my thighs, as he lets go of my breasts and runs his hands up my legs.
And all those shivers can only lead to one thing – the tension inside my pelvis makes my vagina and clitoris want to shake my hips, to jump, to dance …
But I hold still.
Lust rises. But no release.
Now his hands have slipped underneath my knickers. Those beautiful classy knickers from the high-end store. Silk the colour of Wild Vanilla, smoothly fitting at the waist where they meet the equally smooth fabric of my skirt, opening out generously along my hips, almost like a saucy little underskirt. Vintage French.
Best lingerie in the world.
He fondles the fabric.
Don’t say the spymaster doesn’t appreciate beauty.
I could breathe more now, but I don’t. Instead I go very still.
My nipples tingle, still inflamed.
His fingers run over the soft folds of the fabric. The top. The seams.
If he decides to rip them, too …
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he pulls the lovely French knickers down. Slowly, leaving a forensic trace of natural wild fibres on my naked skin.
As if my secret were to be revealed underneath.
But underneath the silk is nothing, just my skin.
Framed by the black stockings.
Let go, the knickers slide down my legs and sink to the ground around my ankles.
Other, lesser underpants would cling or restrict, but Wild Vanilla here is too refined for that. It gives in gracefully. (Which is what it was designed to do … )
The wind gusts into the niche. It’s getting a little chilly here without my knickers.
I feel his warm hands on my bottom. Just resting lightly.
Cupping the pert roundness.
What will he do?
My vagina is excited. My mind is wary.
His hands explore the curve of my butt, just touching it lightly.
Almost as if my body was a work of art, created by an old master.
He lingers on the curve of my hips, sliding his palms up and down.
Then he bends over me, close.
‘Tell me your secret,’ he says.
I finally speak.
‘No.’
I know what is coming.
The anticipation is almost too much.
Almost. In spite of myself, I enjoy riding the wave.
My body wants it. Release for that wild (and very non-vanilla) lust that is brewing inside me. Nipples, vagina, budding clitoris, all about ready to explode!
He roughly pulls my hips away from the wall so that I have to bend forward, butt sticking out. White, tender, soft-skinned bottom, so recently cuddled by natural silk.
I have to take a few tiny steps back to balance.
Then he pushes my head against the wall. Quite gently. Doesn’t want to hurt that clever mind inside?
Even more gently, I ease my feet along the cobbled ground. Millimetre by gentle millimetre, until I am able to step out of my knickers, now lying crumpled around my feet. Don’t think he even noticed. He’s focused on my firm round ass above the naughty stockings.
Bent over, waiting, I listen hard for what he is doing next.
I also notice that there is some light coming in through the wall, just at eye height.
I didn’t notice it when I was standing up, and I’m sure he hasn’t seen it from his much higher vantage point. The wall I’m bent against is not the edge of a house like the other two, or at least this portion isn’t. The light comes from a small slit in that wall. I can see a dark alley beyond. Close. Very close.
Just as my eyes adjust, something blocks my view. I don’t know what it is but then I hear some muffled sounds. Regular rhythm. One two one two – then the obstruction passes and my sight clears again. Of course! Someone was walking past on the other side, in the narrow alleyway.
Oh! Oh!
The impact takes me unawares.
My right butt cheek burns. I am thrown towards the wall.
I haven’t been paying attention to what is happening behind me or I would have known.
Now the other cheek. Whoosh!
A hard, fast hit.
He’s slapped me.
With a powerful blow of his long, open hand.
I suddenly feel hot all over.
I can see my breath, tiny white wisps curling out of my mouth.
But inside I’m hot. Too hot for my pants.
And now he gets really into it.
Slap slap slap, his hand on my butt.
Another shadow passes in front of my eyes.
Danger shoots through my body.
This guy is awfully close. Can he hear the slaps? They sound very loud to me, but the passer-by shows no response. The wall must absorb most of the sound just like it muffles his footsteps. He just walks by.
But there is nothing muffled about the spanking I receive.
I use my arms to protect myself from slamming into the historic wall.
With every slap, my bottom responds more strongly.
This is starting to hurt!
And with every slap, I get more aroused. My vagina is moisturising herself excitedly.
My breath comes fast and shallow.
If anyone were to ask, my vagina and me are ready.
But the master is only getting started with me.
He ups the tempo to a furious pace. My vagina wants to melt.
My bottom wants to explode.
My breath comes in and out so fast I start to feel dizzy.
Then he stops. Hands still on my butt cheeks where they landed after the final slaps (so far).
Once again, he leans forward and rests his cheek against mine.
His voice rasps close to my ear.
‘You little bitch,’ he says. ‘I’m going to get you.’
I say nothing, I don’t move.
He steps back and slaps me again. This time on the side of my hips.
Much more painful.
I can’t help a gasp. And another. And another.
He laughs now, outright. Short and sharp.
Sharp as the strokes now raining on my hips, and the top of my thighs, where the stockings expose more nakedness.
I notice he only hits me where my skin is bare.
He is practised at this craft.
But I am practised too.
I feel the fire on bottom, hips and thighs.
Millions of nerve endings are on the alert, sending messages. The ones to my brain are lost. All I can feel is the message to my clitoris and vagina. They feel flammable as well.
My breath gets hot. I pant against the clammy wall.
Still, no one hears us.
The spymaster laughs.
That drives me on.
Vagina and clitoris drive me insane.
Come on, come on …
He stops.
In the sudden silence, I can hear footsteps on the other side of the niche.
The side of the open and very public street.
It’s a long shot, but all it would take would be for someone to stop right in front of the niche and – look in.
What would they see?
A well-dressed gent and a half-naked gamine, with no knickers and a very red butt.
That makes me even hotter. Who would have thought that was possible?
It’s a wonder there’s no steam coming out of my vulva. Or my belly button – the heat has crept all around my stomach.
The silence just outside the niche continues.
The spymaster moves behind me. He spreads out his arms and legs so that I’m covered.
If someone was to look in now, all they would see would be the back of a tall man, leaning against a historic wall.
I wonder what the passer-by would think? I know it’s against the law here to urinate in public. It would ruin the paintings. Is the master taking a risk? To protect me? Or to keep me to himself?
I could cry out, but I don’t. Instead, I let him.
And hold still in silence.
Our shared tension is almost unbearably erotic.
But it doesn’t last. The footsteps resume, then recede.
Coincidence.
Unless the good citizen also wanted to relieve himself but remembered his civic duty.
The master laughs.
He grabs hold of my hair and pulls me roughly towards him. I hope my wig will hold.
‘Have you had enough yet, ma petite?’
Then he forces me back into position and devotes himself to the task in hand. His hand.
This time, the slaps come without rhythm. He hits me when I least expect it. My butt quivers. I know he’s watching me for the signs.
But it doesn’t matter. My butt is on fire, my vulva is flushed and big. My clitoris is expanding. She pulses with a rhythm of her own.
All it takes is for him to stop, just for a little, and run his fingers over the burning marks his open hand has inflicted on my ass. My body responds with a red-hot burning inside, all the way up my spine.
All it takes is to run those fingers further down and push his hand between my legs.
All it takes for him to whisper ‘Give me what I want or you’ll wish you had …’
And I come.
Wow!
Into his hand.
Against the wall.
My body buckles and slips. He catches me by pressing his full body weight on me. His suit roughens my skin, already swollen from the spanking.
My hips contract and I come and come, forced into the cool irregular stone of the wall.
I’ll bear the imprint on my front for a while.
It’ll be a mark of pride.
Then I stop thinking and ride with my own rhythm, the wild and furious dance of my vagina.
I continue long after he withdraws his hand.
His cock is hard, I can feel it bulge against my butt from underneath his pants.
That spurs on my vagina once more.
My turn to laugh but only inside.
That laugh calms my breath, and the excitement of my vagina.
We are sated. We feel at ease with the world (and even with this niche). We want to relax and have a cup of café crème.
Instead, there is new movement at my back.
What now?
There’s nothing more to be done here.
Is it not time to pass on to the next stage of the game?
Ah …
Amazing how fine your hearing can be in a confined space.
I hear him take a step or two back, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of a zip.
Being opened.
Ah …
Can it be that a bout of creative spanking and the delightful view of my reddened butt cheeks is too much for the iron control of a spymaster from the opposite side?
Oh, yes.
Oh, yes.
I hear him fumbling with his belt and with the front of his underpants.
It seems it’s urgent.
For me, of course, there is no urgency now.
I can take it or leave it.
Well, it seems, as I feel his grip on my arms again, and then as he forces me to bend even further forward, that I am going to take it. Him. His cock and himself.
My post-orgasmic body feels fine about that. And him. Why not?
My vagina opens wide. She’s in a generous mood.
He rams his penis in, fast and hard. Very hard.
Oh, yes, there’s urgency.
All right. I’m ready for a new round.
And for a new game, which I will set myself.
Game 2
I smell his scent.
I feel his breath on my neck, much faster now. He must be pretty heated up himself.
I feel his deep thrusts up my vagina.
As if he hadn’t expended enough energy in the spanking, the spymaster puts his all into this task.
This time I don’t slam into the bricks. He holds me firmly against his hips. Doesn’t want to lose depth while he’s thrusting.
And my pelvis contracts again. I respond to his rhythm. I can go as fast as he can. I’ll show him.
He’s doing well.
He’s a high-class performer. My vagina is happy to encourage him.
He feels it and varies the angle, forcing me into whatever position he likes. Pressing my butt into his hips.
He holds me tight. No fear of falling.
And no fear of discovery, it seems. His turn to pant. Quite freely.
His thrusts are getting deeper.
His breath is heavy.
I hear a low growling in his throat.
Me too. Oh, yes, me too.
My vagina sucks him in with renewed vigour. She pulses with thousands of applauding nerve endings. It’s a mass rally. For more of him! More more more …
More from the master of the opposite side (so to speak).
And I get it.
But …
Another wriggle and a wrench. Another change of position.
I’m at eye height to the slit in the wall again. Lots of nothing. Empty space.
But then another glimpse of a passing pedestrian – he’s walking very slowly. Why?
Then he turns and looks around.
His eyes almost meet mine, through the slit.
My body is shot through with electricity.
Danger! We would both be helpless now, if discovered.
But of course this good citizen can’t see me either. He’s just looking at a wall.
And further down.
He calls. He calls? Who is he calling?
Wow, danger is a sexy drug. Makes your brain flare into overdrive.
The master takes his cue from me. And it seems he can still up his fire power.
He thrusts and retracts with enviable verve.
The guy on the other side of the wall starts to whistle, then turns.
A smaller shape runs past.
He was calling for his dog!
I can’t help it, I laugh.
The laughter makes my stomach shake.
The master holds me tight and grips my breasts. Again. Poor sore nipples.
My breasts grow hard and full.
He fucks me harder.
Wow. This must be an all-time record.
And yet still he holds back from going all the way. As do I.
Because …
Because this is now a contest. A race in reverse.
Let’s see who loses control and comes first!
He understands me perfectly.
Our bodies do the talking.
We’re riding high and we’re holding on.
Who is in charge?
Who is the master of the game?
It starts to rain.
Splashes into the niche.
Random raindrops hit my legs.
Can I really do this? Can I control this unruly gamine body?
Or will it override me and give in to the prompting of my vagina?
Will it …
Oh.
For a moment I think we’ve been discovered after all, but by another species.
Then I realise that the little yapping noises I hear come from me. The dog I saw is long gone.
It’s me. I sound like a puppy, yelping with the effort of holding back …
And here I come.
Yes, I come.
Yes, master, I come first.
He lets out a wild laugh, mostly swallowed by my wig.
Then he comes too. In one big final swoop that seems to pierce my cervix.
He laughs, then sighs.
I feel him relax. His cock slips out.
He releases my nipple, rolls aside and rests against the wall.
His breath is deep and ragged.
His grip on me grows weak.
And that’s when I take my chance.
I am petite. I am small.
I draw my shoulders in and lean my head against his chest.
He relaxes even more.
A quick glance up shows a smile and closed eyelids.
The bane of the male orgasm!
This is why I played this game.
Why I pretended to race him, why I came first, why I let him win.
All his masterful strength now makes him spent and vulnerable.
While I feel awake and alert.
One more glance – he’s adorable.
I want to kiss him on his sweet, imposing male nose, but, regretfully, I don’t have the time.
I’m small. I make myself even smaller.
His eyelids flutter. He’ll come to in a moment.
Small and slight, knees bent, I slip out from underneath his arms, and out of the niche.
Not forgetting to pick up my Wild Vanilla knickers on the way.
Drunkenly, his arm wobbles out. He tries to grab me but, as I have planned, only gets a grip on the knickers.
He pulls. I pull.
The expensive silk comes apart at the seams.
I hold one half, and he holds the other.
If I want to escape, I have to leave that other half behind.
I do. I let the knickers tear and I run.
He scrambles to follow but then stops.
Over my shoulder I see a delicate piece of paper flutter to the ground.
Will the rain destroy it?
He has to make a choice: catch me or save the paper.
I gain distance as he bends to pick it up.
The document has bought me my escape.
I throw another glance behind me. Yes!
He holds the soft tracing paper up to where there is some light and gives a little start of surprise.
The sheet has no writing. Instead it is covered in cryptic shapes.
By the time he runs after me down the very narrow alley, I am well ensconced in another, even smaller niche. I’m sure it’s just as much an architectural gem as the first one.
He passes me and turns in the wrong direction, still looking at the document. Good.
I smile as my shoes meet the wet cobblestones.
Because I know very well what these shapes mean and how to decode them.
But the question is: does he?
Hey, spymaster from the opposite side, can you decode my instructions?
I will see.
Game 2 Score: To Gamine
My butt is sore and swollen, my nipples sting, and I’ve lost my knickers. My skirt is far too short and my blouse hangs out.
On the other hand, my vagina is soft and happy. My clitoris has drawn her sleepy head inside, and my whole body glows with glorious orgasms.
Points to him. Points to me.
But he almost had me, and yet look at him now.
He had a plan. I had a plan.
And look who won.
He caught me but I managed to escape. And why? Couldn’t contain himself. Couldn’t resist the saucy gamine with her butt cheeks spanked red.
And the document that fluttered out of my French knickers and that I pretended to sacrifice for my escape was always intended to fall into his hands.
He had a chance to find it, early on, but he bungled it.
So I had to help him.
The document is written in a language completely unfamiliar to him.
But not to me.
And there are others in this city who can decode these signs.
I know who they are.
But does he?
Spymaster of the opposite side, can you pass this test?
Points to him, points to me.
But I think this game is mine.
Game 3
And now I’m chasing him.
I have the advantage.
Well, not to brag, but now I have plenty of advantages.
I escaped. He has no clue where I am.
I know where he is. He is easy to follow.
Even if I have to be careful.
And then there’s the mystery of the cryptic shapes on the paper that fluttered out from my Wild Vanilla French knickers just at the right time …
This is a test I’ve never set him before.
Maybe it’s too hard.
He’s smart, for sure, my adorable spymaster, and resourceful, too.
He’s going to have to be.
But first he’ll have to get over his defeat.
He almost had me there.
Well, he did have me there.
And then he lost it all.
How quickly can he shake that off?
I see him walk along the labyrinth of alleys. A little aimlessly.
At one point he overtakes a citizen and his dog.
The dog yaps at him.
Is this what I sounded like, there, in the throes of orgasm in the niche?
It’s already a fond memory.
Something to remember when we are old.
Should have taken a picture.
Maybe he did. Did he?
The cobblestones are slippery.
He stops and takes cover. Except that I see him.
He takes out the paper and studies it.
I love that slightly puzzled, slightly arrogant turn of his head, I really do.
I love how his hair falls over his forehead.
Just that one wave of black …
My vulva lips grow moist and warm while I watch him.
You are just too cute, my spymaster of the opposite side.
I can’t see his face but he must be frustrated.
I know he is not familiar with these symbols but I am.
And there are those in this city who are, too.
There’s no way he can work this out himself. He’s going to have to be resourceful.
He turns another corner.
I have to go.
My mission calls me.
I will have to let the city look after him.
The canals, the bridges, the narrow historic alleyways, to the coffee bars, the cobbled squares, the richly endowed museums …
As soon as he decodes the shapes, he can follow the clues everywhere …
And at the end – ah! Then I’ve got another surprise.
* * *
Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed to observe the success of my trickery.
It’s made me late for my real getaway.
As fast as my low-heeled patent leather shoes will carry me – and now and then slipping on the pretty cobbles, still coated with the remnant of that rain, a factor I should have taken into account when I calculated all this – I rush to the canal side.
For a second I feel a flush of panic – what if I have become a little too smug? What if he’s playing a very devious game here? What if he only played along, pretending confusion, because he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist watching him?
I scan the boats lined up along the canal side.
They all look quiet and sleepy.
Nothing stirs.
That’s not to say, of course, that there’s nothing there.
There are many hiding places on those boats as I only know too well.
But I can’t wait for ever.
Here it is. A well-made, carefully restored vintage barge, completely in style with the row of sixteenth-century townhouses lining the canal.
I inspect the barge thoroughly in the light of the canalside streetlamps.
This city is so civilised, so well lit. At least on the surface …
Still, I’m very careful when I sneak aboard.
Don’t want to alert any neighbours, any passers-by.
Any prying eyes.
I climb on board.
The key is in the usual place. Nothing left but to go.
I’ve reached the barge before him – if he reaches it at all.
That depends on how he reads the clues on the fluttering sheet of paper.
I should go now.
But I wait.
Game to me.
I am sad.
Game 3 Score: To a Sad Gamine
There must be points here but I don’t want to count.
I didn’t want to win.
Or, at least, not in this way.
I win, yes, but I am alone.
Oh, well.
Those are the rules.
Must go on.
The mission continues.
I get the ropes. I untie the barge from the mooring.
Slowly.
I’m still hoping …
Hope grows sluggish.
I imagine him running through the city, becoming desperate, not finding what he needs, wracking his brains, knowing I’m slipping away … slowly …
It’s time.
I must go.
Reluctantly, I start the engine.
The boat rolls.
Out of its mooring, out from the sleeping company of neighbours.
The barge pulls out smoothly onto the dark placid waters of the canal.
The only sound the reassuring tuckering of the engine.
It’s a sound that goes well with sadness.
What use is a game if I can only win it alone?
It’s my fault. It was too difficult.
Why did I have to choose a code that could be read by my eyes only?
I thought I was so clever.
Too clever.
Too clever to give me what I really want.
The city is mostly quiet, too.
The citizens and their dogs like to get their beauty sleep.
Here and there, a bar is open. Light spills out, people spill out. They laugh and shout.
Then stillness again.
Ghosts of stately buildings are mirrored in the water.
Now and then there’s a splash.
A fish up late.
Boys tossing stones.
Once or twice I pass another barge.
We wave.
Once I bump into something big, submerged.
No idea what it is, but the barge is fine.
This canal is good with sadness.
I pass under bridges.
Some are quite low.
A few drunk people hang over the parapet.
I hope they’re not going to throw things.
The shadows play over me.
It will be lighter when we come out on the other side.
Bump!
Another big thump. Almost like a crash.
But this time it sounds as if it is right here, on board.
What’s going on?
That puts me in a dilemma.
I should go look.
But I can’t leave the wheelhouse.
The canal is too narrow, there’s nowhere to stop.
I think I hear the planks creak.
My ears prick up.
My eyes scan what I can see through the windows of the wheelhouse (not much).
But now I hear nothing but the regular thud-thud of the engine.
Should I turn it off? But what if I need to escape?
Something big scrapes over the deck behind me.
High alert!
Welcome back, danger!
I’m no longer sad.
Just round this last corner, then we’re in open countryside.
Streetlights are out. It’s completely dark.
I have to lower the light in the wheelhouse so that I can see out.
Roads have given way to fields.
No bridges …
Not long now and I can cut the engine.
And then …
And then I hear the door creak open behind me.
Two steps, and he’s there.
I reach out to kill the engine anyway.
But he slaps my hand away.
‘No,’ he says, ‘oh, no. We’re going on.’
And revs the engine into high gear.
Once again, he stands right behind me, pressing his body against mine.
He smells of smoke and water, and a little sweat.
Was it hard to catch me? Did he have to run?
What made me sad a few minutes ago now fills me with a happy glow.
Nothing like a cliffhanger to cheer a girl up.
He reaches out and puts his arms over mine.
This time I can snuggle to my heart’s delight.
It makes no difference.
Because we have already started the next game.
Game 4
This is the place. This is the time.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I have my hands on the steering wheel but he is in charge.
Just to try out, I resist him. He overrides me immediately.
It really is dark. Fields stretch to the horizon, presumably. I can’t see it. So maybe they stretch for ever.
I thought there was only one way to go once we’re on the barge. According to my plan.
But I was wrong.
It seems that there are a number of canals out here, crisscrossing the countryside.
When we turn the first corner, the master laughs. He’s caught my surprise. His body can read mine.
‘Enjoy the ride while you can,’ he says. ‘Considering what’s waiting for you when we stop.’
I shiver.
My vagina shivers, too. Of course. I knew she would pipe up.
He chuckles. Then turns the steering wheel left again.
‘Or,’ he says, ‘you can tell me where it is. Right now.’
I swallow.
It’s the way he says it. My bones feel hollow.
Good thing he’s holding me up.
I don’t speak.
I really have no idea where we are. Planet Europe? Lost in a sea of night-black fields.
* * *
He stops the barge in a dark remote place.
Cold silence when the engine dies.
No one is here.
No cows, no frogs.
Not that a frog could help me now …
He’s stronger than me.
He holds me firmly from behind.
I’ve tried the snuggle-and-sneak method once already.
Don’t think he’ll fall for that one again. Not twice in a day.
My only chance is when he reaches for the rope.
Don’t think I didn’t see that he’s put it in easy reach once you open the window.
It’s not supposed to be thrown from the wheelhouse, of course, but it can be done.
And he’ll have to moor us somewhere or we’ll drift. Crash, possibly.
So he’s going to have to let go of one of my arms, just for a moment, and stretch …
I go for the solar plexus.
It’s the only way.
I hit it with my elbow.
I’m slim and small. My elbow is quite pointy. The perfect transmission device. The aim has to be precise, but I’ve knocked out bigger guys than him in training.
But then I wasn’t trapped on a boat in the dark, out in the middle of nowhere with no frogs.
Let’s just say it works.
He crumples to the floor.
Maybe a bit too dramatic?
Should I check he’s all right?
The barge starts to drift.
I have to scramble to the window to throw out the rope myself.
Luckily, it catches in some kind of bush or tree.
Or whatever.
Maybe that’s why he stopped here.
It only takes a moment, but he’s stirring when I turn back to him.
The master is tough. He must have learned that in his training.
He opens his eyes. Shoots me a glance.
A lava-laced glare that nearly knocks me over, too.
Boy, is he angry.
My body goes into full fighting mode.
All hands on deck! And feet, too. I’m still wearing my patent-leather shoes.
And now we fight.
I try to kick him while he’s down, but he hooks his leg over mine.
I stagger.
He pushes back.
And while I grasp for support, he pulls himself up.
Fast and flexible. I’m impressed.
He throws his jacket off.
Muscles play underneath his shirt.
Muscles play in his face. Oh yes, he’s angry.
Makes me smile.
That’s twice today I have employed the secret power of the gamine.
Points to me.
Oh.
This always gets me. My admiration for the beauty of the male …
While I admire him, he jumps me.
And then it’s all hands and legs.
And bodies pressed together.
We wrestle on the bench.
We wrestle against the wall.
We wrestle on the floor.
Then up against the wheel.
There is a moment when he lifts me up and pushes me towards the open window.
He could push me out. Make me fall into the water and drown in the canal. They’ll never find me.
‘Want to talk?’ he pants. He’s sweating. So am I.
I shake my head.
All it would take is a little push.
Instead he lets me slide down and flips the window shut.
To save me?
He wants me alive.
A quick, sharp glance passes between us.
He wants me alive.
And he wants me.
Aha!
I try to stand up and he pushes me against the wooden wall of the cabin. Walls again!
But this time we’re doing it face to face.
He gives me the full force of his stare. Anger blazing. Muscles jumping in his cheek.
Lust and desire meeting mine. All that wrestling …
Swoosh!
He tears my beautiful blouse open. Right down the middle. Buttons fall everywhere.
So he’s obviously not expecting me to go anywhere after this.
My nipples stand up for him straightaway. They rub painfully against my bra. And here’s my vagina again, pulsing lustfully inside.
Game 4 Score: Even
He leans on me.
I feel his cock, still inside his pants, press into my crotch.
He rubs himself up and down.
My vagina gives a tug. Then another.
He wants me.
I want him.
My vagina, as always, is ready to rock with him right now.
But not without the last bit of a fight.
I mean, it wouldn’t be proper, would it?
And what would he think if I just gave in, spy to spy?
Clearly, he thinks the same.
He rips the blouse completely off my shoulder.
Winds his leg around mine so I can’t move – well, I can move but only in the way he wants me to.
And still I think there might be a chance.
He’s got to unzip those pants at some point …
While me, I’m wearing a skirt. A very short skirt. And no knickers, obviously.
And yes, there is a moment when I could knee him in the balls.
We’ve both sustained some bruises, mostly under our clothes, but I can see a pretty one forming on his arm, where I got him just a few minutes ago.
And now I have him at a disadvantage. I could deliver a knee punch that would double him over. I could take the moment. I could run, I could hit him again, I might be able to make it to the door. I could lock him in. I could abandon the barge and let him crash.
I could set a fire on the barge …
But I don’t.
Again, that look passes between us.
He’s strong, he’s fierce and, just now, I could get to him.
I want him.
Instead of trying to knock him out, I slide my hand into the front of his pants.
Oh, yes, he wants me too.
I press his cock a little, not too hard. Don’t want to damage the goods.
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a moment.
‘Give up?’ I say softly.
He shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’
Game 5
OK then, time to take charge.
I continue to rub his cock. Firmly. And more firmly again.
I can see the effect.
He moves involuntarily. Good.
Stealthily, with my other hand, I slide the door of the cabin open.
Oh – here’s another hand over mine.
He’s joined me in the rhythmic movement up and down his cock, directing the rhythm. So much for taking charge.
These pants are getting too tight for sure.
Is he going to unzip them any time soon?
His penis swells.
I think he’s going to have to.
Brilliant idea.
Another way to disable his advantage.
What spy can fight with his pants around his ankles …
His other hand moves towards the zip.
Good.
I’ve almost got the door open behind my back.
He grabs my arm.
Really, really hard.
Pulls me towards him.
I have to let go of the door.
He slips his other hand out of his pants and grabs me around the waist.
His cock gets even harder.
He still wants me.
He presses me close to him – and swirls me round to push me up against the steering wheel.
I can feel the hard wood driving into my back.
This is a high-end vintage barge. It used to carry wool to the sea and silk to the beautiful old town. It made us rich. It was refurbished only a few years ago.
Right now I wish it wasn’t quite so solidly built.
The bruises on my bottom hurt.
My clitoris responds by opening herself up again.
My vagina gives me a few big jumps.
Who am I kidding?
Finally!
I look into his eyes.
Such a slow journey from the eyelashes to the full frontal view of his glance.
He is trapped.
I am locked. Into his gaze.
I can never remember the colour of his eyes.
Isn’t it weird that I don’t know?
I’m not sure. Is it?
I spend a long, long time looking into his eyes.
I’m looking now.
Brown; I think they’re brown. Or maybe with a touch of grey? Green-grey, that much-admired Scandinavian hue?
The reason I can’t come up with his eye colour when he’s not there (maybe I should take a picture?) is that I don’t look at him. I’m not an observer.
I couldn’t be.
The moment my eyes make it past my lashes and into his, I fall into a vortex.
Game 5 Score: To the Spy Master from the Opposite Side
‘Ready to give up?’ he says.
His eyes suck me in. I don’t know any more who I am, what I am, never mind where, and when …
I am not me any more, gamine extraordinaire. I am flying in the vortex. I am his.
He searches me bare, he dives right in and he envelops me.
With his eyes only.
‘Yes,’ I hear myself whisper, ‘yes. You win. Master.’
My body goes all soft and limp.
Propped up on the good old steering wheel, I let him push my short skirt up (all of an inch).
He pauses for a moment and traces the line of my stockinged thighs. He sighs.
Then he bends me back as far as the wheel will let him.
I bend with him. I look into his eyes.
He pins my arms under the spokes of the wheel, just a little so that I can’t escape, but not enough to hurt me, and then he moves in on me.
Ironically, I miss the moment when he unzips.
We go out blazing …
Victory (He Wins)
‘I love you,’ he says, ‘my little fox, my feisty gamine.’
‘I love you too, my master,’ I answer.
My voice sounds a little shaky.
And we kiss.
It’s a long soft kiss, starting with a tentative meeting of the lips, and then another and another. He flicks his tongue inside my mouth and runs it along my teeth. I try not to bite him.
Instead I open up further and he slides his tongue in.
We wrestle.
Softly, with our tongues.
Big deep breaths when we come up.
We stand in the darkness of the skipper’s cabin. Only the light from distant stars throws a small shimmer across the trees and the canal.
Unless there are some deep-sea fish there, swimming by the light of their own jaws.
I snuggle deeper into his arms. He holds me very tight.
‘I almost didn’t find you this time,’ he said.
‘But you did,’ I answer.
He always struggles, and he always finds me in the end.
He chuckles appreciatively.
‘That trick with the tracing paper was smart,’ he says. ‘You were quite right. I had never seen these shapes before.’
Now it’s my turn to giggle.
‘I did send you to all the places you like,’ I say. ‘The sculpture fountain, the exhibition of old masters …’
‘Except that by the time I got there, the museum was already closed.’
‘Oh.’
‘I simply took too long figuring it out.’
Another kiss.
‘So how did you?’ I say.
He smiles.
He looks into my eyes.
I feel the familiar draw.
I could lose myself in there, so easily…
I shake my head. I want to hear this.
‘As I am sure you intended,’ he says. ‘By context and association. I didn’t spend my life studying the arts for nothing, you know.’
‘I know,’ I say dreamily. ‘Oh, I know. To you, everything is art.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘there’s one art I’ve clearly overlooked.’
He was on the verge of giving up, he says. That aimless wandering I observed was just as desperate as I thought.
It took all his self-discipline to sit down for an espresso and regroup. Better than waste more time going in circles.
‘I let my mind wander,’ he says, ‘and then I looked at what I had. Those beige French knickers …’ (‘Natural Wild Vanilla!’ I correct him with a smile) ‘… that’s what the lady said, too,’ he continues, ‘when I finally put it all together. The knickers, the label from the local lingerie shop, the tracing paper … I nearly knocked my espresso over when I realised. And then I only made it to the shop just before they were closing.’
He smiles too. He’s clever. I am proud of him.
‘But they opened up just for me.’
Of course. I bet he charmed the vanilla knickers off that stately lady too. I hope not literally.
‘I never thought there was so much art in creating lingerie,’ he says.
‘Oh, there is,’ I say.
He gives me a kiss on my nipple. It still hurts but I want it. Once more, please, master. Thank you.
‘You’re going to have to educate me,’ he says.
‘With the greatest pleasure,’ I say.
We look at each other. I see the beginnings of another game. Where I am the teacher, and he is learning everything from me. And if not …
Our smiles are swallowed in a kiss.
‘After she explained the shapes to me,’ he says, ‘the intricate patterns for cutting the fabric and sewing it together, I could see that they were also some kind of map.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘So I followed it,’ he says. ‘Except that I was so late … So I took a few shortcuts.’
‘I started the journey home without you,’ I say. ‘I won but I was sad. Nothing surprised me more than when you jumped on board from that bridge …’
‘It dawned on me what you had planned when I was standing on that bridge,’ he says, ‘the bridge that commands the best view of the city, day and night, and over the canal that mirrors it.’
‘The place where we first met,’ I say, reaching up to his neck. He obliges me by bending down to take my kiss, or succession of kisses, soft and sweet.
When we first met, on that bridge.
I realise now that our whole lives before that were a long, secret hunt for the partner we didn’t even know existed. Keeping secrets, sending clues, writing letters, never finding the one who could decode it all. The one who would come and play the game with me. With him.
We were cautious, mistrustful at first. We didn’t like to turn our backs on each other. Even that first date was a fight. For position, for advantage and, deep down, for what we really wanted. But I knew the very first moment I looked into his eyes, reflecting the brilliant light of this generous Northern city, that he wanted me.
By the end of the evening, I wanted him, too.
* * *
We have all night.
And all day if we want.
It turns out that the country hotel we booked is only about an hour away by boat.
It’s a bit cramped on the little bench in the wheelhouse so we have to stay entwined.
His hand finds its way down my stomach and starts to caress my clitoris. I gently stroke his penis.
Just tenderness and slow waves of satisfaction. Up and down, breathe and hold. Soft climax in tandem. No games.
We take all the time in the world to make the moon rise above the fields. It shines big and yellow into the cabin, like a festival balloon, coming to take us for a ride above the clouds.
Or at least that’s how I feel.
And isn’t a girl allowed a little romance, especially on this day?
Victory (I Win)
‘So,’ he says, ‘what would you like to do for our anniversary next year?’
‘It’s your turn,’ I say, reaching over behind the steering wheel where my own platinum ring hangs from a silver chain inside a secret shaft.
He smiles.
‘So that’s where it was,’ he says.
‘I would have told you,’ I say, ‘except that I forgot, when I looked into your eyes.’
‘My clever little fox,’ he says. ‘This will be a hard act to follow. Best game so far.’
Then he takes the ring from me and slips it slowly over my finger. Where a slight pale line shows from where I’ve worn it all these years.
He kisses my hand.
I kiss his.
Then I look up again.
‘Tell me,’ he says slowly, in his deep voice. ‘My little fox, as always, you are in charge.’
I still don’t know the colour of his eyes.