Game

‘That’s what you should feel. That’s what you are.’

He edges back and I cringe, then he thrusts himself to the hilt again.

‘Take it, my princess whore bride. Take my cock in your sore whipped arse and be grateful I wasn’t harder on you.’

So I take it, gratefully and meekly, offering my most private and intimate place to the man who has mastered me.

He uses it firmly while I finger my clit, loving the way my stomach bumps against the table with each forceful sheathing, glorying in the slap-slap of his pelvis against my burning bum cheeks.

A good buggering always results in the kind of orgasm that makes me wonder if I’m actually dying and this one is no different. I am torn into pieces, floating about in space, while he finishes with a grunt and a spurt of warmth deep inside me.

I reach blindly for his hand. He clasps mine and holds it tight while we recover, sighing and trembling over the table.

‘That learned ya, didn’t it?’ he says eventually, with a self-conscious chuckle.

‘It was incredible … just gets more incredible … every time.’ My wonderment is evident.

‘It does, doesn’t it? Makes you think.’

‘No, that’s what it doesn’t do. It makes me feel.’

‘You still want to go ahead with this challenge? Because we could just scrub it and you could move in tomorrow.’

For a split second I consider saying yes, OK, let’s do that. Why can’t I say yes? I thought saying no was the thing I couldn’t do.

Chapter Two

He makes me wait two weeks for the first envelope.

Two weeks of cajolery and attempted entrapment into spilling the sex beans – but Lloyd is not to be drawn. Even when I stopped wanking him, right on the teetering tip of orgasm, and told him I wanted to milk him for information before I milked him for anything else. Even when he entered the office to find me posing on top of the desk in corset, suspenders and stockings, promising great things in exchange for a clue. Even when I locked myself into a chastity device and told him that the key would only appear on receipt of certain intelligence.

None of it worked.

He finished himself off. He swept me off the desk and sent me away to dress, with a smack to my arse. He … well, he didn’t have to do anything about the last one. I got bored of it after about ten minutes.

So now, two weeks after the deal was made, I am none the wiser about my first challenge.

I am completing some induction training for a group of new kitchen staff when my PA, Kathleen, trots up to me and tells me that ‘Mr Ellison says there’s an important note for you in your pigeonhole’.

I dismiss her, fling a bundle of leaflets and whatnot at the newbies and almost run out of Conference Room One towards the staffroom.

In the internet age, the pigeonholes are only used now for payslips and birthday cards, but they still cover one wall with boxy wooden monotony.

A couple of chambermaids are taking a tea break. They watch me march up to my mailbox and take out an A4 manila envelope. It’s quite thick. Nothing is written on the front.

I nod at the maids and subdue my urge to rip the thing open there and then, taking it instead into the privacy of the office.

The office, this quiet and sane oasis amid the hotel’s perma-bustle, always calms me. After a year, it’s lost all the associations I used to have with the former manager, Chase, and the stupid fixation I had with him. Now it belongs to me and Lloyd. Especially since the day we christened the desk …

Sitting at it, I visualise us on top of it, me riding Lloyd energetically while the stationery tipped over and fell on the carpet. It makes me smile.

I am still smiling when I pick up the paperknife and make an elegant slit in the envelope. I tip it upside down on the desktop, watching its contents slide out.

One sheet of Luxe Noir writing paper, one vellum business card.

Dear Sophie

Don’t ever tell me I’m not good to you. I’ve designed this first challenge around two of your favourite pursuits. One, of course, is sex. The other is photography. I don’t know what’s in your dark room these days, but one day I hope you’ll do your fixing and developing in our shared place of residence.

A task with you behind the camera would be too easy, though. Where would be the challenge in that? No, what I’m asking you to do is swap places and become the model.

The lady whose business card you will find in here is a highly regarded photographer who specialises in human sexuality. Her ‘thing’ is to capture the face at the moment of orgasm. Nice, eh? I’ve booked you in for a session.

Call the number on the card when you get this letter and she’ll give you your appointment time, and directions to the studio.

I think you’ll agree that this is a gentle, easy opening challenge for you. Nothing to scare a seasoned campaigner. Best of luck – and, of course, the evidence will reach me in the form of the completed photo set.

I look forward to viewing it.

Love

Lloyd.

I put the note down, waiting for the sinking feeling to hit the pit of my stomach before inhaling.

Lloyd knows I hate having my photo taken.

Ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s not as if I’m shy. I’ve put out and opened up for so many men. I’ve worn outrageous outfits. I’ve demonstrated sex toys at live events. I’ve even danced in a peep-show booth. But there’s something about the camera that scares me. It captures you, holds you in a moment, forces you to see yourself the way you are seen by others. I find that scrutiny very difficult to take. It reminds me to be self-conscious, something I rarely am. I don’t need the reminder.

I have enough pictures of Lloyd to fill a gallery, but the only extant photographs of myself in the last two years are a head shot on the hotel website and a picture of my arse taken on his mobile phone.

He has set me up to fail.

‘Damn you, Ellison,’ I murmur, picking up the business card.

She is called Sasha Margetts. She has all the right letters after her name, but underneath it I read ‘Boudoir and Erotic’. Is this where wannabe porn starlets go for their portfolio shots? I wonder. Will she have me licking suggestively on a lollipop while I shake my airbrushed booty? Or will it all be dead tasteful with soft lighting and feathers covering the rude bits? Only one way to find out …

I reach for the phone at least a dozen times before finally going through with the call. I contemplate ringing Lloyd first and haranguing him for picking such an odious task, but that would only give him some kind of perverse satisfaction, so I don’t. I’m not going to fail this on the nursery slopes.

‘Hello, Sasha Margetts.’

‘Hi, my name’s Sophie Martin.’

‘Oh, yes, my afternoon booking! Is it still OK? Can you make it?’

‘I think so. Not sure of the exact time though – I didn’t make the booking myself.’

‘Oh no, that’s right. It was your agent, wasn’t it? Lloyd?’