Just Chess

[Un****]

It's dark, which makes this little escapade easier. You were always so secure in your little house, at the end of a cul-de-sac, no neighbours to speak of, which, let's face it, made it easier for us to carry out our various nefarious schemes… and the sounds of your moans, gasps, pleadings and sobs were usefully muffled by virtue of your location.

It's been quite a journey hasn't it? What started as purely sexual shenanigans moved fairly swiftly into need on your part, delight on mine, a seemingly equal meeting of kinky desires at first, that transmuted over short months into a power exchange where you were wanting to please, whilst at the same time keeping up your superficial show of not-caring. What - you think I didn't know? Silly girl. I'm older than you. Experience counts. But I enjoyed playing the game on your level, allowing you some say, whilst at the same time hiding the grin that threatened to show, knowing more than you could guess, planning moves ahead of your awareness. Like chess, where I know the rules and you've just recently learnt where the pieces stand. Hilarious...

When I told you – regretfully - that in the end we wanted different things, that we were at different stages of our lives, that though we felt so much we couldn't hope to make it work - you were so calm. You played it so well. Logical, accepting, understanding, even affectionate as 'goodbyes' were said, hugs exchanged, tender kisses and the occasional bite-mark from me hinting playfully at what had been, and was now no more. I left, not looking back, and you haven't heard from me since. You think it's all over. Cute, really. You have no idea how deep my need for control goes, do you?

Do you also think I don't have your measure by now?

So here I am. Near your house. I sit in my car at the far end of the street, occasionally looking at my watch. I don't pretend to know everything you do, but I can take an educated guess. By now you'll have eaten, probably not washed up (you do the dishes in the morning, strangely), you may or may not have had a glass of wine, and by now you'll be vaguely at a loose end… the TV will be on but you'll be channel-hopping; if you're really lost you may run a bath, and somehow you'll while away the hours until midnight or so, when finally you'll go to bed, and wank your little heart out so you can sleep. Day over; new one beginning in a few short hours – empty, frustrated, you'll be annoyed with yourself for needing me, for needing anyone (whilst telling yourself you don't and even half-believing it) you'll skip breakfast, settling for coffee and maybe a cigarette before that first sigh and the contemplation of how to maim, if not kill, the hours ahead. Delightful, from my point of view. Call that a life? Your desires own you. You actually think you can control yourself?

It's eleven at night. I wait until I see the downstairs lights go off, the bathroom lights go on, and remember the time I fucked you in the shower. That was the first time I slapped your pretty little face, remember? The first time you looked at me, shocked, before whispering 'Again'. I was happy to oblige. And to think since then you've suffered split lips, the *** from the knife on your back, and the dull delicious ache of my fist in you wet cunt. Remember when I told you I'd give you to the next guy over sixty that we saw on the street? You looked like you'd throw up, but you were wet as hell at the time. You turned out more fucked-up than either of us could have guessed!

I leave the car, and use the ladder at the back to get to your balcony. Yep – I'm Romeo and you're a little screwed-up Juliet! I'm happy to see all the windows are closed. You hate the cold and for what I'm about to do, I don't want the sound of my voice carrying more than it should. Your curtains aren't quite closed. Why should they be? You're one storey up – who the fuck would be able to watch you anyway. Me – that's who.

The bathroom lights go out, and in you walk. You're not on show; you're just you in your little world, so there are no stockings, no sultry underwear, just you in a T-shirt, a thong, and no make-up.

I wait until you're in bed, the bedside light on, and you settled to read a few pages of… something. That's right Princess, wind down before sleeping. Act normal. Like the rest of the world assumes you are.

I dial your number.

I can see you reach out and pick up your mobile. You know my number. I can see you deliberating about whether to take the call. Finally you answer. Was there really any doubt?

'Hey.'

Such an innocuous thing to say. So 'you'… affected casualness, though I can see you're not smiling. Your face looks tense. Good.

'Hey' I reply, watching you from the invisible darkness outside.

'It's been a while,' I continue, 'how are you doing?'

I can see that even the sound of my voice has an effect. Your arms are folded, as though to protect yourself. Such body-language Princess. There was a time when you'd have greeted me open-armed, or been kneeling with them tied behind your back.

'Still the fucked up little slut I once knew?' I ask.

'You can't call and say that stuff anymore' you retort, 'we're not what we used to be. I have a new guy now.'

I know you do. I haven't turned up quite out the blue. I told you. I like control. I'm meticulous. I'm calling you now because I want to know how far in you are. With him, with your new life, with your hopes and aspirations. You've moved on. Oh, really? How far exactly?

 

 

'You do?' I affect innocence. 'I'm happy for you. No doubt he treats you like a Princess.'

I hear the pause. I see your arms uncross and re-cross.

'He's sweet. He loves me. I trust him.'

'He's dull.' I say sharply (I'm merely guessing, provoking). 'He treats you well, he makes love to you tenderly, you enjoy it then.'

'It's none of your business.'

'I know you, you worthless fuck. You're bored, you're denying yourself, you're a vanilla screw-up. Does he know the dark little whore you really are? Does he have any real idea what a pathetic little cunt you are beneath that tidy little exterior you show the rest of the world? Does he?'

I see you. Do you even know one hand has strayed to your nipple? Probably not. Delicious. You gather yourself. Well done!

'I hope you're ok and that things are going well for you,' you say.

'Everything is going great,' I reply, watching you from the darkness. 'It's wonderful you're happy… even though you still have the ugliest little cunt. But then, I don't suppose he tells you that when he fucks you, does he?'

'I don't do this anymore,' I hear you say, as your fingers twist your nipple harder.

'That's fine Princess,' I reply… I just thought it was time to say 'hello'.

'Hello' you say, lamely, though I see the flicker of a smile cross your face.

'Hello baby Girl,' whispered softly. 'So tell me, now you've moved on, that you're different. That you never think about me, that when he fucks you, you're not fantasising, that you're no longer a royal fuck-up, with nothing to offer a man. That somehow, from somewhere, by some God-given miracle, you're not a pathetic fraud waiting to be found out for the cum-loving slut that we both know you are.'

I see your hand move beneath the duvet.

'I'm not.'

I can barely hear you.

'Well,' I say, knowing your wet cunt is feeling the benefit of your fingers, 'I won't keep you. I just wanted to say 'hi'… check you're still alive. I don't think about you so don't beat yourself up on that score. It just seemed the right thing to do after so long. To call you… to hear your pathetic little voice. I'm happy you seem to have a nice guy, and that he treats you well. All for the best…'

I can see your fingers moving faster as you just listen to my voice…

'… I wouldn't want to interfere or ruin anything. At least you can reassure yourself that whatever we had is truly over. Life goes on…'

You don't say anything. I know why. You want to say 'goodbye'. You want to keep up the pretence that everything's OK. You want to be able to tell yourself that nothing happened, that you have nothing to feel guilty about. But of course, the guilt you already feel from masturbating to my voice has already got its little hooks into you, like the the needles I used on you, oooh, ages ago. That's why, even from here, I know you're wetter than you ever are with him. The dark side of you needs the shame and the hurt…

'I'll say 'goodbye' then… Princess.' I say. I let it hang – it's implicit that I'll never call you again. We both sense it, and your hand moves even faster as the same thought crosses your mind. You will never hear my voice again.

You don't answer. So I say it for both of us.

'Goodbye. Goodbye you washed-up little fuck.'

I hang up. And I watch as you drop your mobile, and use both hands beneath the covers. Even without the phone, I can hear your moans and gasps as you masturbate. Later I know you'll feel the shame and ***, but right now, nothing matters, except your fix. And I just gave it to you, didn't I?

Far be it from me to ruin your life.

Until the next time.