My Four Aces Ch. 06

This is being submitted out of sequence. Chapters 4 and 5 are proving challenging, both in terms of the writing and the time I have to devote to it, but I already had this later chapter composed and thought you might enjoy a glimpse into the future. When the whole is stitched together, I'm sure it will make perfect sense, but I think this one stands fairly well on its own. It would probably help to have read the earlier chapters, but the usual summary follows below:

In Chapter One, Paul gave his fairly new girlfriend, Kim, a dose of a mysterious powder called Q'injo, given to HIM by a buddy who swore that it was "the only true aphrodisiac in the world." It worked. What Paul didn't realize at first was that Kim tasted his semen within the allotted one hour time frame of the powder's active phase, binding her to him for good (or certainly for lots of good sex). As Paul's buddy tells him, "the high of being with you becomes like the best sex-and-romance high ever and the withdrawal of being without you is worse than heroin and nicotine withdrawal combined."

In Chapter Two, we saw the Q'injo experience from Kim's perspective, as she wrote in her diary about events in the laundry room on that first day and then an encounter with Paul on campus later that week. In Chapter Three, Paul picked up Kim for their first post-Q'injo date, but had a hard time getting her out of the house. Chapters Four and Five will recount the balance of that first date night, which involves more public exposure, some surprising revelations about Kim's sexual orientation (which will not surprise anyone who reads literature of this type), two new recruits, Paul helping out a good buddy (and himself), and Kim and Paul's first group action.

6 -- A Third Ace Joins the Deck

By the end of the semester, I'd gotten really used to having Kim and/or Yana around, taking care of my every sexual need and most of the rest of them too. My eating habits improved with Kim's cooking. Yana was better with take-out, but she had a few spicy dishes she did very well. The apartment had never been so clean and my laundry was washed and ironed every week on Sundays. Kim did the washing, Yana the ironing. Apparently, the men in the complex knew Kim's routine, since the laundry room got suspiciously crowded on Sunday morning.

And then Kim had to go out of town in the same week that Matt and Rose asked for Yana for a few days.

With Kim, it was one of those family obligation trips for the holidays. You can't get out of those when you're still living at home. For Yana, well, it seemed like the decent thing to do for Matt. I told him they'd have access, after all—and he didn't know about the trigger phrase I'd planted in Rose's subconscious and fully intended to use.

Regretful as I was at the prospect of not having my ashes hauled as often as I'd like for a week, I figured I'd survive. Yana was cool with it. She did what we told her and loved it, a very nice change from her previous persona. Kim was quite a bit more tearful about it, but I knew she'd be fine—and come back hornier than ever, with lots of nasty little diary entries for me to read.

They'd only been gone for twenty-four hours when my life got even more complicated and interesting than it already was, if you can believe it.

A bit of backstory: up until a year ago, I'd been a serious relationship. Her name was Susan and we were in love and headed for wedded bliss . . . or so I thought. Until she made a pass at my best friend, made up some amazing stories about me cheating on her to justify her choice to start sleeping with yet another guy, then cleaned out the joint checking account we'd been contributing to for the wedding before telling me, some three weeks AFTER she'd already made the decision, that "it was over." In other words, she broke my heart, ripped the pieces out of my chest and danced a tarantella on them before flitting blithely off to get engaged to a young local doctor, Barry, the new boyfriend of three weeks.

While Barry was a saint in a white coat, I was the "bad boy" boyfriend her parents—particularly her father--abhorred. I was the one who introduced Susan to her sexual self (over and over again) for two years prior to the break-up. And it had been quite an adventure. When we met, she was a senior in high school and I was the "college man" (an independent sophomore English major—not exactly the top of the social heap). She was this sexy blend of savvy and innocence—a 5'8" zaftig babe with 36Ds, killer curves and long, honey-blonde hair down to the bottom curve of her glorious bottom. She knew what she wanted, but hadn't yet figured out how she was going to get it or how much she was going to like it once she got a taste.

We tried just about everything two people with the right equipment and some imagination could try—and just about everywhere, including a racquetball court at the local Y . . . but that's a story for another time. One of her favorite things to do had been to pose for photos that I then developed in the darkroom in the art building at my school. (In the days before I could afford a digital—the modern smut photographer's choice). I had three large albums full of inventive erotica, with negatives, featuring Susan in and out of her clothes, in and out of doors and with me (and a few long, bulbous objects) in and out of her. Treasured possessions, those albums, though I hadn't been able to look at them since she dumped me for Barry-boy.

Imagine, then, my surprise when Susan appeared at my apartment door one weeknight a couple of days after Kim left town.

She was dressed to the nines -- plus. Black boots with little bows, tight black skirt, clingy white blouse, black choker and matching purse. She gave me her best "how could you not forgive li'l ol' me" smile, grasped my forearm with those cool, slender fingers I remembered so well, and stepped in for a quick hug and peck on my cheek before I could get my jaw off the entry hall tile.

The stream of babble was all Susan. What's going on with me quickly morphed into the far more interesting subject of what was going on with HER: New car, Mom-‘n-Dad good (not that I gave a fuck), "school's great, changed my major three times this year, ha, ha," mutual "friends" (who I haven't seen since we broke up) are doing great, la-dee-dah, la-dee-dah, remember Scooter? (yes—the prick from her church who always wanted to score with her and who I suspected probably had) and Bets Bradley (not a clue who she was, but apparently she'd had a Very Bad Time at Vanderbilt and was now home, sucking at the parental teat again after a stint in rehab). "So, Anyway . . . yadah-yadah Big Plans and yadah-yadah Exciting Happenings." And then she says, "In one more year, I'm done with school and Barry finishes his internship and then we're getting married . . . oh, sorry to bring that up."

I mumbled something about how it was fine, it'd been all of four months and I was All Better Now. And the whole time, my mind's churning with bitter resentment as the memories of those last few weeks flood back and my heart's aching all over again at how incredibly fucking gorgeously hot she looks and remembering how great those fingers always felt when they slipped around my prick, not to mention those silky blonde locks and those soft, pink lips. You'll probably be thinking, "What about KIM?" to which I can only say, if you're saying that, you've never had your heart broken like Susan broke mine. Kim was great, but Susan was my First Love (however misguided that may have been on my part). Kim was a keeper, Susan wasn't—but that didn't cool the warmth of the sentimental attachment to What Might Have Been, or the heat of the physical attraction I still felt away. The way it all ended just curdled those feelings into a nasty bile that I'd fed on, off and on, for four months.

Now, I'd like to say that the nasty scheme you've probably been expecting since the top of the chapter hatched AFTER the next words out of her mouth, but it wouldn't be true. It was before. As I contemplated my bile and felt it rising as a background track to her blithe chattter. The full extent of what I was going to do matured as the conversation—and her attempts at manipulation—continued.

"So, Paul, I was wondering," she said, doing a subtle come-on combined with a guilt trip by pouting at me, her head slightly drooping, through her feathery bangs, "If . . . maybe . . . if you'd let me have those . . . those pictures we took."

And there it was. Who could blame her? Her ex-boyfriend had reams of photos of her that could be very embarrassing if they should appear, say, on the world-wide web or something. I'd certainly considered it, but didn't have a scanner and, until this very minute, didn't think I was that kind of person. My recent experiences with Kim had revealed a . . . well, let's just call it adarker level to my personality, even as they had also fed something good in my soul.

"Susan, would you like something to drink? I've got this really great herbal tea."

She relaxed a little when she agreed to the tea, assuming from my response to her sally that negotiations were now open. She figured I'd be reasonable and, knowing Susan as I did, she probably figured she'd have to be willing to put out at least a little before she got what she wanted. She just wanted it to be as little as possible and, once she had the photos and negatives, she could deny any accusations I might make. She also probably thought I was still the "nice guy" she'd dumped: the kind of guy who'd never make those kinds of accusations, or publish naked and nasty photos of her on the web–but the wife of an up-and-coming young doctor couldn't take any chances.

It only took me a few minutes in the kitchen to whip up some Celestial Seasonings with a hint of Uncle Jimmy's Hypnotic Herb, but all the while as we bantered back-and-forth about The Good Old Days, my mind was racing through the possibilities. I knew I wanted some payback—and a lot more than she was going to be willing to give me, even in her wildest imaginings. But what she was willing to do was about to change—drastically.

We'd been sipping away and chatting calmly for, oh, say about ten minutes (exactly ten minutes and twenty-three seconds by the digital clock on the wall behind her), when I let the first hint of my intentions drop. Nothing had been said about the pictures since her first mention of them.

"Y'know, I ought to go get some of those old pictures for us to look at. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Yes," said Susan softly. Her conversation had been wandering for the last couple of minutes (she actually let me get a word in edgewise) and her eyes were slightly glazed.

"Why don't you wait right here. I'll go get it while you take your boots off."

I was back with the first volume of pictures in a flash. Susan sat docilely on the couch, her feet tucked under her, her boots under the table. Plenty of room for me right next to her.

"Let's look at these," I continued as I nestled in beside her, opening the album.

"And while we look at them, you're going to remember how much fun we had taking them . . . how much fun we had when we were together . . . how hot you always got when I took pictures of you . . . and you're going to relax . . . just relax very deeply . . . and breathe slowly and evenly . . . "

And as I slowly flipped the pages of the album and the shots of Susan went from the modestly erotic early sessions to the hotter, wetter stuff, I coached her into a deep trance and planted some hastily concocted post-hypnotic suggestions and trigger words. (I'd learned a lot from my experiences with Kim, Rose, and Yana and had the phrasing I wanted worked out pretty well by now). Her primary trance phrase would be "Slut-of-Diamonds" and I would plant more later, to help her realize of few of the sexual personas I had in mind for my little doctor-fucking heartbreaker of an ex. The occasional pang of conscience I felt at the thought of what I was about to do was swept away by memories of what an incredible bitch she'd been in those last few weeks we'd been together, after she'd already started up with Barry but was still playing me for everything she could get.

By the time we reached the end of the first book of photos, I had her right where I wanted her and it was time to launch her back into reality – or at least the new version of it she'd be living in from now on.

I was back in my chair across the table from her, the photo album sitting next to her empty tea cup, when she snapped back into the world without really realizing she'd been gone. She smiled at me, a slight hint of the confusion she must be feeling was in her eyes and trembled on those lips that were about to be right where they belonged. Maybe she was noticing that her pussy was damp and her nipples hard from the aphrodisiac qualities of the Qin'jo tea.

"Um . . . weren't we going to look at the pictures?"

"Why don't you look through them, Suze. It's . . . still kind of hard for me."

That cleared her mind of any lingering doubts about what had just happened. If she even had a feeling that anything felt odd, it vanished in the little ego boost I'd just given her.

She picked up the album and started paging through it again and I watched as my first set of hypnotic suggestions began to take hold.

As she paged, her pupils began to dilate and her breathing began to quicken. Her free hand slipped into her blouse, her nails flicking her nipple. She shifted uncomfortably, then began a slow, steady squirm. Half way through the book, as she came to a set of pictures in which she was playing with herself, she looked up at me and smiled with a heated look in her eyes and quick tongue on her teeth. "Ooooh, I remember that day."

That was my cue.

"Do you, Suze? You remember what got you hot enough to do that?"

The photos in question had been taken in her parent's bedroom while they were out shopping. We'd been out in the back yard, catching some rays by the pool, and noticed her neighbor, the aforementioned Scooter from her church, watching from his upstairs bedroom window as I slowly rubbed suntan oil all over her chest and belly. After I "slipped" a few times and her top came loose, she pulled it off and gave the Scoot-ster quite a show before slowly getting up and strolling into the house topless.

She was the one who asked me if I had my camera that day, then dragged me into her folk's room where she splayed herself out on the bed and brought herself off for the lens several times before insisting that I fuck her silly. (None of it much of a hardship, by the way).

"Do you remember how to get yourself off, Suze?" I asked. The suggestion triggered the need I'd planted in her.

She slid the album off her lap. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse and began to work each one loose. All the while, she stared straight into my eyes with that "dare you to stop me" look that I remember awakening in her for the first time just about three years before. Then, on our first daytime date, I'd persuaded her that stripping to the altogether in the convertible on the way to the beach might be her best opportunity to lay in a good base. Another tale for another day.

Of course, there was no way I was going to stop her today, either, but she didn't know that. I'd "suggested" to her that I was a really a good guy who was totally over her and wished her nothing but the best, but that she, in fact, still had a yen for me—and for some good, hard dicking in general, since Barry just wasn't really cutting it in that department.

A little exploratory questioning while she was under determined that this was actually based on some version of the truth. She wasn't satisfied with her sex life with Dr. Barry. He was so busy with school that she'd considered sleeping with another guy on at least two occasions, but didn't want to queer the pitch with Bar. He came from money and the status of marrying a rich guy and a doctor to boot was just too much for Her Highness to risk. In fact, my exploration had revealed some serious kink underneath Susan's bitchiness. I understood her a lot better. She was constantly trying to get guys to punish her, but protected herself from the consequences of her desires by picking guys who were fundamentally decent, who would never think to push back against her hard enough to make her cave and grovel. I wasn't that guy when we'd been together, but now . . . now I definitely was. And I had the power to do it.

Underpinning all of the stuff I'd worked into her subconscious was the notion I'd planted that whatever happened between us today would be totally her idea. Truth be told, it mostly would be. I'd just provided the trigger, she was going to aim and fire as her libido directed—with an occasional nudge from me in the form of a challenge or question.

Susan parted her blouse to reveal a very full, very lacy unlined demi-bra through which her nipples, pointed like the proverbial pencil erasers and, as I recalled in that moment, very pebble-like in texture, were quite visible. She'd come ready for action today after all, as I suspected. Probably figured she'd get away with just blowing me one time for the pictures. Little did she know.

Her fingers went to the zipper on the side of the tight, black skirt. Once it was down, she had to stand up to continue the striptease, which she did by turning her back to me and slowly sliding the skirt over her butt and down her legs until it pooled around her feet. Before turning around to face me again, she deftly shrugged her blouse off, dropping it languidly on top of the still-open photo album.

Her panties were tangas (in a pale mauve color, complete with a little damp spot) that matched her demi-bra. She always did have taste.

When she turned her head to glance back at me, her butt gave a cute little twist and her long hair swayed gloriously from side to side.

"Should I go on?"

"I . . . I'm not sure if that's such a great idea," I mumbled, doing my best to play the noble-ex trying to hold it together. "I mean, I'm no big fan of Barry, but . . . "

"Look," she said, turning to face me fully but maintaining the slightly off balance pose of the lingerie model, "I don't want this to get back to Barry, but . . . well . . . I do want those pictures. And I have kind of missed you. It wouldn't hurt if we just did it this once, would it?"

"Did what, exactly?" I wanted her to say it.

"Well," and now she looked a little uncomfortable, because she didn't really want to ASK for it . . . but she was probably finding that warm wetness between her legs was dictating terms at the moment. That was the Qin'jo, working its magic.

"I want. . . " and I could see the struggle on her face. This was exactly what I'd hoped would happen. She was beginning to realize she didn't have as much power in this situation as she thought, that she was, in fact, increasingly powerless. "I want you to . . . make love to me, Paul."

And now she'd put the knife firmly in my hand. It was time to twist. But just a little one at first.

"I can't do that, Suze."

The look on her face—a mixture of frustrated desire, desperation and spoiled-little-girl hurt at being denied her candy—made all the pain of the break-up worthwhile.

"Why NOT?!" she all but whined.

"Suzie, honey. I can't make love to you because I don't love you anymore."

"Oh." And she really did seem hurt by that on a more adult level. It dawned on me that maybe she assumed I would be waiting here for her if she ever decided she wanted me again. I seriously doubted it meant that she still harbored any real feelings for me. Another thing that was about to change.

Then, a small light gleamed in her eyes and she looked up at me, her chin trembling every so slightly as the words formed in her brain and then tried to push their way out through resistant lips.