Game of Phones

1. MORNING

"Good morning, Sir."

"Good morning, slut."

Lucy was sat on a crowded bus. She angled her phone away from the large lady next to her. Fortunately the man in the seat immediately behind seemed to be engrossed in his newspaper.

"I'm sorry I was late, Sir." She texted.

It was 08.31. The long queue to board the bus had thrown her timing out by one minute. She hated it when she failed such a simple task.

"Apology accepted."

Then his follow up text arrived almost instantly.

"For now."

Lucy squirmed in her seat. Well, actually, she didn't really squirm, it just felt like it. She took a shallow breath and felt a twinge in her nipples and between her thighs. The lady next to her turned and frowned.

"Are you ready?" popped onto her screen.

Her skilled fingers replied in seconds.

"Yes, Sir. Absolutely."

"Are you nervous?"

"Yes, Sir. Very."

The man she knew as Tyrion was older than her. His strong but cumbersome hands typed more slowly.

"It's not too late to change your mind."

Her heart missed a beat.

Two decades earlier, back when Lucy was a little girl, her family had a swimming pool. It was an old 1970s construction, basically just a concrete tank filled with water and dosed with chlorine.

There was a filtration system but no heating. Her austere parents hadn't believed in creature comforts.

She remembered how she used to stand on the side, waiting to jump into the numbingly cold water. Staring at the grey-blue surface, already knowing the rush it would give her as she plunged into it.

Above all, she remembered the delicious two seconds in mid-air after she'd jumped and before the water ripped the breath from her lungs.

That was the dreadful moment of no going back.

The moment when she had taken the decision and dreaded the outcome. Those moments when her ordinary childhood suddenly came alive.

So now, it was way too late to change her mind.

"Thank you, Sir. But absolutely not."

"Good."

She smiled at her i-phone's screen.

He had been her Master for four months. A lifetime and yet the blink of an eye. He was the first man she'd surrendered to in this way. There had been boyfriends. There had even been dominant boyfriends. Well, one. Not a very good one. And there had also been a few games and role plays with a couple of others, mostly just bondage and an excuse for them to demand blowjobs.

"Can I ask something, Sir?"

"Of course."

Initially her fantasy had been so different. She had envisioned an unreasonable, even brutal, taskmaster, a man who never took no for an answer. That had been the dream she would stroke her aching, soaking sex to most nights. And frequently in the mornings. And sometimes during the day in the Ladies too.

But that had been her alter ego thinking. The dark lord she'd masturbated for would never have been compatible with her reality. The Master she'd actually found, by pure chance, was wholly different to her fantasy. Whereas the one was a single shade of coal black, the other was a shimmering rainbow of night and day, as likely to fill her day with sunshine as drench her in rain.

"Sir, are you comfortable with this too?"

She realised she was holding her breath, awaiting his reply. In the end, she had to gulp a lungful of air, when nothing arrived. She could picture him thinking, considering her question, in that way he had, so different from boys her own age who mostly seemed to blurt out the first thought that came into their heads.

It seemed an age but was actually maybe a minute?

"Yes, I am."

Lucy rose from her seat, juggling her phone, fur-hat and rucksack. She somehow manoeuvred around the large lady.

Her journey to work was short, just a couple of stops. She often walked it.

"I'm nearly at work, Sir."

"OK. Keep your phone by you. Noon."

And that was the start of her day.

2. NOON

Lucy impressed herself. She managed to concentrate on work throughout the morning, in spite of what was in store for her later. She'd always been good at compartmentalising her life but had feared today would prove beyond her.

At 11.58, she disappeared to the Ladies.

She waited, watching her phone as it showed 12.00 then ticked to 12.01 without any text arriving. She could never fully prevent the pang of disappointment when nothing arrived and the spasm of pleasure when it did.

"I'm sorry I was late."

She smiled. One minute late too. He was taking the piss.

"Apology accepted, Sir."

She decided to take the risk and play him at his own game.

"For now." she added.

"Very witty, slut."

She could sense he'd drawn a line there. He'd allowed her to get away with one cheeky reply but that would be the limit.

It never ceased to amaze her how close texting with him was to talking; every nuance, every shift in tone, every shade of mood could be conveyed. She could picture his even features, his stern expression, above all his intense eyes, as he seemingly looked at her, and through her, simply via two phones.

She felt the need to apologise and was about to, when his next text arrived.

"No touching."

"I won't Sir."

"You in a cubicle?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Show me your cunt."

She quickly photographed between her legs and sent him the picture.

"I can see the slimy wetness from here. It looks loose."

"I know, Sir. I'm sorry."

She pictured him smiling, chuckling aloud probably, at her shame.

"Remind me how long?"

"Five days, Sir."

"Hours."

"109, Sir."

"Long time for a loose cunt like you."

"Yes, Sir."

"Well not long to go now."

She paused, not sure how to respond. Neither 'yes Sir' nor 'no Sir' sounded quite right. She played safe.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Can you concentrate?"

"So far, Sir."

"Good, slut. If not, I'll make you ask your boss not to pay you today."

She screwed her eyes shut at that humiliating thought.

At the same moment, she heard voices and the door banging and two female colleagues entered the Ladies. She shifted her feet so they were no longer splayed under the cubicle door.

"Get back to work. Until 5."

3. AFTERNOON

Lucy had joined Fetlife on a whim a year earlier. She chose the profile name 'Lucy Fur', a play on words that she was ridiculously proud of.

For months she'd simply lurked below the radar, only visiting infrequently, and never participating in discussions. She received a few random messages and friend requests but those led to nothing. She had begun with no real intention of taking anything with anybody anywhere.

But gradually, for reasons she could never quite work out, her perspective shifted. It became so hard living with her vivid fantasies and imagining that out there, somewhere, at least a few real people were living the reality. She started reading profiles and writings and comments and imagining who might be the actual person behind the words.

One day, she noticed a comment on a discussion thread. It aroused and intrigued her at the same time. The man had chosen the pseudonym 'Tyrion'. She checked his profile and her pulse quickened. He lived in London, as she did.

For the next hour she clicked and scrolled through his entire history, drawn in by his words. He seemed to post infrequently but, when he did, his comments resonated. Unlike the insane fantasy figure of her imagination, this man sounded sane, and real, and - frighteningly - he apparently lived not far away.

But it still took her another two weeks to pluck up the courage to send him a message. She'd just spent another fruitless Saturday night at another vanilla party and, somewhere beyond the rational part of her brain, a switch flipped.

He understood the Lucy Fur reference straightway. She was Lucy. She had a fur fetish, amongst many others and, most of all, she was devilish. Lucifer. Or perhaps she was a willing victim seeking a devil? Probably both.

One evening, after she'd proved to him beyond reasonable doubt that she was genuine, female and committed, he made her compose her bucket list.

She wrote down for him her 20 most exciting fantasies and fetishes.

When he replied, he asked her now to rank them in order, from number 20 at the bottom to number 1, her ultimate desire.

"How's that project going, Stark?"

Lucy was snapped out of her reverie by her team leader, calling over to her desk. She fumbled with bits of paper and called back to him.

"Not long now."

Her concentration had wavered, despite her best intentions. Time seemed to standstill. Whenever she checked the office clock, or the one in the bottom right of her screen, or the one on her phone, the minutes just dragged painfully by.

At last, at 16.58, she disappeared to the Ladies.

As luck would have it, all four cubicles were unoccupied again.

"I bet you're really loose now."

His text came in at exactly five o'clock. He had nicknamed her his 'loose woman', mocking her with her own first name.

"Yes Sir, I am."

"Touch your cunt for me."

She obeyed, grimacing as the ecstasy threatened to overwhelm her.

"That good?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Touch your clit then."

Biting her bottom lip and banging the back of her head sharply against the cistern to distract herself with pain, she brushed her right index finger against her throbbing clitoris, while still holding her phone in her left hand.

"At last, the time for number 1 has arrived."

Somehow she managed to reply, texting him and teasing herself unmercifully, at the same time.

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll see you at 8.30."

Gasping with frustration, she tore her fingers away before it was too late.

4. EVENING

Lucy ran from the bus stop to her home, a studio flat in West London. She had an hour and needed all of it to prepare herself properly.

She stripped off her office clothes and put on a towelling robe. Despite her lack of appetite, she forced herself to drink a glass of milk and eat two biscuits. She would need sustenance. The chocolate biscuits boosted her energy.

Meanwhile, she ran a hot bath and painted her pubic area with depilatory cream. She was already hairless but she removed the last few days of stubble. She poured a generous amount of scented bubble bath into the steaming water and placed a solitary shot of vodka on the side of the bath.

Then she climbed in, soaked herself and chugged back the vodka.

They had begun all the way down at number 20 on her list.

She had shocked herself by asking him to write obscene words on her body in lipstick and marker pen. He had photographed them with her own phone: 'cunt' and 'slut' and 'bitch' on her boobs, belly, butt and finally 'loose' scrawled across her pussy.

He made it clear the copyright was hers. He didn't take a single one with his phone. But, later, he'd instructed her to upload several to her profile.

She had shaken with some of the most powerful orgasms of her life when she saw the complete set of faceless photos anonymously recording Lucy Fur's public shame.

Then it had been fantasy 19.

And 18.

All the way up to number 2.

Each one had ratcheted up her kink factor until she was as addicted as she was ashamed.

And now, in less than one hour, it would be time for number 1.

Her ultimate craving.

At half past eight, Lucy was freshly dressed in just a set of lingerie, wearing her robe on top. She'd brushed her teeth, painted on her makeup, and arranged her hair in a neat ponytail.

The lingerie was new, expensive and a gift from Tyrion. It carried the Agent Provocateur label and was made of sheer French lace. The low slung 'ouvert' brief had an open gusset. The bra had only ¼ cups causing her breasts to spill out over the lacy top.

At exactly 20.31, one minute late, the intercom buzzed.

With a final glance round, she pressed to allow him up.

He smiled as she opened the door for him and kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Good evening, Lucy."

"Good evening, Sir."

He looked down at her approvingly and then into the room. His brown eyes took in the props: the pair of fur cuffs, the fabric hood, the bowl of condoms.

And her phone. Laid out for him to use.

Fingers shaking, she somehow poured him a vodka tonic without being asked; ice cubes, thin slice of lime, not too much vodka, made long.

"Ready?"

She was trembling. Her heart was thumping like a bass drum. Her palms were clammy. Nevertheless, her stiff nipples were jutting over the top of the bra. And between her legs, she felt as if she was already oozing the soggy cum of a dozen men.

"Yes ... Sir."

He kissed her again, on her forehead, her eyelids, the bridge of her nose. He licked away the teardrop that had appeared on her right cheek.

"Still not too late." He whispered.

Her heart missed a beat again. Almost annoyed with him, she gasped.

"No!"

Then she quickly added "Sir" in a gentle murmur. Her irritation was instantly replaced with overwhelming gratitude. None of this would have been possible without total trust. And she trusted him totally.

He nodded and picked up the fabric hood like an executioner. She bent her neck and he placed the hood over the top of her head. The last thing she saw was his eyes. She saw in them the complex man who was her Master: part-devil and part-saviour.

Everything turned dark and immediately her other senses became more acute. She felt him carefully pulling her ponytail through the hole in the top of the hood. She could hear his rhythmic breathing and detect the aroma of citrus and alcohol on his breath.

The hood had three holes; one for her mouth, one over her nostrils and one at the top for her hair. It took a few moments to overcome her mild claustrophobia.

Next, she felt him pull her hands behind her back to fasten the faux fur cuffs to her wrists. They were a symbol, nothing more. She could have escaped in moments. But they signified her submission; Lucy Fur.

The intercom buzzed, making her jump.

"Bang on time." He said, with a slight snicker.

It really was too late now. She heard him press the door release mechanism. While she waited for the inevitable, she pictured herself as that little girl again, in those delicious, agonising seconds after she'd jumped towards the pool water and before the breath was torn from her lungs.

Voices. Male. Deep. Masculine. Hushed.

"Drink?" Her Master asked somebody. "Vodka? Or whisky? Or I think there's a beer in the fridge."

"Whisky, please."

"Just water for me."

There were two new voices. The first was rich and round, like coffee. The second sounded middle class, almost posh. She couldn't help trying to picture the strangers who had just walked into her flat.

She had given him a choice. Her fantasy was an MMF. It was up to him whether he chose one stranger plus himself. Or two strangers. She didn't immediately know whether it disappointed or excited her that he'd chosen the latter.

A minute passed of movement and chinking, ice cubes and liquid.

"Thanks."

"So," she heard Tyrion's voice, "what do you think?"

"Pretty cute, man."

She felt a shiver. The first man's voice undoubtedly sounded like that of a black man; educated, Anglicised, not some rasta or gangsta, but with a definite lilt.

"So, here's how it's going to work." Tyrion announced.

She was thankful for the firm control in his voice. She knew he was letting everybody in the room know he'd take no shit.

"You fuck her first, and she can prep you with her mouth. Then you can fuck her while she can lick you clean. Fifteen minutes, we're done. Understood?"

"Sure." Two voices echoed.

"If it works well, who knows, there might be a return match. But this is her first time so respect that. There are condoms there. Use them."

Her mouth was dry. She was shaking like a leaf.

"Shh."

She felt his lips brush against hers, quietening her, his firm hands on her shoulders.

"No changing your mind now, slut. You're into the water. Deep water."

Suddenly, he pushed her roughly down to her knees. She felt other hands on her body. She sensed clothes being removed. Theirs, not hers.

She waited on her hands and knees. The carpet felt prickly.

"Damn, what a sweet bitch."

"Smile!"

She heard the whirr of a phone being used to take a photo.

Rough hands reached under her to haul her breasts out of the insufficient cups. She felt fingers fiddling with the lace opening between her legs. They were going to fuck her without even removing her underwear.

For just a few moments, she gasped for air, regretting her dive into the unknown. She wanted to cry out but somehow managed only to groan instead.

And then it was sliding into her. Between her

thighs. From behind, doggy style. Despite her wetness it felt so large, so good, so ...

... something buffeted her mouth and she opened wide. There it was. Between her lips. 'Spit roast'. The term had excited her since she'd first heard it.

Through the nostril holes, her sense of smell was acute. She detected deodorant and soap, sweat and testosterone. Or at least, what she imagined the scent of testosterone to be.

Muffled by the hood, she still heard every grunt and groan, the smack of flesh on flesh, male groin against female buttocks. She could even hear their chuckles and gritted teeth and the occasional electronic clack of a phone-camera.

Most of all, though, the two hard slabs of strange flesh invading her body overpowered every other sensation. She let it happen. They didn't seem to care if she responded or not. The one in her mouth pounded in and out ignoring her spittle and gagging sounds. The one in her pussy punched her insides like a battering ram. She wondered again if he was black and felt weirdly guilty that it was a racist thought.

"Yeah, bitch. Yeaaaaaaa. Fuuuuuck!" she heard behind her. She winced as her ponytail was jerked to pull her head up.

Some sick, stupid part of her was disappointed not to feel the hot invasion of bareback stickiness. She knew at that moment she'd lost it.

"Okay, switch. You now, condom please."

Fortunately for her, somebody was still in control. Tyrion's voice brought her back to the present and she gulped in a mouthful of air.

For a few seconds both her orifices were empty. Then more hands, more grunts, and she was filled again. The one in her mouth was slimy, stinking of latex.

It was only at that point that she started living in the moment. Until then, she'd been on the outside looking in, asking questions. How could this be her number one fantasy? What did the men look like? What was her Master thinking? Was she truly an unforgiveable slut? Would she regret it? Was she even enjoying it?

And then she forgot all those questions and allowed herself to feel the delicious pleasure driving the breath from her lungs. She stared open-eyed into the grey-blue darkness of the fabric surrounding her and began to thrash about.

Her orgasm began in her toes. She felt all ten of them curling like claws. It rippled up the back of her legs, bypassing her loins, and tore halfway up her spine. Then it seemed to split in two. A part of her onrushing climax turned back and burrowed into the swamp that was her pussy, clutching tight at her engorged clitoris for survival from drowning. Another part roared onwards up through her neck and paused in her mouth, before triggering a huge explosion inside her head. Suddenly all she could see and hear were bright lights and sirens.

Somebody screamed.

"Fuck me." A strange man's voice was saying, impressed.

She was sucking in air, almost hyperventilating. She realised that both penises were no longer buried inside her. She felt empty and bursting all at once, like a ripe fruit hurled against a wall.

The scream had been her own.

Time had elapsed.

"You okay?"

She nodded, unable to speak. All of a sudden, her mouth was parched.

She heard laughter. But nice laughter, relieved laughter, the kind where people are chuckling kindly at nobody's expense.