Games SOME People Play! Ch. 01-02

Chapter 1: The Birthday Strip and String-Up Game

There is something to be said for it: the wife trying to be understanding when you reach a "big 0." Like 30.

I know, I know—30's nothing. When you're looking at the big 50, or, shudder, the big 60, and some...kid...blinks rapidly, voice quavering, and says "I'm trying to deal with the big 30...," it's like: "Hey, they don't award the Purple Heart for stubbing your big toe."

Something to be said for the wife acknowledging that you are a man, married, trying to get her pregnant, but, also, "trying" to pay the mortgage, gain on the other rats as they round the first bend of the executive stadium...

Your wife tries to reassure you that your years on the high plains, galloping after the mares, rearing over the obedient, terrified mare's haunches, inserting the unspeakable rigid black nightstick of flesh into the quavering...tries to assure you that that is not over. And if you are cursed with a vivid memory, so that you always are reliving that unhooking of the first white bra, always working down the panties over the full hips and it's her very first time, and she gasps, "Oh, no! No!" but in sync with thrusts of her plump pooch against your...

But the wife views your special big 0 "treat," your rediscovery of that wild boiling over-as though molten lava would go spurting across the room if she so much as touched the swollen reddened thing—as all about recovering that long lost lust for her...And maybe getting her, pregnant, at last, just as a boner bonus...

In brief (as brief as I get), this explains why I was standing in my own living room in my own over-mortgaged house in our nice suburban neighborhood with my arms stretched way over my head and my hands tied firmly (I'm surprised she used such good knots-maybe she had Googled it), and wide apart, by ropes that went over a sturdy beam and down the other side to be secured to either leg of the sofa. Exciting, I guess.

She planned it all. You have to love Susan. You do. She was trying. And not just on my birthday. She trained like a prize fighter to stay in shape: exercise classes, running in her nice snug mauve sports bra, swimming in her brief black two-piece, yoga (duh!), and... It tires you out, doesn't it?

On the tallish side for a girl, but not the fashionable lanky boy's shape. Too full in the hips, too hefty in the chest. But NO fat. I had loved it, when I met her. I mean, I still do love it. When a woman is that that compact, her big breasts are really out there. They seem almost deliberately provocative: Hey, who attached those to you, baby? Susan has a full face, with long hair to match. Not blonde and not brown. Think of a lioness—tawny. And green eyes. Lioness, again. No tail, but I know she has done due diligence to reduce and tighten her genetically big ass. It embarrasses her.

Lot of time to think, standing there. The "fun" began around early cocktail hour, when Susan said: "Okay, this is what we do for your big 30," and patted the chair beside the coffee table. I tried hard to be a sport. I said, "Wow! What's happening, here?"

She perched on the couch, knees pressed together, and produced a deck of cards, holding them up, smiling. (I could struggle to describe that smile, a fair approximation at cunning, mystery, and female stalking.)

I am being bitchy, here. If you are a woman, you are thinking, "This guy doesn't deserve her." If you are a guy, you are thinking, "Well, I would love this...if it was with his wife, not mine."

I'm going to hurry; it was all-too-predictable. We played, not strip poker but a single round of penalty. She began by stating the rules: "You lose, you do anything I tell you that is not illegal or dangerous. Anything." She added severely, " And you shut up about it." She knows me.

I said, "Oh, I tie you up naked and have Frank and Hal drop over for a nice beer and a good look, maybe twist a nip? They've been dying to. I can tell."

She actually tossed her tawny hair, shrugged her compact shoulders, and looked right at me. "Yes. If that's what you want, for me, go ahead. I'll play. Tie me up and have the guys tease my tits."

Okay, but I lost. Again that smile, but this time I thought I detected a brief struggle against an outright giggle. She ordered, "Stand right here"—walking over to indicate the spot on the floor beneath the beam.

"Should I strip?" I asked hopefully. I knew what was coming. I wanted to get on with it. Not exactly get it over with. I did look forward to a nice blow job, with my not having to do anything in return—or maybe she spanks my butt or something. Or does a strip tease in front of me, as though I haven't seen it all.

She was returning with rope. "Where did you get that?" I asked.

"I got it," she said, already working on one of my wrists.

"You actually bought rope on just the possibility that you would win the game, not me?" I frowned. "You didn't fix that game, did you? How come I didn't get to cut the deck?"

"You watched."

"Actually..."

"I know," she said, not looking up from her task, "you weren't much into it, were you? And you aren't, are you?" Rope over the beam, tie the other wrist. The excitement, I gathered, was to involve her wickedly stripping me and maybe commenting on my dick. You know: "Oooh...the little man has a big one..."

"Of course I'm into it," I said gamely. "How often do I get tied up and exposed to the every whim of a gorgeous, sexy, lustful woman?" And if we would hurry up, I could get to cocktails—the problem with having both hands tied. A drink might help to induce the romantic haze, disinhibit the domesticated beast... Take a lot of drinks, though.

She had finished. She stood looking me up and down. She stood straight, as always, never self-conscious about how the boobs pushed their way into the spotlight. "Don't worry about forcing yourself to get interested," she said curtly, looking right into my eyes. "Leave that to me."

She turned. "But right now, I have to run a little errand."

"If I were naked, it would pretty exciting," I ventured. "Anyone could come along." My imagination had begun to work, slowly, creakily, you see. Standing here dressed, without a drink, on my birthday, thinking about how it really is all over for me—you know what I mean, "it." Obvious, by now.

"Be patient," she said, "maybe that will happen."

"Come on, give me a hint. You're the social planner. Is this a game changer?" I wasn't controlling my irritation well. "Is there really going to be anything new?"

She turned and walked back very slowly. The smile had faded from her face. Standing right before me, she even frowned, as if wondering what the hell I was all about.

"Yeah," she said, very quietly. "Yeah, this is going to be different. You aren't going to be in control, Thomas." (At last, you know my name, but she always calls me "Tom" or "Tommy.")

She said, "You aren't going to know what will happen. And you won't have any say about it. None."

She was trying so hard. I needed a drink. To dissolve the boredom. I wasn't very nice. I said, very mocking, "Oooo..."

And Susan, with no change of expression, but a very sudden, vigorous sweeping motion, delivered a backhanded swat right into my crotch. Just like that, like swinging a tennis racket, but connecting with two balls-hard.

The body's instinct is to curl up around its vulnerable under belly, protecting it, but my hands were hauled above my head. Instinctively, I jacked up my knees high, throwing all my weight on my arms. And, of course, I squealed. A long, and, I'm afraid, high-pitched, "Ahhhh!"

Followed by an incredulous, "No!" Shock.

Susan stood gazing at me with that slight frown, observing me as one studies an experimental animal.

"Hey, fuck you!" I moaned. "This isn't a game!" I know my face was bright red, and hot. "Get me down this fucking minute!"

"This is what I meant by 'not in control,' Tommy. It's a different game, now."

"Yeah, well..." But I had to pause to moan because an after-wave of agony struck my nuts, shot down my legs, up my back... I stamped my feet, as though running in place, escaping the pain. I started to shout, "This is not..."

And she hit me again. Her voice was sweet, now, her phoniest little girl's voice, "Enjoy, dear. You only reach the big 30 once."

She turned, walked to the door, opened it, and, without glancing back, called, "And do try to be brave, Tommy."

And slammed shut the door.

Chapter 2: Messing with Younger Sisters-in-Law

This position is not refreshing. The ropes hold up your arms, reaching for the sky. But if you rely on the ropes to take the weight, your wrists begin to chafe. Your arms are straighter than usual, longer than usual, so your—what are those muscles? Your shoulder muscles start to ache.

It isn't crucifixion. Have you read about the details of crucifixion? On second thought, let's not go there. I'm six-foot, two-inches tall, and weigh 185 pounds; I'd like to shift my weight, give my feet a break. But all I can do is hay-foot, straw-foot, trying to get comfortable.

You can't read your watch when your wrist is hauled up toward a ceiling beam; and there was no other timepiece in view. It seemed as though it had been about a half hour... I was dying for a drink

Would Susan leave me that long? On my birthday, my special night? On my super-sensual-surprise, my marriage-is-not-boring, my life-only-gets-sexier night? Well, maybe only 10 minutes had passed.

Being left along, in bondage, at the mercy of any passer-by, is supposed to be very quivery, but I think that's mostly for women. Who's going to walk into my over-mortgaged suburban home on a Friday evening and do anything but freak out at this? I mean, are the Hell's Angels dropping by for my party?

Except, there was the deep ache in my balls. And that icy, "Try to be brave," as she banged out the door.

Meaning exactly what?

Meaning she wasn't coming back? She had subcontracted out my big 30? To whom? Some house-calls sweetie? Some happy-birthday-bare-boobed mercenary?

Some gal with a hot body walks in, gives me a mysterious smile, and "does me"? I could get off on that. Cheap, of course, very cheap—but, hey, I'd take it. And a drink.

But there was Susan, now, at the kitchen door, fumbling. She probably had grocery bags. What was her problem? Why was she knocking, now, at the sliding doors to the terrace? Like I could walk over and open them?

"Come in!" I bellowed. "Come in!" What if it was neighbors? They'd be embarrassing, but it wasn't as though I was naked, or anything. What would I say? Something like, "You walked in on my wife Susan's practical joke...or..."

"Stephanie!"

That one word takes some explaining. The slender girl with the short, bouncy hairdo, the tight boy's shirt over her modest torso, and the plastic gym bag in her right hand was Susan's younger sister. The lizzy. But, of course, I never said that aloud. Not to her, anyway.

I had a thing for Stephanie. I'm not that cool and cosmopolitan. I'm from Texas, and not even from Austin—Dallas. We do have lesbians, and I'm cool with that. Except, just between us, they fascinate me. Take Stephanie. SO cute, some kind of pixie, nose turned up a little, big-eyed under feathery bangs, mouth in a permanent throw-you-a-kiss. Did I already say, "compact, pointy boobs"? Titties, not boobs.

I think I've always been nice to Stephanie at family gatherings. She's affectionate enough, ready with a hug that presses what she's got against you, looking up from five-foot, four-inches out those deep green pools of eyes... An imp's smile, except when she gets serious, then her pretty eyebrows arch and she can scold away a black bear. Maybe I wasn't quite as nice, if she brought a "girlfriend," but not rude. Maybe a little condescending, if Stephanie saw it that way.

"What have we here?" Stephanie walking right toward me, looking me up and down. Not the gasp of astonishment I would have anticipated. My mind began to work a lot harder. What was going down, here?

She stopped right in front of me. Pixie face raised, kissing lips still more puckered, if possible.

I smirked. "You don't know?" I said it in my weariest drawl.

"I can guess," she said patiently. "Some kind of stunt? Susan said she'd be away all week; that I could use the house with my friends. I assumed that meant you would be away." She added, "Isn't this your big 30 or something?"

"Getting bigger," I said with that leer for which I am known, but not loved.

The pixie face nodded, lips pressed tight, now, looking down coolly to check out the "bigger."

Then, she looked up, eyes narrowed to a squint, and asked, "Have I been set up, for this?" It was almost convincing innocence.

"I doubt it," I drawled. "Susan knows I don't have what interests you." Why couldn't I resist taking a shot at that lesbian business?

The pixie's head jerked up, deep green pools from which shot sparks, lips parted as though to remonstrate. A moment passed, then another, as she stared into my face. Suddenly, I did have precisely that shivery-I'm-at-her-mercy feeling. I felt that shrinking between my legs, that huddling of the parts.

"You know, Tommy..." Stephanie said slowly, deliberately, like a declaration long suppressed, "you're a jerk. You're a great guy, but as a man, you're a number 10 asshole."

I loved it. My little spitfire. NOW, things were picking up. "Woo-hoo!" I hooted.

She went for me like a wolverine that comes tumbling down the chimney (you may not get that reference if you've never been a Canadian trapper), and explodes out of the fireplace. Her small hands seized my belt, jerked it open, tore open my jeans, hauled them down-hard—deliberately dragging her nails along my legs as she drew the jeans down and off over my feet so I swung in my bondage.

"Oh! Careful," I yelled. "Your nails!" What a wildcat! This was living!

She stared for a moment at the shapes limned beneath my black Calvin Klein's. Then, more slowly, her curved fingers dug under the waistband and inch by inch she drew them down till my cock popped out, already at about 45 degrees, the uneasy balls stirring a little in their sac below.

It took a moment to fully grasp that "it"—my stuff—now hung there and that I had no control whatsoever over what this angry young woman decided to do.

She reached out a slim hand and took it, glancing up at my face, then down at the cock. "What have we got here, Tommy, about six inches, flaccid? Well, not quite flaccid, now. Not bad."

She nodded to herself, her small face frowning down. "That's enough. It's thick, too, hefty meat." As she said it, she gave a squeeze. "You aren't cut, I knew that, from Susan." She was drawing back the skin from the glans penis so that the dark red head butted out, swelling.

"I'm impressed," I said, "you act as though you've handled one these, before."

In an instant, she was almost snarling. "You think I'm afraid of this?" Her small hand locked with fierce strength around my dick and, for a few moments, her fist pumped down, then up, then down-so hard that the skin of my shaft stretched to reveal the bright red head, and I gasped at the pain of the dragged-back skin, then the skin rode up and a thrill of pleasure went through me.

Just as I focused on the amazingly pretty pixie face, which stared right into my eyes as she pumped my prick as though blowing up a bike tire, she swung back her hand and swatted right into what had begun to be a nice tumescence. A swat so hard that I swung in my bonds and shrieked like a girl, a castrato, and stared down in terror at sister-in-law Stephanie with mad disbelief at the agony that radiated out from the struck nuts.

"You get it?" She punctuated with the indescribable agony of another swat. "This thing isn't my whole life!"

If you're a guy, you know what terrifying is. Stephanie could keep whacking my bag and the exquisitely sensitive globes that jounced and bounced in it! She could keep it up, if she chose, until I lost consciousness or lost my mind like a prisoner of war whose hair goes white overnight with the torture...

She had stopped. There was a flush in her cheeks. But she looked subdued. "I'm Sorry," she said, softly, almost meekly. "You know, you've always treated me like a freak. But I knew you would have taken my ass anytime, just for the hell of it..."

I started to protest. She lifted her terrible hand. "Shut up."

I shut up.

"You treated me like a freak. And my friends like Orcs. Where do you get off?"

Her small, pale fingers reached for me and I tried to jerk away. "No," she said, "no, Tommy. I know it's your birthday."

The skillful fingers, unbelievably, were running up and down my shaft. Pausing under the swollen head—flick, flick... Ever-so-gently spreading my pre-cum juices... And around and around with one teasing finger under the big, dark-red glans...

This girl was a certified Cock Handler!

"I'm sorry," said Stephanie. "You made me nuts." The fingers operated on their own orders, programmed to perfection, but she seemed to be somewhere else.

Just as I began to ascend that sweet ladder, rising higher thrill by thrill toward the explosive take-off... Stephanie withdrew her fingers. She muttered, almost absent-mindedly, "None of that. No coming."

My prick, thickened and bright red, the tight skin feeling as though it would split from the swelling, stood up there, abandoned, twitching, helpless to climb higher toward glory. Pre-cum, like tears, welled up from the slit and ran down the shaft.

"Do it, Stephanie," I murmured. "Don't stop."

That seemed to piss her off. The small, well-cocked wrist gave an annoyed flick to deliver a relatively junior chastisement that nevertheless set off the residual agony in my belly, my legs. In case you don't know, there is no pain like it. My dangling, utterly exposed berries swelled, protesting like soft sea creatures thrown live on the hot skillet.

After that, Stephanie was the boss. I was there as the object, not the subject. I was there to be done to, not to do. I was the flesh given over to the mercy of the maddened mob.

Now, she was staring up at me, her jaw thrust forth, demanding. "You like me? Do you? You like this?" And so quickly did her nimble fingers run down her blouse that it was as though she ripped it open. And beneath was nothing, so, as she jerked back the sides of the blouse, flung it away, her pale perfect skin was there, the lank torso with the small, flawless breasts, the white mounds so firm they didn't judder at her violence. And in the exact center of each, a small, much darker nipple that stuck out, yearning for attention. A few freckles that began on her delicate shoulders sprinkled down over her chest and even between her nicely spaced hillocks. Next stop for the eyes was a deep, slightly mysterious navel, twisted in a Mona Lisa smile.

"You like me?" she demanded. She was bending over, shoving down her pants, and panties, too, right to floor, then kicking them so they sailed over and hit the wall. And then, her slim hips seem to thrust so that her bush, the tawny bush, full and fluffy, was advanced toward me, an offering, shaggy with that "natural look," as Susan's was not, and Stephanie was demanding, "You like my pussy? Do you? Haven't you had fantasies about it?"

I was paralyzed with fear of the next unpredictable shot to my nuts; I could not answer before Stephanie demanded, "Can't you see me as a women? A woman, not a "lesbian," not as an unmarried cute little sister? A woman!"

"Yes," I exclaimed, finding my voice, praying I had the right tone. "Just woman, a woman. I know that from my desire. A woman."

She nodded slowly, as though considering that, then came close to me, pressed the length of her body to mine, so I felt the soft insistence of her little nipples and her bush tickled me. Her arms went around me, her soft cheek rested on my chest. "I'm sorry I hurt you," she murmured. "I knew you were nice," she added. "That's why Susan picked you."