Playing Spies

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A couple tries some roleplay.
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1.

There had been a few times she stopped dating one guy and started up with another, and the joke of it was how little difference it made. Like everybody on the planet, she had a certain type she dug more than others, and like everybody her relationships tended to repeat the same tiresome patterns. Really shouldn't take us by surprise when this keeps happening. Cheeseburgers are cheeseburgers—you can get them umpteen kajillion different places, but it doesn't much matter. They ain't gonna taste all that different, are they? A little bit, sure, but only a little. Not like if you made yourself go for a taco or Chinese instead.

You stick too close to a certain parameters when you hook up with guys, you're gonna get pretty much the same exact deal over and over again, the good and the not-so-good. Same perks, same problems. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Either you accept that fact and you roll with it, and you stick with what you've got going, or if you really want something new, you gotta change your guidelines.

Finally she was trying that. Really making a push into new territory. Last half dozen dudes she hooked up with were all the same type guy—same look, same lifestyle, same attitude. Slick sharp cleancut big money business guys. The type she's always considered her favorite type, and maybe it still was, at least physically, or surface-wise. (She herself, after all, is the matching female equivalent; these are the guys that populate her slice of the world day by day, and have since she got done with university.) The way they dress, the way they present themselves. The way they go after things. Hot stuff, at least if you're part of that high finance culture, and she was, it was in her blood. But that type guy, like every other type, had certain standard specific failings. Like they're built into the design. That's fine, of course, and that's fair—nobody's perfect. None of these guys were particularly terrible or mean to her. They did some things wrong, but those things that they messed up were never major things. It was just that those stupid little things were always the exact same things. They all made the exact same little irritating mistakes, and she let it drive her crazy. She kept trading each fucker in for a fresh model every couple months, one after another, hoping the latest replacement would magically be better than his predecessors. And wow, duh, they never were. They all treated her the exact fucking same, in the good ways and in the bad ways. Why the fuck wouldn't they, when she kept picking herself the same exact type again and again? It was retarded on a fundamental level. If you're sick and tired of cheeseburgers, don't buy yourself another cheeseburger expecting a dramatic fresh flavor—pick something else.

She isn't the only idiot that does this. Let's face it, male or female, it's a drastic failing of the species. We think of ourselves as thinking creatures—that's exaggerated. We think we've got this amazing capacity to learn stuff and better our lives. And we can, or we could, except only sometimes. Only if we wake up and put the effort in and when do we? The answer is, hardly fucking ever.

2.

Now she's dating an actor, of all things. Seems pretty talented, not that she's any great judge of artistic stuff. She's watched him in two different plays, both of which he wrote and directed himself. They were both interesting but also real weird and a little confusing, the way he made them end. He teaches a whole bunch of theatre classes at the local college. The teaching is how he feeds himself, certainly not his acting or his writing or his directing. Guy brings in less in one week than she makes in a single day. She's trying real hard not to hold that against him. Guys that live like he does need to be measured on a different scale.

He's got a striking look to him and he's got a powerful, magnetic presence. He's the first burly guy she's ever tried dating, not actually fat but built hefty, and you certainly wouldn't call him clean-cut or well-groomed, if you're the sort of person that cares about that. Which normally she is. This guy's got crazy shaggy hair sticking out all over the place, and a stubble. It suits him, though. He looks decent like that, instead of just grubby and gross like most other guys do when they don't bother shaving enough.

His name is Martin, and here's the real kicker: the guy never seems to want to have sex with her, in a regular fashion. Not to say he doesn't fuck her—but almost every time so far, being the kind of creative-minded personality that he is, he's tried to make a big crazy production number out of it. Getting straight down to business has no appeal for him. He needs to turn it into a game, to get turned on.

This stuff is brand new for her. She's never gone down these kinds of roads, and wasn't sure she'd be into it. Her sex life up 'til now has always been pretty cut-and-dried. She wouldn't say it's been dull—just that she knows exactly what she likes. She's not the sort of girl that gets clumsy or shy in the sack, stiffening up or fumbling awkwardly around. She's also not the sort of girl that just likes to lay back with her legs spread and leave everything up to the guy, like she's testing him, saying "Show me what you can do, prove your worth." That's not her deal. At some point pretty early on in her love life, she put some work into this and figured out a good solid technical program for herself that gives her exactly what she needs when she needs it, and so ever since she's always stuck to that. A pretty simple series of steps. She's always been a take-charge kind of girl, with her partners. When she gets with a guy, though she's not the kind of woman that always has to be on top the whole time, she does insist on setting the pace and calling all the shots on position-changes and intensity-level and the rest of it, stage by stage. Guys that wanna get with her and wanna make her happy learn they gotta follow her instructions, and when they follow her program with no fuss or foolishness, they find it concludes just as good for them as it does for her. 'Cause she took that factor into account when she designed it.

First time they did it—and in fact the only time they've had ordinary sex in a standard fashion, with no theatrical silliness beforehand—Martin called it a gymnastics routine, afterward. While they were fucking, he kept calling her coach, the whole time, whenever she told him what she wanted. "Yes, coach. Sure thing, coach. Right away, coach." She ended up slapping his face. He just laughed that off. "Don't get me wrong, it's a great routine, as a piece of athletics. Ten out of ten, gold medal. Just next time, how 'bout we try making it less sports-oriented?"

He turned it into a dare. And childish as it was, that approach got under her skin and she ended up accepting his challenge.

This is why today she's tied up naked on his bed, with duct tape over her mouth. Because today, the game is Spies. They're playing Spies.

She's an agent that's just had her cover blown, and now she's captured and is about to be interrogated. Martin, whenever he finally comes back into the room, will obviously be acting as her enemy, and interrogator.

He's left her waiting alone like this for quite a while. She's not sure how long exactly. Can't see any clocks. Time is tough to judge. Feels like hours, like ages. Might have only been five or ten minutes.

She knows he left the apartment. Heard him go out and lock the door and tromp down the steps. Heard him start his car and drive off. She really is all alone in here. How much longer is he going to leave her like this, stewing?

What if he doesn't come back 'til tomorrow morning? Jesus, she'll be so pissed. He better not take it that far. Won't be the first time he's let one of the games get carried away. Well, in fairness she's just as guilty of that, when things have got really cooking.

And it's a clever ploy, fucking off like that and leaving her to dangle in silent fuming solitude. She can feel it doing what it's meant to do. Which is drive her nuts. Her heart is racing and she wants to scream.

This is the first time she's let him tie her up. It is in fact the first time she's ever been tied up in her entire life. Very funny feeling, especially since she doesn't have any clothes on. There's much more to it than you might think. It's not just the obvious sensation of not being able to move. Feeling exposed and helpless and embarrassed and so forth. All of that's going on, sure, but there's much more. An extreme heightening of perception and awareness. An electrified feeling, thrumming throughout her body. And yet there's also a lazy heaviness that's settled over her. Like's she been drugged or hypnotized. Even if someone cut her ropes right this second, she would still find it very hard to move. But there's no sense of numbness in her limbs, or a foggy mind, completely the reverse. She feels as wide awake as it's possible to be. It's an otherworldly state of absolute contradiction.

It's thrilling. It's hot.

And then finally Martin returns. She hears his car park, and hears him come up the stairs outside and let himself in the front door. Somehow it still manages to be startling when the bedroom door bangs open a few seconds later, and he strides in and looms over her. Not smiling.

His expression is angry-looking. Fierce. But he's gentle and careful when he peels the tape off her mouth, so he doesn't hurt her.

"Agent Miller," he says, "I need your password."

3.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies. Tries to sound defiant and contemptuous. She's never had much talent for acting, and early on, tends to overdo her roles. Also has a tendency to get the giggles, the harder Martin tries to keep things feeling serious and real. Still, her line comes out sounding pretty good. Pretty convincing this time. She's getting better at this.

He changed into dark clothes, much dressier than his usual outfits. Has a red necktie, and though of course they're indoors with the blinds closed and the room is fairly dim, he's wearing mirrored sunglasses. She can see herself reflected on the lenses. That's a hell of sight. Two tiny pictures of herself, naked and bound on her side. Her expression is bold, not weak and afraid but angry and challenging. Her body is shivering, though, and cringing. It's outside her control, trying to curl itself up as much as it can. Which isn't much, the way he's got these ropes around her. He did an elaborate and thorough job.

The biggest fear holding you back from trying this sort of game is that you're just gonna feel silly and look stupid. She doesn't feel silly. And seeing herself reflected on his glasses, she sure doesn't look stupid either. She looks like she really could be a captured secret agent, squirming on this bed at the mercy of a ruthless and perverse antagonist. She looks damn sexy. It's not a nice safe clean romantic kind of sexy. This is dirty and dangerous and demeaning and pornographic. The dark truth is, that all just makes it sexier. Dirty-and-dangerous sexy is sexier than the safe-clean-healthy-romantic kind. It just fucking is.

She's so turned on right now it's torturing her and he hasn't even started to touch her yet.

"I've no wish to harm you, Agent Miller," says her captor, "I respect your abilities. But I must perform my duty for my country, just as you tried to do. Your mission has failed. It's no fault of your own—you were betrayed. Now you must accept the unfortunate reality of your situation. You will reveal the password to me. It is only a question of time."

"Do your worst, villain," she spat, "I'll tell you nothing! I'll never give in to you!"

"Ah, but you see, that is your error. It is not my worst you will have to contend with, Agent Miller. It is the other side of my nature. You are far too beautiful and impressive a specimen to desecrate and disfigure with crude methods of torture. And I am in no hurry. I will use a different, far more pleasant technique of persuasion, my dear. I've studied your files, and I know you better than you think. I know your secret weaknesses."

"You know nothing about me! You're delusional!"

"We shall see, Agent Miller. You are a highly sensual female, with a particular taste for risk-taking. Personal peril does not frighten you so much as it excites you, does it not? Both psychologically and physically. It is at the core of your nature. And I myself am the same. Many of us are, in this business. It is, I speculate, what largely draws us to the game of espionage and international intrigue. To put it bluntly, we get off on this sort of thing."

"If this is what gets you off, why not trade places with me?"

He chuckled, reaching out and patting her on her hip. She could not prevent herself from flinching at his touch, and gasping out loud as if he'd poked her flesh with something sharp. Yet all he'd done was give her a couple light friendly pats, almost as if to reassure her. "Next time, perhaps," he said, "your fortunes may improve, and we shall find our respective roles reversed. But not now, not today. At present, as I advised you before, you must come to terms with the utter hopelessness of your status, Agent Miller. You are completely in my power, and there is no escape for you. You cannot hide or defend yourself. You cannot disguise the passion your bound bare body is experiencing at this very moment. Your flesh is aflame, I see it in your eyes. Your only means to achieve ... release ... from your current captivity and lingering torment is to give me what I ask, and what I need. Now. Your password. Tell me."

"Never. I'll ... I'll see you in Hell before I talk!"

"You're in a kind of Hell already, don't you realize? But I have the power to take you to Heaven, my dear. You only have to earn it first. Let me demonstrate."

He detached the loop anchoring her wrists behind her to her ankles, and then hauled her whole body around 'til her legs were over the edge of the mattress. Then he rolled her on her back and shoved her legs straight up in the air high as they could stretch, and crouched beneath them, so he could stick his face against her ass and her pussy. And go to town on her with his tongue, right where she was most susceptible to the things it could do.

She writhed and kicked, but couldn't scramble away from him; he kept too good a grip on her thighs with both hands. All she could do, beside feel the feelings he inflicted upon her, was holler her head off. "You bastard! You bloody evil bastard! I won't let you break me!"

His only answer was a muffled "Nom-nom-nom ..."

"Guhh! I won't! Won't give in! I swear! I'll get you for this! I'll make you pay! I'll have my revenge! Are you listening? Do you hear me? I swear I will! I swear you won't make me—make me—make me—Ahh! Ahhuuhh! God! Make me! Ahhuuh God! You bastard! God! Stop it! Stop! Shit! Shit! I swear! Don't! Don't make me! Don't make me! You're gonna—you're gonna make me—Ahhuuhhh oh shit ohhh God ohh no nooo you're making me ahhhuurrhh!"

But he didn't actually take her all the way over the line. He was too cunning for that. He backed off at the last moment, to leave her dangling and desperate. Panting and drooling like a beast.

That trick, of course, was what broke her. Not making her come—she could have taken orgasms off him all day and all night, without surrendering, if that was what he did. Instead he just made her almost come and then held her back from it. That was the real torture, and that was what forced her to surrender.

"I'll talk! I'll talk! I give in! I give up! The password is ... is ..." What was it, actually? What should it be? She had to make one up on the spot and her brains were too scrambled to think of anything. "It's 'Jackanapes'. The password is 'Jackanapes'! You beat me! You've won! Now let me ... let me orgasm! Damn you, you bastard! Let me have it! Finish me off! I'm all yours. Take what you've won."

He didn't do it with his tongue. He crawled up on the bed and took his cock out of his pants, rolling her over again underneath him so she was flat on her stomach. He was gonna pound her from behind. Not doggy but ironing board. Oh Jesus she couldn't wait to feel it ... It was always amazing when he did that to her. Though it always frightened her too. It was scary how good that felt, and it was disturbing to enjoy this kind of experience as powerfully as she always did. Pinned down and pounded brutally, and this time with ropes around her! Yeah, it was just a game, and she knew it was safe. She could trust him not to hurt her or tell anybody. What scared her was the possibility she'd get addicted to this crazy shit and wouldn't be able to enjoy normal sex anymore. Or that maybe she already was.

He didn't immediately penetrate her. Just teased her entrance for another five minutes, to make her whine and wiggle and beg him for it. And she did. She did all of those things. "Please! Please do it! Oh please oh please I beg you! Just fucking do it! Take me! Fuck me! You've won! I'm yours! I need it—I need your cock! Now! You made me need it, just like you said you would. I couldn't resist you! You've broke me and I'm begging you! Fuck me! Please let me come!" Then, with a squeal, she climaxed the second her finally jammed himself into her ...

That wasn't the end of it, either. Over the next fifteen minutes, she gave up another three climaxes to his carefully paced fucking before he at last exhausted himself and was ready for his. She was on birth control, so he could let himself go off inside her. He called her Agent Miller again, as he pumped it in. She sort of wished he hadn't. Not in the last second like that. But it wasn't a huge deal, was it?

"Agent Miller! All mine! Take it! Haahhurraarrhh!" She took it, all right. Yes she did. She took it all, deep as it goes. No other feeling like it, is there? It's almost a whole other separate thing than fucking—when you take a man's come inside you, instead of all the other places it usually ends up. It's a heavy-feeling deal.

It had been a good game, the whole thing start to finish. Maybe their best one so far. This crazy fucker knew how to fuck her—Martin kept taking her crazy new places, every time. Put all those sharp snappy business type guys from her other life to shame, on that particular front. Whew.

She still decided whatever scenario they tried next, she wasn't gonna let him tie her up again, not for a good long little while. It was definitely his turn, anyway. To end up the defeated and conquered and humiliated one. And it continued to freak her out, how much this submissive-helpless-prisoner crap could get her going. Never would have expected it about herself, but it was a proven and irrefutable reality.

For safety's sake, she better ease off for a spell.

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