The Queen’s Pawn, Pt. 01

This is a new (hopefully improved) version of a previously published story, "Checkmate". It was inspired by the time I played chess with my boyfriend. I deliberately sabotaged my gameplay to let him win. "Don't ever sell yourself short!" he scolded. Soon afterwards I became his fiancée.

There are a trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion possible games to be played in chess. These were some of them.

At university I joined the chess club. It wasn't the trendiest clique on campus, but not quite the geekiest, and probably the smartest. I enjoyed a camaraderie that suited my temperament and in particular my sedentary nature. However, a problem was the absence of females; and that is something I didn't understand. Women weren't welcome, and the guys weren't aware that this was a reflection on themselves. Which goes to show that clever people can be no less prejudiced than anyone else. One explained that he didn't want the distraction. I responded with something like "Yeah, because when you're your mind is completely focused on the board, it's so easy to lose concentration." He didn't see the irony.

Nevertheless, I was not set on subversion when I brought along Sabrina. She and I were classmates who excelled in physics and mathematics. We were friendly competitors who decided to team up as "study buddies". I had no strong romantic designs at the time, because Sabrina had an aura of untouchability. She was, in the words of the statesman, "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." Petite and pretty, she was sexy and sensual, and without doubt a genius, but in many respects -- as I discovered -- a wild child.

It took some time and energy to persuade Sabrina to join the chess club. I knew she loved the game. Nevertheless, I confess that my motivation was basically selfish. I enjoyed her company and thought she'd add some feminine sophistication to the group.

There was no actual rule against females, but the guys greeted her with grudging condescension. So it was with the greatest satisfaction that I watched her demolish them one by one, and even in pairs. Nevertheless, when it came to choosing our squad for the local chess tournament, Sabrina was excluded. This was madness. Our club could enter four representatives and our arguably best player was overlooked. I urged her to challenge the selection and offered up my own place. She replied with a cryptic smile; but the malevolent glint in her big, beautiful, brown eyes made me shudder.

The event was state-wide, held over two weekends, with the winners going on to the national championship. Most participants were members of clubs like ours. We didn't attract as many spectators as, say, football. The audience consisted mostly of friends and family. Even so, there was a fair-sized crowd in the hall. Wins were hailed with muted applause because other games were still in progress. And all in all, it was a rather staid affair. Just about everyone took the game, and themselves, very seriously. The contestants were majority-male, conservatively attired, well-behaved. Then there were the Checkmate Chicks.

Sabrina had put together the sole all-girl group. They revelled in the stares of incredulity and indignation as they flounced up to the registration desk in their uniform of halter-neck top, pleated miniskirt and frilly socks. Someone commented (rather wittily, I concede) that the cheerleaders had arrived. They quickly demonstrated that they were not the bimbos they appeared to be, although their exuberance and lack of masculine gravitas upset some of their opponents. Pirouettes and high-fives were not part of normal chess competition etiquette. Was this a tactic? Possibly; but it was quintessential Sabrina.

Both our university team and the Chicks secured places in the second round held the following Saturday. I made it, but in the semi-final I was extremely nervous, anxious to prove myself. After a couple of unforced errors I was eliminated. Sabrina was there as well. An audible buzz of anticipation and apprehension swept around the hall as she and her friends entered. But there was genuine applause. And it would have been the perfect, fairy-tale ending if they had won the grand prize; but that was not to be. Nevertheless, Sabrina earned a belated show of respect from the chess club. However, the other Chicks didn't join and she soon quit.

Life went on. Sabrina and I continued to study together. Our relationship advanced; but she wasn't thrilled by the sex. I didn't understand what she desired and so could not provide it. Our academic paths diverged, so we didn't remain study buddies. I lost interest in chess. Sabrina kept playing but not at competition level. She lacked the self-abnegation she felt was needed to be a true champion. But she didn't want for self-confidence. Quite the opposite. She knew she had nothing to prove.

Eventually we stopped seeing each other. We were moving in different social circles. I drifted through ephemeral relationships. Yet Sabrina still occupied an indelible part of my consciousness, and my dreams. And we eventually reconnected. We had both gone onto postgraduate research. We met for coffee once a week, sometimes had dinner; but we went no further. I consoled myself that she was a free spirit, would never be tied down. (How wrong I was about that!) Then one day I received a text inviting me to spend a weekend with her. We decided on the following Saturday.

Just before setting out, I received a text. "Don't bother bringing condoms." Knowing Sabrina's quirky sense of humour, I waited for the follow-up. "They give me a rash."

She lived alone in a house owned by her family, about half an hour's drive from the university. It was a two-storey beach bungalow. I'd been there a couple of times. Her parents were very well-off. But Sabrina never flaunted her privilege. While she could be a flirt and a flibbertigibbet, she was not a spoiled brat. She voluntarily paid rent with a modest income from tutoring duties and a part-time job off-campus.

It was rainy, windy and cold when I arrived. As I parked my car in the garage, next to Sabrina's motorbike, a Honda 750 Shadow Spirit. She greeted me at the door to the living area in a tiny, tangerine, string bikini.

"Mi casa su casa," she said.

It was getting on towards midday and she had lunch prepared. We munched cheese sandwiches, I drank a beer and she sipped lemon tea. We sat on the back veranda, sheltered from the rain but not from the chilly breeze. Sabrina didn't seem to care that all she had on her body were tiny triangles held in place by threads. Despite her diminutive stature and fragile appearance, she was tough. She disliked being in any sort of comfort zone. She loved difficult challenges and extravagant sensations (which is why she enjoyed the cut-and-thrust of competitive chess, but also why she never persevered to take it to the highest level).

And if she was trying to tantalize me... she succeeded.

We made small talk for a while. Then, having deposited the bottle, cup, plates and cutlery in the kitchen sink, Sabrina marched into the living room and waited for me to catch up. I had taken off my shoes and socks, and walking on the plush carpet was like being on clouds. There was a marble-topped coffee table and an ornate mahogany chess table with pieces hand-crafted from rosewood and boxwood.

We stood facing each other. Then, without another word, she slid the straps of her top off her shoulders. She reached behind her back to untie the knot. She jiggled her torso but the bra remained hanging on her chest.

"Looks like it's up to you," she said. I looked into her eyes. They glittered.

I cupped my hands over her breasts, kept them there for a few seconds, feeling her hard nipples against my palms, before whisking the top away. I gave it to her, dangling it gently between thumb and finger. She seized it and flung it without looking onto the sofa. She took hold of my elbows and drew me closer to her. As we embraced and our lips pressed together, she fiddled with the rear of my trousers. I got the message and ran my hands down her back, inserted my fingers under her pants and pushed them downwards, off her bottom. I massaged the cool, soft flesh as we lowered ourselves to our knees. Her pants were still halfway along her thighs and I was trying to work them down further with one hand when suddenly she pulled away and jumped to her feet.

"Something's missing!"

She kicked away the last bit of her bikini and went to the sofa. There was a cardboard box beside it, and she withdrew a collar. It was of brown leather, the width of three of her fingers, with a buckle at the back and a leash ring at the front, to which was attached a chain composed of small, heart-shaped silver links. She also took out three coils of rope, a red ball-gag and a black satin sash. Sabrina was not a girl who came unprepared or who wasted time dancing around issues.

I was now standing up, and when she came back she knelt in front of me, with her head bowed. I tenderly brushed aside her honey-blonde hair. I took the collar and fastened it around her throat, making sure it was not too tight. I could feel the veins in her neck pulsing with excitement.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I was nonetheless a little taken aback by the boldness of this frontal attack on my inhibitions. Obviously I had seen her naked before; but this was something else. I was still in my clothes while she was nude and kneeling at my feet, with her knees apart, her eyes still downcast and her hands behind her back. I knew she had a kinky side -- who doesn't? -- but this was a side of her I had not foreseen. And I think she sensed my unease. Again taking the initiative, she bent forward until her forehead touched the carpet. She wiggled her fingers until I got the idea and unravelled the rope. It was nylon and appeared to have been treated with fabric softener.

I wasn't sure how to begin. I knew the ropes, so to speak, but in theory not practice. Until now I had never tied up anyone, let alone a girl, let alone one like Sabrina. So she positioned her hands with the insides of her wrists touching. I was no expert but knew enough to apply a wrap-and-cinch, looping the shorter of the two cords around and between her wrists half a dozen times. The result was more stringent than with wrists crossed. It put stress on her arms, wrenching back her shoulders and pushing out her chest. She gasped, but purred a "Keep going!" when I hesitated.

I gave her a moment to savour the tightness of the ropes. She flexed her arms and swivelled her shoulders, as if testing her bonds. This caused her breasts to bob and sway in a most delightful way.

I took her arms and raised her to an upright kneeling position, and squatted behind her. I placed the satin sash over her eyes. She gasped again as I knotted it with an extra-hard tug to ensure that no light could enter. She twisted her head as if trying to look about, and smiled. She started to say something but I now took control, clamping my hand firmly over her mouth. Her muffled protest was probably a sham. But whether or not she was play-acting didn't matter. Here we were.

She stayed silent when I removed my hand. I didn't need to go further; but the invitation had been made. Still behind her, I ran the ball of the gag across her lips. It was made of semi-soft, red silicone, with two breathing holes. It had a leather strap that was secured with a small brass buckle. It was large, but when I pushed it between her jaws the fit was snug.

I realized that I hadn't arranged a safe word and gesture. I removed the gag and she seemed frustrated. She said "I trust you," but that wasn't sufficient. So she proposed "gambit" (which, I only caught on to later, is a chess term) and crossed fingers. I wanted a signal for "Ease up" in addition to "Stop", but she shook her head impatiently.

"I'm waiting here."

I tried not to laugh. By acting obstreperous Sabrina was trying to provoke me. But perhaps she was misjudging the consequences. Bound and gagged, she was in no position, literally, to offer inexpert me guidance and suggestions. Yet she was willing, and happy, to pay the price.

I inserted the ball once more and fastened it in place with a sharp jerk. Immediately her chest began to heave. Raspy puffs whiffed through the gag's air holes. I was concerned that she wasn't breathing properly; but when I whispered "Are you okay?" she nodded, sank downwards to rest on her heels and spread her knees as far as she could. Her labia were pink and moist, her nipples erect, her belly twitching.

Crouching in front of her, I took hold of her shoulders and shoved her gently until she was lying on her back, or rather on her pinioned arms. Her legs were still wide apart. I lowered myself between them, opening my trouser zipper. I probed her entrance, teasing her clitoris until she began to squirm and moan. I pushed into her.

Though I had been inside Sabrina many times, this felt different. It was different. Even bound she wasn't passive, wrapping her legs around mine, thrusting her body as I plunged deeper and harder and faster; but pinned beneath me trussed and sightless, reduced to making gurgling sounds that oozed through her gag with tiny bubbles of saliva, she was completely within my power. And the funny thing is that she was revelling more than I was in her helplessness.

The carpet was of luxurious fleece. However, as she was being humped I worried that her arms must be hurting. I pulled out and flipped her onto her stomach. I have never been a fan of the rear entry, so that's not what I had in mind. In any case, Sabrina hadn't brought me three ropes for nothing. I placed her feet together and bound her ankles. She made a noise that sounded like an emission of pleasure. So I looped the third rope around her wrist binding, and hauled on it until her heels touched her butt. I possibly went too far, because her body was arched backwards. She began to whimper. She started struggling. So I checked her hands -- no crossed fingers.

"What now?" I thought. I got up and went to the kitchen to get another beer. I came back and sat on the sofa to watch Sabrina's writhing subside into feeble quivering. I leaned forward to run the cold base of the bottle over her skin. I pressed it against the soles of her feet until her toes curled. Yet I regretted making her hog-tie as stringent as I had, and wanted to loosen the rope; but I decided to wait until she gave up and used the safe signal. Time passed. I thought she was just being stubborn. Maybe she was testing herself, pushing her boundaries. It took great strength of will to endure the discomfort, and the humiliation.

I turned her onto her side to assess her condition. He face was flushed and sweaty. Her nipples were still hard. Her chest was still heaving. Her belly was still twitching. Her pelvis was still thrusting. Her orgasm was intense and she must have intuited my concern from behind her blindfold, because through her gag she laughed. She said something unintelligible. So I returned to the sofa. After a while I switched on the television to show I was losing interest in her ordeal. She wasn't fooled.

Eventually, when I saw that her hands were bright red -- not so much from the tightness of the ropes as from her contorting her wrists -- I decided that she'd had enough. I heard a gurgle of dissent as I released her. The ropes left deep marks on her wrists and ankles. But the game was only just beginning. I took up the end of her leash and led her, crawling on her hands and knees, out of the living room and up the stairs, to her room at the end of the hallway. After clearing the bed of a small mountain of fluffy animals, I made her lie face-down with her arms outstretched. I tied her wrists to the corner posts.

I now struggled with the thought that we had gone far enough; but I felt as if I'd been bewitched. Perhaps I had been.

Guessing that her box had lots of toys, I went back downstairs and found two whips. They were leather, a single broad strap and a flogger with several braided strands. Back in her room, I ran the flogger over her buttocks. She cringed but then went limp. She knew that a taut body feels a whipping more acutely; but (I later learned) she wasn't trying to save herself from the pain. She wanted it to last as long as possible. I started lightly and increased the tempo and intensity of the strokes. Her butt cheeks rippled, her pelvis kneaded the mattress, she groaned and grunted, until dozens of thin pink streaks marred the smooth-as-silk skin of her bottom, back and thighs.

I untied her hands and told her to turn over. Tears stained her blindfold and a foam of saliva encased the ball of her gag. I left her arms unbound but told her to spread them.

"Just three," I said, as I picked up the belt. The first lash was across her belly and was more violent than I meant it to be. Her body jerked. An ugly, broad red stripe appeared. I felt ashamed, and worried that I really had gone too far; but I couldn't bring myself to stop before completing the job. How weird it was; I was afraid I would seem weak. She must have sensed that, because she muttered something from behind her gag, words which sounded like "Get on with it." For that I wanted to punish her... by giving her what she demanded. The second stroke was even harder than the first, and was supposed to be across her thighs, but my aim was poor and the strap came down on her pubes. It must have been excruciating. Sabrina clenched her fists but kept her arms outspread. I barely tapped her breasts with the third and final strike.

I could not understand what demon had possessed me. I'd never done anything like this before. The very thought that I might willingly inflict pain on a girl, on anyone, would before this day have shocked me to the core. I was almost ready to believe that Sabrina might be some sort of enchantress... But if I was under her spell, in chastising her was I surrendering to it or rebelling against it? What didn't occur to me was that she was opening the door to a part of my nature that I had kept locked away. She had perceived what I had suppressed.

I removed her blindfold and gag. I sat on the bed and held her warm, naked body in my arms. Red-faced, with trembling lips, her face smeared with tears and sweat and saliva, she looked up into my eyes. She smiled. It troubled me that I had never seen her so lovely. I stood up to undress after tying her blindfold back in place. It was another strange moment. I didn't want her to see me without clothes, the way she was.

"You can't keep a good man down," she said as I pressed against her loins.

This time as I made love to her she remained passive, essentially inert. I couldn't blame her. To my surprise, the clock showed that our game had gone on for nearly five hours. For me it seemed like just a fraction of that; but to Sabrina it must have felt like forever. Yet she dragged herself immediately off the bed, dropped to the floor and waited on all fours for me to take up her tether. I put my duds back on and led her downstairs to the kitchen.

Sabrina cooked dinner while I watched. She made a roasted eggplant lasagne. Still nude, she refused my advice that she wear an apron while working at the stove. I thought "Silly girl" but didn't make an issue of it. When we were about to take our seats at the table, I blindfolded her and bound her hands behind her back. I wanted to feed her, to make her dependent on me, but now in an affectionate way rather than as my plaything. Eating her meal sans voir took her to a heightened degree of stimulation. Without the cues of sight, her other receptors were enhanced, which triggered more vivid and voluptuous taste sensations. She became more aroused with each morsel that I delivered to her mouth. When I held the wine glass to her lips, as she sipped she allowed red rivulets of cabernet sauvignon to dribble down her chin and trickle onto her breasts. By the time we had finished our strawberry mousse, Sabrina's body was quivery and goosebumpy. I envied her. I could only see, not feel what she was experiencing.