The Queen’s Pawn, Pt. 02

For the next two months Sabrina and I repeated our weekend rendezvous at her house. It was so much more private than my modest apartment, which I had to share, near the university. She never wore clothes, and submitted to all my whims, urges and impulses... and so therefore did I to hers.

I learned some new tricks -- that is, more ways to torment, humiliate and stimulate Sabrina. Such as nipple clamps. We started out with wooden clothes pegs and moved on to little metal plier-shaped and alligator-clips, which had rubber tips but squeezed tighter. (I tried them on myself and they really did hurt!) Sadistically, I stimulated her teats to make them more sensitive. I attached a chain to lead her by her breasts around the house and yard, and small bells so she jingled and jangled when she walked and crawled and jerked to each stroke of the whip. Sabrina suggested electrodes to add an extra "spark", but I demurred.

We also engaged in candle play. There was not a part of Sabrina's glorious form, neck to toes, that I didn't slather in hot wax. She squirmed in her bonds and howled through her gag. I told her to not be such a baby and could imagine the indignation flaring and glaring behind her blindfold. But I had done my research, knew what sort of candles to buy, how to apply the wax. She'd also prepared, removing all vestiges of pubic hair so that no part of her would be out of bounds. (She declined my offer to give her a Brazilian waxing.) I tried to be creative, drizzling it over her body to produce artistic patterns, did some finger painting. But my handiwork was only for my benefit. What I could only see she was feeling with full, pure intensity. Once again I felt a bit jealous. I wished I could experience what it was that she derived from her exquisite ordeal. She reacted to everything we did, everything I did to her, with unabashed glee.

The single thing she hated was being tickled. Being not barbaric, I only used this ultimate torture as punishment for sass or disobedience... in other words, every so often.

On weekdays we saw each other occasionally, for coffee or dinner, but not for sex. We acted very much like a typical "friend zone" couple. But she did make one gesture. When we met up she always wore a choker, more elegant than the collar she wore on the weekends but a symbol of that other, secret side of our relationship.

I enjoyed these "normal" meetings because we could both speak freely. Sabrina didn't have to put on an act or a show, and I didn't have to play along -- not that I was reluctant to do so! On one of these occasions she enlightened me about her fantasy of being a slavegirl. I assumed she meant sex slave, the persona she adopted on weekends; but she wanted to be owned, to serve and obey a man unconditionally, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

"Will I do?" I asked.

She batted her eyelids and giggled like a little girl.

Now it's easy to fantasize about being a slave. Few women (and fewer men, I believe) would have the strength and self-discipline to adopt that lifestyle for real. On weekends we played our roles as master and slave. And to fulfill my part, to keep her in the game, I had to be more, not less, severe on her. But she was remarkable, as iron-willed as anyone I've known and more so than most. Yet I could never escape the feeling that she was, after all, merely playing a role.

But that's the thing; when you live out a fantasy in the real world, it is the real world. The line between real-life and role-play doesn't just get blurred, it disappears altogether. In that respect Sabrina was my slavegirl! Nevertheless, she exercised the control. My power over her flowed from her into me and back into her.

I was her puppet -- her toy. We both knew that, and it didn't matter. I didn't let the Sabrina paradox mess with my mind!

We still played chess. I sometimes suspected that this was her real passion. Even though I honed the skills that I'd allowed to lapse, she always defeated me, except when I got lucky and fluked a draw. She never faked a loss to salve my ego.

On the weekends at her house she wasn't nude all the time; but she always took off her clothes when we sat down at the chess table -- well, I sat, she knelt. This was her way of saying that I shouldn't feel emasculated when I lost. I didn't, but it was an oddly antipodal message. To be defeated in a contest of mental potency by a diminutive, naked, kneeling female was not emasculating? It was that sort of endearing naïveté which made her so damned attractive (besides being beautiful).

Sabrina worked on Friday evenings and I convinced her to spend that night in my apartment. At dawn the next morning we drove to her house. We went in my car and she left her motorcycle at my place. I hated that machine. Although she looked amazing in her tight leather gear, I didn't want to see her in traction. And I wasn't being merely paranoid. I once owned a powerful two-wheeler, wrecked it and came away without a scratch. That instilled a deep-seated, lifelong animosity.

Sabrina made it a habit, as soon as she got into the car, to pull down her knickers and push back her skirt so the bare skin of her bottom was pressed against the seat. She also hiked up the front so I got a view of the full length of her lovely thighs. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the road. And that's funny, because I would soon be seeing a lot more of her. But there was something deliciously, gratuitously sexual about that little ritual.

It was on one Saturday morning during breakfast that Sabrina told me she had discovered a new thrill. We were having a conversation which would have been nothing out of the ordinary except that I was seated at the table and she was lying face-down across my lap, blindfolded, eating her toast and trying with only moderate success to drink her juice. (We did this a lot. My talking to the back of her head and her speaking to the floor was no less odd than many of the other things we did.) I rested my plate on her back and my coffee mug on her left buttock. (I made sure the mug wasn't too hot to burn but enough to make her flinch when I first laid it on her raw flesh.)

Her exciting discovery was a chess variant. Now most people would not call chess a thrill, but she enthused about the blindfold version. (The black satin sash across her eyes at the time of the conversation may be why she thought to bring up the topic.) I'd heard about it but never realized that it was an established part of chess culture. It seemed too outlandish. It involves, obviously, at least one of the players being unable to see the positions of the pieces. He or she must visualize the board and keep a mental note of all moves throughout the game. It requires phenomenal powers of memory and spatial awareness. I doubted that even the immensely talented Sabrina could possess such gifts. My voice must have conveyed the skepticism.

She jumped up and ripped off her blindfold, instantly regretting her insolence. She dropped to her knees; but instead of gazing downwards as she normally would, she looked up at me eye-to-eye.

"There's one way to test it," she declared. She challenged me to a match.

"Okay," I replied, "but I've not had any practice."

She laughed. "No, silly; I shall be blindfolded. You will have to move the pieces."

"Of course. That was dumb of me."

I must have blushed, because she lowered her gaze and did not look up again. (But she also didn't contradict me.)

"I know that tone. You think it will be easy, don't you? So let's make a deal."

I don't think I had a "tone". "Well, what is it?"

She hardly paused. "If I win, you will come and live here."

"Okay."

Moving in with Sabrina seemed like a win for me. I didn't mind giving up my apartment. It was cramped and I didn't get on particularly well with my roommate. And sex during the week would be nice.

"You will let me pick out a whole new wardrobe for you."

"What's wrong with..." I started to say, but stopped. I had to agree that my fashion sense left a lot to be desired. So far so good.

"Anything else?"

"One more thing. You will grant me one wish, at any time, whenever I ask for it."

Ah! There's always a catch!

She sensed my sudden apprehension. "It won't be anything you can't handle."

"Promise?"

"I promise. And you must live up to your promise when I win."

Sabrina rarely came across as cocky, and it occurred to me later that she was trying to intimidate or incite me... more likely the latter.

"Okay, so what about that minuscule, infinitesimal chance that I somehow manage, against all odds, to win?"

She smiled, still without looking up. "If you win I will be your slave. I will honour you and serve you and obey you. Everything I own will be yours. This house will belong to you. It and I shall be your property. Everything I earn will go to you. What I wear, what I eat, whatever I do will be on your command."

It sounded like she had rehearsed this speech. It was an extension of what she'd described over coffee that time. (Which caused me speculate that I'd been manoeuvred into this bet. She was a damn good chess strategist, after all.)

"For how long?"

"A year and a day. After that, well..."

"You've told me this is your fantasy," I said, and regretted it straight away. It sounded like I thought she was intending to lose deliberately... maybe even humiliate herself with the notorious "fool's mate" (checkmate in two moves) or the "scholar's mate" (in four).

Her bowed head drooped lower, but she smiled.

"Yes, it is; but if you're to be my master, you will have to earn it!"

"Yeah, I get it. You need a worthy master. Well then, it's on."

Without answering, she crawled over to the chess table, wiggling her little bare derrière as if in defiance. I tied her blindfold in place before taking my seat. She, as usual, knelt at the table. We decided on a best-of-three contest. That was my idea. I worried that she would blitz me while I was still adjusting to my opponent being so obviously handicapped. She proposed that I take white and have the first move. I assumed she was sacrificing the slight advantage in order to assemble her mental image of the board. By picturing in her mind's eye my initial move she established a template. Yet I was still confident. Sabrina was a better player than me, I gladly accepted that; but she wasn't that much better. Surely!

Though sightless, she faced towards the board, as if that helped her to picture it in her head.

I led off with my king's pawn. Sabrina waited patiently until I woke up.

"Oh yeah; I've moved E2 to E4."

She responded immediately by moving forward her own king's pawn, "E7 to E5." I shifted her piece.

I sent out my queen's pawn and she said, without hesitation, "E5 to D4," taking my pawn with one of hers. Okay, this was simple stuff, nothing to be concerned about. I had forfeited my first piece but hadn't lost my head. I did have a plan. I avenged my loss by removing her pawn with my queen. She engaged her queen's knight. After I shifted my queen to the left, she brought out her second knight. I sent my bishop into action to threaten it. She moved out a pawn and I retreated. I was not playing well. I wasn't focused, and I had underestimated Sabrina's abilities.

I tried to discern her state of mind, probing for some weakness I could exploit. Her voice was calm. Her face was half-hidden by the black satin sash, but her mouth didn't twitch, nor did her fingers fidget as they were inclined to do when she was under stress. She was always at her most tranquil when playing chess.

I knocked out the pawn she had sent forward to threaten my queen with my own that was immediately dispatched by her bishop. I moved my queen to the right to put her king in check. She protected him with her bishop and I moved out my king's bishop. She went into defensive mode.

"Castle, please."

Now I was impressed. The castling (shifting the king towards a rook and then jumping the rook over the king) meant that Sabrina was visualizing the entire board, not just the centre of the action. It was a remarkable demonstration of the power of intellect. With each move Sabrina spent just seconds before deciding. She enunciated the board coordinates slowly and clearly, to make sure I got them right.

I sent my king's knight into battle. She adjusted her bishop's position. I withdrew my queen's bishop and she moved her king's rook to threaten my queen. In defence, I sacrificed my knight to her rook. I sent out my second knight which was immediately eliminated by hers. I took revenge with a pawn, but I had a feeling that the end was nigh. It came sooner than I expected. Sabrina's rook took my queen and put my king in check. I moved him to the right but she stormed down the board with her queen. My king was trapped. Checkmate! I had played like a novice and been slaughtered in just fifteen moves. It was embarrassing.

Right up until we started our match, I'd still suspected that Sabrina might sabotage her own game. But it was not in her nature to surrender so abjectly. My only hope of avoiding further carnage, to win on my own terms, was to salvage a victory in the second game, by stretching it out and overloading her memory. By the third, deciding round she should be mentally exhausted.

As my gameplay fizzled, I had actually thought about cheating, I'm sorry to say. If I had stooped so low, I was sure Sabrina would immediately call me out; but it might throw her off-track. In any case, it was never going to happen. Nevertheless, I was not above some shenanigans. I could distract her during the match, break her concentration. I indeed set her up before it even began! I said we should take a fifteen-minute break. She probably thought I was giving her time to recharge her brain.

I made her lie on her belly with her hands clasped behind her head. I ensured that as I whisked the belt from my trousers it made a loud swishing sound. She braced herself as I thrashed her from her shoulders to the soles of her feet. I had perfected my style, laying on the leather just hard enough to sting and produce light pink welts which quickly subsided. I grabbed her wrists, wrenched them behind her back and bound them with the nylon rope. I turned her over. She sighed and moaned as the strokes landed on her breasts, belly and thighs. I attached the alligator clips. She spasmed for a few seconds. Her nipples were already hard and the pain surged through her entire body. But I knew how to soothe her. I massaged her breasts to boost their blood circulation. I inserted my fingers between her thighs and brought her to orgasm. The flow of endorphins, dopamine and adrenaline was reversed (or whatever those things do) and she settled down.

I wasn't quite finished with her preparation. As she lay on the carpet gasping, I watched her become alert as she heard me dragging the coffee table to a place next to the chess board. I lifted her up and lay her on it, on her stomach. The shock of the ice-cold marble on her bare, battered flesh drew out a loud, sustained groan. She began squirming again, and the nipple clamps fell off. I didn't replace them. The sudden, painful rush of blood into them caused her to howl. But her body heat quickly provided adequate warmth for her to regain some composure.

"Are we ready to begin again?" I asked.

"Let's play!"

Sabrina now had the white pieces. She pondered for just a second before leading off with her king's knight. I mirrored her move with my queen's knight. We skirmished with our knights and bishops. The game was already getting complex, and it was amazing how Sabrina was able to keep up despite her impediments.

I called time out, deciding that intervention was necessary. I amplified her bondage to a full hog-tie, making it severe enough that she was gritting her teeth. Normally I protected her jaws during these strenuous sessions by inserting her ball-gag, something to bite on. I could not gag her (although as my first-game campaign collapsed I had considered it then!). But I remembered that Sabrina would occasionally wear a dental splint to bed. It didn't really surprise me that she would grind her teeth in her sleep -- a sign of bottled up energy and tension. I went upstairs to fetch her appliance. She said nothing as I put it in place.

As if to mock me, upon resuming a panting, lisping Sabrina asked me once more to castle her king. Nothing I had done succeeded in erasing or obscuring her mental picture of the board. I did score the first victory by taking one of her bishops with a knight; she retaliated by destroying my knight with a pawn. Soon after, we each took an opposing rook out of the game. We were now past where I had fallen on the first round, and things looked pretty even. She took a bit longer to make each move. Still lying trussed on her belly on the tabletop, she was no longer wriggling. All her energy was focused on the game, on recalling the positions of the remaining twenty-five pieces.

Gaining confidence, I disposed of one of her bishops; but then she took out my queen and whispered, almost apologetically, "Check." However, I was not in immediate danger. My bishop terminated the threat. Nonetheless, Sabrina was now on the offensive. She moved up her queen, and put my king in check with her knight. I dodged, but only by moving my king out of his sanctum and into check from her other knight. I was running out of places to hide.

Chased by Sabrina's queen and knights, my king scurried from square to square in the corner of the board, until the inevitable box-in. A feeble counter-offensive, my pawn against her king, proved no distraction. My king had been outflanked. I knew what Sabrina's next move would be -- checkmate, the coup de grace delivered by her knight.

She hesitated. From her point of view this would be a pyrrhic victory. But she had too much self-respect to throw the game on the last move.

"B5 to C7," she whimpered.

"Damn!" I bellowed.

These were not per se first-class games. I felt that I'd played with inexcusable incompetence. But that took nothing away from Sabrina's prodigious feat. Concealed by her blindfold was, I'm sure, a beaming pride.

I waited a while before untying her. I then told her she could remove the blindfold, and sent her to the kitchen to make us lunch. Half an hour later she brought it out to where I was relaxing in a lawn chair in the yard. She put the sandwiches and drinks on the table and knelt on the grass, staring at my feet. The sun glistened on her gorgeous body unimpeded by clothing. With a little bit of guilt, I studied the fresh but fading pink marks.

"So, my girl; have you been thinking about that wish I owe you?"

"Yes, Master," she replied. "I want to be your slave."

"For how long?"

"For as long as you desire me."

"Wish granted," I said.