Latest Forum Posts:


This is Not a Game

“I’m your dirtiest fucking dream come true,” she told him.

They planned the entire scenario with care. She dressed in that borderline classy/slutty way she deployed when she was bluntly trying to seduce him. Her hair was up, short dark tendrils curling over her ears. Her dancing eyes shone electric. She wore that flirty red sleeveless dress he loved, loose and short and sexy, black patterned stockings appearing below the hem, finished off with elegant red heels.

She knew how much he enjoyed a glimpse of the top of her stockings, particularly the elastic lace top peering from underneath like a promise of heaven. She had an uncanny ability to control the sight of it, revealing just a hint—or more—with a barely noticeable movement of her leg.

No wig this time, no choker either, though had worn both in previous iterations of their game. She did wear pearls. She nearly always wore pearls for these role-play rendezvous, and wore her longest strand this time out, looped twice around her neck.

Pearls were fun.

She sat demurely at the hotel bar, alone, sipping a martini (not her regular drink, she hated martinis, she was suggesting a slight change in persona). So many things were the same, but something was different this time. She didn’t know what. She felt distant. Slightly removed from her physical surroundings. As if she were in a private roleplay within their larger roleplay.

A stranger walked to the bar and stood next to her. He ordered a drink, Maker’s Mark, rocks. While waiting to be served he introduced himself.

“I’m Hal,” he said. He wore a grey suit, and it did not escape her notice that he wore it well.

She made fleeting eye contact but did not otherwise respond, employing her standard strategy of total non-engagement. She waited for her lover, waited for their game to begin, and had no interest in another man. She didn’t speak, didn’t lean toward or away from him, didn’t make further eye contact.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said.

She again did not willingly respond, but her shoulders tensed. She said nothing.

“Excuse me?” he asked pleasantly. “Miss?”

She made no reply.

“Miss?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice wavered as she said it. She did not know why.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He seemed friendly enough. She tried to smile; the attempt felt false and plastic.

“No,” she said. Her voice shook noticeably.

“Are you sure?”

She thought, Oh my God, he’s seen the video.

“Yes,” she said, as evenly as possible. She found it difficult to maintain a pleasant expression. A timid panic formed in her belly. “I’m sure.”

He’s seen the video.

As the notion ricocheted through her mind, she told herself that the number of views of their video was in the low hundreds, the site was international, with tens of millions of viewers, so the odds of someone in the same bar as she actually having seen the video were infinitesimally small.

And was it even that bad if he did see it? They fantasized about that kind of thing quite often. Her reaction seemed overlarge, her panic unwarranted. It was embarrassing; it was also hot.

And yet, despite the rationalizations, the anxiety remained; a low-level unease, deep in the pit of her belly.

She wondered at the apparent contradiction herself. Perhaps it was no contradiction at all.

Scenes from the video interrupted her thoughts: her head poised over his erect cock, mouth open, tongue lolling; his hand forcing her to take him deep into her mouth even as she gagged on his length; the red collar around her neck, the flashing length of chain leash doubled around his fist.

Hal waited for his drink as she sat stone still next to him, eyes averted, imagining his dazed grin, his predatory stare. Her heart galloped, her blood rushing to her face, her hands.

The bartender mercifully made the drink quickly and set it in front of Hal. He placed a bill on the bar, took the drink in hand, glanced in her direction with a cordial smile she did not return, walked back to his table and sat, joining another man in a suit. He didn’t turn to look back at her. He didn’t seem to be making any kind of guarded remark about her to his friend. Nothing he did - other than telling her she looked familiar - implied that he had seen the video.

And of course she had no way of knowing if his grin had been dazed, his stare predatory. She attempted to assure herself that his behavior had been innocuous. Objectively, nothing had happened. He had not recognized her.

Micro-second pornographic images burst like flashbulbs. The feel of his fingers gripping her hair. The tight pull of the leash. The sharp sweet scent of pussy and cum soaking the air of the room.

She desperately scanned the bar looking for her lover. Her eyes found him standing near the doorway of the bar, watching her surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye.

She knew he’d be there, and was grateful.

She willed him mentally to come to her quickly, but he was still playing the game, the two strangers meeting in a bar scenario. He wouldn’t approach her directly. He had no way of knowing of her distress.

She wondered if the symptoms of a flushed face and breathlessness she was experiencing might somehow coming across to him as signs of arousal. She prayed the answer was no.

He smiled his lazy gentleman’s smile in her general direction and sauntered toward the bar. She attempted to catch his eye but failed. It would be a breach of the rules of the game for him to make eye contact with her; they weren’t supposed to know each other. Making eye contact from across the room would have been out of character.

She kept her eyes on him, pleading for him to break out of their role-play, look her in the eye, realize she was not enjoying herself.

He approached the bar, his hands palm down on the curving brass rail. He turned to her and gave a polite smile.

She reached out, grabbed his shirt collar, and whispered, “Fuck me now. Take me home and fuck me now.” Her voice faltered as she spoke; fucking was the last thing on her mind. She wondered why she had said it. She wanted him with her. She wanted him close. She wanted him covering her, taking over her will, her body.

He blinked.

“Are this still part of our game?” he asked.

She pulled at his shirt, bringing his ear against her lips.

“This is not a game,” she whispered. “Take me home, please.”


They didn’t go home. They sat in his car parked in the corner of the asphalt lot, just under a streetlamp, as she told him of the exchange at the bar. Night settled around them. A drizzle of rain fell on the windows of the car. She found the sound of it, and the scent of it, comforting.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I think so. Sitting in the car, with you, listening to the rain. I think that is what I want. For now, anyway.”

“Then that is what we will do,” he said.

Silence overtook them. The tapping of the rain on the glass filled the space, not uncomfortably. The pace of the downpour had slackened a bit, playing a soft plink, plink, plink against the windows and the roof. They stayed poised that way for some time.

“I’ll delete the tape tonight,” he said, quietly but with some finality. “When we get home. I can delete our copy too if you want.”

“Oh, no,” she said with a start. “Not our copy. That’s ours. That’s us. We get that.”


“I love that. That was hot.”

“Yes, it was.” He smiled. They listened to the rain. Plink. Plink. Plink.

He leaned in toward her and said, “I’m glad you said that. I felt pretty sure you enjoyed making it. I did too.”

She returned the smile and took his hand. “The camera made for such a sexy evening. Unforgettable. And I don’t wanna stop that. That was perfect, my love.” She looked away from his eyes and to his hand, stroking his fingers. “But posting it. Online. That makes it not us anymore. It’s unconnected to us. It’s two people fucking. That’s all. Not us. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry. This is a journey we take together. We talk about what happens. Without guilt or pressure.”

She said, “You can delete that, then. The online one. Keep our own copy. For ourselves.”

“Of course.”

“How do you feel about it?”

He said, “I loved filming it. Same as you. But the result. Like, on the monitor. It felt artificial. It felt like a performance. And it’s not a performance.”

“If we’re performing, we’re performing for each other,” she added. “We are our own audience. It’s not a game. There is no game. It’s something happening between the two of us. There is so much more going on than the camera sees.”

“It felt empty.”

“The sex we had wasn’t empty. Our sex. But posting the video emptied it. It wasn’t ours anymore.”

“No,” he said, and the word lingered in the air. They listened to the rain. Plink, plink, plink. She noticed a glint of reflected light, coming from one of the few remaining cars parked in the lot.

He asked, “Did you feel unsafe? When the man approached you at the bar?”

“No. I didn’t feel he was gonna hurt me. Or even proposition me. He was really very polite.”

“But he made you feel uncomfortable.“

“He made me feel…depersonalized. Is that the right word? He made me feel like I wasn’t a person.”

“An object? Objectified?”

“I don’t even know what that word means anymore, it’s so overused. I mean, look, he probably didn’t even recognize me, he almost certainly didn’t, so he wasn’t making me feel like anything. I made myself feel like a copy of myself. An actor. I didn’t feel like a person. I didn’t feel real.”

“Do you feel real now?”

She reached across the car seat put her arms around him. “You make me feel real. You ground me. You weren’t there when I panicked at the bar. You are here now.”

“Do you feel safe now?”

The pause that followed his question felt enormous to her, and perhaps it was, but she knew that he already knew the answer, and felt no need to speak it.

She lay her head in his lap, and closed her eyes.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

“I just wanna rest here for a little bit. Close my eyes for a couple seconds. Lay in your lap, listen to the rain.”

“That sounds nice,” he said.

“I like it, the two of us. Here, now, in the car, in the rain. Life, as it’s being lived.”

She closed her eyes and fell into warm grey dreams.


After a time the rain stopped. He didn’t notice it stopping, he simply sat in the car while she dozed with her head in his lap, and realized after a time he no longer heard the gentle tapping sound against the metal and glass.

They had been in the car about a half an hour. She had been drifting in and out of sleep for maybe twenty minutes. Occasionally she whimpered, or sighed. As she lay in his lap he stroked her hair. He looked out onto the rain-slicked asphalt of the parking lot. A scattering of empty cars sat parked in the lot with them, a multicolored stipple of raindrops on the glass of the windshields. Halogen streetlamps threw halos of light into the misty night air.

He looked down at her. She was so pretty. Asleep and vulnerable, hair disheveled, face relaxed and guileless.

His cock stirred.

He hadn’t wanted it to, not after her distress in the bar, it simply happened, her breath so close, the smell of her hair, the shape of her lovely face. The white curve of her neck, the dizzy slopes of her breasts and hips.

He couldn’t help it.

She wriggled in his lap. She mumbled something, he could not tell what. She settled down deeper into his lap, closed her eyes, her lips inches away from his still flaccid but awakening length.

He tried to dampen his ardor, and chuckled inwardly at the idea of thinking of baseball, the way they did in old movies. He didn’t want to wake her; he particularly didn’t want to wake her with a hard pipe of cock in her face.

And yet: he looked in her face and couldn’t think of baseball, couldn’t think of anything else besides her. She looked so soft, so content, so feline, sleeping in his lap. She had dressed impeccably for their play-date, her minimal but precise lipstick and eye color and hair. The lax openness of her face when sleeping looked so much like her face when she was playing submissive, the way she looked when she beamed at him in adoration.

He wanted to comfort her.

He wanted to protect her.

He loved her.

With the swell of emotion in his heart and mind came a surge of blood into his thickening member, and the growing bulge in his pants brushed against her cheek.

She opened her eyes. She looked at him. She smirked.

“Seriously?” she asked, and after a long deadly silence, they both broke into laughter.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, and he meant it, but the closeness following in the wake of the laugh did not help diminish his arousal.

“You’re sorry?” she said.


"I am skeptical.” She kissed the head of his cock through the cloth of his jeans. “But you are forgiven,” she said, smiling.

“You’re feeling better?”

“I feel okay. Things will be okay.”

He said, “You’re okay?


“Like, even with me being horny and hard?”

“Your timing could have been a little better.” She smiled. “But I’m over it.”

“Can you get over a thing like that? I mean, at the bar. Is this what you want?”

She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she sighed. “Sometimes I think we talk too much.” She removed her finger from her lips and again kissed the taut fabric restraining his cockhead. She reached out with the playful tip of her tongue and touched his head with a teasing lick. She languidly slid her lips down the length of him, and felt him stiffen, and was happy. She massaged his balls with her lips, then worked her way back up the length of him.

She undid the button of his jeans with her teeth, then found the zipper with the talented tip of her tongue, took it between her teeth, and pulled it down. His cock, straining at the material of his boxers, pushed the fly of his pants open. A single drop of pre-cum wetness stained the material.

“This is what I want,” she told him. He nodded, speechless.


It was what she wanted.

She released him from the restraints of his pants and boxers and stroked him slowly, once, twice, admiring the shape and throbbing size. Pre-cum continued to seep from the tip of it. She tasted it with the tip of her tongue, then licked it away with a flourish. He shivered.

“Is this what you want?” she asked him. She laughed.

“Yes,” he stammered.

“Good.” She took his length into her hand and guided him to her mouth. She lavished the head of his cock with attention, first circling the helmeted rim of it with her tongue, lingering on the sensitive underside (she knew every inch of his body, every possible response). She took the head into her mouth then, her lips wrapping around the rim as her tongue slipped under it. He threw his head back in pleasure, closing his eyes.

She turned fully around in his lap, her hands now braced on the armrest between the seats. She took him deeper into her mouth. He lay back further. She was curiously aware of his passivity as she sucked him; usually, he took more control. She knew his restraint must be due to her earlier panic, and his unease that he might in some way force herself upon her, hurt her, tread upon the same mental space that the stranger at the bar had inadvertently stepped into earlier.

She wondered at the apparent contradiction. Perhaps it was no contradiction at all.

She took him fully into her mouth then, giving herself to him, holding him there, letting him feel her throat constricting around him. When she felt her gag reflex rearing up she pulled back, releasing his length from her mouth, torching him with an incendiary stare. She hoisted herself up from her hands to her elbows on the armrest, gave a sneer like he had never seen before, and slung a leg over his lap.

She kneeled over him, on her knees, in an equally uncharacteristic position of power, “I’m not wearing any panties,” she told him.

“That makes things considerably easier,” he grinned. He awkwardly arched his ass up in his seat, pulled his jeans and shorts down from around his hips and pushed them down his legs. He settled back into position.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Shut up,” she responded sweetly.

She took a deliriously long time lowering herself down onto his cock. Partly due to his newfound restraint, partly due to her position as she loomed over him, she teased him with her pussy, almost as if she were sucking his cock. She lowered herself enough to surround his cockhead with her wet and open labial lips, and stopped. She hovered there, moving slowly and only a fraction of space at a time, up and down, her lips licking the reddened edges of his now throbbing bulb.

“You’re such a tease,” he told her, but did not thrust into her, ceding her full control.

She spread her legs farther apart, allowing him slightly more access to her velvety center, feeding his thickness further inside her. She took her breasts in her hands, knowing how much he loved that. She pinched her nipples through the fabric for him.

“Are you performing for me now?” His hands moved to her hips, but still he did not thrust into her.

“Yes,” she told him. “I’m performing for you. I’m your dancer. I’m your porn star. I’m your slut.”

She arched out her hip to the right, his cock sliding out of her a precious few fractions of an inch. She then grinned wickedly, and brought her hips back to center, his cock sliding back inside her a magical fingers-width more before she maddeningly arched her hips again, to the right this time, depriving him.

She swayed before him, swinging her hips left to right, back and forth, his cockhead sliding slightly in, slightly out of her as she weaved. She pinched her nipples tightly between thumb and forefinger, her eyes never breaking from his, their connection sealed by the contact of sight.

She lowered her hips incrementally with each grind as she danced for him. Soon her pussy had taken in half his length, and still she did not grind down onto him but kept swaying, hypnotizing him, the snake mesmerizing the snake charmer with her insinuations.

“Perform for me,” he said. “Dance for me.”

She put more action into her hips, toying with his length.

“I love performing for you,” she told him. “I love becoming your slutty fantasy.”

“Oh, yes, be my slut.”

She dropped and took more of his cock inside her, strategically leaving that last crucial inch for one last push against him. She closed her eyes and arched her head to the side in carnal response, moaning as she twisted.

She opened her eyes.

A man in a car, parked several empty spots away from them, met her glance.

She froze.

She saw no movement in the shadows of the car, and only the dark silhouette of a man sitting behind the wheel, but the stranger’s glasses gave him away, glinting in the shine of the streetlight, catching the light, losing it, catching it again, almost like he was winking.

He wasn’t the man from the bar.

She took stock of herself, in that moment. She decided what she wanted.

She unfroze.

She remet the stranger’s glance.

She dropped and took the rest of her lover’s cock deep inside her in one shuddering motion, grinding herself deeply against him. He thrust hard inside her, giving her entire length, filling her. He held himself inside her, his thick length throbbing against her walls. She coiled her arms tightly around him.

“Some strange man out there is watching us fuck.” Her voice sounded so strangely languid, so silky and breathy and smoky, as if she were in a dream, someone else’s dream. She felt sure he would recognize the new note in her voice, and not feel a knee-jerk need to protect her.

“Who?” he asked simply.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Not the guy from the bar. Some stranger.”

He hesitated. “Do you want me to...”

She said, “Fuck me now. Fuck me in front of him. Would take please you?”

In lieu of an answer, he thrust into her, finally, his hands still on her hips, taking control; she met his thrusts eagerly as she pinched at her tits.

“Some stranger is watching us fuck?” he asked her, more aggressively now.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Watching me take your cock. Watching me play with my nipples.”

They found a fast, deep rhythm, he anchored solidly into his seat and stabbing upward, she looming over him, curled against the roof of the car, working her pussy up and down his length, clenching him as her muscles spasmed.

“Are you performing for me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good girl. Be my slut. Are you performing for him?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Does that please you?”

“Yes. You are such a tease.”

“I thought it would please you.”

“Such a good little cocktease.”

“I’m your cocktease, I’m your porn star, I’m your slutty fantasy,” she told him. “I’m your dirtiest fucking dream come true.”

She pounded down on him hard, bracing herself against the armrests, really fucking now. He pistoned relentlessly into her from underneath. The car shook. She turned his gaze back to the stranger in the car. The air was misty with spent rain, his car in shadow; she could barely even see him. The lenses of his eyeglasses caught the glow of the streetlight, though, throwing brief bright glimmers of light. She knew his eyes were upon them.

He was watching.

“Pinch your tits. Squeeze your hot tits,” he commanded, bucking against her furiously. She lay her hands against the thin material of he dress, squeezing her breasts together, taking her nipples tightly between thumb and forefinger. He fucked her deeper and harder, watching her.

He was close, she knew. She cupped her tits theatrically and peeled them out of the material of her dress, nakedly displaying them, her nipples hard and proud. Her breasts flushed red, bouncing in her hands as he fucked her. He moaned; his legs began to shiver.

“Am I performing for you now?” she asked, turning her gaze toward him.

He arched his back, pumping harder into her.

“Or am I performing for him?” She turned to the stranger in the car.

“For me, for him, you dirty little cocktease, do it, take it, take it all,” he cried, driving mindlessly inside her, his legs bucking, his fingers grasping, and she knew he was going to cum and squeezed her pussy tightly against him, urging him toward his orgasm, her own gathering just behind.

“Cum for me baby, cum for your slutty little tease!” she begged. His entire body tensed like a bow and he came, bowstring released. He shot his seed deeply, solidly inside her. He kept cumming, muscles jerking, a puppet on a string.

She neared her own climax, feeling his gooey hardness pumping deep inside her pussy. She grasped her newly freed tits and held them out proudly like a queen to the stranger in the car. A twinkle of streetlight flickered from his glasses.

And that was all it took, that flash of light, that acknowledgment she had been seen, that this act had been witnessed. Her flexing pussy pulled at his still pulsing cock, draining him, pumping him dry as she arched her back and twisted upward, her neck and shoulder pressed against the roof of the car as her entire body corkscrewed in pleasure and release.

She collapsed against him. After a time she heard a car engine fire up, echoing in the empty night air, but did not raise her head to watch. A moment later he heard the soft crush of tires against asphalt as the car meandered out toward the exit of the lot, paused at the speed bump, turned onto the city streets. The sound of the engine quickly diminished, falling away to silence.

The both of them dozed, curled together in the passenger seat of the car. The air had cooled, but inside the car, the air was still warm, and moist with the smell of sex. It felt cozy and comfortable and safe. She loved the feel of her weight laying solidly against her lover, a conspiracy of gravity holding them together. The sound of his heart mixed with hers, the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against her skin as he breathed.

Hours ago, at the bar, the possibility of someone having seen her in a sex video triggered a panic. He had not been with her then, she had been by herself, she had been playing another character, caught up in roleplay.

Hours later, here in the car, she had fucked her lover in front of a stranger, had performed for both of them him, an audience of two, and had not been panicked, but rather transported.

She wondered at the apparent contradiction. Perhaps it was no contradiction at all. She hadn’t felt like an actor. This hadn’t felt like an empty performance. Three people, she and her lover and yes, even the stranger in the car, had experienced something together. Shared something unique and personal, something connected and in the moment. Something real.

This was not like the video.

They were not actors. This was life, as it was lived. This was not a game.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2018 Verbal P. Incandenza | Yeah, not my real name, but I still wrote this. Be cool. Please don't steal it.

To link to this sex story from your site - please use the following code:

<a href="">This is Not a Game</a>

Comments (17)

Tell us why

Please tell us why you think this story should be removed.