The challenge

This sexy story from Game by Justine Elyot, published with permission.

Hotter15 minsAdult MFContemporary
Erotic sexy story excerpt from The Game by Justine Elyot

We work hard for the money, Lloyd and I.

Not that either of us would want to give up the hotel, but between the split shifts and the marketing and the staff management and the budgeting and the sheer wall-to-wall graft, little time is left for non-corporate leisure. I’d be grateful even for a ship passing in my night, but Lloyd and I are more like space rockets whizzing past each other at the speed of sound for a microsecond on the dot of twelve.

I’m remembering the promises of six months ago while I order new parts for broken exercise machines. We will live out our darkest fantasies. Oh, and somebody complained that the pool filter was broken…

We will be completely honest about our desires.

The new barman has to realize that taking every Sunday evening off sick looks bad on his record… No limits, no taboos, no-holds-barred…or holes for that matter… And did I mention to Gustav that the restaurant critic from Time Out is supposed to be in sometime this week?

‘Sophie! Someone’s left a tap running in 303…the bathroom’s flooded. And the two new maids are going to walk out if they aren’t taken off the Emergency Tax code! And somebody’s BMW was vandalized in the underground car park…’

I hold up a hand and stare around Reception in a blind fluster, barely able to take in the faces and fixtures and fittings around me.

‘Enough,’ I mutter. ‘Later.  Sort it out amongst yourselves.’

I bolt through the door to the Manager’s Office. It’s Lloyd’s turn for that privileged sanctuary today, but he seems scarcely less harried than I, barking into the phone and typing with one finger simultaneously.

‘I can’t arrange visas! That isn’t something I’d do! You need to contact your own consulate.’

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He arches an eyebrow at me as I enter the room and flaps a hand dismissively, in a gesture I translate as, ‘Oh, God, not now, Sophie.’

My self-control snaps. I sail over to the desk, shut down the computer and make a lunge for the phone.

He tries to resist, but I manage to punch the disconnect button even as he is gabbling something about a fire alarm into the receiver.

‘What the fuck, Sophie?’ he bellows, stabbing furiously at the phone buttons before I manage to knock the bloody thing out of his hand.

‘Yes, good question,’ I say. ‘Or, more completely, what happened to the fuck?’

I insert myself mutinously between the desk and his knees in their expensive wool trousers.

‘This isn’t the time,’ he hisses.

‘It’s never the time,’ I exclaim desperately. ‘We need to find time, Lloyd, or we might as well keep things between us strictly business. Is that what you want?

He swallows an angry response and instead subjects me to a long, measured stare.

‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘Not at all.’

His eyes, which I once thought of as furtive but I now realize are beacons of pure lust, drop from my anxious face to the neckline of my silk blouse.

‘It’s work, sleep, work, sleep at the moment,’ I say, more gently. ‘When I’m in bed, you’re here, and vice versa. I miss you, Lloyd.  I miss your…’  I bite my lip and tilt my face in the direction of his lap.

‘My cooking?’ he smirks, relenting. ‘Not like you to be coy, is it?’

‘The things you do to me,’ I whisper, sitting back on the edge of the desk and rubbing one high-heeled shoe against his trousered calf.

‘Things like?’

‘Up against the wall…over the arm of a chair…your tongue down my throat, your fingers spreading my arse cheeks, your cock buried inside me so deep I worry we’ll be locked together like that for good…’

The twitching fabric at his crotch strikes me as a good sign.

‘Horny little bitch,’ he growls, shifting in his chair. ‘My horny little bitch. Get that skirt up. Let’s see how much you miss it.

My fingers dart down to the hem of my tight suit skirt and I begin to ease it thighward, wiggling and jiggling my hips as I go so that my breasts sway in their gauzy bra cups.

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‘I probably owe you an apology,’ says Lloyd, watching with a finger propped against one cheek, crossing his legs to hide the evidence.

‘I’ve neglected you. I knew you needed it often and hard. I knew your greedy little cunt couldn’t go without a stuffing for longer than a day or so. I should have made arrangements.’

‘Arrangements?’ I flash him a smile. The silk lining of my skirt slides coolly against the bare part of my thigh, above my stocking tops.

‘I could hire a proxy,’ he suggests sleekly. ‘A big man with a big cock to substitute in my absence. Perhaps two. What do you think, Sophie? Should I draft an advert?

‘Mmm,’ I snuffle helplessly. He knows how much his flights of fantasy turn me on.

My skirt is bunched around my hips now, and my satin knickers are spotted with damp arousal.

‘Help me with the wording, then. Oh, and spread your legs, love…nice and wide. Oh, look. Is that a damp patch? Quite a big one. Anyway…yeah.  “Filling required for hungry hole. Hours and terms to suit. Jobshare considered. Wide range of kinks preferred. Permanent erection an advantage.” What do you think? Put your fingers inside your knickers, Sophie. I can see you’re dying to.’

I pout a little – I want Lloyd’s fingers in my knickers really, not my own – but I slip them under the elastic and slick them with my uncontrollable outpourings.

‘Do you have anything to add to that, Sophie? A skills spec? A job description?’

‘A filthy imagination,’ I mutter, plucking at my clit. ‘A thick hard cock. A bad, bad man.’

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‘Oh dear,’ croons Lloyd. My fingers are jerking in and out of my pussy now, squelching slightly with each jab. ‘That sounds like me. Can’t answer my own ad, can I?’

‘You’ll have…to do…the job…yourself,’ I say effortfully, trying to hold back the first stirrings of undisciplined pleasure.

‘So I see. I need to devote more time to you, don’t I? Unbutton your blouse, show me the state of your nipples.

My hand strums urgently while the other fumbles with pearly buttons until I am able to lower the lacy cup of my bra and pluck out a stiff bud.

‘That’s it, hold it. Rub it. Show me how badly you want it.’ Lloyd has picked up a pen and is tapping an agitated rhythm against his teeth. Much as he is loving the show, I don’t think it will be long before he invades the stage. He breathes deeply for a while, then launches himself out of the chair in a blur of dark pinstripe, loosening his tie as he looms over me.

His hair flops down and brushes my face; he is savage heat above me.

‘Lie back on the desk,’ he hisses, grabbing my wrists and pinning them down to reinforce the message. My pussy protests its loss, even though it is contracting with excitement at what is to come. I shuffle my bottom fully on to the ledge, impressed at how perfectly shaped and sized this desk is for non-bureaucratic purposes.

My hair hangs over the far edge, but the rest of me, from head tip to thigh crest, is supported by the oak expanse.

Lloyd’s cufflinks are cold ovals on my skin, jingling faintly while his fingers encircle my wrists like shackles. Our noses touch, our eyes spark into each other with feral glee.

‘Now stay down there, and don’t move.’ Move? Why would I move? I watch him reel himself back into an upright position, then crouch between my dangling legs, examining the stained fabric of my tight knickers before wrenching them down my thighs and off. Then he is shrugging off his jacket and unbuckling his belt, the rustling and clink still as thrilling to me as it ever was, true music to my ears.

‘One moment, please,’ he says, walking over to the wall to wrench various plugs from their sockets. ‘Now then, Sophie, I am all yours.

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He unbuttons his fly with ruthlessly contained strength then, divesting himself of trousers and pants – or perhaps just letting them drop where they fall – he is back between my legs, pulling them up by the underside of each knee until they rest over his shoulders.

He throws himself back over my body, his hands at my wrists once more, and with deadly accuracy sheathes his sword in one sweeping stroke.

‘There, Sophie, now you’ve got what you want,’ his voice bites into my ear. ‘Now you are full and stretched, just as you should be. Substitutes are one thing, but I don’t know if I could trust them to do the job properly. And I’m going to do the job properly. Like I always do.

It has been too long, but the upside of that is that this feels like the first time – shockingly, sweetly raw. I want to take every element of this feeling and box it up, wrap it up with ribbons, keep it to be brought out on special occasions.

The transfer of heat from his skin, the absolute resolution of his expression, the crisp cotton of his shirt and my pinioned wrists.

And, of course, the unforgettable weight and volume and capacity of his cock, taking its time to absorb its new surroundings while his balls exert gentle pressure against the curve of my buttocks. The only duff ingredient in this lust-inducing brew is the hard wood of the desk, which I suspect might take its toll on the knobs of my spine. Yet Lloyd seems to understand this without needing a prompt, for he releases one wrist to reach around for the cushion of his chair and slip it underneath me before imprisoning me anew.

‘Wouldn’t want to bruise your back,’ he whispers, performing a few introductory pelvic rotations. ‘Though I’m afraid I can’t promise other areas won’t be sore by the time I’m finished with you.’

‘God, Lloyd,’ I moan, swaying my hips in brazen invitation. ‘Fuck me as hard as you want. Please. Just fuck me now.’

He chuckles fiendishly at that, but he doesn’t go in hard. He teases me with a slow, long-drawn-out examination of my intimate depths, pulling back almost to the point of disengagement, then repeating his infinitely leisured ingress.

I have caught him in a communicative mood, and as he ploughs, he ponders.

‘You know, you’re quite right.’ In. ‘This can’t go on…we’re virtual strangers at the moment.’ Out. ‘I know you take the business seriously, and so do I…’ In. ‘…But I take you seriously as well…or as seriously as you want me to…’ Out. ‘…And I made a promise that I would be the lover you deserved…’ In. ‘But I haven’t delivered on that promise. I’m failing you.’ Out.

‘Not failing me,’ I suggest between gentle sighs and flutters. ‘Oh…when we do this…it’s so good…oh…’ One hand moves from a wrist and his firm, thick fingers are at my clit, pushing me just as far as the edge then skirting back.

My free hand flits into his hair and strokes his ear. There is kissing. Nobody kisses like Lloyd.

‘We need a plan,’ he says, speeding up his stroke, the words escaping through kissing gaps. ‘Or a pledge. A commitment of some kind.’

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‘We need a day. Even just an afternoon. Some time that is ours and not the hotel’s.’ I am really feeling him now, every inch of him spreading and occupying me.

‘Yes, we do. And on that day…’  His voice is a rasp now, bumping up from his chest as his thrusts become ever more punishing. ‘…We will do all the things we said we’d do. Fulfil all the fantasies, test all the limits, take things to the extreme.’

‘Yes, to the extreme!’ I wail. ‘Hire a deputy…make it Wednesdays!

He pauses, mid-stroke, his face crumpling from lust to amusement. ‘Why Wednesdays?’

I actually don’t know. ‘Hump day?’ I offer, and he laughs out loud before reverting to his strenuous shafting of me.

‘OK, Wednesdays it is.’

I am rammed into the desk, jammed into the desk; only Lloyd’s determined grip keeps me from skidding over the side on my cushion. He prises my orgasm out of me, ruthless as I remember, before conceding to his own need.

‘Take it,’ he mutters, jabbing his cock high and hard. ‘Take it all.’ He floods me, fills me with luxurious emission. I watch his face, the way I always loved to do, basking in its sudden tipping from venomous purpose to mad-eyed ecstasy. I need to see that look again, properly, regularly. I put my hands – the wrists sporting red fingermarks – up to his face and ease him down for a long, luscious, lavish kiss.

‘Mmm,’ he says, breaking away and standing back up, adjusting his tie, which must have been uncomfortable to wear in such circumstances. He thinks about tightening the knot, but then thinks better of it, loosening it entirely and taking it off before unbuttoning his collar. He takes in a huge lungful of air and flops down on the office chair, letting his neck loll over the back.

‘God, Sophie,’ he says. ‘Why have I let this happen? Let you go unfucked for so long? I’m a fucking fool. You have my permission to punish me in any way you see fit.’

I smile lopsidedly, heaving my beached body up to a sitting position. ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ I promise. ‘So…Wednesdays, then?’

‘Wednesdays,’ he says, elongating the final syllable, making it sound like a decadent obscenity. He is straight in his chair again, his eyes gleaming, hands clasped to his chest.  ‘Let’s talk about Wednesdays.’

‘Every Wednesday? All day? Or half days? Or evenings?’

‘That is the question.’ He sighs. ‘Time is a precious commodity these days. OK, let’s make it every other Wednesday. The whole day. Twenty four hours to bring fantasies to life.

‘Bring fantasies to life,’ I echo. ‘But what if I fancy a quickie?’

‘In addition to Wednesdays,’ he announces, ‘I solemnly swear that a day shall not pass without…congress of some kind…between Miss Sophie Martin and Mr Lloyd Ellison.’

I giggle. ‘Congress,’ I explain, picturing jowly trade unionists in full speechifying flow.

Lloyd’s grin mirrors mine, though his is always that much dirtier and more knowing, somehow. My sleazy, sordid, perverted and disgraceful man. My lewd Lloyd.

‘Fancy doing it on the conference platform, Sophie?’ he asks. ‘With the flashbulbs of the world’s press popping in your face? I can organise it, if it’s what you really want.’

‘Maybe not that,’ I demur. ‘I have a few ideas though.’

‘So do I. Why don’t we write them down? Put them in a hat or something? And after each Wednesday we’ll draw one out, to see what’s coming up next.’

‘OK!’ I am enthused by this plan. ‘Shall we have a hat each? And take turns? You organise my fantasy, and then I organise yours?’

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‘Yeah.’ He puts a foot, still shod although the trousers and underpants are long gone, by my thigh, against the edge of the desk. I like the feel of the quality leather against my goosepimpled skin. ‘How do we do it? Very detailed? Sketchy but with elements that have to be included? Or just vague – like “bondage”, or “exhibitionism” – leaving a lot up to the imagination?’

‘Weeeell,’ I ponder, pressing my flesh wantonly into Lloyd’s boot, which he begins to rub. ‘I don’t think they should be too detailed. I mean, one of the things I love about you is that you can surprise me, without going too far. You know what I like, and you know what I wouldn’t like.

“A little bit of apprehension makes it that much sexier for me. I don’t want to feel as if I’m ticking items off a wishlist. I want tension.’

Lloyd’s boot hops over my leg and pushes itself between my thighs, forcing them apart. His toe squeezes between my sex lips and finds my clit. I have to stop talking, close my eyes and gasp.

‘You’ll get tension,’ he says. ‘You’ll get what you need. And what you deserve.’ The leather is shiny slick with our combined essences. The smell of it is so heady that I forget what we are talking about for a moment. Instead, all I can do is echo Lloyd’s words.

‘What I deserve…’

‘OK, we’ll do it the second way. An outline of a desire, or a fantasy, or a scenario. Details left up to the planner. You ask for anything you like, but if one of us isn’t comfortable, we have power of veto, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I squeak as Lloyd’s boot continues to masturbate me with vicious efficiency. ‘That sounds…perfect.’

His toes halt their pleasurable rotation. ‘Fuck yourself on it, Sophie. Hump my boot, until you come.’

I give him a pained look, but I am too far gone to argue now. I grasp his ankle and seat myself on his foot, astride it as if it is my saddle. I begin to buck and sway, swinging my hips, leaking all over the leather, fiercely ashamed at how I must look, but too violently overwhelmed by my need to let that stop me.

‘You really need this, don’t you?’ jibes Lloyd, his hands behind his head as he leans back, letting me frig myself on his foot for all I am worth. ‘Dirty…little…slut.’

I come again, my cries broken in my throat, feeling a little tearful and overawed at how much power he has over me and my fantasies. He has used sex to master me, and sometimes this is a frightening, humiliating realization. More usually, though, it is just damn hot.

He holds out his hands to me and draws me into him, on to his lap, cradling me and stroking my cheek.

‘This is not just for me, or for you,’ he murmurs, his expression softer now. ‘It’s for us. For both of us. Are you afraid?’

‘A little,’ I confess.

‘What of?’

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‘I don’t know.’ I don’t, really. Well, at the back of my mind, perhaps the seed of a realization… But that is not something I want to think about now. ‘I hope it doesn’t go horribly wrong.’

‘It won’t go horribly wrong. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I wouldn’t put you in danger. I know you want to do things…that are unconventional. You can do them with me. Safely. I’ll keep you safe.

Ah. That is what I was afraid of. Getting what I want. Everything I want.

*

Begging for more? Game is available on Kindle Unlimited.

Justine Elyot has published ten years’ worth of erotic fiction, starting with On Demand for Black Lace, ending with The Story of Jo for Sinful Press. If you like to treat yourself to bdsm-flavoured hot romance, you’ll be like a kid in a kinky candy store with her back catalogue. You can find her at her writing desk, on Twitter and Facebook, or leave her a review on Goodreads.