The Botez Gambit

The Botez Gambit

Chapter One - Preparations

The Reykjavík Open was the first Chess tournament I had chosen to participate in, for some time. Chess had taken the backseat for too long and it was time I got back to what I still considered my main interest. I trained hard in the weeks leading up to it, swiftly noticing how rusty I was.

Chess was a skill that needed to be tended to well and frequently -- something my other wants in life had prevented in recent months. It was sometimes challenging to know where to allocate my time. I wanted to grow as a streamer, in more than just the Chess category, I had recently taken up DJ'ing and quickly gotten obsessed with it, I wanted to do boxing ever since I had fought in the Creator Clash and discovered a deep passion for the sport. There were simply too many exciting things to do in life to put your attention to just one of them for too long.

My sister joined me and would play alongside me in the tournament. She was, as ever, much more passionate about chess than I was, and seeing how happy it made her that I was playing seriously again, made me glad I had chosen to do so. She was a great sister and supported me in everything I did, but she was always the proudest when I turned my attention to our mutual passion for chess.

We arrived a day before the tournament was to start. I had looked forward to exploring the beautiful city of Reykjavík with Alex, but she claimed she was too tired to do so. However, she seemed to have no lack of energy when it came to practicing an opening she had planned to use for her first match.

I was used to my sister prioritizing chess over spending time with me, but that did not make the rejection sting any less. I was lucky Anna Cramling also was playing in the tournament and had agreed to spend some time with me instead.

We stayed in the city, exploring the colorful, quaint streets of Reykjavík, spending far too much money on dresses and skirts we did not need. I had brought enough clothes to last the time I would spend in Iceland, but on reflection, there weren't many nice clothes. With Anna encouraging me every time I donned a new outfit, I could not stop myself from buying more than I would know how to fit in my suitcase for the journey back home.

After I got back to the hotel with several bags full of needless purchases, I only smiled and knew it had been worth it, I had had fun, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Two -- A Promising Strategy

On the morning of the first day of the tournament, I felt excited -- almost giddy, to play. With how many higher-rated players had signed up, I knew I had no real chance of winning the whole tournament. Hell, I could not even beat my sister if we got matched, nevertheless, I was excited to play over the board again, and in a more official capacity. I was hoping I could at least win a few games, and my first match was against a lower-rated player than myself. I liked my chances.

Because I knew I would be on our stream I decided I should wear something nice, and after yesterday's shopping spree, I had no shortage of outfits to choose from. I settled for a black top with a white undershirt, fishnet stockings, and knee-high boots. Anna had looked at me so hungrily when I had tried it on in the shop, I knew it would be similarly appreciated by our viewers. I would not be talking to my stream, or be able to read their messages, but I still wanted to look good for them.

I sat down at the board before my opponent arrived. With how difficult Icelandic names were, I could not even be sure if my opponent was male or female. A more diligent player might have done some research to find out how he or she played, what his or her strengths and weaknesses were, what kind of openings to expect, and so on. I had elected to do none of that. I would play my own game and trust in my instincts. After all, this opponent was rated two hundred lower than me.

A man stopped in front of the table and offered me his hand, I accepted his handshake and gave him a brief smile, I was never great with guessing ages, but judged he was at least sixty. The smile he returned was warm and kind, but I could sense a difficulty keeping his eyes on mine when they clearly wanted to be elsewhere.

The old man sat down in front of me, and carefully arranged his pieces on the board, barely moving them at all. There was a slight tremble in his hand that I knew not whether to attribute to any nervousness or just his old age. If he truly was nervous, his game did not reflect that fact. He moved swiftly, with no hesitance. I guessed he had practiced this particular opening and many variations of it - an opening I knew little about. I decided to play moves that I knew might not be the most accurate but were sure to throw him off his theory and planning.

My attempt to even the playing field did the opposite, after too many odd moves I realized my position was quickly deteriorating. He had no material lead, but my knights were not near the center, my rooks were undeveloped, and I had a much weaker pawn structure.

I tried to stay in the game, knowing it was useless to focus on how bad I was playing, but the thoughts still came, and I could not stop them.

After a few minutes of not seeing a single good move, I decided to step away from the board to get my head back in it. My opponent watched me as I stood up. I did not look at him, but I could feel his gaze briefly on my body before he forced his eyes back on the board. Despite my sour mood I could not help but smile, most girls would doubtlessly be disgusted at being ogled at by old men, but never me. Being desired always made me feel great, no matter who it was.

The few moments I took for myself, away from the board, made me calm myself. My opponent had played a great opening, but his winning position was more due to my own failings and a lack of belief in my own play, than any brilliance by him. I decided I would ignore the undesirable start, and play confidently, and fast. After all, I had come back from far worse positions in my life than the one I was currently in.

I sat back down in front of the Icelandic man, and once again felt his eyes briefly travel over my exposed chest. I pushed my F pawn, leaving my King more exposed, but wanting to add some pressure to the center.

My opponent's moves began taking longer. While I sat waiting for him, leaning on my elbows, studying my rapidly improving position, I noticed his hand shaking more. I looked up to see his face staring at my tits. He quickly looked away and his mouth moved slightly as if he wanted to apologize, but no words came.

I realized how my arms were pushing together my breasts and felt a moment of embarrassment, both for myself and for my opponent. He still shook slightly as he moved his hand to his bishop, refusing to look anywhere but the board.

His next move was a blunder. Thinking he could attack my more exposed King, he put himself in a position for me to fork two of his pieces, which I quickly did. His following moves were no better and after a few minutes, my winning position was evident enough that my opponent surrendered the game.

He shook my hand and briefly looked me in the eye. His expression was one of embarrassment, shame, and just a hint of anger. As if he was silently accusing me of not playing fair by distracting him with my looks.

He left the table swiftly, for an old man. He never looked back.

Chapter Three -- Under The Table

My first game made me realize how truly rusty I was. Though I had won the game, it had been mostly a fluke. I studied the game after and noticed the position was even more losing than I had anticipated. Before my opponent had gotten distracted and blundered his most active piece. My game was not strong on its own, and I decided then that I would study my next opponent the little I could before the game was to start.

My next opponent was stronger, a French player slightly higher rated than myself. However, the rating did not frighten me as much as the fact he had beaten a much stronger opponent in his first match. Studying his play did little to prepare me for how to play against him. He seemed well-versed in a variety of openings, his endgames were phenomenal, and he hardly ever made a move that the computer did not recommend. He was an all-around better player than me, and his rating did not do him justice.

On the day of the game, my anxieties about facing him had all but vanished. Saying I had given up my chances of winning sounds harsh -- but I had come to terms with the high probability, and reminded myself not every game could be won. All I really could do was to play the game as well as I could, and the result would turn out how it turned out.

Again, I had dressed nicely for my game. Having such a plethora of great-looking outfits was fun, and I had elected to never again go to a tournament without at least a few nice outfits to wear.

This time I wore a full-on dress -- white in color and long enough you might think I was getting married. It was a gorgeous piece, and though I knew how expensive it would be, before I even looked at the price tag, I knew in my heart I would buy it no matter the price.

Jean, my opponent -- was already at the board when I arrived. He had short, straight hair, as black as his suit, and a slight scar on his chiseled chin. He looked up at me as I offered him my hand, and I could see he found me as easy on the eyes as I did him.

I played D4 as my first move, not really having thought of any opening that might be more successful against this stronger opponent. Our first moves followed theory and no real advantage developed on either side. When we reached the murky waters of the mid-game, and I could no longer rely on theory, my confidence started to dwindle again. I could see no real plans of attack, nor any good ways of developing. My moves became uninspired and provided little threat to my opponent, and when I did not provide an attack needing to be defended against, Jean began to push. My pawns fell one after the other and I was once again in a losing position.

I took a moment away from the board when my opponent was deep in thought, no doubt finding a plan to finish me. I watched him from afar, his eyes moved around the board and his face was cool and collected -- An expression of pure determination to pick me apart. I caught myself wishing he would ravage me on my hotel bed, as hard as he was over the board but then chided myself for letting my mind slip.

When I saw him make a move I returned to the board, sitting down carefully so as not to ruin my dress. I felt his eyes on me, and it made my heart beat a little faster. When I returned the look, he did not turn away awkwardly like the Icelandic man had -- Instead, he smiled warmly at me for a few seconds before turning his attention back on the board.

Unlike the first game, I felt like I was the one getting too distracted to think about the game. I found myself glancing up at Jean, who was ever focused on dismantling my defenses. I caught myself biting my lip and it made me jerk and straighten up. Jean looked at me questioningly, but I refused to look at him again. I was losing the game, but I would at least put up a respectable fight. I would not sit hungrily gazing at my opponent in front of a stream of thousands of people, wishing he would throw me over the chess board and take me.

As I adjusted my position, my feet accidentally brushed against my opponent's shoes. He flinched a little and looked at me questioningly as I pulled back my leg and looked at him apologetically. This time he had lost his composure a little and my thoughts were again slipping away from the chess. I smiled to myself and removed my heels carefully under the table. The angle was such that neither the stream nor anyone else would easily spot what went on underneath the table unless they were looking for it.

I leaned confidently on the table to show off my cleavage and moved my foot under the table until I again found his, this time with no shoes to cover them. I saw my touch interrupt his thought, and for a moment, I was scared he would protest what I was doing -- but he did not pull back.

He looked at me, not with the confident gaze he had captured my heart with before, but with an uncertain nervous smile. I smiled back alluringly and pushed my chest out, watching as his timid eyes traveled to my chest. My feet found their way under the edge of the leg of his pants, and I brushed my toes against him slowly.

Though my game had been weak, my questionable defense had at the very least burned enough time off my opponent's clock that he was forced to make moves while I toyed with him. He did not completely lose his ability to play well. My position was still losing, and equally, I struggled to make good moves having to put so much attention into keeping Jean occupied with me.

I moved my feet from his shins and out of his pant leg, brushing the fabric of his clothing up his leg and thigh. I saw Jean's eyes widen in surprise, but he did not stop me, nor did he react so much so that onlookers would expect something was wrong. No doubt the livestream would know something was going on, but to the man's credit he managed to hide his struggle quite well.

I rested my leg on my opponent's chair between his thighs, he leaned forward, to make sure nobody saw what was going on, but not before briefly glancing at my naked foot. My opponent's time was running out, and I could see his struggle to think, I pressed my foot against his crotch lightly and felt a solid shape within his trousers. It was time to finish him. I played my moves quite well, having found confidence in how I was controlling my opponent with only a foot. As Jean's time dwindled, so did the accuracy of his moves.

His face held some annoyance and I worried he might stand up and reveal to everybody what I was doing to win the game, but at the same time, I knew he had let me go too far to be able to claim his innocence. Furthermore, his face held far more elation and fluster than any other emotion. My foot ached and complained but I forced myself to continue rubbing his cock between my toes, up and down, for as long as I needed to win the game.

Jean's material lead had disappeared and though the position was quite equal he played without thinking. He blundered a piece, and in trying to recover he missed a mate in one that was not at all difficult to spot, even with my focus split on driving Jean crazy.

Rather than make the final move to cement my victory, I brought my other foot to his cock and pressed it against where I guessed his balls would be. I saw him struggle for control and he once again looked at me, with labored breath. I gazed at his amazed, boyish face seductively and licked my lips slightly. I saw him lose the little composure he had left. A slight moan escaped from his lips as I felt him press his groin towards my feet. His cock throbbed in his pants, and I knew his cum was spilling out of it, before I felt the moisture on my toes. I kept rubbing my feet over it for a few seconds after he had cum watching him breathe heavily.

Then I pulled my feet away from him and played my final move. It is not customary or considered good sportsmanship to say Checkmate in professional chess, in those rare games where a game actually goes all the way to the end - but there was no sportsmanship in what I had done to defeat my opponent either.

I whispered the words and smiled at my opponent before I left him, with my pretty high heels in hand.

Chapter Four -- Confidence

As my great start to the tournament had barely begun, I was soon humbled. My next two games were against female opponents, who though not immune to my looks, were not as easily distracted as the male players had been. I managed to draw the first game rather than outright lose, but with the younger woman's rating, I should have been able to win, even as black. The next game I got crushed by a higher-rated opponent, and suddenly my stats were not as great as they had started.

I began to feel ashamed of what I had done to win my first games. I was not deserving of either victory, and it had become abundantly clear how lackluster my chess skills were. If I could only win a game by distracting old men with my exposed, young body -- or by rubbing someone's cock under the table with my bare foot -- did I really deserve to win?

At the time I had only felt good about myself; it was empowering to control men and make them lust over me so deeply they could not play chess. Now after some time had passed, doubts had started to set in.

My next game was against another male, a Grandmaster by the name of Matt who I knew would tear me to shreds over the board. Would I shame myself by trying to seduce yet another player? It was my only realistic chance of winning, but that did not make it seem any righter.

I left my hotel room still not sure if I was going to stoop as low as to try to steal a game from a Grandmaster. If I even had the slightest chance of doing so. The young man was American, and I had seen him play in far greater tournaments than this one. He was no match for the best Grandmasters of Chess, the ones many might call Super-GM's, but a Grandmaster is still a Grandmaster. He was likely going to win this tournament no matter how our game went.

Before I went to the table I visited the bathroom to reapply my make-up and make sure I looked good. My black dress hugged my body tightly and revealed more cleavage than I normally would. My dress ended high on my thigh, showing plenty of leg underneath my stocking. Though I might not want to try to seduce another opponent, it wouldn't hurt to look nice, I had told myself.

My opponent barely spared me a glance as I joined him at the table. I felt a deep disappointment at his non-interest. Had I worn too much make-up? Was the dress perhaps not as pretty as Anna had made me believe it was? I had almost decided I would play fair and not attempt to seduce my opponent until he had proved himself so disinterested in me. Suddenly I was desperate for his approval.

Matt was kind enough to play an opening I was familiar with, so the first few moves I did not have to put too much thought into. Instead, I tried to make him look at me: I stretched, leaned forward pressing my breasts together, and adjusted my bra slowly while looking at him. Nothing. Not one glance did he spare me, and I felt defeated before the game had even begun.

As we left the comfortable theory of the opening and started treading the uncertain grounds of the mid-game, it became evident how much better a chess player Matt was. However, losing the game was not what was making me hurt. After all, I had expected to lose. What made me feel bad was my inability to even slightly distract my opponent with my looks. If I had not known Matt had a girlfriend, I would have at least been able to assume he was gay, and therefore not interested in me, but there was no such excuse. I felt ugly. I knew half my stream would gladly throw me on the table and fuck me, but this rejection from my opponent was enough to make me question my appearance. I felt a ball of misery in my chest and had to step away from the board, away from the tournament room. I had to be alone somewhere to compose myself.

I went to the girls' bathroom and before I had barely closed the door behind me, tears flooded my eyes. I sobbed loudly, praying nobody was in one of the stalls hearing my misery. When the tears stopped and I was sure I was alone, I looked at myself in the mirror. My makeup ran down my chin and my tears made my face shine.

"You're a whore." I said to the girl in the mirror, and another sob escaped my mouth.

A man's voice came from outside the door of the bathrooms, "Are you okay?"

I flinched and quickly cleared my throat, while desperately trying to clear the stains of my tear-mixed make-up. "I'm fine!" I called, my voice breaking.