My dear reader,
If this is your first time reading this story, one warning on content: It features use of the word "rape" in the context of role play and fantasies. The rest, you'll just have to find out.
If you've read this story before, you might notice some differences. I hope they're all improvements. I'll add a comment summarizing the changes in this revised draft, along with responses to some comments.
Thank you for being here. May you find my story memorable, pleasurable, and most of all, stimulating.
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The Playeur
by S. Rosa
She can't bring herself to go in.
It's not a nightclub. Not his apartment. Just a coffee shop.
The door is glass. If he's in there, he's probably looking at her.
She makes herself pull the door open. She glances around.
He's there.
He looks just like in his pictures. The ones where he has naked girls bent over his lap.
She scuttles over. Everyone must be watching her. Especially him.
She sits down across from him. She keeps her eyes down.
She waits.
She dares to look. Eyes up. She sees him smirk. Eyes down again.
"Are we playing the quiet game, then?" he says.
She laughs. No, giggles. Whatever it is, it's too loud. However she looks, it's too red.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
She shakes her head.
"Can you tell me why we're here?"
"I..." she flounders.
"You want my services. Am I wrong?"
She shakes her head. Eyes up, then down.
"And those services involve me bossing and tossing you around. Wrong?"
She shakes her head. She smiles slightly at his playful tone.
"So if I wanted to get you a drink, I could. Wrong?"
She shakes her head. She feels ashamed. She's already so bad at this.
"Now, I'm going to give you another chance. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Yes," she says quickly. She almost adds "Sir", like some of the girls in the videos do, but she doesn't. One syllable-step at a time.
"Different question now. Do you
want
anything to drink?"
She hesitates. If she once knew the answer, she doesn't anymore.
He smiles.
So innocent,
he thinks. He decides to go easier on her. "How about I'll get you some water, and if you want anything else, you just tell me, all right, love?"
She nods.
He stands up from the table and walks away.
So far, this is going exactly how she didn't know she wanted. She doesn't know much about sex. Good Catholic girls don't. But she's always known that she likes to be helpless. None of the men she's been on dates with were controlling enough. Or at all. Of course, she never asked them to be, but of course she wouldn't. She doesn't want to give up her choices. She wants them taken from her.
In her furtive Internet searches (always in private mode), she found Dave Neville, the "Dom" to "sub" she's learned to name herself. Every step—clicking the contact button, sending a message, responding to each email—required a new bout of courage. And now she's here.
He comes back with a cup of water.
"Thank you," she manages.
She takes a sip.
"Ever heard of roofies?" he grins at her.
She looks at him in horror.
He laughs. "I'm just joking," he says. "I wouldn't roofie you like this." He grins a malicious grin and adds, "That's something you have to earn."
She looks at him in amazement. Now she wants what she didn't want five seconds ago. She wants it because she can't have it. He really is a pro.
"Two truths, one lie," he begins. Living up to his nickname of the Playeur. "Ready to guess?"
She nods.
"I've had thirty-one subs. None of them has ever gone to the police. I want to bring you to my car and fuck you in it right now."
She gasps and looks away. She feels something in the core of her chest. A pang. A clench. She was trying to follow along—the thirty-one number she remembered from his website—but now she can't speak. The bad word sticks in her mind.
"...fuck..."
She hopes no one else heard him. She feels her sex getting wet. Why does it do that?
"Go on, guess," he says. "Which one's the lie?"
"The...the last one?" she says.
"You wish," he says. "It's the second. One of my subs was a cop," he grins. "Those handcuffs of hers..."
"Oh," she says. She tries not to think about what he means. She fails.
"Your turn," he says. "Two truths and a lie. Or, if you like, a lie and two truths."
She thinks. "Um...my favorite color is pink. I'm no good at this game. And I've never...done it in a car."
He gives her a burning look. "I'd bet you've never 'done it' at all."
She blushes.
"Am I wrong?"
She shakes her head.
"Why haven't you?"
"No one has wanted to," she says.
"Lie."
This is a compliment. She doesn't know what to say.
"Why haven't
you
wanted to?"
She looks at her cup of water. "Well..."
"Let me guess," he says. "The guy drives you home. He kisses you. He puts his hand on your knee, and when his hand starts to wander under your skirt, the word escapes your lips: 'No'. And then he just stops."
She looks at him with big eyes.
"But you don't want him to stop. You want him to take you. You want him to force you. You want to be owned, don't you, little girl?"
Slowly, she nods.
Suddenly, he moves over to the chair next to her. She starts trembling. He hasn't touched her.
He leans in close to her. His breath's on her cheek. "So," he says in a low voice, "what
is
your favorite color?"
She can't help but laugh. She chances a glance at him. A harmless sparkle shines from his eyes.
"Red," she says.
He smiles. "Are you using your safeword?"
"Oh! No, sorry," she says. They did agree to that safeword over email.
"So, 'no' is your favorite word, and red is your favorite color. You were born for this."
He slowly lifts his hand to her face. She gasps. Her lips part. She doesn't move. He runs his thumb along her lower lip. It tickles the way fire tickles.
"Will you tell me your name now?"
She takes a deep breath. "Madeline," she says.
He smiles. "Well, Miss Madeline," he says, "You'd better get used to being called 'slut'."
• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •
She follows him into the elevator. It's the day after the coffee shop. He wouldn't let her go home with him the same day. He made her sleep on it. She was grateful for that, but now she's even more excited. Even more nervous.
He presses his floor. 32. Her sub number.
Another man walks in.
"Louis!" Dave cheers. They do some kind of bro handshake. "This is Madeline."
The doors close. Louis shakes Madeline's hand.
"Pleasure," Louis smiles.
She can't tell what kind of smile it is.
Thirty-two floors is a long time. Dave banters with Louis about something. She doesn't really listen. All she can think about is the fact that Dave is tracing a finger up and down her back over her sweater. It's thrilling enough that he's touching her. But Louis is watching, too.
Owned. That's what she is.
She remembers that one of his three rules is no playing in public. He must not call this playing. It's sure more play-like than anything she's ever done.
The elevator slows abruptly. She gets that little head rush. The doors open. They all walk out. Dave keeps his hand on Madeline's lower back. He leads her down the halls.
They reach Dave's door.
"See you at the grill, Dave," Louis says. "A pleasure to meet you, Madeline." He keeps walking.
Dave unlocks the door and walks into the apartment. He disappears off to the side. For a second, she stands out in the hallway. Then she walks through the door.
She takes in the place. Wood floor. Brick walls. Black couches. Kitchen area to the left. Bookshelf to the right. Nothing unusual, except maybe a few dice and board game pieces lying loose on the bookshelf.
He closes the door. The deadbolt locks. She tenses. She looks up at him. His eyes are filled with a hunger that fills her with fear. She waits for him to descend on her, but he doesn't. Yet.
He shrugs off his coat and goes to hang it in his closet. He kicks off his shoes.
What if he's a murderer? Who cares that she's already verified his photo, name, address? What if God punishes her? It's bad enough that she taught herself how to orgasm back in college. Now she's chasing kinky thrills. Dave could kill her. That would teach her.
She could still leave. Yes. That's what she'll do.
"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea," she says.
She turns around, turns the deadbolt, opens the door.
In a flash, he's behind her. He shoves her body against the door. It slams.
She gasps. His chest presses against her back. Something hard is jabbing her hips. Her sex gets wet.
"Madeline," he murmurs into her ear.
The core of her chest clenches.
"Do you remember your safeword?"
She nods.
"Good girl," he breathes.
He strokes her hair. Then he slides his hand up the back of her neck and grips her hair tight. He pulls her head back. She whimpers.
His lips brush her cheek. "You're playing games you don't understand."
She's trembling. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
He smiles.
So quick to apologize,
he thinks. "It's okay, baby girl. I'll teach you the rules."
She cowers between his body and the door. She feels his heat. But suddenly, his hand and body are gone. She still doesn't move.
His footsteps thud away from her.
"Come on, love, take off your shoes and have a seat," he calls over, tone totally normal.
She turns around. He's gesturing to a couch.
She slips out of her shoes. She goes over and sits down, back straight. She's still trembling.
He sits to her right. Their legs are touching.
There's a big paper on the coffee table. It's laminated. Reusable. Her name and limits are drawn on with dry-erase ink.
"I've already sent you my rules, but let's go through them again."
She looks at the paper.
No other partners.
No public play.
No falling in love.
"Second one includes going out on dates. I'm not your boyfriend. Game's over if you break any of 'em. Easy enough?"
