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From: MarArch@ix.netcom.com (the poetic one)
Subject: Checkmate (1/4 - D/s, no sex)
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"Checkmate"

It was her eyes that did it, he thought. Those damned eyes. She didn't
have a picture of herself scanned, so he'd had to rely on his
imagination and whatever titilating decriptions of herself she'd been
willing to let slip during their on-line chats. And those had been so
playfully vague, almost challenging. In the end he'd given up trying
to form a mental image of her, focusing instead on her mind as he
percieved it from the words she sent in his direction through the
wire...and perhaps this is what she had intended all along.

It wasn't fair, he thought. He had a picture ready to upload to anyone
who asked for it. A damn good picture, too. One that actually captured
a bit of what he liked to think of was one of his strengths... that
look of piercing solidness, as if while the viewer scanned the frozen
image, the image was also scanning the viewer, and probably
discovering a great deal more than was being given.

Scooping up the small glass from the bar, he raised it to his lips and
tipped it slightly, allowing a tiny river of the burning sweet liquid
to roll over his lips and seep between them, oozing over his tongue.
Although he drank carefully, almost daintily, the outside of the glass
was already sticky with the almond flavored liquor, as if it had
leeched through the container like icy sweat on a beer mug on a hot
day. As he lowered the glass, he caught sight of himself in the mirror
over the bar, pausing to study his visage dispassionately.

He was fair looking. Not stunningly handsome by any means, but
pleasant enough that no woman had yet felt the need to avert her eyes.
But most importantly, he had that gaze.... the one he had long since
learned to flick on and off like a lightswitch. And when it came on,
he could see the women suddenly become more alert, like fawns in the
forest when they sense.... something. It was that gaze that made him
what he was.... a sexual Dominant. Sometimes he used it merely for his
own amusement, catching some likely, pliant female in it's pull and
toying with her, watching the blush and heat slowly rise inside her,
only to suddenly switch it off and see her drift down from that rising
arousal, a bit confused, wondering what might have come over her and
hoping that this essential stranger couldn't smell the excitement
drifting from between her thighs... 

The thing he most enjoyed about having positions of power over the
women that he became sexually involved with was that it appealed to
his basic artistic nature. Nothing was so sweet or erotic to him as to
feel a woman begin to soften....melt... surrender herself to him, like
some defenseless prey whose neck is clenched tightly in the powerful
jaws of a predator when it finally realizes there is no escape, and
submits itself to the inevitable. But in his case what he inflicted
upon them was not death but exquisit sexual pleasure. His greatest joy
was in gently strumming their bodies with his many skills, causing the
very nerves to begin singing a melody of arousal, rising slowly,
swelling and finally erupting in a climax of screaming, shivering,
drenching electrical nerve-fire.... and then, like some wicked
Rossini, to sustain the crecendo, allowing it to ebb only briefly
before surging it up once more, sparking yet another clash of
cymbal-like orgasm, and then another and another until the music of
the pleasure coursing through their body became a wall of erotic
noise, totally encompassing and drowning them in their own lustful
fluids. He was a musician whose instrument was the finely tuned sexual
organs of womanhood. And he knew from long experience that he was more
than just a craftsman. He was an artist.

He smiled wrying at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar,
amused at the thought that here he was yet again, awaiting the
opportunity to examine another potential instrument, to see if perhaps
he might like to utilize it for some up-coming, as yet unscheduled
concert of lust and erotic enjoyment.

But this time, he felt himself to be at a slight disadvantage and that
tugged at the back of his mind, causing a tiny annoyance. He had
"known" her for a few weeks, at least as much as anyone can know
anyone when their entire point of contact was confined to a series of
sentences scrolling up a computer screen. And while he recognized in
her a sense of humor, an intelligence and not a little spirit, yet she
remained slippery... elusive... as if with each veil he felt himself
removing from her thoughts and feeling revealed yet another whispy,
protective garment underneath it.

Smoke, he thought. This woman is like smoke.... Seemingly substantial
yet impossible to grasp, it drifted and floated between the fingers
and flowed through cupped hands. The only way to really contain it
was... to inhale it, into yourself.... absorb it utterly. The smile in
the reflection broadened slightly and became playfully wicked.

Suddenly, he saw a form stepping up beside the reflected figure and
felt the presense next to him. Turning his head, he regarded her,
standing beside his stool... an attractive figure to be sure, but more
than that... womanly... femenine... exuding a kind of erotic spiritual
musk that could be felt rather than smelled.

His gaze flicked over her in a quick upward sweep, catching first a
focus of her shoulders, then her chin, her full lips, her well shaped
nose and then locking on her eyes... those damned eyes... and when, in
mere moments, his attention centered on them, he felt his breath catch
for just an instant, the warmth of a flush against his neck and to his
stunned realization it suddenly hit him.... she, too, had a gaze...

He felt himself begin to lighten, as if his body were beginning to
tip, threatening to lose contact with the stool and float, pulled even
the foot or two which separated them, so that he might be sucked into
those eyes and absorbed by her. At the nexus of his legs and hips he
felt the first twitch and swelling and for a brief moment was almost
tempted to simply let go and surrender to this lovely feeling of
lightness and floating.

Then he caught himself, and conciously yanked his mind back, suddenly,
breaking the pull of those damnable eyes, casting his gaze down as if
being delicately careful while he turned on the stool to face her. And
this time when he looked up and locked his vision on hers, his eyes
blazed with that special, long cultivated look now piercing into her,
probing her, inviting her.

It was as if a light had suddenly snapped on in a pitch dark room and
he could see the ripple of startled shock that coursed through her,
but she quickly recovered and enclined her head slightly, almost
challengingly. And slowly the smiles began to spread on their lips as
they each recognized the silent contest that was about to begin. She
was not going to give in... and neither was he. And when the contest
was finally decided, one of them would belong, utterly and eternally
to the other.

He wondered with some amusement if she could notice the slight
swelling at the crotch of his trousers. He wondered if he could just
faintly detect the scent of her arousal drifting between them. He
wondered which of them would, in the end, be feasting on the body and
soul of the other, ravaging the flesh and absorbing the spirit.

Oh yes, he thought, his guard now fully engaged, his interest focused,
his growing arousal fueling the encounter.... this is going to be fun.

"Hi" he said quietly. "You must be........?"

end part one

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