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From: MarArch@ix.netcom.com (the poetic one)
Subject: Checkmate (3/4 - D/s, no sex)
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Checkmate, part 3
by DMGPoet

It was almost balletic, the way they raised their glasses at the same
moment, eyes still locked, lips curled in slight amusement, draining
the last of their drinks... he feeling the sweet burning of the last
sticky drops of Amaretto ooze between his lips, she the bitter
fruitiness of the white wine. The glasses clinked softly to the table
top between them within a second of each other and once again they
faced the silence.

It had been well over an hour since they had first met, when she had
come up next to where he sat at the bar and introduced herself. They
had moved to the booth on the opposite side of the small establishment
and settled in for a long, detailed examination of each other.

What had immediately struck him was that, in spite of what she had
told him on-line about being a "bottom", she was, in fact, quite
Domme. When she had explained that being an occasional bottom and a
rather solidly based Domme was not a contridiction he understood
perfectly what she was talking about. For although he was himself
quite Dominant, he also enjoyed the sensations of feeling his body
bound, his tactile senses pushed to the limits of their endurance.
That sense of helplessness was so freeing, he remembered. And, he
considered with a small inward chuckle, it certainly was a hell of a
lot less actual work, though it was a trial in its own way.

All in all, the evening was not progressing exactly as he had
anticipated it would when he first arrived. Instead of meeting a
blossoming, nervous submissive, trembling with hope and anticipation
who would melt under his gaze and allow him to transport her to realms
of delight she had never before anticipated, he was faced instead with
a Dominant woman whose inner power was quite the match for his own,
and who was proving not at all succeptable to his standard energy
flow. In point of fact, he thought, if the entire evening so far were
to be thought of as some sort of contest, he would have to judge it to
be somewhere in the nature of a draw at the current moment. For every
time he managed to get a slight advantage, raise the merest hint of a
blush in her cheek or pique her arousal another tiny notch, she didn't
melt. Rather she gathered up the heat he produced in her and
re-directed it straight back at him. And he had to confess to himself
that a number of times, she had succeeded in raising his own warmth
with her skills.

They sat looking at each other in the silence, each deadly relaxed,
coldly waiting for the other to show the smallest sign of figiting or
discomfort with the stillness between them. All that happened was they
slowly, wordlessly, conceded with a smile, their understanding that
neither would be gaining any advantage with that particular method.

This unspoken moment produced almost a pause in their maneuvering and
they each took a moment to glance around the club. It was a homey
place, unspectacular and with a feeling of neighborhood closeness to
it. They sat at the end of the room next to which was a small raised
platform that served as a bandstand before which was a parquetted
section set out as a dance floor.

He became aware that the music, which had been playing in the
background for most of the time they had been present, was now
slightly louder, as if subtly and humbly attempting to grab just a bit
of attention for itself. He was not familiar with the particular tune
that currently oozed out of the hidden speakers in the ceiling... a
slow concoction of strings and winds and not unpleasant to the ear.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement from her side of the
table and quickly turned back to her, curious. She was staring at him,
her face bright and open.

"I want to dance" she announced simply. It was not a command, neither
was it a request. It was purely a statement, unfringed by any sense of
either demanding his ascent or begging it.

For a moment he was caught off guard, unsure what this new maneuver on
her part might portend. For one thing, no one else was dancing. The
dance space was empty. For another the entire atmosphere of the
establishment at that moment seemed to be fixed more on that long hour
of relaxing and unwinding, not focusing on nocturnal pleasures like
shuffling close in tune to a wafting melody. To take to their feet now
would be like doing so in the dining room during dinner.

His instinct was to smile, tolerantly, and allow the statement to go
unanswered and ignored. But then he realized that she was fixed on
him, and in her expression was... what? Anticipation? Patience?
Another challenge? And then he realized that perhaps the opportunity
to take her into his arms and press close to her would provide some
fresh battlefields where he had the greatest confidence in his
superior skills.

He allowed a wide smile to spread over his face and silently slid out
of the booth, extending a hand toward her. A flicker of what might
have been triumph fleeted across her face and she placed her hand in
his, allowing him to pull her to her feet. But even as he stepped off,
intending to lead her to the center of the open, empty dance floor,
her steps matched his, so they moved side by side to the middle of the
area before stopping and turning to face one another.

And even as he paused to stare into her eyes, intending to impose his
greater physical statue on her, she stepped in close and slid one arm
around his waist, drawing their still clasped hands up and beginning
the slow shuffling, swaying that passed for dancing when such languid
music was played.

He felt awkward for a moment, caught off guard, even though he quickly
flowed into a rhythm that matched her own, his feet shifting ever so
slightly beneath him. But something was not quite right and for
several beats of the music he couldn't quite put his finger on what
felt so strange. Then it struck him. She was holding his right hand
up, drawn close to where their chests pressed together, and his left
arm had slid around her automatically in answer to her posture. It was
backwards. She was leading.

He tried to release her hand as subtly as he could, but as his grip
loosened, hers tightened, slightly, but enough to prevent him from
extracting his fingers without literally shaking them free of her
grasp.

Cute move, he thought in admiration. But he was not about to concede
this particular contest to her quite so simply.

"Ah!" he said, suddenly, catching her off balance. Her grip on his
fingers slackened as she pulled back slightly, looking up at him, her
expression puzzled and at that instant, as he slipped his hand free,
he smiled down at her.

"You dance very well" he cooed, and slid his now liberated hand around
her waist, encircling her and squeezing just enough to let her know
she was firmly in his grasp.

She smiled back, admiringly, though whether for the compliment or his
graceful extication from her lead he could not tell, then slid her now
unoccupied hand up his arm and around the back of his neck, the
fingers slipping under his hair.

He kept his upper body leaned slightly away from her, his spine
straight, eyes fixed on her own, and when he felt her press against
his neck, attempting to draw him down, he ignored it as if he had felt
nothing at all.

As quickly as the attempt was made and rebuffed she abandoned it,
instead lightening the touch on the back of his neck and in a moment
he felt her long fingernails raking lightly along amid the short
hairs, tickling him.

Bravo, he thought, admiring her persistance and skill, the variety of
her attacks. For every repost he made, she had an answering
counter-attack. Of course she had the definite advantage at the moment
and he realized this. Her arms were around his neck where subtle
brushes, pets, strokes and tickles were harmless adjuncts to the
motion of the dance.. a light, almost thoughtless thing that could
have no signifigance at all... or at least could be taken that way.
He, unfortunately, was trapped by convention with his hands around her
waist, and any answering strokes on his part were fraught with
meaning. To slide his hands upwards along her spine would be to mirror
a more intimate carress best performed without the encumbrance of
cloth between his palm and her flesh... and allowing his hands to
stray downwards would have been admit utter defeat... to say to her
that she had aroused him to the point of silently requesting her
attentions in that way... and this he was not about to do.

The melody wound down through its coda and the moment it concluded
another slow tune replaced it. The slow, shuffling of their bodies did
not pause. Only her face, gazing up at his, her eyes fixed on his
seemed to grow more tightly focused and, if possible, a bit darker.

And then, he sensed it... the subtle change in the motion of her lower
body. For instead of merely brushing against him, her pelvis was now
pressing firmly forward, her hips beginning to sway slightly with each
shuffled step. And every few steps he felt her hip press forward, just
over his crotch, remaining in contact just enough to brush it before
the pressure eased and their weight shifted to the opposite foot.

And then he felt her fingers slide into the hair at the back of his
neck and this time, instead of lightly tickling and teasing, they were
drawing up slowly into a capturing fist, trapping his hair between
them.

Damn, he thought, a mix of annoyance, admiration and arousal, as her
fingers closed on a handful of his hair and slowly but firmly pulled
back on his head. She is good, he admitted within himself.

But he was not without his own skills, and behind her back he spread
the fingers of one hand wide, and pressed firmly against her spine
just at the apex of her buttocks, pulling her even more firmly against
him even as he shifted until it was his hip that pressed against the
meeting place of her legs and abdomen, stroking against her with every
shift of their joined bodies from foot to foot.

He saw her eyes lose their focus, the lids slipping partially shut as
the effect of this began to take hold of her, and he heard her sigh. 

A surge of power rushed through him and he hoped that the music would
continue long enough to let him drive her to a dull roar of frenzy
with the slow stroking of her mons and the press of her body against
his.

But before she gave up completely, and allowed herself to begin
drifting on the pleasant waves that were even then floating up from
her gathering moistness, she drew in a deep, steadying breath and
leaned into him with her other hip, pressing it firmly against his
crotch where the half-stirring was already taking place, causing his
vulnerability to swell suddenly.

And with each slow, rocking step, he drew her across his hip as they
swayed to one side, and she slid across his throbbing bulge on the
other. And the music droned on and on around them.

Bitch, he managed to think, even as the smell of her arousal drifted
up between them... Magnificent bitch....


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