Tara Card Games

By now he knows exactly what the pain will feel like, yet each time is ever a surprise. Alan winces as the clamp digs into his left nipple. He barely has time to collect his breathing before the right nipple is assailed as well. He wishes she would make it last a little longer; this is one of his favorite parts. But it's never worth his while to ask for favors once she's started. Even if she concedes, she'll only make him pay for his weakness in other ways.

She moves to the back skin of his scrotum and then frenulum of his penis. The last is the most sickening pain but excites him the most as he no longer is certain what she has in store for him next.

"I call this my 'bang stick.' Do you know why?" Tara pulls a knobby rubber rod from her nightstand drawer.

"No, but every inch of me is dying to find out." Out of reflex, Alan thrusts his naked hips forward and bends his knees, putting his hole within easy reach.

"Divers use bang sticks to stun and disable sharks." Tara covers the instrument with slick. Her face is intent—not fun, loving or devoted at all.

Alan has no time to respond before she rams it in up to the hilt. His legs splay further apart, and he manages to stifle his scream before more punishment comes.

"Don't speak." She slaps his ass and wrestles the stick around until it threatens to twist his guts apart.

"That's better; be a good boy." Naked, she leans him, her breasts enticingly close yet ever out of reach and that sensuous hair tantalizing his belly with every move. She slides the bang stick smoothly now, pressing up, massaging his gland with every stroke in a way that few women—so he finds—get right.

He needs to pee; he needs to come; he needs to let his hips down. He needs to let go. But the exquisite not-quite-enough sensation continues with every in and out, and whatever he needs, it will clearly be dependent upon her whim.

He wonders if this is how women feel when he's inside of them, and the thought brings a feint of precum to his thumb.

She never forbids him to touch himself, knowing that the clamps will render it more pain than pleasure. It turns her on to watch him struggle with the decision of which will hurt less—to end it himself or to wait until she condescends to do it for him.

She orders him to lift his legs, knowing how bad the cramp will be for a man his age and condition. She smiles as he pants at the effort it requires, but rewards him with an infinitesimal increase in speed.

But to his body—so on edge—it makes no more difference than it does to a fly whether it is a gale or a hurricane that batters it to death against unyielding brick.

"Don't talk," she says, just as he is about to beg. Her lips cross his, interrupting her strokes as she adjusts her body. When she resumes, it is agonizingly slowly and not quite in the right spot. He clenches rhythmically around the knobs, although each squeeze jiggles the clamps behind his scrotum and makes him hiss in pain.

"Good boy," she murmurs. "You want it, don't you?" Her gaze is riveted to his.

As her wrist works its magic, in her eyes, Alan sees the fire. In her voice, he can hear the lust. From her pores, he can smell her libido.

She loves knowing that it is she who has brought him to this place.

He nods hard enough to jar his head, and he risks the verbal answer, "Yes." When she is this aroused, seeing equal lust drive him to break all the rules seems to please her more than the cool enforcement of his continued obedience.

She speeds up her strokes. They come wilder now. The toy bangs against the clamp on his scrotum with a gut-wrenching shock, but he is in that glorious place where pain is no longer bad—a place he wishes he could live in forever—and he reaches for that pain to harvest it, make it his, to have it push him one step closer to orgasmic bliss.

He groans and writhes in the way she likes to believe that he can't help. She groans too, then lays her hand over his nipple and grinds the clamp back and forth into the delicate tissue of his breast.

It hurts like hell. He screams and the stick twists in his ass, then he is coming in spurt after spurt, each one a little less wrenching and a little less pleasurable than the last.

She palms his dick and holds it between her breasts until it wanes completely lax. She holds quietly until he has recovered. It is one of the few kindnesses she gives.

Either that or a comatose man could give her no pleasure.

It doesn't matter. Alan is content to take what he can get. He closes his eyes until he doesn't think he can fool her anymore.

When he opens them, she's waiting inches away. "Lick it off," she says. She raises up and dangles modest breasts over his eager face.

He licks a tittie. In return she removes a nipple clamp—'tit for that'—carefully so as not to irritate the tissue more with the scrape of metal as she does.

The screaming return of blood to the oxygen-starved flesh feels worse than the clamp itself, and he suckles at her breast in some atavistic attempt at comfort as the clamp on his other teat is lifted away. No matter how careful she is, the release hurts clear down to his groin. He wishes she would leave them there, and he rues the return his body to what the rest of the world would call a normal state.

When the clamps are gone, she kneels over his face. Squatting low enough to smother, she directs his lips and teeth and tongue and hands until she climaxes—fondling her own breasts—with her cunt plastered over his face.

When she's done, she rummages for the tub of menthol gel. She turns the lamp up to the brightest setting. Hair hanging down to brush his sensitized skin, she examines him intently, rubbing cool balm wherever her clamps have been.

He rests against the pillows, luxuriating in the smell of her pussy juice that has saturated his face. It's said that women are nurturing, however not even a deaf and blind fool could mistake Tara for an average female.

Alan's never been sure if she hurts him so that she can nurture, or if she nurtures so that she can hurt him sooner again.

It doesn't matter. He figures if she's allowed her ways with him, she'll have no reason to let him go.

Again too soon, she's finished with his balls. She moves up to his nipples. Her line of sight is confined below his neck. He used to like it when she objectified him like that. It was safe. It reminded him of the men he fucked, but she had breasts and pussy juice to boot.

But in recent weeks he had had a change of...heart. More than anything else, he wanted her back in his eyes.

"Tara—"

"Does it hurt?" Her eyes stay fixed on his chest, but her voice is concerned. She tosses her hair out of her face so she may look to him.

"Yes." Distracted by her attentions, he stops there. It wasn't what he had meant to say, but it is all that he can manage when he looks at her that way.

She draws back her hand and places the tub of gel back on the bedside stand. "Sorry. I'll get some ice instead."

He grabs her knuckles, presses her finger tip to one nipple, and rubs it around with much more force than she had used herself. It aches, but it's the kind of ache that reminds him his feelings aren't dead yet.

Every passing year, it takes a little more.

She looks at him with such tenderness that he wishes he were a better man.

"Tara." He swallows as he begins again. "If I thought for one minute you might be inclined keep me, there is nothing I wouldn't do to make you want such a thing."

She smiles at him around a perpetually errant fall of hair. "I'll keep you for now." She says it like it's a private joke, but she's the only one smiling.

He tries to smile back, but some things are just too hard—even for Alan Shore.

She bends over and kisses his nipple. It's fiery hot beneath the gel and the menthol makes her lips tingle in a way that's not exactly pleasant, but will remind her of him all night. "Partly because I love you, but mostly because you look so sexy with your face all skewered up in pain." She laughs a little at her joke that isn't, then bites down on the swollen nipple and latches on throughout his cry of pain.

He gasps and jumps, then pushes her head down and presses her—cheek first—harmlessly against his abs.

She wiggles loose and down his belly, stopping to nuzzle the skin where there should be curls, then taking the whole of his quiescence within her mouth. She suckles for several minutes with no aim but to share sensation while he, eyes closed, gently pats the length of her hair and tries to etch every minute of this upon his mind for that inevitable time when it should come for her to leave.


"Do you want a drink?" She asks, when she—apparently—has had enough of him.

"Yes. A drink would be good." He puts a foot over the side. "I'll go."

"Don't," she says. "Stay there. I'll get it." She kisses him. "I love you." She stands and shakes out her hair. Perhaps a performance for him?

He stretches and arm out and brushes her thigh.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing." He pulls his hand back to his stomach.

"I love you," she repeats. For a second she considers donning his discarded shirt, but doesn't bother. Naked as Eve, she sashays out of the room. She knows he watches her legs as she leaves, so she draws her muscles taut and swings her hips to their best advantage.

In the kitchen she sniffs the tumbler that he left out: vodka, probably straight and definitely lukewarm. She tosses it down the drain and puts the glass into the dishwasher.

In the fridge there's some Cran-grape with Splenda and some Crystal Light. She pours the former for him and the latter for her. Although she doesn't ice her own drinks, she hand-picks several ice cubes for his. Big ones, frozen all the way though. They can be used for fun later if he wants. She tosses a few extra in.

She drains half her glass, then fills it again. Sex games never seem like a work-out until she realizes how dehydrated she has become.

On the counter there are some raisin scones and she selects the biggest one for him. She balances it atop one glass and heads back down the hall.

There's a mirror just before her foyer, and she pauses to examine herself in it. She's not twenty any more, but that's all right. Her body has held up well and she carries it much better now than she ever did in the days of her true youth.

She is uncommonly beautiful to men, she sees, and should stay that way for several years. She takes comfort that that means she still has time.

In the meantime, there are worse things than to sleep with someone with whom you're not in love.

And she should know for in her youth, she did a lot of those things.

Alan Shore had done likely most all of them. Likely this year.

Likely one of them this very night in this very house.

She will keep him for a while, she decides if only right then and there. An enormous part of her regrets it won't be longer than whatever 'a while' is.

What Alan and most men she beds don't realize is that it's not playing the game she loves, but playing the game with someone who loves her and will regardless.

When she meets a man who knows he can keep her for himself, but will play her games because they're fun, that man won't have to try to keep her.

Until then, she balances on glass in each hand, flicks off the hallway light with the bottom of one glass, and heads back to the bedroom. She sets one drink on each bedside stand and kisses him. "Miss me?"

He touches her face in that peculiar way he has. "I don't deserve you."

"I know." It's the same private joke tone, but she is still the only one with a smile.

She motions to the scone. "I brought you a biscuit, but mind you don't get crumbs in my bed or on my carpet. If you do I shall be very...very...cross." She tugs on his testicles hard enough not to seem like fun.

He shudders and his face contorts to her whim.

He does look adorable.

She climbs back into bed. After all, she has at least a couple more years to play.