A Summer evening in July, 8:47 pm
The rain has just begun to fall outside, but inside, the dining room table is being set for game night. Tonight’s choice? The Game of Life - a board game that simulates a person’s travel through life, possibly including college, getting married, buying a house, having kids, or a successful career. The game decides for you, through luck or a small selection of choices, and you adapt as you go.
She sits on the opposite side of the table from him, a long navy-colored cotton dress draped over her form. As they play the game, he notices the skin on her chest and neck get progressively more flushed. She’s losing the game.
After 60 minutes of questionable choices and a little bad luck, she officially lost the game. Kind of ironic, huh? Who loses at the game of life?
“I didn’t expect to win this time. You usually win on game night,” he says pensively, unsure how she will respond.
The rain outside has grown into a full-blown thunderstorm, with thunder and lightning permeating the room every few minutes.
“Who said you were the winner yet?” she said, a touch of honey in her voice as her eyes met his, a sly smile on her face.
He’s not sure why, but his instincts tell him not to break eye contact with her. He begins sweating as she slides the game board away from the two of them. She crawls onto the table, inching her way over to his side, then sits down on the table right in front of him. He can vaguely see her curves under the dress, but all he knows for certain is that he wishes she wasn’t wearing anything right now.
Still maintaining eye contact, she says, “You’ll only be the winner once I make you feel like one.” His c*ck twitches in his shorts at the sound of her words. He hasn’t felt an ache like this in a long time, too long. He almost forgot what it felt like to crave another person, and at this moment, she was irresistible.
She slides off the table and drapes the lower part of her dress over his lap. The thunder rolls as she slides her fingers over his shorts to his waistband. The blood is flowing into his c*ck so fast that it’s beginning to hurt. She continues to tease him, running her fingers along his waistband, a gentle smile on her face as she gazes downward.
He grabs her arm to try to take control. She looks him dead in the eyes and says, “No. You Are Not. The Winner. Until. I. Make. You. Feel. It.” At this moment, she thrusts her hand into his shorts, grabs onto his c*ck eagerly, and he gasps at the feeling of her smooth hand on his raging hot member.
She frees him from his shorts and eases him inside of her, slowly sitting on his lap. He moans gently as he glides into her wetness. How long has she been thinking about doing this? He wonders. Given how wet she is, he estimates about halfway through the game, when she knew she was going to lose.
The lightning flashes outside, illuminating the entire room as he sees the mischievous look in her eyes. His breath begins to quicken as she rocks her hips forward and back, up and down, left and right. There is no repeatable pattern to her movements, making every sensation send shocks up his spine.
He’s been happy to have her take control up to this point, but his fingers are twitching with nothing to do. He wants in on the action. Winners have power, right? They take control and make things happen.
The next time she sits all the way down on his c*ck, he wraps his hands around her waist, squeezes firmly, and says, “Now it’s time to show you what a winner can do,” as the thunder rolls outside once again.
Before she can say anything, he lifts her and bends her over the table. He bends down and glides his hands up the inside of her legs, catching the juices flowing downwards with his fingers. As his hands rise toward her hips, he brings the lower part of her dress with them.
With her dress lifted to her waist, now he can see everything. Her entire slit is flush, like a blossoming bright pink rose, glistening with fluids from both of them. He was just about to enter her again when he saw something he’d never seen before.
At this angle, he can see clearly how small her waist is compared to her hips. That hourglass shape, like a cape waived in front of a bull, makes his blood boil. He wraps both of his hands around her waist and rams into her so hard the table hits the wall. A bolt of lightning flashes outside as she screams out in painful pleasure.
Beginning to truly feel like the winner in this situation, he pumps into her with all the ferocity he can manage, his knees trembling at the thought of her riding him just moments ago. The rain batters against the windows but is drowned out by the sound of their cries of pleasure.
In a crescendo moment befitting an orchestra performance, their voices rang out in unison as they came simultaneously, only adding to the puddle of fluids already on the floor. Neither of them moves as their entire lower bodies are twitching with aftershocks and they try to catch their breath.
Moments later, a small voice from the other side of the table cunningly says, “If that’s what winners do, then I may lose on purpose next week too.”