The Wrong Game
February 11 2015
It was the worst thing you could say to me. My skirt lies at your feet, a feeble shrine to the words hanging thick between us. You look out the window behind me, eyes glazed and desperate.
“I don’t want you.”
I tug at the hem of my shirt, a cage of cotton and polyester, scrunching the front into a knot above my pubic line. You squint in resistance, refusing to be distracted by the movement of flesh and fabric.
“Closer now,” I whisper to the freckles on your nose. You move closer, careful not to look, to touch. Careful not to break the rules.
“Look at my face.”
You look, eyes snapping to mine at the command.
“Sit.” You sit, naked and cross-legged on the floor. You stare up past my bare lower half, maintaining eye contact. Maintaining play.
“I don’t want you.” A lick of your lips betrays the lie. The lie that is crucial to the game. You resist the temptation to peek below my naked waist.
“Watch my hand.” You watch as I unbutton the first of 15 small buttons. 14. 13. 12. Sweat pools at the hollow of your throat as I reveal cleavage. 11. 10. 9. Your thirsty eyes follow as my hands expose the long run of flesh between my breasts. 8. 7. 6. Your eyes sieze my navel, a haven safe for viewing. 5. 4. 3. Your eyes flicker in rebellion, but you do not fail. 2. 1.
The shirt hangs like a shed skin either side of my torso. Your eyes water as you stare fixedly at my navel, careful not to slip. The game can continue.
“I don’t want you.” Your voice is husky and cracks in the middle. I smile as our game peaks. My shirt falls to join the discarded skirt.
You struggle, you sweat, you resist temptation. You wait.
“I want you.” The torment ends. Your eyes roam freely, carressing every inch of me. The flood of your attention halts my lungs, while yours bellow relief as you savour the sights denied you.
You stand, and we clash, wrapping skin and limb and want around each other in titan waves, determined to prove the game wrong.