The Playeur

My dear reader,

If this is your first time reading this story, one warning on content: It features use of the word "rape" in the context of role play and fantasies. The rest, you'll just have to find out.

If you've read this story before, you might notice some differences. I hope they're all improvements. I'll add a comment summarizing the changes in this revised draft, along with responses to some comments.

Thank you for being here. May you find my story memorable, pleasurable, and most of all, stimulating.

• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •

The Playeur

by S. Rosa

She can't bring herself to go in.

It's not a nightclub. Not his apartment. Just a coffee shop.

The door is glass. If he's in there, he's probably looking at her.

She makes herself pull the door open. She glances around.

He's there.

He looks just like in his pictures. The ones where he has naked girls bent over his lap.

She scuttles over. Everyone must be watching her. Especially him.

She sits down across from him. She keeps her eyes down.

She waits.

She dares to look. Eyes up. She sees him smirk. Eyes down again.

"Are we playing the quiet game, then?" he says.

She laughs. No, giggles. Whatever it is, it's too loud. However she looks, it's too red.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

She shakes her head.

"Can you tell me why we're here?"

"I..." she flounders.

"You want my services. Am I wrong?"

She shakes her head. Eyes up, then down.

"And those services involve me bossing and tossing you around. Wrong?"

She shakes her head. She smiles slightly at his playful tone.

"So if I wanted to get you a drink, I could. Wrong?"

She shakes her head. She feels ashamed. She's already so bad at this.

"Now, I'm going to give you another chance. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Yes," she says quickly. She almost adds "Sir", like some of the girls in the videos do, but she doesn't. One syllable-step at a time.

"Different question now. Do you want anything to drink?"

She hesitates. If she once knew the answer, she doesn't anymore.

He smiles. So innocent, he thinks. He decides to go easier on her. "How about I'll get you some water, and if you want anything else, you just tell me, all right, love?"

She nods.

He stands up from the table and walks away.

So far, this is going exactly how she didn't know she wanted. She doesn't know much about sex. Good Catholic girls don't. But she's always known that she likes to be helpless. None of the men she's been on dates with were controlling enough. Or at all. Of course, she never asked them to be, but of course she wouldn't. She doesn't want to give up her choices. She wants them taken from her.

In her furtive Internet searches (always in private mode), she found Dave Neville, the "Dom" to "sub" she's learned to name herself. Every step—clicking the contact button, sending a message, responding to each email—required a new bout of courage. And now she's here.

He comes back with a cup of water.

"Thank you," she manages.

She takes a sip.

"Ever heard of roofies?" he grins at her.

She looks at him in horror.

He laughs. "I'm just joking," he says. "I wouldn't roofie you like this." He grins a malicious grin and adds, "That's something you have to earn."

She looks at him in amazement. Now she wants what she didn't want five seconds ago. She wants it because she can't have it. He really is a pro.

"Two truths, one lie," he begins. Living up to his nickname of the Playeur. "Ready to guess?"

She nods.

"I've had thirty-one subs. None of them has ever gone to the police. I want to bring you to my car and fuck you in it right now."

She gasps and looks away. She feels something in the core of her chest. A pang. A clench. She was trying to follow along—the thirty-one number she remembered from his website—but now she can't speak. The bad word sticks in her mind. "...fuck..." She hopes no one else heard him. She feels her sex getting wet. Why does it do that?

"Go on, guess," he says. "Which one's the lie?"

"The...the last one?" she says.

"You wish," he says. "It's the second. One of my subs was a cop," he grins. "Those handcuffs of hers..."

"Oh," she says. She tries not to think about what he means. She fails.

"Your turn," he says. "Two truths and a lie. Or, if you like, a lie and two truths."

She thinks. "Um...my favorite color is pink. I'm no good at this game. And I've never...done it in a car."

He gives her a burning look. "I'd bet you've never 'done it' at all."

She blushes.

"Am I wrong?"

She shakes her head.

"Why haven't you?"

"No one has wanted to," she says.

"Lie."

This is a compliment. She doesn't know what to say.

"Why haven't you wanted to?"

She looks at her cup of water. "Well..."

"Let me guess," he says. "The guy drives you home. He kisses you. He puts his hand on your knee, and when his hand starts to wander under your skirt, the word escapes your lips: 'No'. And then he just stops."

She looks at him with big eyes.

"But you don't want him to stop. You want him to take you. You want him to force you. You want to be owned, don't you, little girl?"

Slowly, she nods.

Suddenly, he moves over to the chair next to her. She starts trembling. He hasn't touched her.

He leans in close to her. His breath's on her cheek. "So," he says in a low voice, "what is your favorite color?"

She can't help but laugh. She chances a glance at him. A harmless sparkle shines from his eyes.

"Red," she says.

He smiles. "Are you using your safeword?"

"Oh! No, sorry," she says. They did agree to that safeword over email.

"So, 'no' is your favorite word, and red is your favorite color. You were born for this."

He slowly lifts his hand to her face. She gasps. Her lips part. She doesn't move. He runs his thumb along her lower lip. It tickles the way fire tickles.

"Will you tell me your name now?"

She takes a deep breath. "Madeline," she says.

He smiles. "Well, Miss Madeline," he says, "You'd better get used to being called 'slut'."

• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •

She follows him into the elevator. It's the day after the coffee shop. He wouldn't let her go home with him the same day. He made her sleep on it. She was grateful for that, but now she's even more excited. Even more nervous.

He presses his floor. 32. Her sub number.

Another man walks in.

"Louis!" Dave cheers. They do some kind of bro handshake. "This is Madeline."

The doors close. Louis shakes Madeline's hand.

"Pleasure," Louis smiles.

She can't tell what kind of smile it is.

Thirty-two floors is a long time. Dave banters with Louis about something. She doesn't really listen. All she can think about is the fact that Dave is tracing a finger up and down her back over her sweater. It's thrilling enough that he's touching her. But Louis is watching, too.

Owned. That's what she is.

She remembers that one of his three rules is no playing in public. He must not call this playing. It's sure more play-like than anything she's ever done.

The elevator slows abruptly. She gets that little head rush. The doors open. They all walk out. Dave keeps his hand on Madeline's lower back. He leads her down the halls.

They reach Dave's door.

"See you at the grill, Dave," Louis says. "A pleasure to meet you, Madeline." He keeps walking.

Dave unlocks the door and walks into the apartment. He disappears off to the side. For a second, she stands out in the hallway. Then she walks through the door.

She takes in the place. Wood floor. Brick walls. Black couches. Kitchen area to the left. Bookshelf to the right. Nothing unusual, except maybe a few dice and board game pieces lying loose on the bookshelf.

He closes the door. The deadbolt locks. She tenses. She looks up at him. His eyes are filled with a hunger that fills her with fear. She waits for him to descend on her, but he doesn't. Yet.

He shrugs off his coat and goes to hang it in his closet. He kicks off his shoes.

What if he's a murderer? Who cares that she's already verified his photo, name, address? What if God punishes her? It's bad enough that she taught herself how to orgasm back in college. Now she's chasing kinky thrills. Dave could kill her. That would teach her.

She could still leave. Yes. That's what she'll do.

"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea," she says.

She turns around, turns the deadbolt, opens the door.

In a flash, he's behind her. He shoves her body against the door. It slams.

She gasps. His chest presses against her back. Something hard is jabbing her hips. Her sex gets wet.

"Madeline," he murmurs into her ear.

The core of her chest clenches.

"Do you remember your safeword?"

She nods.

"Good girl," he breathes.

He strokes her hair. Then he slides his hand up the back of her neck and grips her hair tight. He pulls her head back. She whimpers.

His lips brush her cheek. "You're playing games you don't understand."

She's trembling. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

He smiles. So quick to apologize, he thinks. "It's okay, baby girl. I'll teach you the rules."

She cowers between his body and the door. She feels his heat. But suddenly, his hand and body are gone. She still doesn't move.

His footsteps thud away from her.

"Come on, love, take off your shoes and have a seat," he calls over, tone totally normal.

She turns around. He's gesturing to a couch.

She slips out of her shoes. She goes over and sits down, back straight. She's still trembling.

He sits to her right. Their legs are touching.

There's a big paper on the coffee table. It's laminated. Reusable. Her name and limits are drawn on with dry-erase ink.

"I've already sent you my rules, but let's go through them again."

She looks at the paper.

1. No other partners.

2. No public play.

3. No falling in love.

"Second one includes going out on dates. I'm not your boyfriend. Game's over if you break any of 'em. Easy enough?"

She nods. She's used to ten commandments. She can handle three.

He taps the line for her signature and hands her his dry-erase marker.

She looks at him. Her look says, What's the point of signing in erasable ink?

He just smiles.

She signs on the line.

"Let the game begin," he says.

He takes the pen and paper from her. He tosses them away. They fall off the table. He doesn't even notice. He's focused on Madeline's sweet little mouth.

His left hand touches her back and slides up to her neck. He grips her hair again. She whimpers.

He steers her face to face his. Her eyes look big. His eyes look burning.

He kisses her. He watches her eyes close as he moves his lips against hers. He closes his eyes.

His kiss gets rougher. It makes her shiver. It makes her breathless.

His right hand goes to her knee. Her skirt just covers it. He slides his hand up her thigh, over her skirt. She gasps and pushes at his hand. He slides it back down.

He pulls her head away from the kiss. She opens her eyes. He looks into her eyes as he slips his hand under her skirt. Her eyes get wide.

"No!" she whimpers.

"Yes," he says in a babying voice.

His touch is already making her sex pulse. But his word and voice pierce the core of her chest.

He kisses her again. She pushes at his hand with all her strength. It doesn't stop him. His hand glides along her skin, along the top of her thighs. She squeezes her thighs tight together.

He reaches her panty waistband. He plucks it like a guitar string. Then his hand moves back down to her knees, slowly as it went up. He rubs her knee under her skirt.

He breaks the kiss. "Truth or dare," he breathes.

What's that again? She's supposed to pick one.

"Truth," she whispers.

"Are you scared?"

She tries to nod. She can't with his fist in her hair. "Yes," she breathes.

"Aww," he croons, "don't be scared, little girl. I won't hurt you right away."

Fear swells in her core. He kisses her again. He forces his tongue between her lips. She whimpers. He forces his hand between her thighs. She fights.

She's never had a man push his tongue into her mouth. It's a violation that makes her core clench.

She tries to push his hand away. He's too strong. His fingers touch her sex through her panties.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against her lips. "Such a bad girl."

She gets wetter.

He breaks the kiss. He slowly pets her sex. She moans. Then her hands fly to cover her mouth. Such an embarrassing sound, to her. Such a sexy sound, to him.

"Truth or dare," he says softly.

She can't think.

He presses her sex harder. She whimpers into her hands.

He lets go of her hair so he can pull her hands away from her mouth. With his left hand, he takes hold of both of her wrists. He pushes her back against the couch.

"I said, truth or dare," he demands.

"Truth!" she whimpers.

"Do you like the thought of calling me 'Sir'?"

"Yes, Sir," she says quickly. It makes her feel naughty.

"How about 'Daddy'?" he grins.

She gasps. That makes her feel naughtier.

"Yes...Daddy," she breathes.

He smiles. "Good girl," he croons. "You've just been waiting to be a good girl for Daddy, haven't you?"

He narrows his strokes to her clit. She gasps.

"You don't have to wait any longer. I'm here now. Daddy's right here."

He touches her like she touches herself, but better. She starts to moan. She bites her lip to stop herself.

"It's okay, baby girl. Moan for me."

She does. Her mouth falls open. He leans forward and bites her lip on her behalf. She moans more.

"Truth or dare," he murmurs.

"Truth," she sighs. Her eyes are closed.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she breathes.

"Do you want me to make you come?"

She nods.

"Say it."

She gasps and opens her eyes. She stares at him.

"Say it, little girl. Say you want Daddy to make you come."

She shakes her head.

"No?" he raises an eyebrow. "You don't want to come?"

"I do..." she says.

"Then you have to ask nicely," he says.

His fingertip is drilling into her clit. Her eyes close again.

He leans close to her ear. "Are you going to say it, or am I going to have to punish you?"

She gasps. "Please..." her voice wavers, "please make me come...Daddy..."

He moans into her ear. "Yes, Madeline. Be a good girl and come for Daddy."

He pinches her clit.

She screams and comes. Pleasure shoots through her. He keeps rubbing her clit through her panties. Her orgasm lasts thirty-two floors.

When she comes down, other weights come down on her. Grief. Guilt. She's a slut. Only bad people are sluts. She's going to Hell with a capital H.

He sees her sorrow. It confuses him. They never cry this soon. He's had virgin subs. He's had Catholic subs. But he hasn't had virgin Catholic subs. Must have something to do with that.

He lets go of her wrists. He gently moves his hand from her sex to her thigh, then to her knee and out from under her skirt. He lays her skirt over her knees.

"Come here, baby girl," he says.

He picks her up and sits her sideways on his lap. He rubs her back and kisses her hair.

Her tears fall onto her wrists.

"You're such a good girl, Madeline," he says. "You did so well."

He holds her for longer than he harassed her.

Her tears begin to dry.

He asks her questions about herself to help get her back to normal. He has a mental list of 20 Questions handy for this purpose. He usually doesn't need to do more than ten. This time's no different. He usually stops then. But this time's different. He keeps talking with her. Learning about her. Making her laugh. He's having fun. Getting to know her is almost as good as getting to know her.

• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •

She's home. It's bedtime. She kneels at the side of her bed. She touches her forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. She prays to God for His forgiveness. But she can't bring herself to tell Him that she won't do it again.

• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •

She's at church. She accepts Communion. The people around her are the same faces as always. But is she the same? Can they tell what she did?

• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •

She's at her desk job. She can't focus. She thinks of his hands, his lips, his tongue. She could tell him what she's thinking. She could send him a text. But she doesn't dare.

• ⚙ ☸ ❂ ☸ ⚙ •

The deadbolt locks.

He steps in front of her. She backs against the door. He leans his left arm up against the door, cornering her.

Her lips are parted. Already gasping. He touches his lips to hers, just brushing them ever so lightly. It's feather-light torture. But she can't move back, and she can't risk moving forward.

He puts his right hand on her waist. His hand moves under her shirt. He touches her skin. She whimpers and pushes at his hand.

"I've been waiting all week to hear that whimper," he murmurs against her lips.

He presses his lips into hers and kisses her slowly. She's been waiting all week to feel that kiss.

He nips her lower lip. She whimpers again.

He keeps kissing. He keeps touching. He uses his left hand to collect her trembling wrists. He pins her arms to her chest in an X position. The sign of the cross. She resists, leans forward, but he shoves her against the wall.

She gasps and turns her face away. He licks her cheek. The hand under her shirt skims her belly.

"Have you touched yourself this week?"

She shakes her head.

"Good girl."

His hand pushes into her panties.

"No!" she cries out. She's never touched herself under her panties, and now she's letting a man do it. This is so bad. This is so wrong. She tries to struggle. Her hips squirm on his fingers.

She's wet. She can't hide it. He rubs the lips of her sex. First the outsides. Then straight down the middle. She wails.

She's never put anything inside. Did it happen already? Did he take her virginity?

He hasn't penetrated her. His finger is between her folds. He slides it back and forth.

"You're dripping wet."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

He laughs.

She feels even guiltier.

"Do you know what it means when you're wet, love?"

She shakes her head.

His voice takes on a babying tone. "It means your little cunt is getting ready to take Daddy's big cock deep inside it."

She gasps. She's shaking her head.

"What would your priest say if he saw you now? Dripping at the thought of fucking before marriage."

She whimpers.

"You should be punished."

She winces and nods.

Whoa. He didn't expect that. He thought she'd protest and say no. Good old Catholic masochism.

He has the perfect punishment in mind. He drags his finger up to her clit. He teases it. Tweaks it between two fingers. Drums his fingers on it.

She's moaning, mouth open. He puts his lips to her ear.

"Do you want to come?"

She nods.

"Say it."

"Please make me come, Daddy," she says.

So needy, he grins, so soon.

"You're not allowed to come, bad girl," he murmurs. He licks her ear.

She whimpers in despair.

He moves his fingers back down her slit. He massages her lips and avoids her clit.

"Daddy, please stop..."

"No," he breathes. "I'm not going to stop. This is what little sluts like you deserve."

She mewls.

He lightly touches her clit. She gasps.

"How about this. If you're very good, I'll let you come."

"I'll be good, Daddy," she breathes.

"Then I'm going to let go of you. Don't struggle, do you understand?"

She nods.

He lets go of her arms. She keeps hugging herself anyway.

As his right hand rubs her sex, his left hand slips under her shirt. He reaches her bra. She pushes at his hand.