The Game

The Game

 

Indulge in the forbidden desires of two souls united by darkness

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

The Game

 

Cloe has waited forever for a partner who understands her darkest, most perverse fantasies. But it isn’t until she writes the ad that she feels breathless anticipation. The kind that sends little tremors along her skin like someone walking over her grave. It’s out there like a dare!

 

“Wear a mask—key under the doormat. Enter after midnight. My bedroom hallway is on the left, and the last room is on the right. Take me in any way you desire and be rough.”

 

This was supposed to stay in her head, but now she’s done it and written it out. An invitation to the masked phantom who lurks in her imagination, already shredding her clothes in her mind’s eye. After a series of careful exchanges and negotiated limits, she hits Send on the final message.

 

Her fantasies breathe with life at last.

 

She types his name again, the letters insistent, like a chant: Sam, Sam, Sam’s the man, the man with plan. The man named Sam can.

 

“Sam, you might find me hooked on your touch after tonight.” She sent the closing line and waited for his reply.

 

After less than a minute, the words materialize:

 

“You will never know when to expect me. I hope you understand. I could be the death of you.”

 

Her heart skips, her mind spins as she rereads the message. He was so into the fantasy of it all. She loved that. She pictures Sam reading, and something stirs inside, a sense of weightless urgency. Her head’s a balloon, floating, trailing behind her fingertips. She wonders if he knows how much this means and how this blood-red text on the glowing white screen ties into her cravings.

 

Cloe remembers the others who were threatened by her desires. The scared ones, who thought she was insane, a freak, before tossing her aside and moving on to dull, civilized women. Maybe this time, she’ll find a man who can handle her.

 

Cloe smiles and closes the laptop with a small, satisfied click.

 

But she can’t get it out of her mind. She opens the laptop. Once again, Cloe reads her ad and feels the pull of possibility on her, pulling her body into the tight knot of excitement. Her hand slides down her bare belly slips under her shorts and moves past her panties. Her fingers tease and fondle. She imagines the slap of his hand, brutal, cruel, demanding submission.

 

A fantasy unfolds as she thrusts her fingers inside her twat. Soon, an orgasm overtakes her. Gathering her senses, she thinks of the faceless man. Sam… the man… who will… oh, so, roughly… tame this bitch.

 

Maybe Sam is sitting at a desk right this instant, printing her instructions, slipping a mask into his bag, picking up his trusty, cold steel blade, laying out the ropes, and preparing his mind. He’ll take everything with him before he heads to her place. Sam’s ready for this part, which she’s outlined in her wicked little script.

 

Cloe can almost see him sitting in front of his screen, his head spinning and his heart pounding, just like hers. He’d be jacking his long, thick prick, thinking of how he’d defile her. A wicked man, depraved, yet somehow still trustworthy.

 

The kind who will take her with wild abandon, leaving her hungry for more. The others never understood her need. Fuck them. The thrill of living these dark fantasies fully, consensually, on her own terms.

 

Cloe opens her laptop again, compelled to look again at her ad’s responses. There are so many who tried and so few who understood her. But Sam’s been the one who seems to have it all. He’s given details about the sessions he’s been involved in, telling her about limits and boundaries and the kinds of games he knows.

 

“Pushing the envelope, safely, and within the rules,” he writes. He lists the props he has: gags, ropes, handcuffs, dildos, blindfolds. Everything but the blade. That’s the part that’s always been hers. Cloe re-reads Sam’s messages, the urgency building, and her fingers tremble.

 

He has to be the one, finally.

 

She stares at the screen, her insides humming like the wires in a neon sign. It’s crazy how alive she feels and how possible it all is. She remembers the safe words they negotiated and Sam saying he’ll be rough but aware of her limits. A thrill surges through her, a certainty. Her fingers move before she knows what she’s doing, and she’s sending the final message, and it’s out there and real.

 

Sam at his computer, the letters like live wires, blue sparks catching on dry tinder. He rereads the message more than once, making sure he knows it by heart. The last bit seems to flash on the screen, brighter than the rest.

 

“Be rough.”

 

A final message comes in, “Bring a knife.”

 

Sam reads the message, opens his switchblade with a flick of a button, and licks the blade. He smiles and wonders if he’ll cut her for fun or if he might go beyond fun. Sam closes the window, powers down the computer, and turns his gaze to his trophies. But he can’t add to his count. This role play, and he paid for his membership with his credit card.

 

Sam pictures her and wonders if she realizes she’s made a bargain with the real deal.

 

He gets up and stretches. His mind fills with images of a masked phantom sneaking in to take her with force. She wants him to play that role, and the limits are perfectly clear. He’s excited, more excited than he wants to admit. She must be, too. That makes it even better. He packs the blade, the masks, the ropes, and the restraints, ensuring everything is perfect. He feels this girl won’t be a fighter. Too bad. Maybe he can talk her into it next time.

 

And he knows there will be a next time.

 

Cloe’s email is a hot little spark in Sam’s mind, and it burns away everything else as he drives toward her place. Her instructions were clear. But would he follow them? Good ole Sammy was ready to play his part. He’s sure of it, yet his excitement still has an edge that cuts into him, just enough to know he’s alive.

 

There is far too much proof of a connection between them. Sam wouldn’t be able to have as much fun as usual, at least until after he sterilized his footprint in her digital life.

 

He runs through the plan in his mind, like rehearsing lines for a play. A strange, sadistic play, the kind that fills his dreams and has its own specific music. Key under the doormat. Enter after midnight. It’s all mapped out, and he’s ready for this dark fantasy she’s given him the lead role.

 

He wonders what kind of woman can imagine something so intense and how far she’ll let him go. Sam remembers the last email she sent him, the rush of excitement when it flashed on the screen.