Wednesday, October 30, 2013

A Game for Kinky Geeks?

So I’m not a gamer. I have nothing against it—I have many gamer friends—it’s just never been my particular brand of geek. But, apparently, game developer Merritt Kopas created a game I just might have to check out, the Consensual Torture Simulator.

Yeah, yeah, I’m not the biggest fan of the name either. I think “consensual” and “torture”—and even to an extent “simulator”—have a lot of linguistic baggage attached to them. Particularly, in the gamer world. Put them all together and you get a verbal history that makes the kinky wordsmith in me more than a little queasy.

But bear with me.

The mindset this game seems to have—the aim and premise it promises to present—gives me hopeful pause. In this game, you play a top who’s about to have a romantic, loving, kinky night with your female partner. The night begins with cuddles and hugs and, most importantly and most romantically, upfront negotiations. Your character is given a wide array of choices—from activities, like spanking and slapping, to toys, like canes and floggers—to achieve the night’s goal, which is to make your bottom cry. There’s even a safeword, “tulip,” that’s given that your bottom will use if it gets to be too much. The game involves all the right stuff like check-ins and after care, all the things responsible kinksters employ and enjoy in real life. 

The thing that intrigues me about this game is that “there is an actual humanity to the game that is missing from mainstream porn (and dare I say it, many of those triple-A games that feature torture). As far as the game is concerned, you care about this person. They're not just someone you're screwing/hurting. You'll hug and giggle with them before anything starts. You'll comfort them after the beatings end. You may even soothe your girl mid-game.” So often, in media, kinksters are presented as less than human. We’re the crazy ex who was psycho nuts but a wild ride and one helluva one-up sex story. Or we’re the damaged victim who gets raped or abused because we got into stuff we shouldn’t have that needs to be saved or cured. Or we’re the dead body left humiliated and strung up like a cross between bad gallows humor and leftover holiday decorations in the middle of a crime scene.

Kopas created the game because she believes, rightly so, that “there are a lot of videogames about violence but not nearly enough about consensual forms of violence and non-normative forms of intimacy.” Kopas’s girlfriend and play partner goes on to say that “so much of the violence in videogames is not only nonconsensual, but also consequence-free, a power fantasy where the digital world has been designed to be permissive of your whims.” I really like that the game, according to Kopas, deals with the “special kind of vulnerability involved in asking someone to hurt you until you can't take it anymore, until whatever defenses you're still holding up and might not even know about crumble and you break down in hot, streaming tears. There's a lot of risk involved — and not just for the party on the receiving end.” And that “It was really important to me to portray the player character as a human being, not just a pain-dispensing robot.

However, there are a few things that still make me a little wary. Like how the game offers some options that aren’t mainstream or advisable within the kink world, like slapping and punching to sensitive and almost universally off-limits areas like the face and breastbone areas. And how, according to some players, it’s not as easy to check-in and to know your boundaries as they would like. Your bottom may look like she’s getting more and more exhausted and she will start to cry, but still won’t say her safeword.

A part of me, like the player, agrees that there is something very interesting about that—the vulnerability of the top, where you’re never sure if you’re going too far or not far enough. But, if actions that would cause a normal person—masochist or not—to safeword out don’t in the game, I think I’m still a bit troubled and on the fence about it. A lot of the game relies on the conscience of the player—whose storyline is based in love and care for their simulated partner. As Kopas says, “I won't pretend that the game is perfect in that respect, like, I'm putting some trust in the player not to just keep going as far as they can, because it's not a perfect simulation of course. 

I’d like to think that the people who play this game will take that into account and not gut-instinct back to the kind of programmed presentations of violence that this game seeks to challenge. But, without the knowledge of how to do responsible sensation-based S&M, I don’t know how well a likely vanilla, more mainstream player could be expected to do so.

But, overall, this game presents a side of kink and BDSM that isn’t seen nearly enough in media and is hopefully gaining a stronger voice in the mainstream. I think I just might have to check this ten-minute experience out. Consensual Torture Simulator is just $2 on Gumroad.

**For more kinky gaming fun, check out Riding the Iron Bull - Kink and Dragon Age: Inquisition

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

The Deviant Nerd – Conflicted About Kink Contracts

Conflicted About Kink Contracts
The Deviant Nerd
Brought to you by Tag Your It, come check out our vast array of custom collar and tag designs and let us prove that we’re the name in claiming.

Question: Hey Pip,

So last time you talked about a girl who’d signed a D/s contract and I know I’ve heard about them and NDAs in books and stuff. Do people really do that? And, if they do, how? How do you write one up? How do you get someone to sign one? How do you get out of one once you sign it?

 — How Do Contracts Work?


Pip: Hey Contracts,

So, personally, I’m not a huge fan of contracts. Because, in my experience, they don’t really work outside of fiction. In order to do kink—and do it effectively and safely—you have to have pretty much constant communication. You have to make sure that you’re both/all on the same page at all times.

It’s why there are so many ways to stop, slow, and alter a scene, from beginning to middle to end. Kinky checklists. Negotiations. Safewords. The Stop Light System. After care. These are all ways to make sure that a scene—and the relationship as a whole—goes well. For both/all parties.

It’s why even those that insist on signed contracts—and indeed some do—those contracts don’t actually mean all that much. They’re really more of a starting off place. A place to begin the much more complicated and much more involved and never-ending discussion of what you’re hoping to get out of this. A lot of times they’re either for people who are very much into old school protocol and traditions or for newbies, who may not have the knowledge, experience, confidence, or vocabulary to say exactly what they want and don’t.

In reality, contracts tend to end up broken. Either, the contract is held too rigidly and the partnership ends. Or the contract is flexible and then isn’t really needed anymore. Even those who insist on and maintain contracts will have negotiation clauses included in the original contract that allow modifications when necessary. 

Because they are always necessary.

Completely 100% followed-through contracts don’t really exist, any more than 24/7 kink relationships do. They are fantasy fodder for those who don’t have to worry about the everyday practicalities of maintaining a relationship with real people in the real world.

Because, think about it, even in a normal, vanilla relationship, are the things you wanted and agreed to at the start of it—from how often you see each other to how you have sex to how much you’re willing to fake interest in that that thing they obsess over—ever exactly the same things you wanted, agreed to, or got in the middle or the end of it? 

Relationships are fluid. They have to be or they fail. Kink relationships are no different.

And, as for non-disclosure agreements, I really, really don’t like those. First, depending on where you live—and the judge you get—these types of NDAs aren’t terribly binding. And for good reason. Were these NDAs truly legally binding, you are essentially signing away your right to alert authorities if something bad—like abuse or rape—happens. 

What’s worse is that, even though they aren’t legally worth the paper they’re written on, it can make an unknowledgeable, naïve person not report abuse or rape when it happens because their abuser has now added the existence of this agreement to the usual feelings of shame and worry involved in reporting. 

Agreements like this make victims feel like they’re responsible for their own abuse. That they agreed to it. That they caused it. That they asked for it. Naive bottoms are less likely to want to report and will feel like they can’t because they’ll think—utterly incorrectly—that they’ve signed away their right to.

Second, let’s say a very stupid, probably prejudiced judge actually does uphold such a flawed agreement, YOU ARE ESSENTIALLY SIGNING AWAY YOUR RIGHT TO ALERT AUTHORITIES IF SOMETHING BAD—LIKE ABUSE OR RAPE—HAPPENS. No one should be trying to get people to sign these agreements. Not for any reason. And, certainly, no one should be agreeing to sign these types of agreements. Not for ANY reason.

Third, kinksters have a personal responsibility to choose the people they play with well. If you’re so worried about whether the person you play with will use your play as blackmail later, you really shouldn't be playing with them in the first place. 

BDSM is all about trust. 

The relationships that are built in this world should have a solid foundation of trust. Without it, everything crumbles, if you’re lucky. It explodes horrifically, if you’re not. This is how rape and abuse—and erroneous charges of rape and abuse—happen. 

If you’re being responsible, you shouldn’t need these kind of agreements to bind you in the first place. Each other’s best interests should be always and already be at the heart of your relationship. 

If it’s not...what are you doing even thinking about playing with each other?

 — Pip, Your Resident Deviant Nerd

* If you have a sex, kink, love, or life question for The Deviant Nerd, email Pip at
And read more about Pips story in Brought to You By.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Play a Trick, Get a Treat - Part Two

Alter Ego - A Halloween Short Story - Part Two
Read Part One Here
So I wrote up Max's first BDSM experience and thought it would be fun to explore Show Me, Sir's costar's first foray into kink as well. So here it is. Hope you enjoy!

Ben had to blink for a moment, his brain adjusting to hearing the vaguely porno phrase outside the fantasy. It was weird. Even in the real world, the words sounded like fantasy. Scripted and a little stilted, she’d said them as if she didn’t really mean them.

He wondered what that meant.

Then she held out her hand to him, the gesture so much more convincing than the words.

His gaze swept over the long lengths of her legs, lifted and shaped by the tall heels on her feet, and up the swell of her slim hips. He swallowed hard at the way the tight vest clung to her waist, soft and sweetly curved, before framing—hugging—those breasts.

Meeting her pretty, blue eyes, he saw the briefest flicker in her gaze—a quick break in character. He reached out, that look making him take her hand. There was something so familiar in that look. An uncertainty that he knew well and wished she didn’t.

He watched that crack in her confidence close as her small hand gripped his, tugging him through the party crowd and up the stairs, and wondered why that would make him feel so much better. 

Ben swallowed hard as the scent of booze, sweat, and over-stimulation struck him. Seeking that surety again, he held tight to her hand and focused on the magician as she snaked her way through the space, sometimes seeming little more than an arm almost swallowed by the mob and a bouncing top hat.

They wove through congested hallways, squeezing tight to couples who’d congregated in and out and around the bedrooms. Some of the doors were wide open, revealing rooms overflowing with too many conversations and even more people. Some doors were shut, quiet dens—pockets of conspicuous silence—or muffled murmurs—music or moans—hidden behind the wood and walls.

They stopped in front of a door, shut and silent. Ben held his breath as she turned the knob. Letting his hand go, she stepped into the room, flicking on the light. She turned, a dramatic, almost dance-like pivot, with her hands spread in ta-da as she took off her hat in one smooth motion. Standing just inside its entrance, she looked at him, left lingering in the hallway. “Come in.” It was almost a command with just a trace of question touching the performance. 

He stepped into the room, the door shutting behind him. He gave a small laugh and shuffled a bit on her carpet as she reached into her hat. “Don’t tell me there’s a rabbit in there,” he said.

She pulled out a box of cards and waved them at him. “Much as I love a classic hat trick, pretty sure a bunny violates house rules,” she said as she sat down on one of the room’s beds.

“So you actually do magic?” he asked, a little impressed. He’d figured it was just a costume and a line.

“Of course,” she said, an obvious look on her face, as she gestured for him to join her on the crimson comforter covering her bed. “I told you, I’m a fan of magic.”

Ben looked around what he assumed was her half of the room as he sat down. Rawlings sat spine-bent and well-read next to Tolkien on her bedside. Tamora Pierce and Mercedes Lackey sat stacked on her shelves. Kelley Armstrong kept Kim Harrison company as their corners peeked out from under her bed. And strewn and stuck alongside all those were biographies of Houdini and David Copperfield and how-to books on classic illusions and close-up magic. They were everywhere, tucked away like treasures among her textbooks.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked, nodding to her as she shuffled the deck. “Do I pick a card, any card?”

“Mmm,” she said as she dealt out eight cards, four in front of him and four in front of her, “sort of.” With a flick of her hands, she shuffled the rest of the cards. “We’re going to play a game.”

A game? “Okay,” he said, even parts wary and intrigued. “What kind of game?”

She flipped the top card in the deck and flashed the eight of hearts. “Basic high card, low card,” she said. “Beat my card,” she said, flipping the next to reveal the jack of spades, “and I’ll take something off.”

He swallowed hard as his gaze shifted south. He liked those rules. “And if I don’t?” he asked.

“Then you do,” she answered simply.

That was a magic trick?

Looking at her, sitting cross-legged across from him, her soft thighs parted and her posture welcoming. 

Yeah, maybe it was a kind of magic. 

“Sure,” he agreed, shifting to mirror her position on the bed.

Together, they flipped over the cards—his outside left, her inside right. He smiled when his ten of diamonds beat her three of clubs. “So,” he said with a nonchalant cough, “do I get to say which article of clothing you take off?”

She pursed her pink, gloss-coated lips and tilted her head. “I’m willing to take suggestions,” she decided as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “So long as you take mine.”

Ben shrugged, figuring that was pretty win-win. 

Jutting his chin a bit, he looked her over. There was a strategy to this, he was sure. Did he go for the easy start, like her shoes or the bow tie, or did he dive right in? It felt creepy going right for a big ticket piece, like her vest or panties, first, but it also felt like lying to pretend like that wasn’t, in fact, exactly what he wanted. 

Besides, if he asked for something so exposing, what would she ask for in return? He shifted a bit. He wasn’t really all that comfortable naked. Didn’t really understand how anyone could be so casual about being so vulnerable and exposed like that. 

And, sure, it wasn’t like he hadn’t guessed—and, God, sincerely hoped—that that was where they were headed. 

It was just that…he could wait for a bit. Ease into it, really.

“Shoes,” he said hesitantly, almost as a question.

She nodded sagely, looking too much like a mind reader for his comfort. “Shoes, it is.”

Reaching beneath her bent thighs, she gripped the black pumps’ tall, thin stiletto heels in her hands and pulled the sleek shoes off. Bending low, she folded over herself so she could tuck them safely under her bed with her books. It really shouldn’t have, but watching her twist her legs around so she could rub the now bared soles of her feet in her hands, moaning softly as her fingers and palm pressed into her flesh, made his breath hitch. 

Which was weird. 

It was just her feet. 

Just shoes. 

Not anything particularly sexy to him. 

But there was something about the fact that she’d taken them off—bared herself—for him. Because of him. Because he’d asked her to.

“Go again?” she asked, her hand now traveling up her calf to rest on her knee.

He nodded as he reached for another card. He flipped over his inner left card—a seven of hearts—as she flipped over her outer right—an eight of diamonds.

Ben swallowed hard as he looked at the cards. Moment of truth, he supposed. “All right,” he said, wondering if she’d play fair. 

She bit her lip, tilting her head this way and that. “Shoes too, I suppose,” she said as he let out a relieved breath. 

Ben toed off his sneakers. Flexing his feet, the boy born and raised in a strictly Asian home actually felt much more comfortable without his shoes on her bed. His shoulders—that he hadn’t even known were so tense—relaxed as he rolled his neck a bit. “Keep going?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yeah,” she said as she flipped her outer left to show a queen of diamonds that beat his next card, the five of spades.

Her grin spread and her blue eyes glittered. He really ought to have seen it coming—and a part of him perhaps had. “I should be nice,” she told him, lifting her shoulder casually, “and ask for your socks or even your shirt.” She gave him a pointed look that made his body stiffen, anxiously but not unpleasantly. “But I’m not going to be,” she said plainly. She held out her hands. “Pants, please.”

Ben choked. His pants? They’d gone from shoes to pants? He could feel his face pale as his mouth slacked and his eyes bugged. His eyes flicked around the room and, while he knew it to be completely empty, he still felt put on the spot. Put on display. It was too well-lit in the small sorority house room. He could still hear strains of the party happening below and around them, thumping music that was more pounding beats than songs and discordant conversations layered on top of each other in a rumpus of sound that echoed in his ears.

“We can stop, if you want,” he distantly heard her voice say across from him. “Go back to the party.”

And, though it was completely illogical, a part of him was sure, as he listened to and imagined the goings-on below him, that the costumed revelers below were doing the same with him. Knew every play of their game. Eaves-dropping, hushed and hovering, as the magician stripped off her heels. Had snickered at him as he, so eager and sure of himself, shucked his own shoes.


He imagined those eyes and ears tuning in as his shaky hands fumbled for the button of his jeans. The sound of his own zipper sliding down ripped metallic and loud through his head. Reaching for the now loose waistband, he turned away from her—feeling too watched already without watching her watch him—and caught the bespectacled gaze of Harry Potter staring back at him from the glossy, brightly colored cover on her nightstand. Ben stared back through the wide, glassless frames of his own eyewear, not understanding why the plastic should feel so much heavier on his face as he looked at his costumed copy.

What would Harry Potter do?

The thought was as ridiculous as it was unavoidable. Made Ben smile a bit, really. What would Harry Potter do, if he ever found himself in this situation? If Ginny or Cho had ever played the Chocolate Frog trading card equivalent of “You Show Me Yours.”

Gryffindors were brave, adventurers and heroes at heart. Ben would’ve bet that Harry would never have backed down. Wouldn’t cower—or would at least stalwartly hide his hemming and hawing in some never outwardly seen inner monologue. He was the boy who lived! Wand at the ready, he could do anything.

Which sounded dirty, under these conditions. 

But, at any rate, Ben took a deep breath and turned back to his patient prestidigitator. Pushing up the plastic-rimmed glasses, he steadied himself and stood before shedding his jeans down with a quick shove.

For a moment, he felt silly. Stupid, really. Standing at the side of this beautiful girl’s bed with his pants around his ankles and his skinny, chicken legs sticking out. He felt like an idiot. A half-naked idiot. He shut his eyes and waited for her to just start laughing at him.

“So,” she asked, “you want to keep going?” 

He blinked and stared at her. Her blue eyes were looking up at him expectantly. Maybe even a little excitedly. She was having fun.

And why wouldn’t she?

This was her game, after all. She’d picked him. Brought him up here. Laid out her rules. She must have known what she was getting into. Must have chosen him for a reason.

“Why me?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to but now he couldn’t stop thinking it. He had to know. Out of all the guys who’d come to this party—all the frat guys and athletes and everyone—why had she settled on him?

She shrugged. “You like Harry Potter and Batman,” she said simply. 

Was that all it took? Really?

Well, why not? While very alluring, his Zatanna wasn’t really more attractive than the tens of sexy ghosts and witches and cats running around the party. Looking at her now, with her angular face and softer, fuller form, she was actually less conventionally attractive than the tall, slim flapper who’d written her number on is hand. 

So why had he gone with her?


He’d gone with her because she’d promised him magic. She’d looked past the fake glasses and faded T-shirt, straight through to his muggle heart, and spoke to that sci-fi/ fantasy fan who longed for something supernatural—something special. Who, from the time he’d read his first Spiderman comic, had been promised that there was something special in him.

And, skinny legs and a hermit personality or not, she’d seen that promise in him.

So, yeah, why not?

Ben sat back down. Together, they flipped over their last cards. And his king of spades beat her nine of hearts.

“My turn,” she said, a knowing look on her face. “What’ll it be?”

He looked at her, his Zatanna. Suddenly, he didn’t want her to take off her clothes. Didn’t want her to strip herself of her costume. Of her magic.

He could go for something simple, like her bow tie. But it was such a defining part of her costume; he couldn’t take it from her. He couldn’t go for her vest or bra or panties without making her strip off other pieces first. So, though a part of him hated to lose it, he said, “Coat.”

He watched her sit up a bit, tossing the fluttering coattails before rising to her knees. She grabbed the lapels and slipped it from her shoulders and down her arms, letting it fall like a curtain around her. Ever the performer, his Zatanna knew how to put on a show as she sat—almost preening—in front of him, her white vest brilliant against her pale skin.

She leaned forward with her hands planted between her parted thighs as she lowered herself down onto the duvet, her arms again framing her breasts and aiming his gaze down. 

With his gaze still lingering on that hidden space beyond her balled fists, he asked, “So what now?” They were all out of cards.

She crawled forward, those hands moving her forward and her breasts swinging full and weighty as she prowled over the downy plane. She smiled a cunning grin as she flipped his cards face-down again. “Now we go again,” she said.

“But we already know the cards,” he said. Without the element of surprise, didn’t that take all the fun out of the game?

“And you remember them?” she asked, skeptical as she turned her own cards.

He nodded. Sure. It was four cards. Eight, including hers. Even after a few drinks, of course, he could still remember eight cards.

She smirked. “Then this should be an easy win for you, shouldn’t it?” she concluded as she sat back on her haunches.

Good point. So he sat back and mentally went through all the cards. He knew his cards, definitely, and did know which cards she had and was almost certain he knew their order. 

“Ready?” she asked him, reaching for her inner left card—a nine of hearts. 

He felt a little bad—wondering if she knew that it was the last card she’d played and the easiest for him to remember—but not quite guilty enough not to play his ten of diamonds.

“Easy win, indeed,” she murmured as she sat back, looking at him—and not the cards—almost daringly. She fingered the lapel of her vest and gave him a questioning look. 

It was the logical choice, so he nodded as she thumbed the buttons open, each springing open to reveal more and more. Ben felt his mouth water as the bright white material parted. 

Underneath, she had on a black lace teddy that hugged and adored every curve. He’d thought that she was wearing a bra and panty set under her costume, but this was better. The thin, almost airy layer of lace both hid and displayed her, playing a teasing game with his head. 

The cups dipped in a low vee that barely contained her breasts, letting them spill, full and cream-colored, out a bit now that they were free from the constraints of the pearl white cloth. 

A sheer lace belt wrapped the dip of her waist, offering peeks of pale skin and accentuating the lush sway of that line. 

His gaze drank in the swell of her hips and belly, soft and sweet, following it down to where the lace fluttered playfully over her thighs.

The white, now discarded fabric puddled on top of her coat as she reached for her lowest card—a three of clubs. Another easy win. With confidence, he flipped over his five of spades, a low card, but high enough. Ben liked games and all, but he was done playing around.

“The teddy,” he said, without hesitation. As much as he liked it, he wanted to see her.

She took a deep breath, hesitation flickering a bit in her eyes. She shut her eyes and nodded, her shoulders squaring. “As you wish.”

He watched her peel the lace straps down her shoulders, the cups dipping with her movement. He held his breath as the soft, black material fell below her breasts—so lush and sweet—leaving her pretty pale pink nipples bare to his gaze. His hands fisted in her comforter as he held himself back from touching her, tasting her.
She tugged the teddy over the sweep of her hips, wiggling a bit as she freed it from her legs. God, he could smell her, hot and aroused. A rich warmth that filled his senses, at once comforting and exciting. And the sight of her, bare and so smooth—he had to hold himself back from touching her.

“Let’s go again,” he said, his hand already turning over his seven of hearts, anticipating her eight of diamonds. The room was too hot and, despite his usual modesty, he welcomed the loss of his shirt. 

She laughed as she turned over her card. “Last one,” she said as she moved on to her next card, turning it over to reveal the queen of diamonds.

Yes, it was. He didn’t even look at the card, knowing it to be the king of spades. “Bow tie,” he said, more than ready for her to be completely naked.

“Ah-ah,” she tutted, pointing down. “Not so fast.”

He looked down. He shook his head then looked down again.

A two of spades.


That wasn’t his card. He hadn’t had a two of spades. He looked down at his cards again. A ten, a seven, a five, and a two. No. He’d had a king. He knew he had. “You cheated,” he blurted out.

“Not cheating,” she said as she picked up her queen. She twirled it between her fingers with a quick flick, transforming it into a joker. “Magic.”

He pouted. He knew it was just a strip card game, but rules were rules and he should have won.

“Tell you what,” she said, reaching for her bow tie, “I’ll take it off if you do something for me.”

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“If you,” she said, pulling one of the ends and unraveling it into her hands, “put it on.”

Really? “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Okay.” Why not? 

He took the tie from her and began wrapping it around his neck.

“No,” she said, stopping him, “not like that.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly. What did she mean, not like that? “How do you want me to do it?” he asked, trying not to sound snide. Or feel ridiculous in just socks, briefs, an untied bow tie, and fake glasses, like some Hogwartian Chippendale dancer.

Crawling over the cards on the comforter, she pulled the tie from his loose grasp with a devious smile. She grabbed one of his wrists and wrapped one end of the cloth around it before twining it around the other. She then wrapped it around both. Tight. Before tying his hands together in front of him. “Yes,” she said, sitting back to review her handiwork, “something like that.”

Uh. He looked down at his bound hands, trying to decide if he was okay with this. On one hand, he wasn’t not okay with this. He pulled at the tie a little bit and was relatively certain that, with how short the cloth was, he could pull it apart with one strong pull. He wasn’t exactly trapped. Didn’t feel threatened or uncomfortable with it.

Beyond—well—he’d never done anything like this before. Wasn’t entirely sure he knew what to do or how to do.

At least, I don’t have to worry about what to do with my hands, he thought ruefully as he lifted them up to inspect the knot.

“Now,” she said as she sidled closer, dragging the corner of a card down his chest, “we’re ready for our next trick.”

“Which is?” he asked, his body stiffening as the card’s cardboard edge cut along the taut, sensitive skin of his stomach.

“My favorite,” she said with a dramatic tone, “show-stopping trick.” She tapped the the card over his hard-on, making him jump a bit. She flipped the card in her hand to reveal the queen of clubs. 

“This trick,” she said waving the card in front of him, “is called The Queen’s Club, which is based off of an old tale of an ancient princess.” She took the card and slid it up his right thigh and down the other, leaving a strange, shivery wake in the card’s path. “This princess lived in a very rich land with her dying father, who was determined to see her happily wed before he passed.” Reaching for each knee, she lay his legs flat in front of him on the mattress. “But the princess was stubborn, a little spoiled, and, most of all,” she said, kicking one leg over his, so she straddled his thighs, “very, very smart.”

Ben’s mouth went dry and slack as she settled over him, her naked pussy hovering hot and tempting so close to his own bare flesh. 

“So,” she continued, completely ignoring his intense stare, “liking her life just as it was, without a husband or lord to tell her what to do, she told her father that she would lock herself and her servants in her rooms, which for her had everything she could ever need, and any man who could find something she wanted that her rooms could not supply would earn the key and her heart.”

Ben fought the urge to squirm—to shift his hips up to touch his to hers. “Did anyone ever succeed?” he asked, concentrating on her words rather than her sweet scent, like warmth and woman and want.

“Well,” she said, tipping his chin up his chin up with the card, “let’s see.” She took hold of his hands and brought them down between their thighs. “It’s said that, if you can please the queen well enough,” she said, holding up the card in her hand, “the key will be revealed.” 

God, the soft, satiny skin slide of her slick sex against his hands as she settled on top of him was intoxicating. He watched her eyelids flutter a bit as she slid his fingers inside her pussy and purred, “So show me something, Magic Man.”

Then she bit the card, holding it tight in her teeth, as her hips swiveled a bit to adjust to his hands.

Please the queen, huh?

Ben cocked his head a bit. That—yeah, that—he could do. So he did. Leaning forward, he bent low to capture one taut, pink nipple in his mouth, his lips closing wetly around the hard flesh. He suckled her, licking and nipping and enjoying the lush texture of her against his tongue, as his fingers explored her. 

He noticed, as he slid his slick thumb up to stroke her clit in circles, that his magician liked a rougher touch, her moans growing into deep, desirous growls as his fingers pistoned within her. He triumphed at the throaty sounds that tore out from behind tensed teeth and the silken arousal that flowed from her and onto his fingers as her body pushed her hips down onto his hands only to lift her breasts up to meet his mouth.

Though the thick, lensless glasses hanging precariously askew on his face, Ben could see, could feel, her body thrust up and down—and up and down—over him, his mind memorizing her movements and imagining them within a myriad of other contexts. The sight, the sound, the scent of her arousal woke something within him, some sleeping beast inside that craved more of it. All of it. He wanted this moment to continue on. Forever, maybe. It would never be enough. There wasn’t enough pleasure in the world to sate the hunger now building within him. It was a hunger that, once fed, only grew. 

“Come on,” he murmured, feeling magic in those words, as he urged her on, seeing the tension in her body and the pleasure on her face build. “Come on.”

He could feel her reach for—would have sworn she could practically see it in her sightless, trance-like, lust-hazed gaze—her climax’s peak. His teeth sucked on her nipple deep in his mouth as he pushed his fingers as hard and deep inside her as he could. Her body pulled taut as a cry rang out in the room. 

Idly, Ben wondered what the soulful song sounded like on the other side of the wall. Wondered if her crescendo-ing cry would echo in concert to the party’s music. He imagined that every beat of her orgasm—that inviting clench that hugged his finger still buried hilt-deep in her warmth—would match the sorority’s soundtrack.

He saw her languidly lean back, reaching up to take the card from her mouth. He could see the tracks of her teeth, from where she’d bitten down on the laminated card. She turned it. He blinked at the ace of spades. Her ace in the hole. The key that would unlock everything.

She backed off a bit, reaching out to grab one end of the tie and unravelling it as she pulled. It wasn’t until she was leaning back over his knees, that he realized that—somehow—his briefs and socks were gone, leaving him as naked as she was. Which was strange as he couldn’t recall when or how they’d disappeared.

But what was puzzling him more was the crinkly, stiff feel between his wrists. Right where the tie had been. Separating his hands, he watched as a condom—foil-wrapped and ready—landed on his lap.

The key to everything you could ever need.

Ben shrugged as he picked the condom up off the mattress. It was one hell of a trick.

One he was determined to figure out.


He ripped the glasses from his face and threw them to the floor before tearing the wrapper open and rolling on the condom with precise and efficient moves. He grabbed her by the waist and flipped their positions. Free of the plastic frames, he looked down at her, more than a little amazed by his magician. She looked beautiful laid out beneath him. Her long, midnight strands flowing about her. Her face flushed and set in an eager expression. “Come on,” she dared, licking her lips. “Come on.”

Atop her, his arms and legs around her as the rest of his long form surrounded her, he leaned down to kiss her. She tasted like a sweet mix of liquor, soda, and seduction as he slipped himself inside her. He moaned against her mouth as her snug softness enveloped him, making his entire body heat. He thrust, wildly and almost helplessly, knowing that he wouldn’t last long and wishing he could care more than he did. But, like her before, he could almost see his peak, could feel it call to him. Tugging him toward it, headlong and uncontrollable. 

“Come on,” she panted again, thrusting just as franticly beneath him. “Come.”

And the words—like a spell or incantation—pulled his orgasm from him, letting it flow through him, into her. His long body stretched as he felt her arch against him, the sound of their lust loud in his head. 

For a moment, the world stilled, shrinking down to just him and her and the thundering beat of their bodies still entwined together.

Ben opened his eyes lazily as he carefully pulled himself from her. He sighed as he removed the condom, his body still sensitive. He settled down next to her on the mattress, feeling her hand on his chest as she curled her body around him, the labored rhythm of her breath soothing as she drifted into sleep. He looked down at her, trying not to move and wake her.

Early sunlight filtered in through the slit in her dorm room window to shine on her face.

It was strange.

In the morning light, she looked different. Her skin—that had seemed flawless and fresh in the night—was streaked with fading makeup that now strayed and stained skin it’d bled into. Even her hair, that had flowed so beautifully over her shoulders and around her face, now seemed crooked and a little off. Ben spotted wisps of blond peeking out along the hairline of the now obviously synthetic, black strands.

She looked younger in this light. His lips, now slightly chapped with her lipstick all but licked and kissed off, parted on a snuffling yawn. There was something youthful about her, snuggled up tight on her bed, like a child playing dress up.

It was a trick of the light.

It was identity alchemy.

With a little makeup and a wig,” she’d told him, “you can step out of your life and into one of your own imagining. With just a wardrobe change, it’s like being given license to do all the things you normally wouldn’t.”

It was magic.

He leaned back against her headboard and looked at the palm of his hand. In red ink, it read 896-3360.

Ben had a head for numbers. For remembering things like that. And those were not the numbers the Speakeasy flapper had left on his hand. 

With a smile, he let his mind center on those numbers—committing them like an enchantment to memory—before letting his own dreams drift over him.

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Play a Trick, Get a Treat - Part One

Alter Ego - A Halloween Short Story - Part One
So I wrote up Max's first BDSM experience and thought it would be fun to explore Show Me, Sir's costar's first foray into kink as well. So here it is. Hope you enjoy

Ben Hayato didn’t get Halloween. Having grown up in a very conservative, very traditional Japanese neighborhood, he hadn’t really celebrated it as a child. Had usually spent October thirty-firsts studying, not trick-or-treating.

“It’s fun,” his roommate, Peter Richards, insisted, futzing with the whip on his hip as they pushed their way through the overstuffed, past-capacity sorority house party. 

Ben eyed his friend who was gotten up as Indiana Jones. “Aren’t we a little old to be dressing up in costumes?” 

As it was, the best Ben could come up with—would put up with—was a Gryffindor T-shirt and a pair of thick, plastic Harry Potter glasses that he’d gotten for free with the book at the last novel-release. He fiddled with the fake, glass-less spectacles. Made for someone else’s face, the glasses pinched him, cutting off his periphery vision and tilting strangely on his angled face with every word.

“It’s not about us wearing costumes,” Peter insisted as they shouldered their way into the living room, pushing past a chainsaw killer and a unicorn. “It’s about the costumes everyone else wears.”

What did that even mean? 

“Excuse us,” two girls dressed up in black lace lingerie and witches’ hats said, sidestepping them. Ben hissed as the crowd pressed one of the witches flush up against him, her small, firm breasts thrust up into his chest.

Ah. Okay. He understood that.

He re-adjusted the glasses as he watched the two giggling girls disappear into the throng. “So this is just an excuse for girls to wear socially unacceptable clothing in the guise of costumes?” Ben asked, looking around the room spotting a sexy nurse, a sexy paratrooper, a sexy umpire, and even a sexy headless corpse. All more scraps of lace and lycra than actual clothes. All more skin and body paint than cloth.

“Get in the spirit,” Peter urged, smacking him in the shoulder, sending his now righted specks askew again. 

Peter sighed and gripped Ben’s shoulders. “Just,” he said, shaking him a bit, “have fun.”

Peter was a personable guy. A computer science major, he supplemented his own scholarships and grants by fixing and upgrading other students’ computers and gadgets, often on the cheap and with a blind eye to niggling legalities. While no quarterback or valedictorian, he was well-known and well-liked among the student body. Hence his invitation to this hedonistic bash.

Ben had grown to respect and admire—even envy—him that. Not much for going out, it was harder for Ben to network and mingle alone in his room with a book. It was a skill he’d never really mastered. He tended to shy away from people, which tended to make people shy away from him. It was an invisibility that was far more convincing than the sexy ghost flashing thigh as she tipsily collapsed on Peter’s lap.

“Do you remember me?” the girl asked Peter, wrapping her arms around his neck as she stared into his eyes.

Peter looked her up and down. “Sure do,” he assured. “You wanted to lift a copy of a design program your friend had on her computer. Couldn’t do it, but I did find you a comparable program for free.”

“Do you remember my name?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Peter gave her a sheepish yet charming grin. “You could remind me.”

“Or,” she said with a mischievous smile, “we could go upstairs where you’ll get three tries to guess my name.”

“What do I get if I guess correctly?” Peter asked with a game grin.

“Me,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“And if I don’t?” Peter asked, obviously intrigued.

She leaned in, wriggling on his lap, as she whispered in his ear.

Ben’s friend’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s not really much incentive to get it right,” he murmured hotly as his grip on the girl tightened.

The ghost simply tipped her head knowingly.

“Uh,” Peter said as he turned to Ben. “You gonna be okay here?”

Ben just smiled ruefully. “Go.” It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle a party by himself.

And, even if he couldn’t, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t make his way back to the dorms on his own.

He watched as Peter left, trailing behind the wisps of greyish white strips barely covering the girl. 

For a long moment, Ben just sat on the couch, listening to the many conversations going on around him. Sometimes, he would meet the gaze of someone at the party—maybe even try to join in on a group—but, after a few awkward attempts, he got up. 

He pushed his way through the crowd of people, thinking it odd and illogical that he should feel more alone in the thick of the loud, boisterous crowd than he ever did in the quiet of his room.

He made his way to the food table, picking at odds and ends he found there. A handful of grapes. A couple of crackers. A bite of cheese. Nibbling at a frosted pumpkin-shaped cookie, he stared at the many bottles and jugs sitting at the far end of the table.

He watched as people poured drinks. Rum and Cokes—one-third rum, two-thirds Coke. A lemon drop—one-half vodka, one-half lemon juice, sugar, and stir. He listened as partygoers mixed drinks with crazy names like “Salty Dog”—five parts grapefruit juice, one part gin, add salt and pour over ice—and “Four Horsemen”—one part tequila, one part Jäger, one part peppermint liqueur, and one part rum.

It seemed easy enough. Ben got out two glasses. In one, he poured small sips of random drinks to taste before discarding the bottles or pouring measured amounts into the second glass. Working his way around the table, he sipped and mixed his way into what he thought was the perfect drink. He took a sip of the concoction and smiled. It was delicious even as it spread a satisfying, glowing warmth through him.

“What is that?” a beautiful magician in coattails and a towering top hat asked him as she eyed his glass curiously.

Ben shrugged. “A Lazarus Pit,” he told the done-up Zatanna, his mind flicking back to the Batman comics he kept in his basement. Wrong character, he knew, but it was the best he could think of, at the moment.

The superhero magician smiled, dimples forming in her stunning, show-ready face. “Can I try it?” she asked, gesturing for the glass. As if the words were some kind of spell, he relinquished it to her, marveled and a little anxious as she put the plastic cup to her pursed, pink mouth. Licking her lips, she moaned. “That’s amazing.” Tapping a fairy on her glittered shoulder, the illusionist said, “You have to try this.” 

Passing the glass, Ben watched with amazement as more girls sipped this drink like an odd, profane communion. He swallowed, a bit panicked, as a chorus of “Make me one” rung out.

“Uh, sure,” he said, uneasily, as he grabbed a stack full of glasses. 

For the fairy, he made a “Stardust”—two parts citrus soda, one part peach Schnapps and a splash of sour apple liqueur. A sexy caveman couple got “Stone Throws” with hard cider and beer. He made a “Speakeasy”—three parts Guinness, one part whiskey, with a guzzle of coffee liqueur—for a flapper girl who’d drawn a lightning bolt on his forehead with a red ballpoint pen, along with her phone number—896-7853—on the back of his hand.

People kept coming, acting as if he knew what he was doing. So he kept doling out drinks, pretending that he did. It got easier as he went along; remembering the taste and mix of drinks. Vodka’s sharp bite. The smooth burn of rum. The bold richness of Jägermeister. He learned that citrus could bring out the crisp taste of the lighter beers. And, while the darker stouts reminded him of the bitter taste of coffee, he didn’t much care for them once they went warm.

By the time the crowd cleared, Ben had all but exhausted the combinations of drinks. Feeling flush with accomplishment and the alcohol’s warm, soothing effect, he mixed himself a little something. See, he thought as he took another deep and satisfied sip, this socializing thing wasn’t all that hard. He didn’t need Peter to have a good time. He’d done just fine on his own.

Ben turned, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, just in time to avoid the crowd of conga-ing costumers gyrating to some oddly mixed song that sounded strangely like French reggae. Stumbling a bit as a few of the line’s more enthusiastic—if not most coordinated—members bumped into him, Ben felt a pair of hands cup his, steadying him and his now sloshing glass.


He secured his grip on his glass as he looked up to see the costumed Zatanna in front of him, her blue eyes smiling—maybe even laughing—at him. The curve of her darkly painted lips seemed somewhere between a smirk and an invitation. Ben pondered which it could be even as his gaze slipped south, idly tracing the deep vee of her pearl white vest that—while not exactly canon-accurate—lay tantalizingly tight over black lace-covered breasts.

“Mix me something, Potion Master?” she asked, calling his gaze back up to her grinning face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled over the loud, culturally eclectic music, blushing at how he’d been caught ogling, as he set his glass aside and wiped his wet hand against his jeans. Maybe that was enough tonight.

She just continued smiling, seeming oddly and mysteriously omniscient. “Make me a drink?” 

“Uh, sure,” he said, flustered by that gaze. Not knowing what else to do, he turned to start mixing again. His neck prickled as he felt her watch him, her gaze assessing while he grabbed and combined this and that. At first, he thought that she was judging the drink but, the more he mixed, he didn’t think so. 

She was watching him. Not his hands, as the others had, trying to figure out formulas and recipes. She was watching him. The whole of him. And waiting. For something. Something Ben couldn’t even begin to guess at. 

It was as if she knew him. As if, with so much familiarity from her, he really ought to know her. 

But he didn’t think he did. 

He was sure he would remember a girl like her. With clever, blue eyes that shone sharply with thoughts he could see but not decipher. Like him, she had a very angular face, sculpted in shapes that should have seemed wrong but somehow, together, were stunning and foreign. Riding that line between gaunt and gorgeous, the sharp planes of her nose and cheeks, her brow and chin, were as alien as they were alluring. 

Long, dark curls framed her face and flowed down her back and over her shoulders, caressing her body as she leaned against the counter. 

Though he tried—so very hard—not to, his eyes kept drifting to her breasts that were now propped up on her forearms as she rested against the back of a chair. He wondered if she’d done that on purpose. If her arms, that encased and displayed, were a deliberate attempt to draw his gaze down. Judging by her knowing grin, he thought yes.

“Ben,” she said, tilting her head as he handed her the drink concoction—some grab-bag of booze that he couldn’t have recreated to save his life, “right?”

He looked up a little sheepishly. 

So she did know him.

He nodded, unsure if it were ruder to ask for her name now or pretend like he knew it. Not much for names, he didn’t normally pay much attention, if he could help it. He always figured that sort of thing tended to work itself out in the normal run of things, linking memory and importance in a completely organic way. 

And, looking her over again—Ben was almost sure—if he’d once known this girl’s name, he would have made a point of remembering it.

“Halloween is the best time of year, isn’t it?” the magician continued, leaning a bit more forward on the chair to reveal the deep vee of her cleavage.

Those pale, round breasts were beautiful, rising—just a bit—with every breath as they pushed against the tight fabric of her vest. He knew it was rude to stare but, try as he might, he couldn’t look at her without staring. “Sure,” he said on a deep swallow as he forced his gaze to focus on hers.

“There’s magic in the air this time of year,” she said breezily, even while studying him as if she could read his every thought, as if she could witch out exactly where his mind had drifted. “One night a year, we all get a chance to be someone else. To be something else.”

Ben thought about that. About the magic in not being yourself.

Except he liked himself. 

He was honors pre-law at the college of his choice. He’d been on the Dean’s List every semester. He was a National Merit Scholarship Winner, a National Collegiate Scholar, and the youngest member of an elite study group for law students. 

He was on track. He’d been preparing for this, working his ass off, for as long as he could remember. Why would he want to give that up, even if just for one night? 

“With a little makeup and a wig,” she mused, “you can step out of your life and into one of your own imagining. With just a wardrobe change, it’s like being given license to do all the things you normally wouldn’t. It’s like identity alchemy.”

Ben nodded and shrugged, not really sure what to say. To be honest, Ben hadn’t had all that much experience with girls outside a classroom. Mostly fumbled fits made in library reading nooks or someone’s dorm room bunk bed. And, while he’d certainly enjoyed himself and—God, he hoped—they’d enjoyed themselves, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d even know what to do with a girl like the magician, who was almost too pretty to look at, much less touch.

“You just can’t beat that,” she sighed almost wistfully.

Not that he was planning to touch her or anything. Hoping, sure. Fantasizing, oh yeah. But she’d only asked him to make her a drink. She was a sorority sorceress and he was a Potterhead in an unwashed T-shirt; he couldn’t even imagine what she would want with him beyond a little bartending.

He watched as she tipped the red solo cup back, draining the “Felix Felicis” in one long drink. Even over the party’s strange soundtrack of German punk rock, he heard the definitive crunch of the cup’s plastic as she all but slammed it back on the table. “I want to show you something,” she told him, her face a bit tight but determined. “Upstairs.”

He blinked. Upstairs? “What?” he asked blankly, sure he’d heard her wrong.

“Magic,” she told him, answering a question he hadn’t actually asked but was pretty sure he liked the answer to. “I want to show you some magic.” 

Read Part Two Here