Make Your Move

Flash Fiction Friday

Key Word = Stratagem
Word Length = 700
Forbidden Words = Spy, Tuxedo
Bonus Points – Quote your favorite line (and link to the source in case we don’t know it) 

Okay, so I just want to open with a disclaimer.  I went WAY over the limit here.  But, as usual, I just take the prompt and run with it...then I go back and eliminate whatever I can.  For this story, I just couldn't cut anything, without damaging the plot or the characters.  So....it is what it is.  Once again...spank me if you see fit.  I'm cool with that.

"Are you sure you  want to do that?"  He raised his eyebrow as she moved her bishop forward.

"Why?  Do you see something I don't?"  she asked.

"Not necessarily.  But, once you make your move, you're committed.  I just want you to be sure."

She smiled at him from across the mahogany table, so polished she could see her naked reflection in the surface.  "Oh, I'm sure.  And I'm very committed to my decision."

"Good girl."  He took a long sip from his martini, swirled the olive, and set the glass back on the coaster.  "You know, it wasn't so long ago I taught you how to play this game.  You've become very skilled and quite sure of yourself.  I like to see that in you.  Self-confidence becomes you."

"I should get dressed.  We've been talking too long, and our guests are waiting."  She moved to leave her chair, but his quiet 'tsk tsk' made her stop dead.

"May I get dressed, Sir?"  She almost rolled her eyes, but thought better of it and lowered them instead.

"You may...."

She put out one leg and touched her bare toes to the black tile floor before he continued.

"....After you ask to leave your chair, like the good little whore that you know how to be.  You seem to have forgotten your place, my little minx."

She pulled her leg back in, and glanced up at him, seeing his lips pursed in disappointment at her forgetfulness.

"But, Sir, I'm just a bit outside of myself today..."

"Shhhh...for someone who believes we've been talking too much, you should be the first to refrain.  According to Harold Pinter, 'One way of looking at speech is to say it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness.'.  You wouldn't want to do that would you, pet?"

"Of course not, Sir."

He stood up and came to her side of the table, offering her his hand.  She took it, and he pulled her to a standing position, so close to him her nipples rubbed up against the stiff wool of his black suit.  He took both her wrists in one hand, holding them above her head to the point she was forced to stand on tip toe.  He placed his other hand between her legs, running his fingers along her slit to check her wetness.

"That's lovely."  He fingers to his nose, inhaled, and then licked them seductively.

"You're very ready, my dear.  Run along now, and dress in haste.  Just the gown, and nothing else."  He let her arms free and smacked her bottom hard as she hurried away to the dressing room.

A few minutes later, she returned, in nothing but a simple, white satin, form-fitting gown that dipped below her waist in the back.  He was sitting in a large, high-backed leather chair, still nursing his cocktail.

"Shall I put my hair up, Sir?"

"No.  Leave it down.  I like it that way."

Pulling up her gown in the front so she could make her way forward and kneel between his legs, she looked up at him, adoration in her light gray eyes.

"This is everything I've ever wanted, Sir.  I want you to know that before we go down."

"I know, pet.  I know you better than you know yourself."

"Precisely, Sir.  That's why this is happening."

"No...this is happening because I need you as much as you need me."  She leaned her face into his palm, where he cradled it.

"There's a present for you on the bed."  Her eyes lit up with his words, and she nearly leapt to her feet in excitement before she caught herself and requested permission to rush across the room to open it.

"Please...open it.  I hope you like it."

She raced to the bed, taking the package in her shaking hands, undid the ribbon and ripped the white paper from the box.  Inside, she found a pair of the most decadent shoes.  Turning to him, her face lit up like a child on Christmas day, her eyes welled up with tears.

"They're perfect!"

"I know," he smiled provocatively, "Put them on."

She sat on the edge of the bed, and put the shoes on as quickly as she could.

"Now, lean back on the bed and put your legs up, ankles together."

She did as she was commanded, legs up, exposing her bareness under the gown.

He walked over to the bed and began to tie a white ribbon around her ankles, knotting it tightly and securely in a way that would only allow her the most petite strides without tripping.

"Now stand, pet.  Take my arm.  They're waiting."

She looked up at him, as she took her tiny steps quickly to keep up with him, struggling not to falter or seem anything but graceful at his side.  She took the stairs with careful attention.  And as she met the eyes of the people below, gazing up at her, the music began.  Her mother, at the front of the room beside the officiant, was already in tears.

She leaned on him, relying on him for balance.  But that was the point, wasn't it?  As long as she let him guide her, she would never fall.