07. Strip Chess with Guapa - Sex Stories

07. Strip Chess with Guapa

... beside her. She seemed unconcerned, and broke off some bread. “How long were you together, are you not upset?” “Ha?” I felt an unravelling sensation. “You weren’t…” I didn’t know how to say it, for some reason I showed her crossed fingers. She frowned at me, then collapsed onto the table in laughter. I could get no sense from her. Yet again, I inwardly cursed Sara’s games. “Lovers? No!” she wiped an actual tear of laughter from her eye. “You are so funny. I am a photographer, not a lesbian, Senor Pussycat!” She threw me the envelope. Inside were artful black and white prints of Maria, naked, dramatically framed and lit, and all focussing on her pleasuring herself. “Maria is a model,” Guapa said, “Many people pay good money for these. You like them?” I cleared my throat, Guapa laughed again. “Ah, the English,” she said and took them off me, “How you ever make babies, ha?” Silence grew between us. Guapa watched me eat, fascinated, measuring me up, tapping her foot as if anxious for me to finish. Something didn’t make sense. “But hang on, I heard… noises. Both of you.” Guapa shrugged, leaned down and picked up a battered old wooden box. She swiped the breakfast aside, unconcerned with whether I was finished or not. “Sometimes, it gets too sexy, what can I say. I’m just human. Do you play chess?” Honestly, all I wanted, now, was to fuck Guapa right there on that massive alter of a table. Typical Sara. Far from setting me up with a nice comforting break, she saddles me with ...

... possibly the sexiest – and most highly sexed – woman in Europe. I agreed. “Wanna make it interesting?” she said, setting out the pieces. “I don’t have any money.” In my typical male way I was already plotting my opening move. “Me neither.” She shrugged. “We play for sex?” My brain stopped and she moved her first piece. “You lose a piece of chess, you lose a piece of clothes, yes?” I laughed and agreed, pointing out that I was dressed for work. Boots, trousers, shirt, hat, even a bloody toolbelt. Guapa had on some jean shorts and cotton top. “Me, eight pieces,” I said, “You maybe…” “Two. Or three–” she shrugged– “is okay. The idea is to get naked no?” In under a dozen moves, nearly all my clothes were in a pile beside me, and Guapa was sparkling as I hooked my thumbs in my underwear. She was a brilliant player, but what made her impossible to beat were the sly distractions while I was plotting my moves. The rules of the game seemed to forbid any touching or action unless in reaction to piece-taking or checking. Guapa, instead, would whisper things that went viral around my brain, clogging it up. “Did you like the pictures? I have others too, close-ups, like O’keefe’s beautiful flowers… Maria, she gets so open, down there, one time, I fit three fingers inside her, like this… Girls taste nicer than boys… Sometimes. I look at my pictures of you, when I please myself…” It is impossible to think rationally under that kind of pressure. “Come on El Gato , get it out!” she goaded as I ...