0 comments/ 25154 views/ 0 favorites Frozen Assets Ch. 1 By: Nickton NOT long now. I check my Rolex again, the small in-built light illuminating the watch face. It's dark in the closet, the wooden slats of the door providing only a little natural light. The small stool is hard, my buttocks are numb and my back aches. I'm not claustrophobic, but I've had enough of this enclosed space, with all its cleaning implements, packing cases and a box of garish Christmas decorations. There's even a doll, with plaited woollen hair – one of hers, naturally – peeking out at me from the top of one of the packing cases. Not her favourite toy, but one with enough sentimental value to be kept, although packed away until there are more spacious quarters for it to adorn some shelf or wardrobe top. The doll's fabric smile leers at me, and I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable under its felt-eyed gaze. Despite my essential calmness and patience, I reach out, more for want of something to do than anything else and adjust the doll's position in the box so that it stares at the dark closet ceiling instead. Not too long until we move to a new flat, or, better still a house. True, property prices are booming – 'rocketing' is the current parlance - but we should make a steal on this place. Who'd have thought a grotty East End tenement could one day be desirable property? I stifle a yawn and peer through the slats again. She's late, that's for sure, but the traffic over to the East of the City can be pretty horrendous this time of day. It'll be okay once they finish that light railway link they're working on. I stand up in the cramped confines of the closet and stretch – got to keep the muscles toned for what's coming soon. If you play The Game you have to be fit. She's fit, that's for sure. In the odd hours when she's not working, she's down the gym, toning, honing and making herself look even more attractive than she already is. In fact, in the past eighteen months that we've been together, since our memorable meeting, she's bloomed – physically, professionally and, crucially – sexually. The Game has been good for both of us, our natural affection and love for each other not stifled by the strictures of our amusement, but enhanced by it. It seems that the more we play out the fantasy, the stronger the 'real life' love becomes. See, I'd failed to understand that part of The Game, even though I had a good teacher myself, many years before. It's not just about total dominance and submission between the two players. Sure, anyone can play at that, and there's plenty of women I've known who have played. The crucial, underlying trick, the very essence of the fun is that the players really abide by it. We both play hard – she plays hard to lose by resistance, thus enhancing her pleasure at the point of total submission a hundredfold. I play to win, the struggle to make her capitulate enhancing my own enjoyment. We grow with it. We become closer with it. The trick, as I may have mentioned before, is to play it with style. A metallic clicking sound draws my attention back to the matters at hand. A key in the front door lock – her key. She's home! I poise myself at the closet door, but keeping far enough back not to betray my presence by breathing too heavily or jogging the door open. Timing is crucial, all part of the approach. Style again, you see? I adjust the ring modulator on my throat. Neat little device this, pretty high-tech. A small part-payment in lieu of owed cash by a grateful client. Apparently they use these in big Hollywood films. This guy – decent enough New Yorker – has some contacts in the movie world. Must be a pretty good judge of character if he thought I'd want to disguise my voice for any occasion. He's probably thinking in terms of business deals over the phone. I'm thinking in terms of seizure. The front door opens onto the darkened hall, light from the landing illuminating the passageway. She's silhouetted against the light, the outline of her hair, her long coat, and briefcase in hand clearly visible. By her very posture – even though it's upright and business-like as she always is, betrays her fatigue at the end of a long day. I fancy it also betrays her sexual frustration, making her keyed-up, receptive to what I have planned. I never actually let on to her, of course, but my bouts of 'tiredness' due to overwork are all part of the preparation for the next game. I'm just as frustrated as she is, but I need that keen edge to perpetrate the whole thing. She needs the edge to fully appreciate it and to even resist it. Two weeks can be a bloody long time without making love or just plain old raw sex. Thing is, you have to suffer for your art if you want to play The Game. She steps inside, putting her briefcase down and fumbles for the light switch. I hear her audible curse as she realises – or thinks anyway – that the hall light has blown. I've jut simply loosened the bulb. She shrugs her tan coat off and hangs it up, leaving the hall door open to illuminate the passageway. She adjusts her tight dark jacket, but leaves it on, so we'll have to do something about that quite quickly. As she turns to close the hall door, the landing light illuminates her face into pure alabaster, her hair, tied back in a neat arrangement, with little wisps down her cheeks almost golden, despite its natural reddish-brown hue. Her white open necked blouse stands out starkly, combining with the tight jacket to show her shapely breasts, her two slim gold necklaces glinting above her cleavage. She is every inch the efficient businesswoman, but she betrays enough of her natural sexuality to give her that commanding edge in negotiations with clients and in meetings with fellow employees. In fact, she can use this sexuality to intimidate and disarm both males and females alike, without losing sight of the fact that she has a sharp business mind and a real killer instinct for business. The other women are either bimbos or too male in their approach. They haven't learnt the strength of female vulnerability and the strength that it imbues. That's because they don't play, and they don't have her style. She slips off her heeled shoes, obviously grateful for the cool, soft relief of the wooden flooring. I smile to myself. You want cool? She picks up her briefcase – more work to check at home, no doubt, but not tonight, although she doesn't know that yet – and she pads down the hallway towards the living room. Timing, timing…. She passes the closet. I swiftly, but quietly swing the door open and pull it back… she's almost at the living room door now, free hand outstretched for the handle, not able to see because of the dark passageway and only a small sliver of light from under the door. She won't think I'm in there – I'm at a late meeting, or so she thinks. The light is simply the timer having switched one of the living room lights on to deter burglars. I launch myself forward, moving lightly on my feet, but even so a floorboard squeaks in protest. She's quick – she hears me approaching, but she's not quick enough to prevent me grabbing her in an arm lock around her throat and yanking her free arm behind her and pinning it up her back. She tries to scream, but her breath is choked off, she drops the briefcase and tries to struggle ineffectually. The voice modulator does its nifty business – and even surprises me – as a guttural voice issues from my lips and growls into her ear: "Don't move, bitch!" Oh, she's feisty, she's strong. She struggles, she tries to elbow me with her free arm, lashes out behind with her feet, trying to catch me a high back-heel into the gonads, but I have my legs spread apart and I'm slightly sideways on to her. Her elbow does connect with me, but not in my stomach, instead jarring painfully for her – and me – on my hip. I increase my grip round her throat – not to hurt her particularly, but to reduce the oxygen to her brain, slow her down. It seems to work and I growl again: "Don't move or I'll break your fucking neck! You understand? Don't move!" Whether she knows it's me, I'm not sure. If she does, she's playing hard and fast, resisting me like she always does. If not, she's still putting up a hell of a fight, but she's not stupid. She knows she can only resist effectively if she's conscious. She grabs onto my gripping arm and tries to pull it away from her throat a little. The urgency of her movement and the fact that her hand is slipping off the sleeve of my leather jacket indicates that she's finding it hard to focus and co-ordinate. I relax my grip a little and she gasps, gulping in air, and nodding vigorously. "Y-Yes," she wheezes, "I understand. I understand." No pleading, no protestation at her treatment. A lesser assailant, someone with no finesse or foresight would think that she was giving up, a frightened female who'll comply. You want money? Take it. You want my body? Please don't hurt me. Not this one. Not my one. She is still resisting and she's still playing hardball. Don't let your guard slip, I tell myself. We've played often enough to know. Probably my voice is confusing her, but I'm sure she knows the feel of my grip, even if I am wearing an unfamiliar leather jacket, bought second hand and suitably distressed earlier this very afternoon. Even an unfamiliar, cheap aftershave splashed liberally over my uncharacteristically rough, stubbly cheeks - which are now scratching her own soft cheeks and neck with as I hiss in her ear - might not fully fool and disorientate her. A real woman knows intimately the feel and even presence of her partner. That's The Game for you – it really does bring you closer together. I could have refined the seizure better, but I'd spent more time and trouble on the preparations for the main event after she'd left for work that morning. So my key element of advantage here is speed. I slam her against the living room door, swiftly yank the door handle down and kick the door open, the sudden light from the room dazzling her. And no wonder – never mind the timer switch and the usual lamp, I'd changed all the bulbs in the main ceiling arrangement and the spots around the room for stronger wattage earlier on. The effect is quite dazzling. The difference is, I'm prepared for it, she isn't. Using my shoulder I push her into the room, which is also causing her some disorientation, because I've shifted all the furniture away from the centre of the polished wooden floor, leaving a large, bare area. Bare that is, save for one dining chair, dead centre, ready for its special occupant. I release my grip on her throat fully and reach round her quickly, whilst she is still slightly groggy, dazzled and disorientated and grab the lapels of her tight jacket. It takes two savage wrenches to rip it open fully, the buttons clattering loudly across the wooden floor, wrenching it down her shoulders and arms before she can react. Her arms now freed, she tries to flail out at me, almost turns, almost sees my face. That would spoil the illusion totally. I had been wearing a balaclava helmet with an eye-slit cut out, but it was far too warm to wear whilst lying in wait and anyway, it's a bit passé to say the least. No, my disguise is speed and a trusty blindfold, which will soon come into play. I grab her arms and pinion them tightly behind her back, causing her to grunt with pain – no screams though – and I catch sight of her blouse tightening across her full breasts, the outline of her lacy bra clearly visible and, I smile as I notice this – her rapidly hardening nipples. Oh yes, fear may play a part, but she's excited already. I manhandle her across to the chair and slam her down into it, wrenching her arms painfully around the chair. Now she yelps and swears at me. I yank her hair hard, jerking her head up, but stepping away enough so that she cannot see my face. The hair clip falls away, releasing her long hair to fall around her shoulders. First the jacket, now the hair – her badges of authority, her essential barriers to femininity are being stripped away again. Aware of this she bucks and flails, Should I reach for the knife in my pocket to hold it across her throat to quieten her, to warn her? Or should this just be strength – of body, voice and surprise? The ropes are already there, looped onto the chair. I push her delicate wrists into the loops and pull the ropes tight, pinning her arms in place. This is where preparation comes to the fore again. Another rope attached to the loops reinforces their grip as I pull it tight, her arms now completely immobile. She tries to buck the chair backwards as I bend down to grab first one ankle and then the other, to force her legs down into the prepared rope loops on the chair legs. What she hasn't banked on is a clever little addition to the chair legs themselves – footplates that are now securely fastened to the floor by thick screws, thus holding the chair fast in place. Oh yes, I've been busy all right today – and it's been worth the time and money. After all, as I might have said before, if you're going to play, you've got to play with style. Now she's held firmly in place and she still can't see me behind her, it's time for the blindfold. I reach into my pocket and pull out the long piece of black velvet. Totally impossible to see through – tested it myself. Possibly some sort of adhesive tape would be even better but today's game is all about the pain caused by pleasure, not pain for its own sake, and adhesive tape would surely cause her pain. It might also lose its adhesive glue later on. I slip the blindfold over her head and tie it tightly, holding her long hair in place. She's breathing heavily, her breasts rising and falling, but she's trying had to keep a lid on it all, to keep control. I'm certain she's playing, rather than panicking – if this was for real, her assailant would have a real task on his hands, but then again, he'd not have got this far. Nor would I if I hadn't planned and played to win. So now she's sitting there, held fast, her only real freedom of movement being her head. Now I can cross round in front of her and attend to the other 'props' that need to come into play. I watch her forehead wrinkling in concentration as she hears me moving the four portable heaters into place. Two electric bar fires, two fan heaters, all brought within a few feet of her and angled up to provide the maximum output of heat in her direction. She may be grateful for the blindfold now that it's cut out the harsh glare of the lights overhead, but she's already noticed the extra heat they throw off, and already I can see pinpoints of perspiration on her forehead and upper chest, visible through her open-necked blouse. I smile and switch the fires and fan heaters on. She hears the light whirr of the fan heaters, feels the hot air being blown in her direction, as well as the more prickly, insidious heat from the electric bar fires. "What's going on? What are you doing?" she demands, managing with admirable control to keep her voice steady and firm. Years of practice at business meetings, honed by game playing – a steady and firm resolve, but she'll soon crack as easily as her voice will. Those barriers will come crumbling down in no time. In fact – I chuckle as I think this – they'll not so much crumble as melt. "Never you mind, Sweetie," I murmur, still in the harsh, modulated voice. "Don't go anywhere – I'll be back soon." I chuckle and pat her cheek lightly, causing her to flinch her head away. There's far more packed into that flinch than words will ever say. Body language is a powerful thing. Yes, there's the element of fear, but that's possibly tempered by the fact that she's pretty certain it's me doing this to her. Who'd bother with all the props and paraphernalia otherwise? But no, the essential emotions contained in that small movement are anger, hatred and – yes – lust. Anger because she's been caught so easily, hatred mainly directed towards herself because she's willing herself to be strong, not a shrinking little girlie (even if she is in her mid-20s now). As for the lust – just a hint of that at the moment – because of the ropes securely binding her, the loss of part of her protective barriers and even the thrill and anticipation of what's to come – but she's not going to let it come just like that. I've got to fight her for it, wear her down, and unlock her raw femininity. But that's okay, I've got time. I can wait. I saunter off across the wide, open floor towards the kitchen, checking that all the vertical blinds at the big apartment windows are firmly secured against the blackness of the night and the twinkle of lights from the city and other apartments. Privacy is most certainly valued by this yuppie couple. I pull the kitchen door ajar behind me, so I can still see her, sat in the spotlights, with the heaters blasting their fiery breath towards her. Personally, I'm grateful for the cool of the kitchen and the bottle of fizzy mineral water I take from the well-stocked fridge. I pull off the tight voice modulator and gulp down the cool, refreshing liquid, soothing my parched throat. Boy, it's hot in that room! I mean, it may be a chilly November day outside, but no one likes to get too hot when they come home out of the crisp air. And what with the central heating being switched on too…. I sit at the pine table, sipping my mineral water, poring over some business papers I'd left in the kitchen as essential reading matter. What's that? How can I concentrate on something else – especially so boringly non-sexual – when I'm in the middle of a powerful sexual game? That's the whole thing, you see – to be a player, you have to know how to pace yourself, get the timing right, maintain the edge. She's cooking nicely out there, I notice, wriggling a bit now, trying to find some cool spot of air out of the relentless heat, but she won't find one. I make a few notations on the documents, reflecting that things are, at last, beginning to look up. The stock market crash a while back forced us to amend some of our plans. To start with, her company didn't have enough capital back up, so went to the wall. Luckily, she was able to walk out of one job and straight into another, purely on the strength of her efficiency and presence, how she'd caught the eye of a more successful business operator – one who knew what a brilliant businesswoman she was, rather than just a pretty face, like the last idiot boss who employed her. When it comes to business, you need to utilise people's strengths, not just their looks, or misguided sentimentality about keeping the company like it was in the 'good old days'. Even though she's earning better now, we're still formulating new plans; no-one wants to be working for someone else forever and one day, we'll be working for ourselves. Luckily we didn't lose too much personally in the crash – we'd invested most of our joint collateral in this apartment. What was that old saying about 'bricks and mortar being the best investment'? Well, it certainly has been in this case. I finish the necessary paperwork, slip the files into my briefcase and drain the last of my mineral water. I check my watch – half an hour has elapsed. I look through the door – she's moving her head from side to side now, obviously in some distress, moaning ever so slightly. But I have to admire her for not crying out or panicking. Now I cross to the fridge and open the freezer compartment. There's very little food in it – I've made sure that the week's shopping has been deferred this week, so we were able to run the food stocks down – I needed the space in the freezer to be honest. I smile as I take out the four large ice cube trays and the bag of ice cubes at the back – "Here's some I prepared earlier," I chuckle to myself. I close the freezer and then tip the contents of the bag and the trays into a large cocktail icebox, purchased specially with this seduction in mind. I stir the ice cubes round with my finger, wincing at the burn from the cold mass. Oh yes, these little rocks are just right. And to think I got the idea when I was discussing a late and not entirely lamented business rival who dodgy dealings finally caused him to go bust and to have his assets frozen by the courts. Frozen Assets. That's got a certain style. Frozen Assets Ch. 1 I walk back into the living room, jiggling the box deliberately as I go. She hears me straight away and cocks her head. "What's that? What are you doing?" Her voice is loud, but not shouting, firm, but with a very slight hint of desperation. She's trying to maintain her barriers – her cool even (oh how funny) – under very trying conditions. I pull over a small occasional table and position it next to her chair and set the ice box down on it, noticing the freezing vapour still drifting off the contents as the warm – hot – air of the living room meets the freezing surface of the cubes themselves. "Phew! It's hot in here!" I pantomime, fanning myself with my hand, even though she can't see it. "What do you want?" she says evenly, her cheek muscles twitching, dislodging beads of sweat. She really is soaked with sweat. Her blouse is clinging to her body, tight over her breasts, her lacy bra clearly visible through the damp material. Her hair looks lank, her forehead is glistening with perspiration and the blindfold is almost completely soaked, only a thin strip of material in the middle remaining dry, the sweat encroaching downwards from her forehead and upwards from her cheeks. Her mascara has run, leaving a dark trail down her cheeks. Her lipstick is all but gone, her lips dry and beginning to show signs of cracking. Her stockings have been darkened to night black and her toes are twitching frantically in an effort to cool herself down. Another old saying pops into my head: 'Men Sweat, Women Perspire and Ladies simply glow.' Don't you believe it – women do sweat – a lot, and what's more – it's quite damned erotic! I've dispensed with the voice modulator. By now, she knows it's me and that we're deep into the game, so she's playing her role to perfection. She won't crack easily. Or so she thinks. "What do I want?" I muse, thoughtfully. She frowns, but says nothing. "Jewellery? Like this?" I ask, fingering the two gold necklaces round her neck, one with a pendant attached, quite low down on her chest, just above her cleavage, the other, smaller necklace higher, round her neck. They'll need to be removed anyway for what is to follow. "Valuable?" No answer. She's playing well – she's learnt a lot, not giving me any opening, no weak spot to capitalise on, not even these necklaces, which I know she treasures. I rip the necklaces off, causing her to wince. "Look like tat to me," I sigh and drop them disdainfully to the wooden floor. "Bastard!" she exclaims. Now, whether she's calling me a bastard like she would any would-be thief or rapist, or whether she's calling me, personally, a bastard for ripping off the necklaces which I gave her, I'm not sure. Either way, she's moved the game up a notch. My hand darts behind her head, grabs her hair and forces her head up. She cries out with pain as I twist her long locks and hold my face close to her own perspiration-soaked face. "Don't be stupid!" I hiss. "I could turn those heaters up even further. If you think you're hot now…." "Okay, okay…." She tries to nod her head, so show me she's understood. I release her hair and let her shake her head, her hair rearranging itself in lank waves. Obviously the swish of air this causes does her no good – the air is too warm to offer any relief from the relentless heat. I quietly cross to each of the heaters and fires in turn and switch it off. The metal reflectors on the implements immediately begin to creak and crack as the sudden reduction in heat causes them to contract. I hear her sigh with palpable relief as the onrush of hot air abruptly stops, but still she's itching and twitching with all the sweat rolling down her body. I stand beside her and reach into the ice bucket and select a suitable cube. I say nothing, but press it to her forehead. She flinches with the shock of the freezing ice touching her hot, wet skin. I grip her hair again to stop her moving and hold the cube to her forehead and move it from side to side, coating her brow with water as the cube melts. The cold liquid dribbles down under her blindfold, down her cheeks. She sighs as the relief it offers her is immense. I swear I can almost hear sizzling as the cube melts. Her body betrays her as her barriers start to crumble. As soon as the coldness touches her skin, I notice, through her damp, almost transparent blouse, that her nipples suddenly harden as though the ice too, has touched them. But their reaction is only partly due to the sensitivity of her skin. Body language seldom lies without conscious effort. I release her hair and drop the remains of the ice cube to the floor, rubbing my fingers together to get the circulation going to the tips again after holding the cold object for several seconds. This is pretty uncomfortable for me, too! I mean, all she's got to do is sit in a chair and sweat. Or at least for now… Another ice cube is extracted from the container – I have to break it off its fellows, as some of them are beginning to melt slightly and congeal into a frozen mass. Once again, I grip her hair. She tenses, she's ready for the cold… but was she ready for it being held to her lips? Pain! Sweet pleasurable pain! She struggles, but she's powerless to resist. As I delicately coat her cracked lips with the soothing coolness of the melting cube, she parts those very lips, revealing her white, even teeth. Then her tongue, small pink and delicate emerges forth, like a probing antenna, homing in on the source of moisture and relief. I let her lick the ice cube, her tongue greedily flicking over it, almost trying to pull it into her mouth, to quench her raging thirst. But no, that would be too easy. Her tongue tries to hold onto the ice cube as I move it away, and I have to hold her hair tighter to stop her mouth snapping the coveted cube down. She almost visibly slumps into the chair as she hears the second ice cube drop to the floor. "Now, I think it's time to cool you right down," I add, conversationally, I carefully heft the icebox in one hand, gripping the lip of the box firmly, as it's quite heavy. With my other hand I pull the front of her blouse out, taking care not to rip any buttons off at this stage, and slowly tilt the box over her cleavage. Whether she has any idea what's about to happen is impossible to read from her body posture, but when almost the entire contents of the icebox cascade down onto her breasts and tummy she screams so loudly that I almost – almost – take a step back in surprise. Now how many barriers were shattered that time? "Nonononononononoooooooooooo!!!!" How she thrashes and writhes, bucks and twists as the deadly little blocks of ice do their thing, combining in a freezing torrent of fire on her bare flesh. Several cubes are dislodged and clatter to the floor. I hear the chair and the screws that fasten it to the floor protesting at her violent movements. And there, in amongst all the splattering of cold water from the melted ice, I detect flecks of yellow. Once again, her body has betrayed her but then again, how many of us could control our bladders under such circumstances? Gradually her paroxysms subside and she merely twists from side to side, trying to dislodge as many of the ice cubes as possible, or maintain more comfortable position. Her blouse is now completely soaked, and that and her bra are now almost totally transparent. Her nipples stand out like little pink mountains tops, peeking above the glacial wastes below. As I watch, her body heat is melting the ice rapidly and turning her skirt into a wet rag. I kneel in front of her and slowly push her skirt up, smiling as I observe rivulets of water running down her legs, droplets splattering to the floor like an April shower gaining speed. Needless to say, her panties – plain white cotton briefs, functional but certainly not frumpy – are totally soaked. But quite where water and piss end and her own vaginal emissions begin, it's hard to tell. It's a simple matter to pull her panties down a little - she doesn't even notice at first, but she twitches madly at the sudden rush of air as I pull them down further, as far as the posture of her legs will allow, revealing her damp, partly shaved pussy. Her lips are bright pink, almost red, inflamed by the severe reactions her body is undergoing. I pick an ice cube up from the floor, making sure it's clean, and the, gently parting those moist throbbing lips, I insert it deep into her gaping, inviting cunt. Oh yes, more screams, more writhing, but her hips are bucking backwards and forwards now, not side to side – her barriers have all but gone now and she wants more. I'm happy to oblige as I insert another two cubes into her, amazed at how quickly they melt, water almost cascading from her needy opening. I pull her soaked panties up and pat them into place, a feeble dam against the floodtide within. I stand up and watch her, moaning, her head back, her mouth wide open, hands writhing in their restraints, fingers splayed out, almost beseeching some merciful god to release her from this painful, agonising, uncomfortable and wonderful torment. Timing, as I've said, is all important here – sure, the ice is melting – the water is fairly pouring down between her legs onto the floor now is a steady stream – but I certainly wouldn't risk making a move too soon or too late. She's been writhing like this for nearly five minutes now. "Well?" I ask. One simple word. Her brow furrows, she shakes her head from side to side as though in denial… the ice cubes grind within her blouse. I know what she's thinking – how long will it take for all of these ice cubes to melt? "I have more ice cubes waiting." She stops all movement for several seconds then bucks and writhes again. She's fighting it. "Well?" I ask again. "Yeeeeeeessss!!!! Okayyyyy! Pleeeeease!!!!"! The words spill from her in one long, agonised scream. Barriers down. Game Over? Almost…. I stand behind her. "Sit still!" I command, my voice a little louder, the authority forcing her into compliance. I reach round her, grip her soaked blouse and rip it open in one powerful tug, pulling it as far down over her arms as the ropes and chair will permit. Ice cubes and buttons spill and clatter across the floor, her goose bumped flash exposed. I have to move fast now. I grab her bra and tear it from her breasts, ripping it in two. Her nipples are now exposed like fiery red points atop the frozen mounds of delicate flesh. She slumps gratefully in the chair, a long sigh escaping her, her torment over at last. I kneel down again in front of her and bend over, delicately licking each frozen nipple with my hungry tongue, warming it, stimulating it. Each nipple softens slightly, but still remains erect, the goose bumps fading from the breasts beneath. A long, low moan escapes her lips and she shifts her body in response to my touch. There's more to come – she's surrendered to me, now our game will climax – literally. I pull at her soaked skirt. Now it is harder to push up her legs, so I rip the side seam apart, tearing it away to gain access to her final frozen assets. It's a simple matter to tear a hole in the front of her sopping panties, and my nose imbibes a heady mixture of water, urine and musk. Her blood red lips are throbbing and ready, her cunt wide open. I bend to my task, sucking at first, drinking from her, first tasting the sterile flavour of icy water, then gradually the tang of her salty fluids, warmer and more inviting, overriding the last of the now melted intruders. I rake my teeth over her bulging lips, eliciting a cry of pain and then masochistic pleasure from her, and she begins to move her hips thighs towards me, urging me on. I can almost feel her willing my tongue to reach upwards… to find… her hard and neglected clit. As I bore the tip of my hungry tongue onto the little nub, shocks spasm throughout her body. On top of the extremes of temperature and sensation it has been through, this latest rush is by far the strongest and she screams as first one orgasm and then another powers its way through her, releasing a flood of warm fluids into my mouth, staining my T-shirt and dripping thickly to the floor. I withdraw and lick my lips, slowly standing, rubbing my blood-engorged penis which strains against the confines of my tight jeans. I'll need to conclude the game with my own orgasm, but for that, she must be freed… "I'm untying you now," I say, unnecessarily as I tug on the knots, swiftly releasing her arms and legs form their tight embrace. That Sea Scout training all those years ago counted for something after all. It's just that I never made a great team player. I like to play for myself or for both of us which, as she'll agree, is the same thing as far as The Game is concerned and – "Bastard!" She wrenches off her blindfold, squealing slightly at the pins and needles shocking her limbs. She somehow manages to stand up, furiously tearing the remains of her sodden clothing from her, the last items to fall being her stockings and suspender belt, plopping wetly to the floor. Magnificently naked now, her face flushed with anger she stands before me. She stabs a finger at her clothes and her jacket lying by the door. "Another suit ruined!" she shouts. "My necklaces!" she adds, as she kicks the glittering chains with her feet. "We can buy you a new suit," I say mildly, "It wasn't even your best one. And the necklace clasps can be fix-" I'd seen it coming, I'd anticipated it, but, I have to admit, she still manages to surprise me with her strength and determination. With one spring she's upon me, raining blows – not too hard, I notice, as she can hit harder – at my face and body. I grip her arms to try to restrain her and back away. A split second later we crash heavily to the floor after slipping on a number of ice cubes and I wince as a number of those laying on the floor stab into my back. But I doubt she notices my discomfort as she rips large holes in my t-shirt, her nails raking my chest, grabbing my hair and pulling my head up to her and hungrily devouring my mouth with hers, her tongue thrusting down my throat. And this, believe it or not, is surrender, not attack! Oh yes, she's come a long way in a short time… She knows that I'm wrenching my flies open and pulling my blazing, throbbing cock free from my briefs. When you're that in tune with one another, you just somehow know what your partner's body is doing, even if you're not looking. But with most people, it's a simple matter of anticipating that the other wishes to hold hands… Her hand reaches down and savagely grabs my cock, causing me to wince as she positions it so that she slides down over it smoothly and easily. Interestingly, I note, as I penetrate her depths, there are still pockets of coldness within her dark passage and – "Fuck me hard you fuckingfuckingfucking bastard!" She slams herself up and down on my tortured member, harder and faster. I dig my fingernails into her buttocks to moderate and control her movements whilst thrusting upwards to meet her frantic downward rhythm. Not surprisingly, it's scant seconds before a hot tide engulfs us both, she reaching orgasm for the third time this evening, our juices flushing away the last of the cold sterile ice. We scream in unison, the goal reached, the battle won – and lost - and The Game over for this time. ************************************* She looks up at me, her eyebrows slightly arched, head tipped seductively to one side. Her wet hair enhances her sexual charms as she sits up in the hot bath, foam suds sliding away from her breasts, her nipples decorated with little tufts of foam, pink and inviting. I reckon I owed her this – a hot, scented tub, candles placed strategically around the bathroom, the light dimmed down. I hand her the mug of tea. She takes it without a word, swallows hard and then hands it back to me. "Bastard!" she mutters, but a coy smile crosses her lips. "Thanks," she adds, indicating the tea. I sit down on the edge of the bath and idly run my finger over her breasts, teasing each nipple into hardness again. She moans slightly, her hand busily working away beneath he water and foam. "You know, I'll play you and win one day," she says, quietly. "I'm looking forward to it," I smile back, placing my hand to her foam flecked cheek, so that she can dreamily rub against it. "So what do you call this one then?" she asks, referring to the game we have played and which I have won. "Frozen Assets." She considers this and nods. "Yes, good one, good one," she concurs. "I knew it was you after a few seconds of course." "Element of surprise though," I add. She gives me a long, loving look. So much passes between us in that one moment of eye – and body – contact. Oh yes, we'll play again. There'll be many more Games to come. We speak. "Well, if you're going to freeze somebody's assets…." "Then you'd better do it with style."