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The King Is Dead

By: SisyphusRedux



I looked across the playing hall to find her. I knew where to look, among the top boards of the open section. And she stood out, an attractive blonde-haired woman in a room full of shabby men. 

She was a chess player, an internationally known master. It was a surprise to see her in Philadelphia, so far from home. There was a good contingent of foreign players, lured by the fat prize fund; but top women were a rarity.

I remembered how long she had been a celebrity. Women's champion of her country - a small one in Eastern Europe - at fifteen. She captured attention around the world; not just because she was photogenic, but also because she was a fearsome competitor.

At eighteen she was posing for glamour shots. I remember one series vividly, where she had been outfit in nothing but a strategically placed chessboard and a big smile. They have different attitudes over there; not just about chess, but about sex. 

And she'd dress provocatively at tournaments, as well. I recall seeing pictures of her playing; a striking young woman, well groomed, dressed to show off her ample bosom - and looking at her opponent like he was dead meat. I could only imagine what it would have been like to play against her, sitting across the table for hours, trying to stop looking down her cleavage as she bent over the board, knowing that the slightest slip would allow her to pounce and destroy me. 

Now, close to thirty, she wasn't playing the sex symbol like she used to. She was still in the camera eye, doing video reports on tournaments through a French web site, interviewing players between rounds, putting her personality and intelligence to good use. I could imagine her in another life being a sports reporter for a cable channel, pitching softball questions to jocks during intermission, moving easily through a man's world.

These days she was a woman in the full flower of maturity, with an easy smile and a practiced sense of style. Sometimes, still, she'd discretely unfasten a button on her blouse just as she'd lead her opponent into dizzying complications, banking on a tactic that many, many men fell for. But now she'd use her sex appeal carefully, to gain an advantage when there was money at stake. She had come to the stage of life where there were things more important than trophies. 

The first round was on a Friday evening. As always, the top seeds had easy games. I was paired with a middle-aged club player who used an offbeat opening to try to confuse his opponents. But that doesn't work against a strong player; it wasn't long before I identified the strategic weaknesses he'd created, and began to dismantle his position at the seams.

Her game was with a young kid, barely at the edge of puberty. I can only imagine what went on in his head as he sat across from this sexy woman! But kids are dangerous; sharp as a tack, always underrated. He'd be satisfied with nothing more than holding this famous player to a draw.

I strolled over to watch their game. She was taking no chances, steering the game into a simple ending, where her experience and superior technique would guarantee a win. As I stood behind her opponent, she looked up at me. Slightly tall, fit, and a bit older than her, our eyes met, and she flashed me a smile. And then she looked back down at the board; there was business to be taken care of.

Now I started feeling motivated to do other things besides win my games. I wanted to fire up my laptop and do some research - but I had to finish my game first. I went back to my board, and began to play quickly. I took more chances than were wise; but the attack hit hard, and my opponent conceded with a handshake. 

Getting online, I looked up the games she had played. I wanted something she'd remember, that we could talk about. I ran the moves through computer evaluation, to find blunders and turning points faster than I could analyze in my head. I found a terrific example, from an international tournament late last year.

I killed time by the water station, shooting the breeze with guys I knew. Eventually she came back to fill her glass. She pretended not to see me, coyly waiting for me to make the first move.

I turned; loudly and confidently, I addressed her by name. "Yes?" She looked at me, startled. Her name was a jumble of consonants and strange diacritics; its pronunciation was a riddle to Westerners. She was used to hearing it mangled; but she wasn't expecting to hear it like it would be said at home.

"I have to say how much I admired your win over Velimirovic." I said it slowly and clearly, not sure how good her English might be. She understood, and warmed to the idea. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "It's exciting to see someone sacrifice one piece, then another, for an attack," I continued. In a lower voice I added, "Not so many women are willing to take chances like that." 

She paused at my explicit chauvinism, but let it go. "He is an old lion; if he lives by the sword, he dies by the sword," she reflected; her English was thickly accented. "I hated to beat him like that," she added, insincerely. 

Now I had the kicker. "You mean, because it was unsound?" I tried to make it sound sympathetic. 

A flush came over her face. She hesitated, not certain I knew the whole story. "The queen check," I said simply. Her opponent had missed a simple move with his queen; it would have disrupted her plan and left her defenseless.

Her face turned serious, as she struggled to explain it. "We were short on time, and he looked tired." Then she smiled slightly. "It was a cheapo." I smiled at the way she used the English idiom for a swindle. She relaxed and went on "I needed a win. I couldn't ...." Just then she saw her opponent make a move, across the room. She excused herself to go back to the game, casting a wry glance at me as she left.

I needed to do something for dinner. If it were just me, I'd go on a beer run, send out for pizza, and spend the rest of the night playing five-minute games for small bets. But I had other ideas; I searched on my phone for a decent restaurant in this suburban desert. And I bided my time, trying to keep an eye on the progress of her game without being obvious about it. 

As I saw her wrapping up after the win, I chatted up some folks hanging out. Heading out the door, I caught her eye; I smiled and gravitated toward her. She paused, friendly yet guarded, as she would with someone who knew both her strengths and weaknesses. "You're finished," I said, which was obvious. She nodded. "You must be hungry," I said, hopefully. "I don't know," she said. "I haven't thought about it." She didn't want to commit. And she had come to America to win money, not to party!

I tried another angle. "I've been working on a new move in the Sveshnikov," I said in a slightly hushed tone, as if to let her in on a secret. It was a baited hook; looking at her games told me she played that opening frequently.

Her face brightened, as she challenged me to lay out what I had. "Oh? What is that?" I rattled off eleven moves, ending with the trade of a bishop for two pawns. She recognized them instantly. "Peresypkin's Sacrifice." I nodded. "You wouldn't play that! Really?" I dodged the question, saying, "Kasparov did."

Her face went blank at the mention of the former world champion. It was something she didn't know, would never have guessed. "Then again," I smiled. "He was sixteen years old at the time." She laughed, and smiled at the idea. There are all sorts of things we try out as kids, that we would never dream of repeating as grownups. She knew it as well as I did.

She was engaged now, and thinking again. "All of those moves are well known to theory," she said. "What's your new move?"

I gave her another seven moves, slowly now, so she could visualize them in her mind. "And then," I finished, "Black plays his king back and holds him off." She considered that for a few moments. "But the pawns will march," she retorted. "What then?" she demanded.

"Ah," I said slyly, "that will remain a secret. You and I could yet face off over the board!" She pouted in frustration. I paused for effect. "All right, maybe I could show you. There's a place near here we could go. You really don't want to eat the food here." 

She smiled at my persistence. "What kind of food do they have there?" she said, putting up one last token of resistance. "Hamburgers, what else?" I said. "This is America!"

At dinner we relaxed, having a glass of wine to go with the burgers. I chatted with her about the reporting she did; since I'd had some experience in television, I could draw her out about what went on behind the scenes. We talked about her experiences in America, and I asked her why she had come. 

I thought it was a simple question; there were lots of Europeans who came to play the circuit of big money, open tournaments in the U.S. But her answer took another turn. "Sasha has gone to Spain to play in the league; he won't be back till the spring." I turned quizzical. "Sasha? Who's that?" I asked. "Sasha, my husband," she said. "You know him; Alexander Amonatov."

The answer nearly floored me. She was married to the Russian grandmaster! I had no idea. She hadn't taken his name. She didn't wear a ring. And to be frank, I don't pay much attention to someone's marital status if I want to hit on them.

The pause was awkward. She ignored my obvious surprise; she was just relaxed enough to share some more. "I think he's seeing someone there."

My mind started racing. She wasn't just here for the prize money; there were problems at home. I started to think about the women I had known who were on the outs with their spouse, and looking for someone to fill the emptiness they felt. I tried to imagine the way she ached, her womanly needs unsatisfied. The notion of it clouded my brain, and agitated my groin.

I changed the subject, as gracefully as I could. "Spain is lovely," I said. "Germany is better. When I was in Mainz ..." 

"You were in Mainz?" she interrupted. "For the festival?" she asked, with excitement - and perhaps some relief at not having to talk about her husband. There were so few Americans that could talk about Europe - they were all so parochial. She warmed to the idea that I was a sophisticated traveler.

"Oh absolutely," I fibbed. At this point I was ready to tell her any story she wanted to hear. If truth were told, I had been in Mainz when I was in the service; but my only experience of it had been some cheap bars, strip joints, and the red light district. If I had played any chess there I had been too drunk to remember.

"I love Chess 960," she went on, "I played in the World Championship there." I made up a pleasant lie. "I know; you did well there." My ruse had worked, so far. But I didn't want my real ignorance of the event to be revealed. I took the opportunity to change the direction again.

"Chess 960 was Bobby Fischer's last great invention, before he lost his mind," I said. I knew all about this variant and its unusual rules, where the game starts with pieces placed randomly. "It wipes out all of our previous knowledge and experience. You are left only to depend on your wits."

She knew all this, and she approved. And then an idea began to form in my mind. I began to talk about chess variants, as I searched in my mind for a way to get to what I really had in mind. 

I rambled through the possibilities of some of the historical variants, such as chaturanga and shatranj, played in India. I talked about how the game had come to the West through Persia, which gave us the term "checkmate" - a corruption of shah mat, or "the king is dead." And I talked about the way the power of the queen had grown through history, till it was the most important piece on the board. That idea always appeals to the gals. 

I was on a roll. She let me go on, smiling, sometimes giving me a little giggle to encourage me. I still wanted to keep the discussion on variants, so I went on to talk about new ideas, such as games with four queens; games where the queens had enhanced powers, like zigzag moves; games where other pieces absorbed the power of the queen. 

Then, I brought up the most interesting one of all. "And, you know, there's the variant where both sides can win." She bit on that, and asked, innocently, "What's that?" I answered slowly and clearly, "strip chess," and waited to gauge her response.

Her knowledge of English idiom may not have the greatest, but my words sank in, and I could tell she got the drift. She tried to keep a straight face, but she couldn't hide a little smile. 

I turned the conversation back to light matters, just a little segue for my next move. After a decent interval, I suggested, "Listen, it's early yet. Why don't we go back, and I'll show you - my new move." She pondered that for a moment, and I wondered if I had pushed too far, too fast. Finally, she smiled. "Okay."

Back in my room, she was friendly - but I could tell she wasn't ready to get closer. She might have figured I talked a good game, but she had yet to test my mettle, the way she knew best. "Where are your pieces," she said brightly. "I'll set up."

This was natural for us, a little friendly competition in the off-hours. She set up the pieces, then carried out the eighteen moves of the Sveshnikov I had described earlier; all from memory. She pondered the position. "And you think can hold a draw here?" I could tell she was skeptical; and I was in too deeply to back down. "I'll take White," she said. 

My heart skipped a beat. I wasn't planning on this. Everything else being equal, she was a stronger player. I'd have a hard time holding her to a draw on a good day. But the stakes now were incomparable. If I lost, I'd look like an idiot. She'd dismiss me as a patzer, just another in the uncounted string of men she had conquered through the years. But, I thought hopefully, if I won - I put it out of my mind. There was nothing to be gained by dreaming about what might come. All that mattered now was the position between us.

With this kind of dynamic, unbalanced situation, anything could happen. But the strategic imperative was clear. She had to attack, and mate me before I could trade material down to a draw. She went at me with vigor, her active pieces swirling around my exposed king. I bobbed and weaved. It was too complicated to calculate; I had to move on instinct. One by one I forced the exchange of pieces; it was the only way to survive. Finally, she was left with just two pawns, and I still had the extra bishop. It was a dead draw. 

And it was a success, by any other standard. I had said I could hold the position with my new move, and I had resisted her best effort to prove me wrong. She smiled; I extended my arm for the traditional handshake.

But instead, she reached out and held my hand. She leaned toward me, and in a husky voice, said "Show me how you play - street chess." 

I think my jaw dropped; I was caught by surprise. I gathered my wits. "Strip chess," I said, trying to suppress a tremble in my voice. "It's easy." I said. "And fun."

First, I told her, we needed to create the proper setting. I cranked up the heat to a toasty level. And, I explained, the rules required a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. Finally, I said, we needed to play on the floor. I asked her to set up the board. While she was at it, I dimmed the lights a notch.

"I'll play White," I told her. That meant I'd be making the first move. She scooted around to the other side, sitting on the floor comfortably with her legs tucked under her, her short skirt not covering her knees. I didn't have to tell her to kick off her shoes. "The first rule is that if you capture your opponent's pawn, they have to drink a glass of wine." That idea seemed to please her. "All right," I said. "Let's begin."

I started by moving my queen's pawn to the center. It wasn't my usual style. But I did it as a tribute to her sex. She responded by moving her own pawn to mirror mine. I knew it wasn't her usual style!! I suspected she wanted to match me move for move.

Then I moved another pawn next to the first. I knew it could be captured; but centuries of play had shown it wasn't risky to offer the gambit. Most good players turned it down.

But this wasn't an ordinary game! She hesitated only a moment before she swept it off the board. "Now," she looked at me. "You drink." 

"All right," I said, as I reached to place one of the goblets in front of me. "You have the privilege of filling my glass." She giggled and picked up the bottle. She poured until my glass was full to the brim, and looked at me expectantly. With a sheepish smile I sipped at the lip, then picked it up and chugged until it was all gone.

We made a couple more moves, then she pushed a pawn to where it invited an exchange. I laughed as I snatched up the offer. She picked up her glass and held it out for me to fill, smiling coyly. I filled it discretely, stopping at a little more than halfway. She looked at me with her eyes wide open, appreciating my gallantry. There were some area where it wasn't fair to assume we were equal; and ability to hold liquor was one of them. 

She sipped at the glass, making goo goo eyes at me. I smiled at her, but in a firm voice I said, "You have to swallow the whole thing." She stopped. "You're making these rules up," she said with her best little-girl voice. I thought for a moment and said, "Do you remember the first time you - played? Nobody told you what to do in advance. You had someone show you how. Just trust me."

She submitted to my direction and polished off the rest of it. Then it was her turn. She recaptured my pawn, as expected. Again she filled my glass; I gave her a little toast before putting it down. 

I advanced a flank pawn. We were in a strange position now, at least as far as what was happening on the chessboard. But this was a different sort of game. It wasn't hard to guess that both of us wanted to clear some pawns from the board before engaging for real action.

I pinned one of her knights in front of her king. It powerless to escape capture. She knew it was gone; she waited to see what the consequence of losing the knight would be. But I bided my time; I didn't need to take it right away. Finally, she broke the pin. It was now or never.

I picked up her knight and took it off the board. She looked at me, and I told her, "Unbutton your blouse." She toyed with the next button; she had unfastened one of them while we were still in the restaurant, to give me a tantalizing view of black lace. But now there was no halfway. "All of them," I said. "Pull the shirt tails out, let them hang loose."

She wanted to be a good player. She looked down demurely, drawing her hands down over her breasts, working the buttons loose one by one. Down to her waist, she got up on her knees, turned away from me, and finished the job. She pulled the shirt out all around, and then turned around and sat back down, carefully arranging her blouse in front of the cups of her brassiere. There they hung loosely, hardly disguising the treasures underneath. I looked up and down the open strip in front, pausing to appreciate the way she filled out her undergarment.

"My move," she smiled. She recaptured my piece and waited for me to fulfill my obligation. I faced her as I got my shirt open and loose. I opened it wide, enough for her to see that my chest hair didn't obscure the toned pecs and abs I'd worked so hard to build. I noticed her shudder in delight at what she saw.

The board had opened up now, and the heavy pieces swung into action. She seized control of an open file with one rook; I could not let it go uncontested. I opposed her with one of my own. It was up to her whether to trade.

"What happens if you take a rook?" she said. "Stockings," I smiled. "Or hose, if you will." That was enough for her. She reached across the board and pulled my rook off, replacing it with her own. Promptly, I pulled up my pant leg, and yanked the sock off; one, then the other.


The King Is Dead



Her turn. There was nothing I could do but recapture her rook. She knew what to do; and she made the most of it. She turned sideways to me, smiling seductively as she pulled her skirt up over her thigh. A garter belt! Well, I always knew she liked to glam it up. Slowly, she unfastened the hooks, and rolled it down, from the lace top all the way to her pointed toe. With her stocking on the tip of her foot, she flicked her leg, and sent it flying across the room, where it landed on the ice bucket. My eyes bugged out. I had never seen anything like this in my life. 

The other stocking followed. She resumed her place on the floor, languorously rolling her hips in a way that made me wonder if she wasn't feeling the effects of this between her thighs. "And what happens if you lose the other rook," she asked, in a way which told me she was ready to find out. "Well, the pants, of course; or the skirt, in your case," I replied.

But she didn't offer the rook right away. She went for another exchange of pawns first. There weren't so many pawns left now; and we were close to the end of the second bottle of wine.

I got up to open another bottle of wine; it wasn't easy to stand at this point, much less operate a corkscrew. I heard the clink of pieces on the board. "It's your move," she called out. I looked at the board and she had taken my other rook. There was no holding back. I sighed, reached down to unfasten the belt, unzip the pants, push them down to the floor where I stepped out of them. She caught sight of my underwear; the pouch was bulging noticeably. 

I stumbled back to the board. Now I was getting really comfortable; and loose. Making no effort to hide my satisfaction, I said, "Now here's my move." I captured her other rook. She looked at me, seemingly pleased to take the next step. She stood, steadying herself on the edge of the sofa. She loosened the skirt and turned away from me, wiggling her rear end as she pulled it down. With it off, she turned back to me, and raised her arms up to stretch, slowly. I could see her lacy panties matched the brassiere. And she cast a glance at me to make sure I was looking.

With the board getting less crowded, it was not so easy to force the exchange of pieces. Time and again I'd attack, and she would dance away, frustrating all my attempts to make progress. After a number of moves like this, she left a bishop where it could be exchanged. Perhaps she felt sorry for me; perhaps she just felt like turning it up a notch. I didn't need to tell her what to do when I took her piece. She sat up, looking straight at me with a little pout on her face. Slowly she pulled the loosely draped blouse apart, exposing the fullness of her lace-covered bosom. Continuing, she pulled it off her shoulders, and dropped it behind her. She sat proud and erect, her chest lifted to better show off her assets. Through the lace of her brassiere, I could see the shadow of her nipples. For all the times she had teased the public through the years, there weren't many men who had seen her like this. 

She looked down briefly, then tossed her head back, and said "My move." Of course, she recaptured, taking my piece off the board. I slipped my shirt off. By this time I was left with nothing but my briefs; and my arousal was obvious. I squirmed to find a comfortable position, struggling to adjust my underwear so it would contain my tumescent organ. She seemed amused. 

All the pawns left now were on the queenside. It was getting harder for either of us to hold ourselves up and reach for the pieces, so we gravitated toward that side of the board. I sat cross-legged, the head of my cock popping out of my briefs; there was nothing else to do with it. She lay on her thigh, propping herself up with one arm, exactly where my gaze could focus on her soft cleavage. My exposed cock caught her eye, but she pretended not to notice; she was used to seeing men in an urgent state.

I pushed a pawn, and leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Let's call it a draw," I offered, hoping we could move on to some more directly cooperative activities. But she had an advantage, and we both knew it. I was still down a pawn - the pawn I had offered as a gambit so early in the game. The competitor in her refused to make a concession. She thought about it for only a moment, and then quickly moved to capture my pawn, effectively refusing my offer. She tossed her head back with a defiant smile. "Play on," she said.

I got up to get the last bottle of wine, steadying myself on the furniture as I fought off dizziness. I wondered how it would all come out. What would happen if she won? It seemed likely. I would naturally be at her mercy. What might she demand with the headiness of triumph? 

I poured my own wine, and drank it there. Returning to the board, she was holding her own glass. "I think you're going to recapture," she said. Her speech was slurred, but her tone was playful. And I noticed one bra strap had slipped off her shoulder. I knew it was no accident! She smiled at me as I poured her glass, leaning into my line of sight so I could see the cup almost falling off her bosom. Driven by desire, I leaned forward to kiss her; but she drew back, saying firmly, "You haven't made your move on the board yet."

We played on. The pace picked up. I tried to maneuver into a drawn position, but she wasn't going to give me anything easily. I was torn between the choices of trying to win, or trying to strip her of all her pieces, leaving her king bare - and her body as well.

I moved to offer an exchange of bishop for knight, even though it meant my position would likely be lost. "We're getting to the endgame," she said, in a tone ripe with meaning. "Yes," I leaned toward her. "It won't be long before we - finish off completely."

She flashed a foxy smile, and captured the offered piece. Then she looked at me; there was only one thing left to take off. I rose up to my knees; standing was out of the question. I tried pushing my briefs down, but they caught on my erect organ. I reached into the pouch and pulled it out, pushing the briefs down around my thighs. My organ hung heavily, at an angle, curving upward slightly; she watched it intently. She shuddered; I could tell something deep inside her responded to its size and its swelling, with the promise of fluids building within.

I collapsed on the floor and grabbed her knight. "Now," I said with a sense of triumph, "Your bra." She pouted, turned away, and angled her head back at me as she motioned toward the clasp. She wanted help; I was more than glad to give it to her. As I unhooked her, I tried to caress her smooth skin. "No," she said firmly: "Go back." 

Sitting across the board from me, she crossed her arms across her chest, pulled the straps down, exposing her breasts. They were firm and pale with dark shadows around the nipples. It crossed my mind that her blonde hair was probably lightened; my thoughts ran ahead to what color her other hair might be. Closing her eyes, she arched her head back, ran her hands slowly over her breasts, downward and upward. Her nipples stood up, and she looked me straight in the eye. Was she going to let me have them? Almost unconsciously, I caressed my cock and balls; a little drop of pre-cum appeared at the tip, glistening in the low light.

"What happens if you take my queen?" she said in a husky voice. "Then," I said as I looked down below her waist, "Then the panties come off." As I looked at the lace covering her snatch, I thought I could see some tell-tale wetness. "And," she said, "What happens if I take your queen?" I laughed; "Then nothing. I have nothing left to take off." I smiled. She pouted; "That's not fair," though I could tell she wasn't too unhappy with the way the game was going. 

"Remember," I said gently, "this isn't just a game of chess. It is a game between a man and a woman. And the rules for men and women will always, and forever, be different." She smiled to herself at her memory of how she had played the game, always by her own rules. "There are times," I added, "for men to take the lead."

"But it's my turn to move," she said impatiently, breaking the mood. I sighed as she returned her attention to the board, moving a piece and giving me renewed challenges to face. It was hard to focus on the position, with my attention distracted by observing the way her breasts swung back and forth as she leaned over the board to move. But the worst part of it was I was losing.

She forced the exchange of my last pawn; but she still had the one pawn remaining, and I was in a bad position. She was pushing her pawn inevitably to promotion. She would defeat me, utterly. With queens and a couple of other pieces still on the board, I could check repeatedly, but eventually, the checks would run out, and her position would be impregnable. It was routine for a player of her skill and experience. 

Desperately I searched for a tactic to save the game. In the fog of my drunkenness my mind went back to the conversation we had had earlier about her win over Velimirovic. He was a fiery character, known to steal wins by gamesmanship not entirely within the rules. I reached into a bag of tricks worthy of the old warrior.

I began to move quickly, as if I had seen a perpetual check to draw the game. I chased her king around the board, from one square to the next. And she moved quickly in response, confident I couldn't trap her king before she could find a safe place for it to rest. And then, suddenly, I skewered her king again her queen. The king would have to move; her queen would be lost, and so would the game! How could she make such a stupid blunder?? 

With a cry of triumph, I said, "I'm going to take your queen!" She was emotionally shattered, and she submitted to the inevitable. She threw her head back and closed her eyes. "Take me!" she moaned. Her mouth was open. She wanted to be kissed.

I drew close to her, close enough that she could feel my breath. "First," I said, "you must take off the panties." She smiled. Right away she lay back on the floor, arched her hips, pushed the panties down to her knees, and kicked them off. 

She smiled at me with desire in her eyes; and she spread her legs wide, ready to give me the privilege of a victor. I could see her clit swollen, and a wet, tender slit between the lips of her pussy. She was ready; and so was I.

I crawled between her legs; she sat up and took the measure of my erect cock with her fingers, tracing it from base to tip, just to savor the dimension of the organ about to penetrate her. Then she lay back again and guided me into her. 

She was wet and soft, and I entered her easily. Her pussy was tight; she moaned in pleasure as she felt me push into her tender, intimate place. Perhaps she came; no matter, this one was for me. I lay on top of her and held her shoulders as I penetrated the depth of her body. I began to hump, slowly at first, then with more urgency. I could hear her pleasure, and feel it. 

Finally, I reached the point where I knew I was about to release my passion. I raised my head up and looked in her eyes, just as a flick of my hips sent me over the edge. She could see my face contort in ecstasy, and she knew the final act had started. One convulsive thrust followed another. A spasm in my loins sent a huge gush of fresh sperm shooting into her. Then another thrust, another gush. She moaned; she could feel the wetness of my fluids pumping into her, filling her warm space. I went on thrusting and pumping till I had nothing left to give her. I lay on top in exhaustion while she felt the throbbing of my cock slow down and stop. She lay under me in the satisfaction of knowing she had got me to give her everything I had.

I turned over, spent. Within moments I was passed out on the floor.

She was still awake. Not unsatisfied, exactly; it's just that women don't turn over and go to sleep so quickly.

She pulled herself up, slowly, to look once again at the final position in the game she had blundered away. She looked at her king and queen, and pondered what she might have done differently. Then she looked at my king; and with a shock of realization, she saw I had been in check! My last move had been illegal! It was -- a cheapo. I had pulled a classic swindle on her. In the heat of the moment, she had not noticed to call me out. 

She was up on all fours now, moving pieces around the board. She may have been drunk, but she was full of the energy that comes with righteous indignation. Just then, she felt a flash of wetness between her thighs. My fresh seed was leaking out of her.

With a sigh, she sat back down. When the game is over, there is no going back. She looked over at my body, sound asleep, and smiled. Looking at the board, she reached out slowly and tipped over my king. "Shah mat," she said softly. "The king is dead."