M joins the Game while the Whore whores

Johnny has been placed over there, off to the side, out of the game. It was foreseeable and he would admit he was in too deep. Beyond his measure. I think he feels relieved to be done with her. But then Johnny doesn't understand the game. She is done with him when she is done with him. That time hasn't come yet. Enjoy the pause, Johnny. Make use of the time off to wise up. Stop being such an idiot.

She's on a plane soon. The long weekend here. The guest room hers if she wants. For her luggage, she said. And I imagine her pleased with the speed of her answer, the precision of its thrust, the winning parry. And it's now clear to me she has no idea who she bargains with. Does she think she can so easily break down the game that I've built over years of dedication?

They sit on her sofa and drink white wine. Her left leg in his lap, one of the bra straps loose at her shoulder. She speaks crisply. Precise words chosen, like an instructor. She calls him Billy, asks for his homework. His thin crummy pale face instantly flushes. Hot cheeks. He mumbles some words. Give me your chocolate milk then, and she holds out her hand. An insistent shake. He offers his wine glass, half full. Stand up, and so he does as told and faces her. She unstraps his buckle and unzips his pants, let's them fall to the floor. Let's see what you did bring for me. 

I count eighteen emails from M yesterday. There has been an escalation. Of course I noticed it. And Yes, while it was happening. So maybe M has more game than I originally thought. So what? She could never game at my pace. I can grift in my sleep. I do grift in my sleep. Dreams made of culls and false runs and slips. Unknowable colors, unless you know. She wouldn't know unless I showed her. She would have to get inside my dreams. 

She has finished with the little man with the thin crummy face. His time spent while no one was watching. Well, she was watching. And she kept her eyes on him. Showing him how grateful she was for his thin crummy cock. And when he had enough she easily took his convulsions, letting some of his dribble slide out the side of her mouth. Holding her head tilted up, like a pose. It is a pose. A snapshot for the little man to take with him. A remembrance of how hot it was. What a good time he had. His sick twisted little thin crummy snapshot. She doesn't care about any of that. She liked the taste of his dribble, the feel of his thin little crummy cock. She liked it so much she orgasmed while sucking him, which, not surprisingly, sped up the proceedings. 

It is morning and I drink my first cup of coffee. Three messages from M already. She is wordy this morning. She tells me the story of a weak game run by a weak player, a truly pitiful player. I offer sympathy, an inappropriate amount of sympathy - M can handle her shit, but, still, it just feels so wrong and I can't help but feel bad for her. Fuck him though. Loser. And M is wise enough not to attempt to exploit this show of compassion, to not even whisper a hint of the obvious - I am not impenetrable.

It all has been noted: his hygiene, length, taste, duration, specific stimuli, reaction, pre-dialogue, post-dialogue, fetish opportunities, donation and gratuity. Her penmanship is crisp and strikingly fluid. The occasional flourish. She will shower now. Freshen for her next guest. First hang the clipboard full of notes in the kitchen on the wall next to the telephone.   

More messages. M thinks me funny. Sublime funny. Guffaw funny. I send her words that are decidedly not funny, might be considered the opposite of funny. Perhaps not funny their only true meaning. She sends pictures - M in various poses. M with clothes and without. I write in progressively uglier detail and more messages follow. Why does she not back the fuck up? Why does she not quit already? Doesn't she know quit is a big part of the game? It's an end move, often a winning feign. Doesn't she know so few games make it through to winner time? Almost none, that I've heard of.