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le coït; tu aimes ça?

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For him, Beth is frightened to find, she will get on her knees. Has done, on at least three occasions so far, but this time is a little different.

This time, he is firmly in charge; firmly ahold of the hair in the divot on the back of her neck, using his other hand to trace the fulcra of her jaw with deft fingertips. She’s drunk – on lust, on the taste of his cock in her mouth, on the way he looks at her with a combination of hunger and fascination.  

The Beth of Days Past is watching, scorn drawing down the corners of her mouth and squeezing shut her eyes; disgusted by the way that Present Day Beth has let herself slip through the cracks of dignity and self-respect only to fall into the open palms of a rival, this man to whom she has lost. The Beth Who Has a Throatful of Benny Watts’ Cock in uninterested in these concerns, however, too beguiled and frankly, delighted, by the way he uses her mouth - taking, just taking – knowing that of all the women in the world (curvy, busty women; women with millions of dollars and millions of admirers; women with dark hair and French accents), he has chosen her for this almighty task.

Benny pulls out almost all the way so that just the tip of his length rests on her tongue, and Beth fights a cough at the change inside her throat. She hasn’t been instructed to hold still, per se – it was more of an implication than anything else that she hold her position while he held her mouth open and effectively fucked her face. “Good,” he murmurs now, and perhaps it’s just the praise, or (more likely) the fact that her jaw has never been stretched this wide before, but Beth’s eyes are flooding.  

He’s watching her, intently as always – that one look in his eyes that says I know everything about you. In perhaps the most quintessential Benny Watts move of all time, he uses his thumb to capture a runaway tear, and, rather than wipe it away, he just smears the droplet across her cheekbone. With one hand, he presses into the hollow of each of her cheeks, forcing her jaw to unhinge practically to the point of dislocation; with the other he strokes himself to completion on the tip of her tongue. Beth startles at the first hit of his release, feeling and tasting it pool in her mouth, and is equally startled when he swoops down and blooms a bruise on her open mouth with his own.

Her lips still forced wide open by his fingers, Beth feels the slide of cum across their tongues when he kisses her frantically, and there is absolutely no masking the possessiveness of the gesture; no way to deny how jealously he’s claimed his territory.  It’s a more dizzying thought than nearly anything else that has taken place tonight – which, frankly, is quite a high bar.

Benny’s arms slip around her body, pulling her forward onto his chest rather than letting her fall back onto the floor when she collapses a moment later. She’s cradled below his chin, imagining a quiet night – maybe a shower and takeout? – when Benny noses his way across her scalp, along the outer edge of her ear, and whispers into it “Pawn to knight four.



Beth thought she knew what concentration was.

Forged in the fires of chaos, molded by repetition, cured by the promise of victory. Tensile like steel. Heavy like lead.

Your move.

Salty like sweat; bitter like cum. Bent backwards over the chess board in his kitchen, open and exposed and embarrassingly wet.

Beth has forgotten how to concentrate.

“You’re slipping.”

“I am not.”

“It’s still your move.”

“…Pawn to knight five.”

“Queen to knight three.”

“Rook to knight one.” She makes the mistake of gasping and now there’s blood in the water and he is still inside her.

“Can’t keep up, Harmon?”

Rich and dark and complex - there’s something about his smile, something about the alluring prospect of failure at his hands. Not failure: capitulation. Surrender.

“How are you – how do you do it?”

The implication, of course: how far will you push me? Followed by: how much can I take?

He doesn’t stop his steady rhythm. Predictable and torturous; torturously predictable. However evocative this is for her, he appears to be having the opposite experience. His hands wound loose like fittonia stems across the base of her throat, his expression utterly unchanging while he takes and takes from her body, demands more and more of her mind.

Better, smarter – “I’m playing chess,” is his response to her since-forgotten question. “You’re getting fucked.”

The implication, of course: I’m still better at this than you.

“Knight to knight two,” he says.



Their ritual usually goes like this:

Lazy mornings, showers and coffees and late starts preceded by late nights. Momentum picks up when practice really begins, usually by replaying games from pamphlets or books and then subsequent lectures about their flaws.

This will go on until someone gets hungry, and then it’s a break to run for food, or to make something simple in Benny’s simple kitchen. (Eggs, usually.)

After that, noses are back to the figurative grindstone, usually to tie up whatever loose ends may have been unraveled in the morning. Occasionally, Beth will take the afternoon off to meander the neighborhood and possibly the nearby department stores, or Benny will leave with absolutely no preamble - only to return later with an armful of books in a dead language, or a stack of obscure records, or, on one memorable occasion, a collection of antique spoons.

Regardless, practice and/or errands will conclude in the evening, dinner will be successfully foraged, and both chess players will begin to settle in for the night. Often, they’ll read together quietly in the common space, or perhaps enjoy an album or two on vinyl before calling it a day.

That schedule, tidy and immaculate, was before.


They fuck.

For them, there was no adjustment period, no time to get to know each other slowly and intimately. That kind of delicacy is reserved for people who aren’t national champions; people who aren’t driven by a merciless need to be the best. For Beth and Benny, the introduction of sex signaled the rise of a new type of competition; something new to be won between them. (Or lost.)

For them, there was a before and an after, where before consisted of a complete lack of sex, after consists of nothing but.

So: they fuck.