Chapter 1: Reviewing the week's conquests
The numbers glowed on the screen, a stark, digital tally in the dim room. Five. Four. Cathryn traced the figures with her fingertip, a slow, possessive smile touching her lips. The week was done. She’d won.
Andrew’s bedroom was a sanctuary of shadows and muted tones, the air thick with the scent of old books and the faint, sweet residue of expensive whiskey. The king-sized bed, a landscape of rumpled, dark linen, dominated the space. She lay sprawled across it, naked, the cool fabric a contrast to her warm skin. The only light came from the large television, its blue hue washing over her slim physique, highlighting the curve of her hip, the lean muscle of her thigh.
The door clicked open. Andrew stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light. He smelled of night air and a different perfume. He looked at the screen, then at her. His eyes were dark, appreciative.
“Five,” she said, her voice a low thrum of satisfaction. “You slacked off.”
He kicked the door shut, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Only because I was savoring my fourth. Thoroughly.” He walked to the small bar, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. “Details, Cathryn. You know the rules.”
She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands. “The accountant on Monday. Predictable, but eager. He came in under three minutes.” She paused, letting the memory surface. “The builder on Tuesday. Rough hands. Liked to talk. A lot.”
Andrew took a sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on her. “And Wednesday?”
“Wednesday was a double,” she said, a flicker of heat in her hazel eyes. “Two university boys. They thought they were auditioning for a porn film. I let them believe it.”
He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Christ. And I thought my week was adventurous.”
“Yours is just a recap,” she countered, her tone lightly teasing. “Mine is the main event. Thursday was the married one from the library. All that quiet desperation. It was almost too easy.”
She watched him, the way his throat worked as he swallowed his whiskey. This was their language, this exchange of conquests. A game they played at the edges of their own complicated thing. It was about power, about witnessing the sheer, unvarnished scope of each other’s appetites.
“But Friday…” Cathryn’s smile turned private, wicked. “Friday was something else.”
The bar had been loud, a thrum of post-work energy. She’d been perched on a stool, watching the crowd, when she felt a presence beside her.
“Is this seat taken?”
Cathryn turned. The girl was young, early twenties, with a mess of blonde curls and eyes the color of a summer sky. She wore a short, sequined top and a nervous, hopeful smile.
“It is now,” Cathryn said, her voice smooth.
Her name was Victoria. She talked a mile a minute, a free spirit fueled by gin and tonic. She was studying art, thought Bukowski was a misogynist but a brilliant one, and had never been with a woman before.
“Never?” Cathryn asked, leaning in. The scent of juniper berries and youthful sweat was intoxicating.
“No. But I’ve thought about it. A lot.” Victoria’s blush was visible even in the dim light.
Cathryn paid the tab, took Victoria’s hand, and led her out into the cool Northern night. They didn’t speak in the taxi. Cathryn just watched the city lights slide across Victoria’s excited, fearful face.
Back in Andrew’s bedroom, under the soft glow of a single lamp, Cathryn took her time. She undressed Victoria slowly, peeling away the sequined top, the tight jeans, until she stood shivering in nothing but her innocence. Her body was young, firm, a landscape of smooth skin and gentle curves.
“You’re beautiful,” Cathryn whispered, her hands skating over Victoria’s hips.
Then she pushed her down onto the dark sheets.
Cathryn’s mouth was everywhere. She licked and sucked at Victoria’s breasts, biting gently at the hard nipples until the girl gasped and arched her back. She moved down, spreading Victoria’s legs with an assured pressure. The scent of her was clean, musky, new.
“Oh, god,” Victoria whimpered, her fingers tangling in Cathryn’s brown hair.
Cathryn didn’t answer with words. She buried her face between Victoria’s thighs, her tongue finding a wet, hot center. She licked her slowly, deliberately, tracing circles and patterns, learning the rhythm that made Victoria’s breath hitch and her hips jerk. She slid two fingers inside, feeling the tight, clutching heat. Victoria cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“You like that?” Cathryn murmured, her voice thick.
“Yes… please…”
Cathryn fucked her with her fingers, a steady, relentless pace, her mouth never leaving Victoria’s clit. She could feel the girl tightening, coiling, on the very edge. She added a third finger, stretching her, filling her completely.
“Come for me, Victoria,” Cathryn commanded, looking up the length of their bodies.
Victoria’s eyes flew open, wide and stunned, before she shattered. A raw, guttural scream was torn from her throat as her body convulsed, clamping down hard on Cathryn’s hand. Cathryn rode it out with her, not stopping until the last tremor had subsided and Victoria was a boneless, trembling heap on the sheets.
Later, after Cathryn had taken her own pleasure grinding against Victoria’s thigh, they lay in silence. The young girl fell asleep almost instantly, a small, satiated smile on her lips. Cathryn watched her for a long time before gently extricating herself, dressing, and writing a note. It was perfect. - C.
She left Victoria sleeping in Andrew’s bed and took a taxi home as the sun began to tinge the sky grey.
Back in the present, Cathryn finished her story. The room was silent except for the hum of the electronics.
Andrew set his empty glass down. The look on his face was one of pure, undiluted hunger. He walked to the bed, his eyes roaming over her naked body with a new intensity.
“Five,” he repeated, his voice rough. He reached out, his fingers brushing the inside of her thigh. “You’re fucking magnificent.”
Cathryn caught his wrist, her grip firm. “I know.” She held his gaze, the challenge clear. “Your move.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across Andrew’s face. He didn’t move to touch her again. Instead, he walked over to the worn-out couch, grabbed the remote, and pointed it at the large screen. The tally disappeared, replaced by a menu of video files, each labeled with a date and a single, cryptic initial.
“My move,” he said, his voice low. “But first, a review of the game film.”
He clicked on a file from Thursday. The screen filled with a high-angle shot of his bed. A woman with dark hair was on her hands and knees, and Andrew was behind her, his hands gripping her hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin, raw and loud, filled the room. Cathryn watched, her breath catching. She saw the sheer, brutal efficiency of his thrusts, the way the woman’s back arched, her cries sharp and pleading.
“She liked it rough,” Andrew commented idly, as if discussing the weather. “Begged for it, actually.”
Cathryn’s skin felt hot. This was part of their ritual, the witnessing. It made it real. It made it competitive.
He skipped to another file. Tuesday. This one was different. A redhead was straddling him, riding him with a slow, grinding intensity. Her head was thrown back, her mouth a perfect ‘O’ of pleasure. Andrew’s hands were on her ass, guiding her, his face a mask of controlled concentration.
“Fuck,” Cathryn whispered, the word slipping out unbidden. She felt a throbbing heat between her own legs.
“Exactly,” Andrew said, his eyes glued to the screen.
He stopped the video and scrolled to the very last file, from just a few hours ago. Labeled ‘V.’ The fourth. The screen showed the same room, the same bed. It was Victoria, still soft with sleep, tangled in the sheets. Andrew entered the frame, naked. He didn’t wake her. He simply pulled the covers back, parted her legs, and positioned himself.
Cathryn sat up straight. “You didn’t.”
On screen, Andrew pushed into the sleeping girl. Victoria stirred, a faint murmur of confusion, before her eyes fluttered open. There was a moment of disorientation, then a slow dawning of sensation. A soft moan. Her legs, instead of pushing him away, wrapped around his waist.
“She was still wet from you,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes off the screen. “So fucking wet. I could feel you all over her.”
Cathryn watched, mesmerized and furious. He was using her conquest, her perfect, pristine fifth, as the capstone to his own week. He was fucking the echo of her. The bastard. The brilliant, fucking bastard.
The video showed Victoria coming awake fully, her hands clawing at Andrew’s back, her cries growing louder, more urgent than they’d been with Cathryn. He was fucking her with a relentless, possessive force, claiming the territory Cathryn had so carefully mapped.
As Victoria’s climax ripped through her on screen, Andrew finally looked away from the TV and directly at Cathryn. His expression was feral.
“Now it’s my move.”
He was on her before she could form a retort, pushing her back into the mattress. His mouth crashed down on hers, not a kiss but a takeover. She tasted the whiskey on his tongue, the lingering salt of another woman’s skin. She bit his lip, drawing blood, and he grunted, grabbing a fistful of her hair to yank her head back.
“You think your little art student was a victory?” he growled against her throat, his hands tearing at his own belt buckle. “She was just a warm-up for me.”
He freed his cock, thick and already slick with anticipation. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He shoved her legs apart and drove into her in one brutal, seamless stroke. Cathryn cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. She was wet, impossibly so, the sight of the videos, the raw assertion of his dominance, having done their work.
“You see?” he panted, pounding into her, each thrust a punishment and a reward. “This is what it’s about. This.”
The room dissolved into a haze of sensation. The smell of their sweat, the sound of their ragged breathing and the wet, slapping rhythm of their bodies. Cathryn wrapped her legs around him, meeting his thrusts with her own, arching her back to take him deeper. She was close, so close, the coil of pleasure tightening to a breaking point.
“Look at the screen,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
Her eyes, glazed with pleasure, flickered to the television. It was frozen on a frame of Victoria, mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy. The image of his other conquest, her other conquest, superimposed over their own raw act.
That was all it took. Cathryn came with a shattered gasp, her body clenching around him in violent waves. The orgasm was less a pleasure than a seizure, a total surrender to the ugly, perfect truth of their game. He followed moments later, a low, ragged groan torn from his chest as he emptied himself inside her.
For a long time, the only sound was their heaving breaths. He collapsed onto her, his weight a familiar anchor. The blue light from the silent TV played over their slick, still-joined bodies.
Eventually, he shifted, pulling out of her with a soft, wet sound. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Cathryn lay beside him, feeling the cool air hit the sweat on her skin.
He reached for the remote and pointed it at the screen. The frozen image of Victoria disappeared, replaced by the main menu. He hovered over the selection for a moment, then clicked a different file.
“Now,” he said, his voice hoarse but calm. “Let’s watch yours.”
The click of the remote was unnaturally loud in the heavy silence. The screen flickered, and then Cathryn’s world, her week of calculated seductions, filled the room.
It was her perspective, from a camera discreetly mounted on the headboard. The angle was intimate, predatory.
The accountant from Monday was first. A pale, nervous man with glasses askew. On screen, Cathryn’s hands, her teacher’s hands with their slim fingers, were firm and directive. “Just relax,” her recorded voice purred, a sound both soothing and utterly condescending. The scene was clinical, efficient. She guided him onto his back, straddled his hips, and sank down onto him with a slow, deliberate roll of her pelvis. She used him like a tool, her eyes half-lidded, watching his face contort with frantic pleasure. She didn’t make a sound until he was gasping, then she placed a finger over his lips. “Shhh. Not yet.” She controlled his orgasm like a valve, turning it on and off until he was a sobbing, grateful mess. When he finally came, it was with a pathetic, shuddering whimper.
Andrew let out a low chuckle. “Cruel. You didn’t even let the poor bastard kiss you.”
“He didn’t deserve it,” Cathryn murmured, her eyes fixed on the screen. She felt a thrum of power, watching her past self work.
The builder was next. Tuesday. He was all rough hands and loud mouth, just as she’d said. On screen, he had her bent over the side of the bed, his thick, calloused hands gripping her hips. “You like that, you posh bitch?” his recorded voice grunted. The sound of his flesh smacking against hers was a harsh, rhythmic slap.
“Tell me you love it,” Cathryn’s on-screen self demanded, her voice strained but controlled.
“I love it!” he groaned, pounding into her harder.
“Then shut the fuck up and fuck me.”
Andrew’s breath hitched. He shifted beside her, his hand finding its way to her thigh, his fingers digging into her skin. “Jesus.”
The video cut to the two university boys. Wednesday. The scene was chaotic, a tangle of limbs and youthful energy. One was on his knees between her legs, his head bobbing eagerly. The other was behind her, his hands kneading her breasts. Cathryn was the conductor of their symphony, directing them with sharp, whispered commands. “You. Harder. And you, don’t use your teeth.” It was a performance of pure, selfish hedonism. She came with one boy’s tongue on her clit and the other’s fingers inside her, her cry raw and unrestrained, a stark contrast to her cool demeanor with the others.
“Fuck, Cathryn,” Andrew breathed, his hand moving higher up her thigh.
Then came Thursday. The married man from the library. He was crying. Silent tears tracked down his face as he moved on top of her, his movements slow, almost reverent. Cathryn on screen watched him with an unnerving stillness, her hazel eyes analytical, absorbing his breakdown. She didn’t comfort him. She didn’t participate. She just observed, her body a vessel for his mid-life crisis. When he finished, collapsing onto her with a shuddering sob, she simply patted his back twice, a dismissive, mechanical gesture.
“Cold,” Andrew commented, but his voice was thick with arousal. “So fucking cold.”
The final video began. Victoria.
The lighting was softer. The girl looked ethereal on the dark sheets, her blonde curls fanned out, her face a mask of nervous anticipation. The camera captured every micro-expression: the flutter of her eyelids as Cathryn undressed her, the sharp intake of breath when Cathryn’s mouth first found her breast, the dazed, wondrous look as she was being opened, explored.
They watched in silence as Cathryn’s recorded self moved between Victoria’s legs. The audio picked up every wet, slick sound, every one of Victoria’s escalating whimpers. They saw Cathryn’s fingers, glistening, pushing deep inside. They saw Victoria’s back arch off the bed, her mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally ripped out of her.
On the bed, in the present, Andrew’s fingers slipped inside Cathryn. She was soaking wet. She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand.
“You loved that, didn’t you?” he whispered harshly in her ear, his eyes still glued to the screen where Victoria was convulsing. “Taking that. Being her first. You loved owning that.”
He added a second finger, curling them inside her, mimicking the motions they were watching. “You’re a fucking predator.”
On screen, Cathryn was commanding Victoria to come. The power in her voice was absolute.
In the present, Andrew twisted his fingers, hitting a spot that made her see stars. “And this is what it does to you. Watching your own work. You’re getting off on your own goddamn conquest.”
He was right. The voyeurism, the narcissistic loop of watching herself be watched, of seeing the power she wielded reflected back at her, was a more potent aphrodisiac than any touch. It was the pure, uncut essence of their game.
The video ended with Victoria’s blissful, sleeping face.
The screen went blue.
The room was silent again, save for their ragged breathing. Andrew withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, tasting her. He never looked away from her.
“My turn again,” he said.