BC Ch. 07: Strip Chess with Guapa

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Bbc

People call me BC. Big Cat. A nickname I’ve had since I was a boy. However, during my years at Art College I was known as ‘Fluffer’. These are the stories of that time. Fluffer’s tales.

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I can highly recommend strip chess, but choose your partner carefully. It’s not a game of chance.

I was in A Coruna, Spain where I’d been sent by my devious little cow of a best friend, Sara, as a peace offering. Sara had got me dumped by Charlotte–who’d freaked out when Sara barged into our hotel room just as the doe-eyed, anxious girl and I were finally starting to relax and enjoy each other. At least, that’s how I saw it. All Sara saw was me splurging all over her meek friend, so bawled me out. Sara wasn’t to know that Charlotte wanted me to prove how much I desired her. (Albeit in the unique and messy language of a sixties Italian erotic-art film!) And all Charlotte saw was Sara and I arguing over her like she wasn’t there–shouting things she’d made us promise not to even gossip about.

Anyway. Sara must’ve felt guilty because she said if I could get to Galicia in Northern Spain, then a friend of hers had offered an open invitation to a luxury flat. Knowing Sara’s tricks, I quizzed her about the nature of this friend. I didn’t mind being paraded about as her well-trained “Fluffer”, and the sex was always great now I’d got over the uneasiness of being used as some kind of flesh-and-bone sex toy, but it always came with some surprise pain: Surprise! You can’t lick her! Surprise! Do up this derelict building in France! Surprise! Pose naked for strangers! Surprise! Give your flatmate’s sister what she wants and lose your house!

But Sara assured me her friend worked twenty-four-seven as a caretaker at these fancy apartments, and that she preferred women anyway so she’d leave me alone. Sounded safe. Even her friend’s name seemed reassuringly unattractive: Guapa.

When Guapa met me at the airport, I sensed trouble. First off, the woman was a supermodel. I mean, tall and slim and tanned, all cheekbones and wicked pout and black, tempestuous eyes. Her hair was a dark mane, blowing about her as she shook my hand with a brilliant white smile. Second, everyone seemed to know her. At least three times while we exchanged pleasantries, random men shouted, “GUAPA!” Each time she swore back.

I only learned later that Guapa was Sara’s nick-name for her. A brilliant Spanish word without a direct English translation, meaning both beautiful and attractive.

Unlike Guapa’s tiny, decrepit moped.

She swung a long, brown leg over the saddle and revved the engine, thumbing behind her for me to perch on the back.

No chance. “I’ll… just get a taxi if you don’t mind.”

She rolled her eyes and shouted over the dentist-drill racket. “Just hold tight to me!”

I climbed on, and clung on, and Guapa roared and lurched forward before I was even settled. Her body was lithe and strong, but a meagre life-preserver. My arms wrapped four times round her. “Hold me tighter!” she screamed. “Don’t worry senor, I won’t think you’re a girl!”

After the 40 minute hurtle on her knackered little hairdryer I was left trembling. Not just because of the traffic trying to kill us, or Guapa’s loose interpretation of road and pavement, or her red and green colour-blindness. I’d gripped so tight, her gorgeous body had left its shape indented against my front.

Unfortunately, I’d made less of an impression on her.

She laughed huskily as we pulled into the courtyard of her apartment building and she parked up the bike.

“You ok, senor… pussycat?” She watched me wobble off the saddle.

“Big Cat,” I said.

She laughed again. Shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

So how did we get from this ignominious beginning to playing strip chess? Five days hard labour, that’s how.

It turned out Guapa’s “caretaking” duties began and ended with tempting tradesmen to work for almost nothing on the four massive apartments she looked after. I was there because no Spanish builder — no matter how bedazzled by Guapa’s smile — will work through a Spanish summer. It was so hot that the apartment block was deserted even by its wealthy inhabitants, who had moved off to their cool mountain retreats.

Meanwhile. there was a mountain of maintenance, and naturally my delightful best friend had signed me up for it in exchange for room and board.

So five days passed, working my bollocks off in the relative cool of the early morning, heading out to explore Galicia while Guapa took her afternoon siesta, then back to the work at the apartments for another few hours before she hauled me out for dinner. For the Spanish, this goes on into the small hours, during which she draped herself over me like I was an armchair–apparently to deter “dirty men”–while chattering away in Spanish to her friends. By the fifth day, I was drained and Guapa warned me to “take it easy” by which she meant rest during siesta, not actually do less work. But as I saw it, if I didn’t explore during eryaman bayan escort siesta there’d have been no point coming to Spain at all, other than to do her work for her in the day and pose as her bodyguard/boyfriend by night.

Guapa was a photography student and, when she wasn’t locked in her room with her doppelganger girlfriend, Maria, (the part about preferring women appeared to be true) she was bugging me with her big lenses. Every day–the minute I got stuck into my work–she popped up like paparazzi: “El Gato! El Gato! Pose for me, your sweat is diamonds on your arms!” “Take off your shirt! Does burro wear a shirt!” “Hold boiler like this, over your head!”

I wondered what I was involved in here, caretaking or a gay calendar.

Maria never came out in the evening with us, or stayed over. She would arrive in the morning and leave just before lunch. Midmorning, I tried to ignore the unmistakeable, puffed, ecstatic cries that came from Guapa’s closed shutters: “Si-si-si-si… Mother… F-fucker!” The breathily Hispanic rolling of her r’s as illicitly irresistible as the roll of her arse. But one morning I couldn’t help myself as an unlocked shutter blew open when I walked past. I got a glimpse of Maria’s naked back, sitting on the low part of a chaise. She had her feet up on the seat either side of her–spread 180 degrees–and Guapa was knelt between. Not licking, looking. And snapping. She caught my eye over her girlfriend’s knee and smiled coyly, almost apologetically. I pretended not to notice.

What with the mad hours I kept, the heat, and the sexually charged atmosphere, I was really cursing Sara. This was supposed to be a break, but had turned into a distillation of my entire life.

The next day at breakfast, Guapa and I sipped bitter coffee in the courtyard at a monolithic stone table beneath the shade of an olive tree. I felt fucked. Worse. Unfucked. Guapa, as ever, scrutinised me as she tore off chunks of Pan Gallego with her teeth and chewed with her mouth open. “You have day off today,” she munched. “You work too hard, El Gato. Maria, she finished with me now, so we have maybe fun, you and me?”

I shrugged. Even this meagre empathy was the equivalent of a big hug and a kiss from Guapa. Then I wondered how many men — or women — had dreamt of her offering them “maybe fun”. Then I rewound what she said.

“You’ve finished with Maria?”

“Si.” She patted an envelope beside her, chewed off more bread.

“How long were you together? Are you not upset?”

“Ha?”

I felt an unravelling sensation. “You weren’t…” I didn’t know how to say it, so for some reason I showed her crossed fingers. She frowned then walloped the table, laughing. Somewhere, somehow, Sara laughed too.

“You are funny. I am a photographer, not a lesbian.” She threw me the envelope, inside were artful black and white prints of Maria naked, displaying, then pleasuring, herself.

“She is model.” Guapa jabbed at Maria’s wet slot as if to prove she couldn’t get her finger in. “Many tourists pay good, good money to see her be sexy. You like?”

I cleared my throat. Guapa laughed again. “Ah the English…” She took the photos off me, put them away. “How you ever make babies, ha?”

Silence consumed us. Guapa watched me eat again, drumming her fingers. Something didn’t make sense.

“But hang on, you both made so much… noise together?”

“Si.” She picked up a battered old wooden box from the floor beside her and swiped the breakfast things aside whether I’d finished or not. “Sometimes, Maria she is too sexy, what can I say? We are only human. You play chess?”

Typical Sara, far from setting me up with a nice comforting break with a nice, unavailable friend, she saddles me with five days hard labour with the sexiest–most highly sexed–woman in Europe.

I agreed.

“Wanna make it interesting?” She clicked the pieces onto a fold-out board–white for her, black for me.

“No money.” I was already plotting my opening move.

“Me too.” She shrugged. “We play for sex?” My brain stalled and she moved her first piece. “You lose a piece of chess, you lose a piece of clothes, yes?”

I laughed and agreed, pointing out that I was dressed for work: boots, socks, trousers, shirt, hat, even a bloody toolbelt. Guapa had on some jean shorts and cotton top. To get my kit off she’d need to take eight of my pieces. “But I’ll only have to take–“

“Two pieces.” She smirked at my appraising eye. “Is ok. The idea is to get naked, no?”

A dozen moves later.

My work clothes were piled beside me and I was stood before the fully dressed Guapa with my thumbs hooked in my underwear.

She was a brilliant player, but what made her impossible to beat were her bombshell distractions while I considered my own moves. She whispered things that went viral around my brain, clogging it up. “Did you like the pictures of Maria? When we work, she drips to her knees.” “In my darkroom, while I develop the pictures of you, I finger myself…” escort etimesgut “Girls taste nicer than boys…”

It is impossible to think rationally under that kind of pressure.

“Come on El Gato, get it out!” She goaded me as I faltered with my last piece of clothing. Shyness wasn’t stopping me removing my underwear, it was stopping me getting hard. Not to mention the humiliation of being thrashed on the chessboard. Even though I was as horny as hell, I was barely half-mast. I took a breath and dropped my shorts anyway.

Guapa scowled. I doubt she saw many limp dicks. “Hmm. I have work to do there, I think. Your move.”

Straight into another trap. She took my knight. I had no clothes left to remove. “What now?”

Guapa clapped, beaming. “Now, is interesting. Stand.”

I did as I was bid and my cock half-bobbed-half-dangled over the chessboard. The table was so large, Guapa had to stretch across to tickle under my end like a cat under its chin.

“Come on El Gato,” she whispered, as if she might scare it off. “Si… si… El Gato es Grande Gato! Come on GG… come on… Oh si!” My dick, in a handful of nodding steps, pulsed rigid. The sight of Guapa’s world-class beauty, enthralled as she snake-charmed my dick, will stay with me to me to my grave. To this day, she’s the only one who calls me GG, not BC, and–don’t tell my missus–but every time she does… Well. Nuff said.

Before long she sat back, regarding her handiwork and chewing her lip almost apprehensively.

I squeezed my erect meat roughly with a showy arrogance I hadn’t earned and she rolled her eyes, gesturing for me to play. I went to move my rook. She cleared her throat loudly and shook her head, then tipped her chin to another area of the board. I couldn’t believe it. I could take one of her pawns.

“My God! At last!” She leapt to her feet, spun and, smiling over her shoulder, unfastened her shorts. She wiggled them over her hips until her creamy buttocks popped out. No panties, but her cheeks were strongly delineated with tan-lines that somehow made her bottom seem even more naked than naked–a reminder that these parts of her were normally secret. She jiggled her bum and laughed at my cock straining toward her, then sat quickly before I could really see her from the front. She wriggled the shorts off under the table.

Guapa surveyed the chessboard and grinned as she spotted some vein of opportunity that I’d missed, and in this way my fate over the next few moves was decided. I should have paid more attention, but was bedazzled by thoughts of her pantielessness. I couldn’t sit still. I wandered round her, to take it all in, growl, that sort of thing.

Her bottom was a gorgeous contrast with the stone it was pressed to and the delightful crease where her thigh met her hip was far more enticing than any chessboard. Guapa flicked a dismissive glance over at me as I prowled around her

“Stop stalking my ass, bad cat. Focus on what my queen is about to do to you.”

“Bring it on.” I rested my cock between her shoulder-blades.

“Ok.” She took my queen and pulled off her top, twisting the rules somewhat but I wasn’t complaining. Her breasts were pert and sculptural. I anticipated her request, reached around and she bubbled into a rare, girlish giggle as her cinnamon nipples knotted under my brushing palms.

She leant back at me, and sighed a shivery breath. “Your move.”

I sighed too, released her breast and regarded the board. My hips nudged, sliding my cock along the dip of her spine. She chuckled and writhed against me, though I suspect this was only to distract. The board was like the Somme, a wasteland. I had nothing to fight with, just my bishop and some pawns. Then it all lit up with an opportunity. My bishop. Take her queen, leave her in check. I pounced.

“Ha!” She whirled to face me, delighted, and I had a dizzy feeling of falling into another trap. Her head was level with my bouncing, pleased-with-itself erection. “I have no clothes, GG.” She addressed my cock. “What would you like instead?”

As if there was any doubt! I pushed my hips toward her. With a mischievously serious face, she took hold of my shaft and slid up and down. “Si?”

My breath hitched. I shook my head.

She leant forward and pressed soft lips to my hard underside. “Like this?”

I swallowed. Tutted.

She huffed a little laugh, ran a flat tongue under my taut bulb. “Hmm?”

My legs trembled. I locked them. Frowned.

She pulled me into her huge mouth.

With a creaky kind of growl she bobbed her head, swirling her soft tongue around my tip, sliding me so deep she consumed my entire soul with each dip.

“F-fuck, don’t stop,” I gasped.

She stopped.

She peered down at my veiny brute in her long, tapered fingers. “Much better. Is like rock now, yes?” She turned back to the board.

I sat opposite her a little grumpily, my wet dick cooling in the breeze, but my ardour blazing. This chess thing was elvankent escort starting to annoy me.

Without hesitation, she took my Bishop, announced, “Check…” and hopped to her feet.

She stepped onto the bench and then the table and strode across, creating the shortest, sexiest catwalk in the universe–haute couture reduced to its essence of lithe torso, bouncing breasts and dainty mound framed with a clipped black bush.

She sat on the table edge in front of me, planted her feet either side of my lap, and leant back, presenting the neat folds of her labia. My mouth watered.

“Check!” She said again, waving her knees.

I leant forward, lightly kissing her pussy until she pushed it up at me with a wet kiss of her own. I opened her outer lips and plucked her hood with my lips and she muttered something in Spanish. I dabbed my tongue at her, enjoying the noises she made, and flipped at it until she swore, but then I stopped. I patted her clitoris. “Much better! Is like rock now yes?”

I leant around her to focus on the board.

“Motherfucker!” Her glare heated my cheek, but I knew what my next move was, I took the piece that checked me with my pawn, and with it checked her back.

“Check,” I said, and lunged at my prize. I pushed her thighs apart and flickered my tongue inside her, enjoying her ‘jamon’ taste, until her bucking hips called it out and over her clit. Again she gabbled, almost like a prayer, and I patiently did as my torturing teacher taught, delighting in Guapa’s mounting tension. She rested her feet on my shoulders and splayed to me, watching me work with unabashed astonishment. I toyed with playing some game, pulling away, but she wrapped her long legs about my neck and I recalled her party trick from late-night meals–cracking nuts between her thighs. I decided to finish her off instead.

I opened her cunt lips wide, sucked in her clit, and pattered my tongue at it. She grunted and arched back and I felt like I was about release an arrow from a bow. She jammed her hips to my face. I held her steady, licked a quick, insistent rhythm. She shivered out two long breaths, caught a third, then cried out, squirming and slapping the stone tabletop.

“Mother…F-fucker!”

I eased off, plucking light kisses at her quivering mound. She unlocked my leggy shackles and stroked the fuzz of my scalp, looking down at me as if for the first time.

I wiped my hand across my mouth and sat back; my cock standing proud in the triangle of space between us. “Your move.”

She smiled wickedly and hardly shifted, twisting to cast a glance over her shoulder at the board. She kept me between her knees as she absently slid one of the pieces. “Check….” She regarded my cock with wide, feral eyes. “Mate.”

She threw her arms around my neck, butted her mouth to mine and frogged astride my lap, knees up by my shoulders, hips lunging for my cock.

I grabbed and held her steady, one arm wrapped around her waist while I reached behind me to my tool belt, where I kept a (hopeful) condom. She pulled back from me momentarily and frowned in confusion and some trepidation. “What are you going to do to me?”

I rummaged and pulled out a foil packet, she tossed it away, stirred her hips and nestled my cock-head in her opening. Liquid dribbled down my shaft, but whether that was her or me was anyone’s guess.

“Is OK. I take pills and you a clean cat, no?” She sank slowly over me, slippery as hell after my tongue but still a tight fit. I reached below to spread her and we rocked at her entrance, by degrees inching me inside. After one deliciously unimpeded stroke, Guapa slid herself up and down with brilliant control, fitting me like a perfect, if squelchy, glove.

The dappled sun slid over her bronze skin as she rocked sinuously on my lap, gripped my shoulders and lasered her eyes into mine. Her jaw dropped, gasping on each down stroke as I pushed into her. I find it difficult to come with a woman on top, which was just what I needed in my hyper-horned-up state and we let our pace build slowly. I moved inside her, pushing deep and watching — almost detached — as sweat bloomed on her brow, nose and cheeks, then dripped down her chest. She bit her lips as if struggling to control herself.

Her eyes drooped shut and, this delicate contact between us lost, I teased my tongue around her breasts, tasting her salt, enjoying the shiver running through her and the little clench around my shaft. She moved with more urgency, but jerkily, so I guided her crouched slide, pulling her up and down on me, impaling her faster. She muttered in Spanish and I drove up harder, until she bounced on me, digging her fingernails into my shoulders. She quivered and locked, face tipped to the sun, growling. Her pussy gripped me. I rammed.

Squeals wrenched from her, screaming curses at the sky. Her rapture was such a joyous sight I laughed as she came, tossing her through her climax as she squirmed hungrily on my thrusts.

She flopped limp, but for trembling little aftershocks, and I stood. I needed to come. Now. She curled her over me, wrapping her arms around my head, blustering hot into my ear, “Gracias-gracias-gracias” and shuddering in my arms. I laid her out on the table so I could properly pump.

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