Shoba's Game

By Sagmon Sagmotag

This work explores themes of surrender, discovery, and confidence in a woman. She suffers no real harm of any sort, and eventually is able to express her needs and desires so effectively to a new man in her life that he is able to learn not only her needs and desires, but those of other women, although these vary greatly from woman to woman. Spanking and humiliation are very effective for Shoba’s arousal, but Theo knows this is not so for most women, and learns ways to find out what activities are, or are not, erotic for any particular female. In these ways, the nature of male-female sexuality itself is explored.

The descriptions of sexual activity in this work are quite explicit.

Shoba sits in a coffee shop, bored, waiting for something to happen in her life. Rex speaks to her. She is slow to be social, but under his calm but probing questioning she reveals old and intimate memories to him before she is aware of it. Building on insights into her origin and nature, he leaves the shop with her in tow. By the time they reach his living room, he already has her wanting to please him in small ways and concerned about disappointing him.
Slowly and by degrees, he initiates her into the Game. She walks for his pleasure in watching her, enjoying his praises, concerned about displeasing him, in a way reliving her girlhood as the daughter of a cool, distant, and strict father. As she becomes more fascinated by the Game, increasingly in thrall to his praises and criticisms, and increasingly aroused, she allows the revealing of more and more of her body. His comments and the rules of the Game make clear his enjoyment of her body, humiliating and enflaming her. Eventually she finds herself naked before him.
He announces the game is over for the evening and they are done, unless... would she like him to give her pleasure? Even if pain also is involved? Aroused further, she chooses pleasure. He raises her arousal to a much higher state, then requires her to be spanked as punishment for mistakes in the Game. Yet afterward, despite her desire to retain control, by exploiting insights gained by his observation of her reactions to his manipulations, he brings her to heights of pleasure new to her. Suddenly it is over, she must leave, and she must call him on his terms if she wants more.
She will not, of course - for a few days. Eventually she calls, angry and confused. She consents to another meeting, but he requires her to ask. She finally begs. Their time together in the new encounter follows the patterns of the first, but with additional humiliations, powerfully arousing to her. Again she is dismissed, resists calling, but eventually calls again.
Their times together proceed in this fashion, with each encounter introducing her to new shame and pleasure, until problems with his health begin to complicate their Game. In the face of these challenges, Shoba begins taking new initiatives, begins to understand Rex, and their last weeks together are happy ones.
Bereaved, she returns regularly to search the coffee shop until she connects with the younger Theo, whom she finds willing to be taught how to give her the special pleasures Rex had brought her. After her tutelage, Theo learns to extend his talent to other women, sharing his new insights and discoveries with Shoba. They establish a rhythm of life which sustains them for many years thereafter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sagmon Sagmotag
• Release date: Aug 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988245525

Book preview

Shoba’s Game

Sagmon

Published by Sagmon Sagmotag at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Sagmon Sagmotag

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Table of Contents

Introductions

Encounter One

Intermezzo One

Encounter Two

Intermezzo Two

Encounter Three

Intermezzo Three

Encounter Four

Change

Encounter Five

Afterward

Encounter Six

Years

End

Introductions

He was taking a stroll near the river, in light rain, when he first saw her. The afternoon was late already, but it was still too early to eat. The sky over the nearby buildings was lighter than the sky over the river, to the east. The river itself was visible about halfway across and to the far bank as he looked over the bank from the parking lot. There were only a few cars in the lot – it was really little more than a strip of diagonal slots, delineated in faint yellow, hardly visible now, when wet; a narrow asphalt road ran beside it, near the riverbank. The real parking was in front of the shops, further west; this side would have been an alley, except for the open space toward the river.

The river, swollen from weeks of winter rain, was itself always interesting. Odd things sometimes floated by, especially when it was up, like now, from days of drizzle. He diverted to the bank, to one of the several paths that dropped toward the bank in some places, or angled down in others. The city had constructed a deck overlooking the water just to the north, left of where the path he had chosen began to descend. Its surface was several feet below the parking lot, but still quite safely above the water. It had benches and rails, and now a figure leaned against the rails with both hands, looking out across the water.

He could not have said what it was about this figure that caught his interest. A solitary person, there, in the rain, was unusual. This one was particularly still, and sheathed completely in dark raingear. Bright yellow was more popular. He wondered if the person might be considering jumping in – suicide. It seemed unlikely – a person might end up wet and cold from a jump, but this platform was no tall bridge. Whatever his source of interest was, he stood and watched.

The light rain eased into mist, then stopped altogether. The person moved, leisurely turning to the left, away from him, to look upriver. The right arm came up and the hood went back, revealing hair of a dark blonde color, unadorned, descending into the parka neck. The person turned to the right and moved down the rail to the other end of the deck. At his distance of a hundred feet or so, he could make out a woman. The drape of the parka suggested a figure, but the only clear information about her body was that it was light – not bulky. Her expression, as well as he could discern it, was empty. She seemed bored, and more – resigned to boredom.

He shifted his weight from one leg to another, watching her constantly. Fine droplets of mist again fell on his bare hands. She finally turned to her right, unhurriedly, and swept the surroundings. She noticed him standing on the trail, on the rim descending to the river, but passed him by and swept on. Then, with the mist graduating into light rain, she pulled the hood over her hair again and began moving to the platform’s walkway.

He watched her move from the platform, up the bank, across the road, and into the empty parking area. She never glanced his way again. She stood and examined the back entrances to the line of shops. Finally, with what seemed to him like a feeling of resigned inevitability, she moved toward the coffee shop’s back door, opened it, and entered.

He reviewed what he has seen. He tried to remember her face. He tried especially to recall her expression. He could not remember that expression ever changing, even when their eyes met while she was on the deck. She saw everything, but nothing mattered.

He entered the coffee house. The back door led to a hallway that emptied out into a long room that continued into large windows opening onto the street. Tables there were well lit from the western skyglow of late afternoon. To his left was a counter area. A barista was behind the counter. He spotted the woman at one of the small, high tables in the corner just beyond the counter area. Tables near her were empty; most of the customers were nearer the windows and the light.

There was music from speakers, several conversations were blending together, and there was some barista bustle, but the loudness was not unpleasant; there was enough masking to allow conversing in intimacy. She sat with the long wall on her left, a back wall behind her, staring absent-mindedly toward the front window. She was unpretentiously attractive, middle-aged, and seemed to be in basically good health, despite her apparent mood. From time to time she seemed to survey the occupants of the tables at the front window or nearby.

He ordered a small house coffee and stood by the counter, watching her. A simple order, it was ready quickly. He paid, then carried it to a table near the front, but closer to her than the occupied ones. He sat facing her, away from the window.

He continued to watch her, still looking for changes of expression, until her gaze came around again. When it was on him and their eyes met, he rose and moved directly toward her. She watched him approach, but her face continued in its neutrality, as if she was not really there behind it. He stopped a couple of feet short of her little table. You look like you’re waiting for something to happen, he said.

She regarded him with her usual casual expression. Small flickers in her eyebrows showed him both mild interest and mild annoyance. Waiting for you, you mean? she asked.

He showed her a slight smile, but kept his eyes neutral, and on hers. I doubt very much you were looking for me. Or for anybody else.

Her expression finally changed as she considered this. He continued to stand. He leaned away from her slightly. He waited.

What, then? she finally asked. He could see she was now slightly ill at ease, as if she thought he might find a leaf caught in her hair or spinach on a tooth.

See that table in the window? He turned away from her and moved against the long wall, giving her a view past him to the window. If everybody there burst into flames just now, I think that would make you smile. He turned back to her and waited. His expression remained neutral.

She thought about it. Maybe it would, she said. Then she gave a quiet, private laugh. Good, he said immediately. Then he added, But that’s not what you’re waiting for.

"And you still haven’t said what that is," she said, leaning back.

Instead of responding to this, he set his cup down on her table, moved closer to her, and said, Married at one time, but not now.

She looked back at him, lips tightened slightly. A small crease appeared between her eyebrows. He waited, still standing, but close to the table. His coffee sat between them.

She yielded. Yes, you could say that, she murmured, and looked away.

Good, he said again. Father not there much, either. He continued to study her face. He noted hazel eyes, set back under strong dark eyebrows, straight nose, a mouth that seemed slightly wide, with an upper lip thinner than the usual over a lower lip that tended to protrude slightly. He considered the parts and the whole; her face, whatever the details were. What did you call him?

Her face, so empty earlier, swam with small but distinct changes.

I don’t know you. Why am I talking to you like this? He looked at her, quizzical at her comment, and waited. Why am I telling you these things? she said.

Well, that’s the point, he said. If you knew me, it would be a different thing. Goals would be involved. Maybe you’d be asking for help – but you’re not asking for help. Or love. You knew love. You aren’t looking for love now. So – who safer? Who else would you talk to? Who else would you tell? He paused for her to consider this. What did you call your father? he finally continued.

He waited.

Daddy, she finally said. Good, he answered. He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down at the table with her. Brothers or sisters? he asked.

She grimaced. After me, they were done.

Do you have a job near here? he asked next. What do you do?

I work at the college. I teach – I teach German.

Ah, he said. You must be proud.

No, I – She seemed confused. It’s a job…

Do you have roommates or a partner, or do you live alone?

Alone.

She turned her head to the left, looking at nothing in particular on the long wall. Her hair covered her neck from ear to ear, dropping to just below the collar of her blouse. She was wearing white loop earrings, large enough to pass over an egg. Big earrings, he said. She blushed slightly and her lips tightened. She looked down. When is the last time you brushed that hair?

I’m sorry, she said. It’s just that…

It’s hard to be good all the time, he said soothingly. It’s okay. It’s okay now. He reached past his coffee, took her right hand in both of his, squeezed gently for a couple of seconds, then, as gently, replaced it on the table and took up his cup for another sip.

I live not far from here. I want you to see it. First, tell me something you did for your father. She hesitated, taking this in. That was a lot of material to consider. He rotated slowly in his chair. These chairs were high enough to allow him to place his left foot on the floor, leg extended, without actually rising from the chair; it allowed customers to sit, half-stand, slouch – whatever was comfortable. She took her lower lip in her teeth. What did he do in his spare time?

He could see her put down her momentary concerns and let herself drift back to earlier memories. He liked battle re-enactments. When I was home from college one summer, I built a model of a moment in the second day of Gettysburg. I was pretty good. I had a minor in theater, I designed sets, made models… I had tiny men and cannon and horse, tiny trees… I spent hours on it. He never seemed to care much for the birthday presents I got him, but I just knew this one would be different. His birthday was near the end of September. So he got my Gettysburg. He looked it over and just shrugged and told me that I’d picked a strange hour in that battle to commemorate. Then he said, ‘Don’t worry – I can use some of these parts for a real model.’

Did he know he’d hurt you?

Maybe. She thought about it. I don’t think he bothered to think about it. He really didn’t care.

How do you feel now? he asked.

I don’t know – mad – no, sad…

Ah, you have been very good, telling me the story. He saw that although she was a little surprised by the odd comment, she was still soothed by it.

He rose and held his right hand over the table. Give me your hand, he said. She hesitated – why should she give him her hand? Yet she reached out her left, turning away from the wall as she did so, and he stepped back from the table, drawing her forward. She slid out of her seat. Better grab your bag, too, he suggested, still holding her hand. She slipped her right arm through the strap and raised it; the small purse slid down and its strap found its place on her right shoulder. She cupped the purse in her right hand. He left the unfinished coffee, stepped toward the door, and released her hand. He walked out the front door at a leisurely pace with her close behind.

Tell me about your last lover, he said when they were in the quiet of the street.

My last lover.

You could tell me about your last sandwich, but you’d rather tell me about your lover. I’d rather hear about him, anyway, so I hope you tell me about him.

He watched as she absorbed this. She was curious; balking would reveal nothing to her.

He got angry all the time. Over nothing at all.

Why couldn’t you please him? She showed surprise at this leap. Her lips thinned and her nose flared in annoyance at his presumption. He watched her phrase her denial, watched her hesitate. Why wasn’t it he who failed to please her? He knew to wait.

It wasn’t that hard, finally, to just tell him. I don’t know! It seemed everything I did was always wrong! He could tell that she was relieved in telling this.

If you don’t want to think about him, you don’t have to. I am pleased that you told me this, though. My house is not far. While we walk, why don’t you tell me more about how you grew up? What did you play when you were little?

That he could decide what she could and could not think about registered at some level. About the same time, she registered that he was pleased, and that was good. And she was reminded he was taking her to his house. But then some other thing would happen, there was something else to consider, to tell him, to please him.

Encounter One

His door opened into a large living-room area. The wall near the door to the left continued away from the door into a double-wide folding door, closed; shortly past that was the back wall, with a wide window which lighted most of the room. The wall of the door through which they entered extended to the right some distance, leaving