When the Queen Kneels Pt. 04

Leon's grin grew sharklike, slow and deliberate, as if her whispered question--What's the game?--had cracked open a door he'd already braced his foot behind. He took his time answering, savoring the silence that hung between them.

"Chess," he said.

Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "Seriously?"

Leon shrugged. "Why not? It's how this whole thing started."

"You got lucky."

"Oh, sure," he said, steepling his fingers again. "Just a fluke. Beginner's luck. Total fluke, twice in a row. That's why you came back. To check if it was luck."

Her jaw clenched. "I'm not doing another bet."

"Yet you're still standing here."

She didn't respond. Because she couldn't. Because he was right.

Leon leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes gleaming with unholy glee. "Same game. Standard rules. One match. No tricks. No distractions. Just you, me, and sixty-four squares."

Stephanie said nothing. Her shoulders were high and tight, arms crossed so hard the muscles in her forearms twitched.

"But here's the fun part," Leon continued. "You know I'm better than you now. That's what makes it interesting. You know losing is on the table. Hell, that it's not just possible, it's probable. And that turns you on, doesn't it?"

"You are so fucking gross." Stephanie retorted weakly.

He grinned. "Flattery will get you everywhere, but let's talk stakes.

She didn't move, but something in her face hardened with nerves and excitement.

"If I lose," Leon said slowly, "I delete the video and things go back to the way they before.

"And if you lose?" He leaned back again, his eyes dragging over her with surgical precision. "Then you come over to my place next Saturday... and wash my car."

Stephanie blinked. "Excuse me?"

"In a bikini." He added as he literally licked his lips like some sort of lizard creature.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Leon could see her brain trying to claw its way to a response as he marveled at how much easier it was to make the powerful professor shut up and become a blonde bimbo.

"Absolutely not." Stephanie said.

He shrugged again. "It's just a car wash. You'd still be in control. Just soap, water, and sunshine. And me, sitting in a lawn chair. "Oh, and one camera, of course."

Stephanie took a full step back, as if physical distance could undo the heat prickling up her neck. "You think I'd ever give you that? Another fucking video to jerk off to?"

Leon's voice was calm, almost soothing. "I think you're already halfway there, Professor. And I think you hate how much that makes you wet."

Her fist curled again. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. I know that somewhere under all that bluster, you crave the stage. The spotlight. You don't just lose, you perform your loss. That's what makes it real for you. That's how you 'win at losing,' remember?"

Stephanie's throat moved as she swallowed. The phrase landed like a gut punch--her own words echoed back through his grin, and she felt the hot flush of shame crawl down her spine.

"I'll never agree to that," she said.

Leon raised a single finger. "Not today. But you're going to think about it. All week. And every time you close your eyes, you're going to see yourself bent over my hood in soapy water, bikini strings digging into your skin, tits glistening under the sun while you scrub the wheels. And you're going to wonder..."

He leaned in one last time.

"how much wetter that humiliation will make you than you already are..."

She turned away before he could see the full depth of the color rising in her face, stormed out without another word.

That night, Stephanie lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Bryce was next to her, scrolling absently, but not asleep. They hadn't spoken much after dinner. Too many unspoken thoughts in the room. Too much static in the air.

"Do you think I could beat him?" she asked suddenly.

Bryce blinked. "Leon?"

She nodded.

He turned his head to look at her, heart thudding already. "At what?"

"Chess."

A beat.

"I don't know," he admitted.

She exhaled, long and low. Her fingers curled in the blanket.

"Because he wants another match."

Bryce sat up slightly. "What's the bet this time?"

She didn't answer.

"Steph."

She turned to face him. "He wants me to wash his car in a bikini. On camera."

Bryce blinked, his throat going dry instantly. "And if you win?"

"He deletes the cheer video. For real."

They stared at each other. The silence swelled.

"Are you considering it?" Bryce asked.

Stephanie didn't speak. Not with words. But the faint shimmer in her eyes, the way her knees pulled up closer to her chest, spoke volumes.

Even this was enough to get Bryce hard, as he grabbed her by the hand and took her to the bedroom to fuck some of the erotic tension out of his wife. He had hoped that by satisfying her sexually he could help her think more clearly about Leon and the bet. But, if anything, Bryce made it worse as midway through sex Stephanie began to question him about whether it turned him on to think about her dressed in a bikini washing another man's car. He tried to lie and claim that it didn't, but Stephanie could literally feel his cock twitch inside her.

"You want me to lose." Stephanie said once more as she felt her husband's cock slide in and out of her as he pounded her as roughly as he could.

Bryce called out "ughhh" in what Stephanie imagined was meant to be a no.

She had really thought that this was a bridge too far and that Bryce would come to his senses, but she was wrong. And without Bryce to hold her back, she began to seriously consider taking the bet. She didn't understand it, but the thought of further humiliation at the hands of Leon only turned her on more.

"I'm going to do it." Stephanie said firmly. "I'm going to risk losing more of my dignity baby." And that was enough to send Bryce over the edge as he came deep within her.

The next day Stephanie waited all morning for Bryce to try to tell her that he didn't want her to do the bet. It wasn't like her to delegate an important decision like this to him, but she no longer trusted her judgment when it came to Leon. Unfortunately for Stephanie's dignity, Bryce couldn't get the image of Stephanie losing out of his head either. It sickened him and enthralled him in equal measures. He wasn't willing to admit that to his wife, so he just said nothing and let her continue on this dangerous path.

The next morning, Stephanie texted Leon. You're on in my office at 5PM. It weighed on her all day, but in a good way. What would normally have been a boring day was laden with this erotic tension that made her feel alive in a way that she couldn't describe.

As she entered his office, Leon said nothing and simply reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the board.

"White or black?" he asked.

Stephanie sat down.

"Black," she said.

Leon's smile widened.

"Perfect."

And the pieces began to move.

This time Stephanie played aggressively, but more cautiously than before. She scored a few big victories picking up two free pawns and even a bishop. That familiar thrill of dominating her opponent began to spread throughout her body as she felt the first tremors of excitement that she could end this spell that Leon has cast over her by finally defeating him.

"You nervous yet?" she asked.

Leon smiled--but too tightly. His fingers hovered indecisively. "Not at all."

Stephanie scoffed. "Looks like your luck finally ran out."

Leon made a show of scratching his head. "Yeah... might be." He moved his rook. Passive.. She grinned.

Move twelve. Move thirteen. She drove her queen into a vicious diagonal, trapping one of his rooks. He sacrificed it for tempo, trying to reroute his remaining bishop. Useless. She was in control now. She could feel it. But then she reached out to shift her knight and froze. She recalculated, eyes flicking across the board. His king was safe, but hers was not.

Her blood went cold. Check.

"How the fuck" she whispered.

Leon's smile finally bloomed, slow and smug. Two moves later he had won yet again.

"You sandbagged," she whispered furiously.

Leon didn't answer.

"You fucking let me win those early moves."

His voice was like silk dragged over gravel. "It's more fun that way."

"I'll text you the address." He looked at her like he could already see her bent over the hood of his rusting Subaru, wet soap sliding between her cleavage. "Don't be late. We've got a lot of chrome to polish."

Stephanie didn't look at him as she left too scared as to what her face would reveal.

Stephanie stood in the kitchen with her palms braced against the marble countertop, arms locked, head bowed, lost in thought. Bryce leaned in the doorway, silently watching her back, the stiff set of her shoulders, the way her braid was starting to fray. He could feel the heat pouring off her like a radiator too long neglected. Something had happened, he could tell, but waited for her to start talking.

"I lost," she said finally.

Bryce didn't move.

Stephanie turned halfway, still braced on one hand, her voice sharpening. "Did you hear me? I fucking lost."

Her eyes flicked to his. There was a spark in them: rage, defiance, shame, and passion.

"Your wife is supposed to fucking put on a swimsuit and wash her coworker's car." Stephanie hissed at her husband. "And you are just going to stand there and SAY NOTHING." She shouted.

Bryce stepped forward, slowly, pulse hammering in his ears. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say it's a bad idea," she snapped. "I want you to say no fucking way is my wife going to parade herself like a soap-slicked pornstar for some cretin's private collection. I want you to talk me down. I want you to stop me."

Her fists clenched at her sides. "Because I'm not thinking clearly. Because I'm not myself anymore. Because I'm confused by why this excites me on some level."

Bryce opened his mouth. Closed it again.

She rounded on him. "You said we were in this together. So say something. Tell me I can't do this."

But all Bryce could see was how unbelievably sexy his proud strong wife would look as she did menial labor for that cretin. Her muscles flexing as she scrubbed the grill, her tits slick and bouncing beneath the spray of a hose, foam dripping off her arms like milk.

He was hard already. Harder than he had ever been.

"I think you have to," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Stephanie's face fell, slow and devastating. "What?"

"I think... you have to do it."

Her mouth opened--whether to scream, cry, or laugh, even she didn't know. "Are you serious?"

He stepped closer, slowly, his eyes dark. "You came in here begging me to stop you. But Steph... you didn't really want that. You wanted me to give you permission."

Her lip trembled, just barely.

Bryce placed his hands on either side of her waist, his grip warm and grounding. "You're terrified. But you're also soaked, aren't you? You're soaked, Stephanie. Just from imagining it."

She swallowed hard.

"And I've never been harder in my life," he said, voice dropping. "So maybe it's time we stop pretending."

He pulled her by the hips into him as they kissed, teeth clashing, her nails digging into his back as if punishing him for saying exactly what she didn't want to hear.

She kissed him like a drowning woman. Like every ounce of oxygen was poison and he was the cure. They stumbled backward, bumping into the wall beside the fridge, her hands clawing at his belt, dragging it open with a desperate, practiced ferocity.

"Tell me not to do it," she gasped against his mouth.

"No," he said, gripping her ass in both hands, hauling her up until her thighs locked around his waist.

"Tell me I'm better than this," she whimpered.

"You're perfect like this," he growled, as he slammed her back against a wall. He sat her down for just a few moments, just enough time to pull her skirt and panties down before shoving her back against the wall bent over at the hips.

He began to slam his cock inside her from behind over and over again as he finally unleashed some of his inner monologue "you love submitting to this fucking loser and you are going to give him another masturbation video because it will turn you on like a drug."

"oh god you're right." Stephanie moaned, as he shifted his weight to hit that spot he knew she loved.

She came first as she cried out Bryce's name. Bryce was right behind her, losing control, pumping into her as she pulsed and shook and moaned his name.

When they finally collapsed onto the floor, panting, tangled, bodies slick and trembling, there were no words at first. Just silence. And the unbearable weight of arousal that still hadn't burned out.

It was Saturday and she was expected at Leon's in a few hours. Stephanie stood before the full-length mirror in their bedroom, half-dressed, half-furious, holding up swimsuits like weapons she didn't know how to wield. The bed behind her was a battlefield--bikinis in every color, shape, and sin level strewn across the covers like evidence from a crime scene.

She grabbed the black one-piece and slipped it against her chest. It said I'm a serious woman being forced into this situation, not I'm here to make you hard. It would help show that she wasn't a slut, that she was fighting him, that she was still resisting.

She allowed it to slip through her fingers and she picked up a little pink bikini. She had only ever worn it in a private hot tub. The little triangles of fabric barely enough to cover a handful. The bottoms were cut high. Her mind flashed to what she would look like wearing it, as he stared at her drinking her body in.

She dropped the bikini as if it had burned her.

Then turned sharply and crossed the room, grabbing a deep blue halter-top style from the chair near the dresser. It had a high neckline. Thick straps. The bottoms were cheeky but manageable. Tasteful. Sexy in a retro way. She could live with this. She could be filmed in this and not die inside.

Bryce appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee, his eyes scanning the wreckage behind her with open curiosity.

"Jesus," he murmured. "You fight off an entire bachelorette party in here?"

Stephanie didn't smile.

He walked in slowly, handed her the mug. She took it without looking at him.

"Trying to decide which version of myself I want immortalized forever," she muttered.

Bryce set his own mug down on the dresser. "What's the debate?"

"One-piece means I hate it. Means I'm covering up. Bikini means I've given in. But too conservative, and he'll call me a coward. Too revealing, and..." She shook her head. "I don't even know anymore."

Bryce moved behind her, wrapped one arm around her waist, slid the other up to rest just beneath her chest. He met her gaze in the mirror. His voice was low, careful.

"What do you want to wear?"

She bit her lip.

"I don't know."

He kissed the back of her neck, just once. "Then wear the one that makes you feel in control."

Stephanie stared at her reflection. His hands on her. Her jaw tight. The blue halter clutched in one hand, the pink bikini staring at her from the bed like a dare she hadn't answered yet.

"Control," she said, flatly.

"Mmhmm control." Bryce said as he moved up behind her. Bryce's hands moved slowly over her hips, thumbs grazing bare skin with practiced familiarity.

"Won't matter what you wear," he murmured, voice low and calm, a velvet rope pulling tight around her ribs. "You'll still look like a fucking goddess."

Stephanie's jaw twitched.

"That odious little man," Bryce went on, mouth grazing the shell of her ear, "he's going to sit there pretending it's about winning, pretending it's about the car, or the bet, or the footage. But it won't be. It'll be about you. About your body--your ass in motion, tits bouncing with every stroke of the sponge. And he's gonna pretend he has power, because you let him see it."

"You're going to be ashamed, Steph. I know that. You're going to step out of the house in that bikini, and it'll hit you--how little it covers, how much it offers." His other hand traced a line down her stomach, slipping inside her waistband, finding the wet heat waiting there. "You'll feel that breeze on your skin and remember what you're doing, who you're doing it in front of."

Her breath caught.

"You'll be bent over his hood, soap dripping down your thighs, and you'll hate that you feel his eyes on you. You'll hate that you wonder how hard he is. But your nipples will still be hard under the fabric, and your pussy will still be soaking wet, because deep down, you want it."

She whimpered, just a little.

Bryce nipped gently at her shoulder, then whispered, "And so do I."

His fingers slid deeper, two of them now, teasing just past the edge of her entrance, never fully committing, circling maddeningly slow.

"You're soaked already," he murmured.

"I know," she hissed.

He withdrew just enough to make her groan in protest, her hips twitching against him.

"You've already picked it, haven't you?"

"No," she lied, eyes shut tight.

"You're lying." He smiled into her neck. "It's the pink one. With the ties. The one that barely covers you.

She ground back against his hand. "Bryce..."

He withdrew fully.

She whined.

"Say it," he said, breath hot against her jaw. "Say you'll wear it."

"No--"

"Say it or you don't get to come."

Her hands gripped the edge of the dresser, knuckles white. Her thighs trembled.

"Steph," he whispered, now grinding against her ass, his cock rock hard through his pants. "You're already mine. Let him think he won. Let him think he owns you for five minutes. But that bikini? That ass? That soaked little cunt--those are all mine."

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. "Fuck you..."

He slid a single fingertip back between her folds, slow and precise. "Not until you say it."

Stephanie opened her eyes, stared into her own reflection. She looked wrecked. Flushed. A single lock of hair clinging to her cheek. Bryce towering behind her, jaw set, eyes burning.

"I'll wear it," she whispered.

"Say which one."

"The pink one," she breathed. "The fucking pink bikini."

He pushed back inside her in one smooth motion, no more teasing, fingers crooking perfectly, thumb finding her clit as she cried out against her own forearm.

"There she is," Bryce growled.

And Stephanie came undone, crying out into her elbow, body shaking as he held her there, pressed between the dresser and his chest, every nerve alight. Her orgasm hit like a slap, fierce and consuming, hips jerking, breath sobbing out of her lungs as she rode it down, down, down.

When she finally collapsed against the edge of the dresser, chest heaving, thighs slick, Bryce leaned forward again and whispered:

"Now we're ready."

The midday sun hung heavy over the cul-de-sac behind Leon's apartment building, a cracked stretch of pavement bordered by patchy grass and a sagging wooden fence. The sky was cloudless, unrelenting. Heat shimmered above the hood of the dusty silver Subaru idling at the edge of the concrete, like the car itself was holding its breath in anticipation.

Leon was already seated in his folding chair, a cheap striped thing set up beneath the vague promise of shade offered by a single limp umbrella. He wore cargo shorts, a tank top with the words Anthro: It's In My Bones, and a grin so wide it nearly split his face. On his lap sat the GoPro on a short tripod, already blinking red. Recording. Always recording.

Then she appeared.

Stephanie Dahlstrom stepped out from the side alley with a bucket in one hand, a sponge and towel in the other. Her sunglasses were on. Her mouth was a blade. And she was wearing it.

The pink bikini.

Not just pink--neon pink. The top was two taut triangles that barely contained the swell of her breasts, the strings tied high behind her neck and low across her back. The bottoms were microscopic: low-cut in the front, high on the hips, and a Brazilian-style rear that left her ass as the star of the show. The color clashed obscenely with her lightly tanned skin, every movement accentuating her athletic build--tight stomach, powerful legs, sculpted shoulders. Her long braid swung like a metronome with each step.

She hadn't said a word yet. But Leon's cock had twitched the second she stepped into view.

From her point of view, the scene looked almost absurd. The heat, the dust, the silence. A single man with a camera and a shitty lawn chair, waiting to be entertained. She wanted to vomit. She also wanted to run. And--most damningly--she wanted to see herself in that footage later. She wanted to know what he was seeing.

She walked straight up to the hose, attached to a rusty spigot on the wall. Turned it on. Water gurgled, then burst forth in a hiss, snaking down her leg as she directed it toward the Subaru. She began wetting the car, mist spraying everywhere, catching the sunlight in droplets that clung to her skin. Her nipples were hard already, visible through the thin fabric. She tried not to notice.

Leon did.

He couldn't look away. Every shift of her body, every bend, every stretch--it was fucking divine. She didn't move like a submissive, not exactly. She moved like a queen who'd been forced to dance, every motion laced with fury and grace, and resentful perfection. She didn't half-ass it. Of course not. That would've given him something else to mock.

She began with the hood. Leaned over it, her toned body flexing, soap slathered in wide, controlled motions. The sponge squeaked faintly against the metal. Her breasts swayed as she worked, the ties at her hips tugging with every motion. A drip of soapy water slid between her breasts and she wiped it away, irritated.

Behind the camera, Leon nearly moaned.

She's doing it. She's really doing it.

Stephanie felt like her skin was electric. Every second, she was aware of her bare back, the curve of her ass, the ridiculous bikini wedged up between her cheeks. The heat didn't help. Sweat gathered at the base of her spine. Her inner thighs were damp. Her mouth was dry. But worst of all, her body kept responding. Every time she bent over and caught Leon's gaze, something deep in her clenched.

She rinsed the hood with a sharp spray, then circled to the side.

The front wheel.

She crouched down.

Leon's breath caught audibly.

There it is.

The sight of Stephanie squatting beside the front wheel, thighs spread slightly for balance, her ass arched back, soap dripping down her knee--Leon nearly fumbled the camera. She scrubbed hard, angry circles, but the sight was obscene. Her bikini top gaped slightly with each motion. The string on one side of her bottoms had started to slip lower. She adjusted it. Her fingers brushed her hip. It looked practiced. It looked pornographic.

Stephanie gritted her teeth.

This isn't happening. This isn't real. This is performance. This is nothing.

But her pussy was soaked. Every moment, every degrading gesture, every pass of the sponge had twisted tighter inside her. Her thighs flexed as she rose, moving to the roof, and the feeling of her own arousal was undeniable--sticky, warm, wrong.

Leon noticed everything. Every flick of her eyes, every time she pretended not to know he was watching. He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, not bothering to hide the erection pressing against his cargo shorts.

"Don't forget the back bumper," he called helpfully.

Stephanie froze.

Then turned slowly.

She said nothing. Just gave him a long, flat look that could've peeled paint. Then she stalked to the rear of the car, hips swinging more than necessary, legs gleaming.

She bent forward.

Flat at the waist.

Leon stopped breathing.

Her ass, nearly bare, arched and firm and glistening with soap and water, became the centerpiece of the entire scene. She began scrubbing the bumper--methodical, back-and-forth motions that made her breasts sway with gravity and rhythm. Her breathing had gone shallow. Her mouth was slightly open. Her eyes were glazed.

God, she thought, I should stop. I should stop right now. This is insane.

But she didn't.

Leon could see her thighs twitching. Could see the way her body was trembling now, not from exertion, but from heat. Shame. Humiliation. Arousal. He zoomed in slightly, catching the exact moment when she reached back, adjusted her bottoms again--and lingered.

She knows, he thought. She's breaking. And she knows.

Stephanie turned back toward him, bucket and sponge in hand, face unreadable. She approached, water dripping from her knees, a single streak of soap running down her stomach.

"Done," she said, voice tight.

"you can go." Leon said dismissively.

His eyes were fixed on the retreating figure of Stephanie Dahlstrom.

She moved like she was angry at the pavement, every heel-strike of her barefoot walk sending tiny splashes from the water she'd left behind. Her back was a sculpted landscape--lat muscles cut and smooth, shoulder blades rolling beneath sun-warmed skin like precision machinery. The narrow taper of her waist, the taut cords of her lower back flexing with every step--it was like watching an Olympian stalk off the podium.

But what truly mesmerized Leon--what made his mouth actually part, dry and dumb--was the way her breasts jutted forward, even though she was walking away from him.

The pink bikini top was fighting a losing war. The triangles of fabric were barely enough to cover her when facing front, and now, from behind, he could still see the sides of her breasts spilling forward beyond the line of her ribcage. The fullness of them pushed out past the profile of her back--round, heavy, defiantly impossible. With each stride, they shifted just enough to catch the light in passing glances, swaying subtly with the momentum of her furious walk.

He imagined her walking into her classroom on Monday, poised and polished, towering over everyone in a crisp blazer and heels, ruling with an iron tongue--and he would know. He would carry the memory of her soaked and exposed and pink-stringed into every interaction. He would see that impossible silhouette in his mind every time she turned away. And he would know the truth. She was breaking. Because no one with that much fire should ever have looked so perfectly humiliated. No one that strong should ever have made surrender look so fucking elegant.