Mastering the Game

"You lost the bet," he reminded her. Still, she felt oddly numb. She just knew she was going to beat him; he had never been much of a pool player. Big surprises come in small packages, and when you least expect them, he had once told her. He had said that months ago when they first met, and had repeated himself earlier today, just before the games began. But she had never felt more sure of winning, especially since she hid her talent as a way of luring people into the bets and then taking advantage of the mistakes they made.

His cold, impassive eyes were as harsh on her skin as the frozen wind that chaps your hands and face in the winter. This was dually shocking, as his eyes were never like this. Calculating yes, but usually warm, smiling of their own accord, except when he was angry. But even then his eyes were not like this. As harsh as his gaze was, his grinding voice was even more so. "You lost the bet," he said again.

She stared at him; he stared through her. Although he only stood about six inches taller than her own five foot five, and was not particularly broad-shouldered, his form seemed so much larger and dramatically more menacing than before. This surprised her. He was not particularly attractive, nor was he particularly large, standing about five foot eleven, maybe a little less. Though he appeared thin, he outweighed almost every estimate put to him. Probably the most surprising thing about him was his hair, and even that wasn't especially remarkable, save for its length. Many girls and women refused to date males whose hair was longer than theirs and had, therefore, refused him. Rejection for him was always as subtle as his asking, which is to say that mental grappling was the extent of conversation between him and most women: they just knew it wouldn't work, so he never bothered them.

Such as it was, he made people uncomfortable. He straddled the line between good friend, merely acceptable, and utterly repulsive. The lines were vague and fairly close, so it was not difficult for a mercurial person, such as him, to perform such a balancing act. This was, perhaps, the extent of his appeal: the thrill of the wrong, the stability of the right, the comfort of the safe. But this moment defied that, destroyed that line he balanced on. On the plane of personality, he had become the dark shadow of anxious anticipation. He was now a cold, ruthless predator, one that you watch as it watches you, knowing he will maul your perceptions of all that you know about him.

His eyebrows arched. "Well?" he asked. "You made the bet. You suggested it. You would make me stick to the terms if I had lost, and now I will hold you to the bet you made. When you're done with your reverie," he paused, "you will live up to the agreement we made." His eyes, despite their frozen appearance, twinkled mischievously, much like the glint of light off of a knife.

She was genuinely scared now. She had suggested the wager. Best two out of three, eight ball. Loser becomes the winner's slave for a day. He trumped her easily in the first game, but that was her plan. Let him win, she had thought, make him careless. The second game went much the same, though she didn't want to lose this one. But he had trouble with the last few balls, so they both ended up shooting for the eight ball at the same time. He scratched.

Last game. She broke, sank nothing. He shot, missed it all. She stepped up to the table, sank a stripe. Five more followed in quick succession. However, the final striped ball, the thirteen, refused to give in to gravity and inertia.

He picked up his cue, examined the tip, chalked it. He took his position behind the number one, shot, sank it. He barely nudged the cue ball on his next shot. A look of mute challenge appeared on his face, and it turned into a smirk as the white ball rolled into place, leaving the six between the cue and the thirteen. A bank shot was her only choice, but this failed.

Next down was the two, a long shot down the table and into the far corner. He grinned up at her as he leaned forward to take his next shot, and nudged the cue ball to the edge of the opposite corner pocket. As such, her shot was killed before it was born. She was an ardent pro-lifer, so she forged on and—a thought struck. She grinned slyly at him, wiggled her butt in an invitation to pucker up, and scooted the cue ball off near the side pocket, sticking it to edge of the felt. She grinned at the ball and had just opened her mouth to say something when she felt a sharp sting on her right cheek as he rounded the table to prepare for his turn. The three soon fell prey to gravity, but the cue only moved a few millimeters with his next shot.

She came around and realized her shot was interrupted by the magnanimous four, its imposing sphere standing directly between her and the blasted thirteen. Once again hoping a bank shot would save her, she checked, and shot, and missed, all in the span of a few seconds. He smirked again, irritating her.

"Fine then. Shoot," she said, her temper flaring. He nodded in acquiescence, saying, "Time enough for you to follow my orders later." She glared at him. He smirked.

Stepping to the table, he stared at the cue, then at some other ball. He seemed to be concentrating quite hard. A quick glance at the bank then at some such pocket. A smooth, quick stoke with the pool cue and the white ball surged forward, banking nicely and striking the four, which then careened off into the corner pocket. Taking his position behind the cue again, he slipped as he moved the cue stick and pushed the ball sideways. "Oops," he said, grinning at her. "Clumsy me."

That was the final straw. "Stop toying with me!" she virtually roared. She glowered at him. He seemed unaffected as he stared at her over the rims of his glasses. A slight queasy feeling spread through her stomach while she squirmed under his gaze. She moved to take her shot, all the while feeling his eyes follow her. She stopped, rested her cue on the floor and looked up at him. "I can't concentrate. Could you, like…um, stop staring at me?" His only response was to close his eyes. Not feeling any better, she stooped to make her shot. Her concentration was shattered, however, and she failed to do anything more than rearrange the table.

He found the cue ball, examined the angles, and chose a shot. She fidgeted. He looked up at her. "What?" he asked seemingly neutral, but slightly surprised.

"I know you're playing a game…" she began.

"Yeah. Pool." He shot, sank the five. The six succumbed soon afterward.

"Ha ha. You know what I mean. Mind games. You're playing with me," she stated, somewhat unsure of how else to say this.

"I thought you wanted to play games. After all, you started them. I took that as an invitation to 'play' with you, and all that implies."

"Well, just go ahead and clear the table if you can. Stop playing with my head."

"I fully intend to stop playing with your head and start playing with something else." She stared, open-mouthed, at him. He hadn't even looked at her. As he lined up his next shot, he said, "I intend to play with someone who's actually good at pool next time. Why," the clack of balls, the soft rumble of rolling, the hollow sound of the seven landing in a pocket interrupted, "do you think I let you win the last game? Not just to make up for the game you gave away, but to increase the excitement. I would say up the ante, but the bet is already pretty good anyway." The cue rolled away from where it impacted the six and towards the center of the table, though slightly to one end.

He looked slightly miffed by the layout of the table. The cue and the eight lay in a perfect line in the middle of the table. She perked up, for smack in the middle of the two was the thirteen. "My dear, old friend, Thirteen. How nice of you to invite yourself in," he said. Now it was her turn to smirk. He smirked as well. Her face formed a mask of surprise. He settled in, still grinning, but his face slowly melted back into seriousness. She smirked again.

He stroked the cue, the white ball jumped over the thirteen, and landed on the table again, barely striking the black eight ball, which rolled slowly towards the side pocket. Her mouth fell open just as the black orb fell into the pocket. She shook her head, staring at him. He shrugged and said "Check the pocket." She did, and pulled out the shiny black eight ball.

The events slowly faded to black on her mind's silver screen. Coming back to the present, she shuddered as she faced the reality reinforced by her own recollection. And now, here she was. Having lost he bet, she was now his slave. Her mind wandered around all the devious things he could make her do. Some were more than a little perverted, other just frightening, while some were embarrassing beyond thought. He looked at her. "Well?" he asked. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes closed, and her head fell. "Fine," she said.

"Turn around, keep your eyes closed, hands behind your back," he ordered callously. She complied, and felt something soft cover her eyes. It was quickly pulled tight, and what she knew was a blindfold was tied around her head. Soon after a heavy bit of cold metal clicked shut around her wrists. Her heart sagged. A small chain was slipped around her neck. It was loose, and it had a weight at the end, another piece of cold metal that hung down insider her blouse, slightly above and between her breasts. She felt herself being turned and felt him wrap his arms around her waist. One hand slid up and cupped the back of her head. He leaned forward, causing her to bend backwards. She opened her mouth to say something, but his kiss smothered all but a small sound, a sigh perhaps.

Next she knew, she was sitting down and the blindfold was loose. The room was silent. She shrugged and shook the blindfold off, which took what she estimated to be several minutes. After her eyes adjusted, she saw a paper on the table. Rising to investigate, she saw his customary scratch on the paper:

'The key is on the chain. Next time, don't play games unless you are willing to lose.

But then, when you lost you seemed quite willing.

--Master"

She sat back down and pondered how to get to the key. "Damn him," she said aloud. "Master? What kind of shit is that?" She ignored the odd feeling in the back of her mind.