The Chair Game That Got Out of Hand
We had met at Damián’s club, that discreet place in Torre del Mar that you arrive at the first time red with embarrassment and leave wondering why you took so long to work up the nerve. There were four couples of us who ended up meeting there almost every Saturday, always in the same corner of the lounge, until one day we stopped being strangers swapping partners and became something like a gang.
What started out as fun ended up becoming one of those lasting friendships. We’d get together for dinner, for drinks, and almost always it ended the same way: clothes on the floor and laughter until dawn. Over time we got so loose with each other that we stopped using condoms among ourselves. The girls liked ending the night feeling the heat slipping down the inner side of our thighs, and the men loved watching it.
That weekend we decided to change the setting. We rented a country house on the edge of the village, one of those with wooden beams and a huge fireplace. Each couple came from a different city and the club had always been our meeting point, so escaping together to a new place felt almost like a teenage prank.
The house was simple and only had three bedrooms. Nobody worried about that: sharing a bed was hardly going to be the problem with a group like ours.
We had barely set foot in the living room before we no longer wanted to leave it. Outside it was freezing, but with the fireplace lit and blankets on the sofa, it felt like paradise. The eight of us stayed there, with no plan other than whatever happened to come up.
Meals became a game in themselves. Mateo pretended to give a blowjob to a banana until he had us crying with laughter; Carla let a thread of condensed milk run down between her breasts so her husband could lick it up with his tongue; someone smeared whipped cream on the nose of the person next to them and wiped it off with kisses. Everything was provocation, a way of heating things up without hurry, knowing the night was long and nobody had anywhere else to be.
“I’ve got an idea,” Bruno said, setting his glass on the table with a smile we already knew. “The chair game.”
***
Bruno was the biggest voyeur of all of us. At the club he almost always preferred to sit in a corner and watch rather than take part, and you could tell he enjoyed using his eyes more than his hands. His idea was very much like that: he would stay out of it, directing things, and set up three chairs in the middle of the living room.
The other three men would sit there naked, waiting. Four women would circle around while the music played, and when it stopped, each one would rush to sit on top of whichever man she caught. The one left standing, for that round, got nothing.
“Three chairs, four queens,” he said with a laugh. “May the fastest one win.”
We thought it was brilliant. The problem became obvious when the three of them stripped and sat down: none of them was anywhere near up to the task.
“This needs sorting out,” Lucía said, and knelt down without waiting for an answer.
The rest of us copied her. We took turns, divided up the laps, and started waking them up with our mouths, unhurriedly, until all three were as hard as the wood of the chairs themselves. Bruno had to stop things because Mateo was already on the verge of finishing just from Carla running her tongue over him a little longer.
“Hold it, hold it,” he said through laughter. “We’re going to run out of game before we even start.”
He put one of those chair-game videos with trendy songs on the TV, the kind that cut the music off without warning. And the show began.
***
Four women with lipstick smeared from sucking so much, with no underwear and soaked through with pure anticipation, started circling the three men acting as chairs. More like thrones, Lucía said. Thrones with built-in spikes.
We walked around teasing them to the limit: a little swaying, a hand slapped on the ass of the woman next to us, opening ourselves up to show them what they were going to miss or what they were going to get. They followed every move with tight jaws, not daring to touch themselves, waiting for the signal.
The music cut off and the four of us lunged at once, shoving and fighting for a seat. Three of us made it: we dropped down and felt them drive in all at once, all the way to the hilt. Carla was left standing, out of the game, biting her lip and cursing under her breath.
The song came on again and the three lucky ones started riding, chasing orgasm, though the beats lasted so few seconds that as soon as the rhythm stopped we had to get up in a hurry and leave them half-finished. That was the trick of the game: never enough time.
***
Second round. Carla had no intention of repeating the role of spectator. As soon as the music stopped, she shoved Lucía and sat down hard right on top of her friend’s boyfriend, just to be even more shameless about it.
“Cheater!” Lucía shouted, laughing herself sick, pointing at her.
“Learn from me, sweetheart,” Carla replied, moving slowly to rub it in her face.
The insults went back and forth all night, but always lovingly, like a shared joke. Bruno, in his corner, had an impossible erection and kept stroking himself as he watched us. He was enjoying himself more than anyone, even though he hadn’t moved from the armchair.
Third round. Fourth. Fifth. The mechanics were always the same and always different: the music played for a few seconds, we rode as if our lives depended on it, and then, all at once, silence forced us to stand and change laps. Each time it was a different man, a different position, a different rhythm. I lost count of how many times I sat down and how many I felt.
The cruelest part was that instant of transition, when we left them half-finished and ran to go round again. They would stay tense in the chairs, hands gripping the armrests so they wouldn’t touch themselves, watching us pass with a mixture of pleading and contained rage. We drew it out on purpose, swaying a little more than necessary, knowing exactly what we were doing to them.
We made it to eight rounds before the explosions started.
We were torturing them mercilessly, giving them just a little each time, leaving them on the edge over and over again before yanking ourselves away at the last second. Those three weren’t going to last much longer, and you could see it on their faces, in their ragged breathing and in the way they clenched their teeth every time the music forced us apart again.
***
By the eighth round we sat back down on the partners we were paired with. By then we were getting in with ridiculous ease: whatever didn’t slide on one slid on another, all mixed together, the thrusts turned into child’s play.
When the song stopped, none of them waited for the signal to get up. Two of the men grabbed the hips of the woman on top of them hard and started to finish inside, with long shudders that ran through them completely. After a couple of convulsions, the two women went still, feeling everything, their pulses beating between their legs from so much riding.
There were laughs and a bit of applause. Only one face was annoyed: the third man’s, who had been left on the brink. He told his partner to keep going, even though the music no longer mattered at all, and she happily did as he asked. A few seconds later, she was the third to end up just as satisfied as the other two.
And at one end of the living room, a fourth woman with a long face: Carla again, who after her masterstroke in the second round had been left without a prize once more.
“I want mine too,” she protested, crossing her arms like a child.
One of the women who still had her man inside her jerked her chin toward the corner.
“Then go after my boyfriend’s. He’s over there gaping at you.”
***
It was Bruno, of course. The referee. He’d been stroking himself throughout the whole thing and his cock was red, shining, at that exact point where one more touch and he’d go over the edge.
Carla didn’t hesitate. She walked up to him, still standing by the wall, and rose a little onto her toes to take him in slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until he was all the way inside. The two of them ended up facing each other, her hanging from his neck, and they started moving fast, without the discipline of the game, now only looking for the finish.
It didn’t even take a couple of minutes. Bruno held her against him and finally stopped watching in order to feel, emptying himself inside her with a rough groan while Carla dug her nails into his back.
“At last,” she sighed, letting herself sink back onto her heels.
By then the four of us had our reward.
***
We stayed naked for a good while, sprawled out on the sofa and the rug, with no desire to get dressed. Someone brought out another bottle and we toasted the country house, the cold outside, and Bruno, who was already planning the next edition of the tournament with three chairs and a fourth spare one “so nobody gets left out.”
The fireplace was still crackling. Carla, her head resting on my legs, looked up at the ceiling with the smile of a satisfied cat.
“The best game we ever invented,” she said.
And nobody argued. Of all the Saturdays at Damián’s club, of all the nights we had spent together, that was the one we were going to remember forever. The chair game, we called it. Though, truth be told, it had very little to do with chairs.
