The Game by Jeanne Barrack

high the drifts are. That plow better be huge.”
    “It is. Now, we just have to make sure they know we’re here. Get the log carrier from the living room.”
    “Sure. The sooner we get the wood brought in, the better.”
    “Marcie and I can help tend the fire, too. You guys just make sure we’re supplied with enough wood.”
    “Isn’t there a snow shovel somewhere?” Marcie asked. “Could we dig a path to the car and uncover it? Then it’ll be seen from above.”
    “There’s probably one in the toolshed. The only problem is getting to it. The drifts are packed against the door now. I barely made it inside to check the generator when we first arrived.” Dave banged the table so hard the sugar canister jumped. “When we get back I’m going to get the son of a bitch caretaker arrested on so many different charges, his lawyer will have to alphabetize them!”
    “Take it easy, babe.” Shari shook her head with teasing regret. “Too bad we can’t channel that heat and melt the snow.”
    “At least there’s plenty of wood,” Frank said, coming in at the tail end of the conversation. “I piled some more logs by the hearth. Dave can bring in the next stack.”
    “Marcie and I will take turns watching the fire.” Shari’s lips twitched. “I’ll take the first watch. If you guys want to continue what you started last night…”
    A gleam appeared in Marcie’s eyes. She watched as a myriad of expressions crossed the guys’ faces.
    “Are you sure, darling?” Dave gathered Shari in a loose embrace and gazed into her eyes.
    She caressed his face. “Just choose a different scenario, okay?” She smiled. “I want to try the lady of the manor with you first.”
    “How about the harem slave , Marcie?” Frank leered playfully at her. “Can I be the pasha?”
    “Hey, who’s the cop here? I outrank you. I’ll be the pasha. Uh, what’s a pasha?”
    “Like a sultan, and I don’t care who’s who, as long as Shari is sure she’s okay with it.” Marcie looked over to her. “Are you positive about this?”
    “Hey, who suggested it? Go on, I’ll be fine.”
    Marcie grinned. “Girl, you just earned a dedication when I publish my first book of photos.” She turned to Frank and Dave. “Come on, boys. I want to see if I still remember how to belly dance.” She giggled. “I think Shari has a collar buried somewhere in her case that hasn’t been used…yet.”
    * * * *
    Shari gazed at the dancing flames and did her damnedest to ignore the muffled sounds of passion going on in the back bedroom. The steady pounding of the bed was matched by a masculine voice crying out in ecstasy.
    It sounded like Frank.
    Thank God.
    She moved with purpose to the empty bedroom and found the vibrator she had discarded the other night.
    This time she’d use it.
    If only she had her nipple clamps handy.
    Oh well. Next time she’d be better prepared.
    * * * *
    “All you need to do is clap your hands rhythmically, like this.” Marcie demonstrated the syncopated beat to the men. “Leave the rest to me. And when you’re…ready, just stop.” She grinned. “Got it? Good. Begin.”
    Dave reclined in the bed while Frank sat on the wooden chest at its foot. Only a thong brief covered their genitals. Concentrating their attention on Marcie, they began the slow rhythm as instructed.
    She stood in the middle of the room. On her full breasts she wore an embroidered bra with holes cut out for her taut nipples. Sitting low on her waist was a narrow belt with scarves loosely attached and fluttering around her legs. The golden curls shielding her clit shone with scented oil she had rubbed on. Around her neck was a slim leather collar with a long, thin, gold chain affixed to it. She held the chain, twirling it in time to the beat.
    With sensuous grace, she moved to the clapping hands. Her shoulders gyrated and her hips undulated. Her breasts jounced and her nipples tightened.
    She threw back her head and twirled even faster, whipping