Taking Chances

[Barbaria1]

it was my voice and that those were words that for some dark and unknowable reason wanted to come out of me. I felt high, like I’d had a couple glasses of wine too many, and I recognized the source of my intoxication as the incredible, reckless risk I was taking.

it’s been my experience here on CF that two or Moore glasses of Riesling can do that to you,

Well written story!

 

[BEThalia]

it’s been my experience here on CF that two or Moore glasses of Riesling can do that to you,

Well written story!

Thank you for your comment, Barbaria1. Glad to see you're twigging to the interesting part of the story. In all my stories I find writing the sex can get somewhat tedious. I enjoy the psychological part of the story and characters to be what makes writing interesting. How is it that this character - a woman in her mid-30s, well settled into a marriage and family, a well-established professional - ends up placing herself n this risky situation? People are impulsive and the attraction and thrill of risk can for some be difficult to resist. I hope I'm getting that part right, and that's the challenge. Alicia was easy - low risk chance - but Ellen is taking a high risk, 50-50, chance.

I should mention that this story is a 24,000 word novella in seven chapters. I'll get subsequent chapters up every few days (I can't stop from proofing and tinkering a little even though they've long since been published).

 

[Barbaria1]

In all my stories I find writing the sex can get somewhat tedious. I enjoy the psychological part of the story and characters to be what makes writing interesting.

I would fully agree with this. Good character development, attention to feelings and motives, situational contexts, broad and fine stroke thick descriptions, etc., are essential to making what we write and publish here on CF more than just a mindless litany of whiplashes, cane strokes, electrical shocks and so on.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Two (Part One)​

While those thoughts occupied me, the kickoff occurred and I thought, It's happening now. This is real – one way or the other.

If you follow football at all you know that most of the game was close. The Colts led 10 to 0 at the end of the first quarter and I remember thinking, Well, shit, this is too easy! By halftime the Colt’s lead was narrowed to 10 to 6. At the beginning of the fourth period the Colts still led 17 to 16. You know that in the last period the Colts were in a position to increase their lead by three points with a field goal, but it failed. You know that the Saints got the ball after the failed attempt and advanced down the field until they were on the two-yard line.

As they advanced, I kept expecting something to stop them: a fumble, an interception, a fourth and long that made them punt or try a long field goal. Nothing did. The drive ended with the Saints scoring a touchdown and adding eight points to their total after a two-point conversion. My heart seemed to drop to my feet as they showed the scoreboard before the commercial break: Saints 24, Colts 17.

This turn of events had the men cheering, although they were circumspect about it. They had not won yet, and we all knew that with over five minutes left in the game the result could still go either way. So, they cheered among themselves but did not say anything to me.

I knew that the team I now thought of as 'my Colts' would come back. They had to! And I was right. After receiving the ball on the kickoff, it was the Colts advancing down the field. I almost cried with relief as they completed one pass after the last, for seventeen yards, ten yards, twelve yards at a time. Soon they were just thirty yards away from their touchdown.

I started wondering: when they scored their touchdown would they elect to just kick an extra point and tie the game? Or would they risk a two-point conversion to take the lead immediately? I hoped they would just kick the one point and tie the game. The danger of falling short was too great for me to stand, and I thought I would prefer to have the game tied, perhaps going into overtime, before the Colts finally won.

I was busy with those strategic thoughts as I watched another pass that would move them closer to the end zone. Then I watched in disbelief, panic, as the Saints intercepted the pass. My heart fluttered and my insides suddenly felt empty as I watched the Saints player race down the field beyond the grasp of anyone who could stop him. The game was over.

Just as I and the men knew that being behind by a touchdown with over five minutes left in the game was meaningless, we all also knew that being two touchdowns behind with barely three minutes left was an almost insurmountable deficit to overcome. I looked over at Roberta who was looking at me with her head tilted and biting her lower lip. She gave me a sympathetic look and mouthed the word 'sorry.'

The funny thing was, as soon as I perceived this - as soon as I knew the game was over and that I had lost my bet - the first thing I did was, of all things, take inventory.

As I watched the rest of the game play out, I started by inventorying my clothing. I had worn that evening what in the fashion world is called a 'smart casual' outfit. I had it with me for social events outside the office. Sometimes the firms I worked for had those: a small dinner or reception the last evening at a nearby restaurant or lounge. In fact, Patrick’s company was hosting a small dinner for some of the project principals at my hotel’s restaurant after work on Tuesday, my last day. When I had packed, in addition to my business suits, I had put an outfit together following the 'smart casual' bible almost to the letter.

I was wearing peak-toe pumps with a slightly higher than typical heel since I am a bit on the short side. Okay.

I had forgotten to pack any thigh-hugger leggings, so I had nothing fancy on my legs – just panty hose in nude (I winced at the irony). At least I would not have to endure the mortification of revealing the control top variety. My tummy, with great effort at the club, is flat enough that I can wear sheer-to-the-waist. Okay.

I had also packed a white button-front oxford shirt. Cotton or cotton blend was more traditionally 'smart casual,’ but I have always liked satin and so was wearing the somewhat more formal fabric. Okay.

Slacks, or even jeans, are fine with smart casual, but I had taken a more formal path with a charcoal, knee-length, A-line skirt. Okay.

I had worn a waisted, hip-length blazer - again a little more dressy - that had come off almost as soon as I had arrived and was now draped over the back of my chair. Okay.

Now on to the parts of this evening's wardrobe that I had put the least thought into because they would remain hidden. At least that had been the theory. I started checking off the intimate wear boxes on my inventory.

A cream-colored camisole with spaghetti straps and lacy top. Okay.

Under the camisole there was no Wonderbra or Victoria's Secret item, just one of my work-a-day white bras. God, had I put on the one with the heavy pit stains? Who was I kidding? They all have pit stains. I just hoped the stains on the one hugging my breasts right now were not too noticeable or offensive. Not okay.

Finally, and most unpropitious, the underpants I had chosen that morning. Good heavens, I thought, I'm going to be the object of sexual lust after stepping out of a pair of Haines Her Ways! They were an aqua green with a white waistband and a pattern of red flower shapes. Were they the ones with the little half-inch rip along the front of the left leg band? Embarrassingly not okay.

As the Colts made one last futile march down the field, I moved on to the inventory I was more reticent to face: the body inventory.

I thought I would start in a safe place: feet and toes. My toenails were done. Thursday after training I had treated myself to a massage, facial, manicure, and pedicure at the hotel's spa. The dark red on my toenails and fingernails was fresh and unchipped, and I was confident my soles and heels were free of dead skin. Thank you, pumice. Okay.

Calves. Yes, I was always happy with them: good muscle definition. Better than okay.

My mind wandered into more dangerous territory: thighs. Twenty years ago, they were admirably lean and tight. After three vaginal births they were the one place a few varicose veins squiggled. Other than that, they were fine – a little meaty, but even without hose they still did not rub each other when I walked. They had a little cellulite, but you had to know where to look. At least, that is what I tell myself. Okay.

I took a leap upward. Breasts. This was one place I knew that if the quality were at all lacking it could be recompensed with quantity. And I did not think the quality bad. I knew that three of the four men I would soon be standing nude in front of were used to twenty-something boobs, but I thought mine could still compete. Even after my pregnancies and three rounds of nursing, when naked they still swayed rather than flopped. I could still boast a pair of high beams: my nipples, sitting atop generous, two-inch dark brown areolae, still pointed forward instead of down. Better then okay.

I considered my midsection. Decent undulation from my hips to waist to bust. A little bit of a tummy, but hey, come on - three pregnancies! No obvious stretch marks. If not okay then screw you. I mean - three pregnancies!

My bottom. I thought this was an inventory item I could be proud of. The little bit of cellulite on my thighs had not paid a visit there yet. Great definition to my buttocks, with a deep cleave between them. When David takes me from behind it is a favorite part of his foreplay to nestle his hard-on deep inside that crack, like a hotdog in a bun, before proceeding to his goal. Very okay.

Last item: the private area (soon not to be so private) between my legs. I tend to be a pretty open gal – my outer labia part at the slightest provocation and my inner labia engorge and spring out at the least arousal. I keep my pubic hair shaved entirely below and shaped into a two-inch-wide landing strip above. I had last shaved the previous weekend for pre-trip sex, and I likely was beginning to show some definite stubble. Pretty close to okay.

I assessed the whole package, taken together, to be reasonably easy on the eyes and one of which I am proud. As I occupied myself with those thought I was aware of conversation going on around me, none of it directed at me but all of it about me.

The last seconds expired and the game ended. The men reclaimed their cash from the tabletop. I had never cared particularly about the money, but winning it was the only rationale for the bet I had made, and now it was gone.

Patrick picked up the remote and switched the television off, saying, "I guess we have our own post-game show." He looked at me and said, "Your public awaits, Ellen."

The man who had originally challenged me with the bet, Steve, suggested I strip atop the coffee table, and the idea proved so popular that the two younger guys quickly collected snack bowls and drinks and removed them to the kitchen. There seemed no point to splitting hairs about exactly where to do the deed. Feeling disembodied, I rose and stepped up onto my little stage: a wide, heavily lacquered table - the cross-section of a large tree trunk. When I looked at Roberta, she had a sympathetic look on her face.

I took off my pumps and tossed them to Roberta. Pulling up my skirt to mid-thigh, I reached high up under it and pulled my pantyhose down and off. I pulled them right side out and handed them to Roberta.

I took a deep breath as I unzipped my skirt, pulled it down, and stepped out of it. I undid the buttons on my blouse from bottom to top, unfastened the wrist buttons, and my blouse soon joined my skirt in Roberta's lap. I pulled my camisole over my head and off.

There was no mystery about how to proceed from here. I knew it was my bra next rather than the underpants. I looked down and arched forward as I reached my hands behind my back and began pulling apart the four double hooks on my underwire bra. As I looked down, I felt relief, as incredibly incongruous as it was, when I registered that the underpants I had worn were not the ones with the rip at the leg band. What an absurd thing to be concerned with: as if anyone were going to notice.

As I fumbled with the hooks that first guy, Steve, said, “Hey, I wonder how big her tits are.”

That rude comment ignited some lively speculation. Roberta and I exchanged a look and smiled at each other. I am sure she was thinking the same thing I was: what could possibly be the source of the male obsession with how many inches around a woman's torso is and the letter designation of the bra cups her breasts fit into?

The result of all this speculation was each man hazarding a guess and reaching into his pocket for a fifty-dollar bill. Soon a little stack comprising two hundred dollars sat on the coffee table, the pot to go to the person who guessed closest.

My bra was free, the cups hanging loosely in front of my breasts, them and me forgotten, while all the negotiating had been underway. Now, every eye in the room was again focused on the nearly naked woman atop the table. I let my bra fall forward and off my shoulders, a desperate wish that I could keep it on flitting through my mind. I felt my breasts drop (but not overly much). I went to hand the bra to Roberta, but Steve grabbed the undergarment from my hand before Roberta could claim it. He studied the tag on the back near the hooks and announced in a loud voice, "thirty-four E," with a lot of emphasis on the fifth letter of the alphabet.

There was a pause then and, standing on a coffee table in nothing but my underpants, I felt forgotten again. One of the young men, Jason, had bet on 36DD, while another of the young men, Adam, had bet on 38E. Neither was exactly right, but the two estimates were the closest and each felt his to be correct in its own way.

The two debated this for a few moments, exchanging differing opinions as to why the cash on the table belonged to him. Meanwhile, I stood there with the breasts whose size they were discussing hanging out. Finally, they turned the debate over to Roberta, agreeing to accept her arbitration. She ruled that the young man who had guessed 36DD qualified as closer to the mark. She went on to explain that DD cups and E cups are the same thing, an explanation that drew from the men nothing but confused and mystified looks. So, Roberta explained, E was simply an alternate way of expressing the cup size, just as F would be an alternate designation for DDD. That being the case, one had chosen 36DD and the other had chosen 38DD. So, the 36DD guess was two inches closer than the 38E or DD guess. Jason smiled and picked up his winnings.

All eyes were now back on me. Fighting an overwhelming desire not to have to do it, I hooked my thumbs in the waist band of my cheap, run-of-the-mill underpants and pulled them down and off. As I lowered them, I looked and reassured myself about the one source of jeopardy I had been unsure about. Relief! No skid marks! I balled them up, and tossed them to Roberta. I got down off the coffee table right away, hoping I would feel less on display. I did, but not to any degree that mattered.

There was some awkwardness at that point. I stood with my crossed arms under my breasts, both supporting them and trying to ward off the chilliness I felt, evidenced by my nipples standing out to their full length. No one seemed to quite know how we were to proceed from here.

Finally, Adam voiced the question on everyone's mind, "So, who goes first?"

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Two (Part Two)​

There were a few seconds of further pondering.

Then Patrick said, “Ellen, are you still okay with this? I won’t have you doing anything you’re not willing to do. If you want to put on your things and walk out the door no one is going to stop you.”

Patrick had opened wide the escape hatch, and I was powerfully tempted. I could just walk out of here.

“If I walk, I’d be welching on my bet, wouldn’t I?” I said that as much to myself as to anyone in particular. I was surprised I had verbalized the thought.

Patrick looked down, and his shoulders shrugged just the smallest bit. “Yeah, um, I guess you would. But I just want you to know that option is open to you.”

Welch on my bet? It would be dishonorable. I think the British might use the term ‘ignoble.’ I thought of the disgrace I would feel as I put my clothes back on, put on my coat, and walked to the door and out. I was sure no one would say a word. Patrick was the boss, and none of his underlings would dare to stand in my way or even erect any verbal barriers to shame me into paying off. But that is what I would feel: shame. And inferiority. I would be a woman - no, really a girl - who opens her loud mouth and makes a bet and then will not pay off when she loses. A girl who thinks she can play with the men, but when the going gets tough she slinks away with her tail between her legs. How many stereotypes would that confirm for the men in the room?

I looked at Roberta. Without speaking, she subtly motioned with her head toward the door: Get out of here! Just go! That got me thinking about her. She had done the same years ago: made a foolish bet and lost. And she had paid her obligation. I am sure thoughts like mine had passed through her head during that long night and morning and early afternoon, as the time to make good on the wager she had made and lost crept nearer. But no, she had paid off, and so could I. It came down to one of two choices: bear the shame and humiliation of paying off or bear the shame and humiliation of walking and welching. Roberta was made of sterner stuff than that, and so was I.

All these internal deliberations had taken maybe a second of real time.

“No, Patrick,” I said, “I opened my mouth and made the bet. I lost. I’ll pay off. Of course, I won’t be doing it happily, but I’m doing it willingly and consensually.”

No one made a sound, but I could sense from Roberta a silent sigh expressing her disappointment that I had chosen the wrong option. And I could sense relaxation from the guys. The incredible night of sexual pleasure, even domination, they had risked their money to win was not going to disappear out the door into the night. They would, indeed, get to live their once-in-a-lifetime experience: a woman at their beck and call to use sexually any way they wanted for a night. They had lucked into a fantasy that was about to walk into the real world. How many people ever experience that?

“Okay,” Patrick said, “but you can call it quits at any time. Just know you have that option. No one is going to hold you here to do anything you’re not willing to do.”

I put my head down and said, “Yeah, I understand. Let’s start getting this over with.”

Patrick rose and walked over to a hutch. He opened one of the compartment doors and took from it a deck of cards sitting next to a cribbage board. He spread out the cards on the coffee table and everyone got the idea immediately. Each of the men chose a card. Adam turned over a queen, the highest of the four cards drawn. He seemed the youngest of the four.

Adam walked around the coffee table to where I stood in the middle of the living room. He looked me up and down and said, "Okay. Get on your knees. I want a blowjob." He almost looked surprised when I complied. He seemed amazed and a little taken with the power he now possessed. He had ordered a nude woman, a decade and more his senior, to her knees to blow him, and she had done it without question or objection.

Reluctantly, I sank to me knees, and after a moment when nothing happened, I asked him, "Are you going to take your dick out?"

"No," he said, feeling his oats, "you are."

I fumblingly unlatched his belt, unhooked the button at the top of his fly, and pulled down his zipper. He was wearing slacks. They came off his hips easily and dropped to the floor. I put my fingers into the waistband of his boxer shorts and pulled them down to the middle of his thighs. His cock, already hard and red, sprang out at me.

I have been married for twelve years, and my husband and I made an exclusive couple or were engaged for three years prior to our wedding. The reality of what I had gotten myself into thrust itself unmistakably upon me as I opened my mouth and put it around Adam's cock. For the first time in fifteen years a penis other than my husband's was inside me.

I moved my mouth on Adam’s cock, trying every trick I knew to make him come quickly and get this over with. I ran my tongue along the underside. I swirled my tongue around the head. I finally settled into what I thought might be my best strategy: I stroked the length of his cock with one hand, while cupping his balls in the other and squeezing gently and sucking hard on the head.

Adam seemed to respond to this, and I could hear him moaning. I sensed some reluctance from him and suspected that perhaps he was trying to avoid coming too quickly in front of the others. What young man wants to be seen as quick on the trigger?

After maybe five or seven minutes he seemed to be nearing his peak. I felt his hands on the sides of my head. Then he gripped my hair, not painfully but tightly. I was now held motionless as he moved his cock in and out of my mouth.

I was terribly reluctant for what I knew would happen next because I hate the taste of cum. Maybe it is not so much the taste as it is the warmth, the slimy texture, the sweet and distinctive scent. Maybe the fact that the first boy I did oral on came in my mouth - after promising not to - and held my head while he unloaded. Me furious. Him laughing. I had thought maybe there was a future with him to one degree or another. I found out in the most distasteful way that there was not. With David, about the best I can do for a treat is let him come in my mouth and then immediately spit. I do get a reward of sorts. David enjoys giving me oral pleasure, and afterward will spend an extra long time pleasing me. There is a lot to be said for quid pro quo in a marriage. He does not have any objection to the act as long as I am reclining. But I have to do some serious wheedling to get him to let me take my pleasure by sitting on his face, something that lights a fire in me and always results in a strong and satisfying orgasm. Those two features of our sexual relationship became tangled in my mind now. My reluctance to taste or swallow cum. His reluctance to have my pussy planted on his face. My carnal desire ramped up. I felt it distinctly. My vulva was heating, my labia engorging, my vagina lubricating. I heard my side of the conversation I knew I would have with David some time after I got home. Cribbage? Say two-out-of-three? You win and for the next thirty days I’ll blow you any time you tell me to. You can blow your load in my mouth and I have to swallow. I win and for thirty days I get to sit on your face anytime I want. Interested? Putting this whole betting concept into the context of our marriage and our sexual relationship warmed me. I heard myself groan with lust and did not care what the others in the room thought. My mouth and tongue were suddenly working on Adam’s cock with sloppy, wet abandon.

Adam responded immediately. He tried to hold the head of his cock just inside my lips, but I was too far gone. My mouth devoured his cock, took in as much as it could handle. I felt a first tentative squirt of semen, and I thought, I lost the cribbage match to David! Now comes my forfeit! Adam’s cock emitted long, full squirts of cum that I let accumulate before deliberately, slowly swallowing. I was crazy with the desire to put a couple fingers on my clitoris. I knew in two seconds flat I would be coming like I have never come before. But after Adam’s load was down my throat, I began to come to my senses again, at least enough to know that I could not get myself off in front of a roomful of spectators. I cannot imagine what they had made of that last thirty seconds that I had Adam in my mouth.

Adam withdrew and I coughed, the little bit of his semen remaining in my mouth coating my lips.

Adam's grip on my hair lessened and then was gone. He and I were both breathing hard. Without warning his hand was under my chin, pinching it and turning my face up to his. He laughed in my face and said, "Oh man, you are one hot little cocksucker, bitch," his features bright with smug superiority. He was the picture of that boyfriend from years ago.

The last of the haziness in my head cleared instantly. I knew I had to nip this in the bud before it got out of hand. I rose unsteadily to my feet. I jabbed him in the chest. "Look," I said, "I'm going to pay off this bet. You can fuck me all night. But my name is Ellen. Don’t you dare call me anything other than my name."

It is often difficult for a woman to project authority. It is especially difficult when she is standing naked in front of a man she has just been on her knees for with some of his semen adorning her lips.

"Look, bitch," Adam began, "I don't care..."

"Of course, Ellen," Patrick said, cutting off Adam. "You’re right. As your host, I apologize for Adam's behavior in my home and promise that you will not be called anything other than your name tonight. Adam would like to apologize."

The boss had spoken, setting an important ground rule for the night.

Adam made tentative eye contact, looking flustered. I could tell it was like pulling a needle through his left testicle, but he managed to say, "Sure, Ellen. I'm sorry for my words. You won't hear anything like that again from me tonight. I apologize."

Patrick followed this up with another ground rule. “While we’re on the subject. If I hear even the whisper of a rumor around the office about what kind of night Ms. Ryan had here, you can bet I’ll track it down. With no pictures or videos there is not one shred of proof, and I’ll be able to chalk it up to just plain sexual harassment. Whoever decided to open his mouth will find a big and permanent dent in his career. Do not make the mistake of thinking I’m not as serious as a heart attack.”

I had won an important victory. Two actually. An important measure of power had shifted my way that would make the rest of the night a little more bearable. I would be used and embarrassed, but I would not be the object of humiliating and disrespectful names. And over my last two days I would not have small groups around the office glancing surreptitiously in my direction and giggling and whispering together. I looked over at Roberta who put her hands together palm to palm and gripped them together tightly. She smiled at me.

Small victories aside, I was still naked in the middle of a living room with four horny men around me, looking my nude body up and down. I had only knocked down one boner so far, and I still had a night of sexual service ahead of me. Paying off my foolish bet would mean a long and exhausting night.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Three​

According to the cards, Patrick was next. He gave me a little time to rest and recover my composure. Then he told me to come with him. I and the men walked down a hall to what was obviously a guest bedroom. Patrick excused himself and went into a room across the hall that looked from the limited view I had of the inside to be his and Roberta's bedchamber. When he returned, he had a box of condoms in one hand and in the other a pair of steel handcuffs with a short rope attached to them. He placed the box on one of the night tables and turned toward me.

"Patrick," I said, "I'm going to pay off this bet. I promise. You don't have to tie me down."

“Oh, I'm not doing this because I think I have to," Patrick said, "I'm doing it because I want to. Is it okay?"

“Hey, how ever you want it.” I put out my wrists and he fastened the cuffs on them. By the rope, he led me over to the bed and said, "On your back please."

I moved onto the bed, positioning myself with my head on a pillow and my feet toward the foot of the bed. I crossed my ankles. Patrick pulled my hands up toward the top of the low headboard and tied the rope off somewhere behind it. David and I had this sort of bondage sex occasionally. Me tied. Him tied. We both have a liking for it either way, just not too often so as to keep it fresh. So, I was okay with everything other than the fact that the encounter would involve someone other than David. But that is the situation I had gambled myself into.

I saw Roberta's face peek around the corner of the door frame. She looked at me, then went across the hall to the same room Patrick had. When she returned Patrick had just finished taking off his pants and boxers, his cock pointing to the ceiling. He was rolling on a condom.

Roberta entered the room with a loud, "Excuse me, boys. I've got a rule of the house that you are all going to follow to the letter." She brought out a small bottle and a tube and held them up, one in each hand. "Lube gel," she said, shaking the tube. "Liquid lube," she said, shaking the bottle. "Take your choice, but every time a dick goes into Ellen tonight your condom is going to have one or the other of these spread thick on it. Don't let me find out you did otherwise, or I'll boot you right out the front door myself."

I looked at her with gratitude. She was busy squeezing lube out of its tube and spreading it on Patrick’s condom. She took her time, stroking Patrick then holding his member tightly in her grip. They exchanged a look for some long seconds before she released him.

Patrick climbed onto the bed. I spread my legs feeling a heavy pang of regret and guilt. For the first time in more than fifteen years I was spreading my legs for a man who was not David. And Roberta had been right. My pussy’s arousal had vanished somewhere between the living room and here. I was now bone dry. Absolutely nothing about this was arousing. Patrick took his cock and brought it to my vagina, ran the head up and down my labia. He began to push in, not stopping until his entire length was lodged deeply in me. I mentally thanked Roberta for her foresight. He began to stroke slowly and deliberately. He was up on his arms, fully extended. The only place our bodies were in contact was at our crotches. His eyes were closed. I do not know if he was just doing what he was doing or if he had a purpose behind his body positioning. I felt some relief that while this was going on we had so little body or eye contact. I could get through this, endure, if I were distanced from what was being done to me. Patrick went on stroking for some minutes. His pace picked up and breathing became ragged. He seemed close to coming. He had not been in me for more than a few minutes. Pretty short fuse, but I supposed getting some strange had its attractions for a man, particularly under the current unique circumstances.

I felt nothing. I have never experienced having a cock engaged with my body without any erotic context. As Patrick continued to speed up, I thought how odd that was. Occasionally, David might want sex when I was not particularly in the mood, but I would usually accommodate him. He had occasion to return the same indulgence. Quid pro quo. But even then, I would find pleasure in the act. Now I just had a hard penis in my body. I could feel it pushing in and pulling out, but it was simply a sensation devoid of any interest or mental engagement on my part. As a result, I had nothing to do, just lie there with my legs wide. I pulled on the handcuffs. They were not tight but held my wrists with only an inch or two of movement possible.

Patrick’s pace ramped up again up and his breathing became ragged. Then he was out of me and off me. He stripped off the condom and straddled my upper body. He put his cock at my mouth, and I did not resist as he pushed it in. The condom flavor was unpleasant. I had nothing to do. No technique was required. All I had to do was just lie there bound while he fucked my mouth, feeling annoyance at how his pubic hair tickled my nose when he was all the way in. He liked having his cock almost entirely in my mouth. The first time I was not ready for it. I had just exhaled, and his cock prevented my taking a breath. I panicked and began to pull against the shackles. I looked up at Patrick, but his eyes were closed, and his face was toward the ceiling. He pulled back and I gulped air. For a short time he alternated between out and all the way in. But within a minute of engaging with my mouth his cock jumped and warmth was suddenly there. He was rubbing his cock through my lips as he spilled into me. I swallowed a little, but then just let my mouth fill, pushing the ejaculate out when it was full. I felt the warm liquid run down my cheeks and chin, onto my ears and neck.

I could only think, Two down, who knows how many yet to go.

When he was off me and off the bed, I realized that even as Patrick had been engaged with my mouth, I had been lying there with my legs wide open. I closed them now even though I was long past considerations of modesty.

Patrick unlocked the handcuffs and my arms flopped to my sides. Roberta must have been nearby, the mother hen looking out for her little chick in distress. She shooed everyone out of the room to the objections of the two young men who had not yet had me. She insisted I have a little time to recover.

She closed the door after her and I heard her muffled voice recede down the hall saying, "Now, you'll have plenty of opportunity to fuck her." The rational voice of sweet reason.

I was alone. I got some tissues from the bedside table and cleaned myself as best I could. I curled up and pulled the bedspread over me from the side. I expected Roberta might come back in, but she left me to rest.

I looked at the bedside clock. 10:13. About an hour and a half since the game ended. Incredibly, I drifted off to sleep. I awoke to a tap at the door. Roberta stuck her head in.

"Sorry, Ellen. Time to go back to work." I looked at the clock again. 10:47. She had fended off the men for a full half an hour, bless her.

Roberta withdrew and the two young men who’d not had me yet came in. I did not like the look of this, but I had no choice. They began to take off their clothes and were soon naked, their cocks either semi-hard or rigid. One of them asked me to get off the bed. He asked politely rather than ordered. That was a good sign.

"You're Jason, right?" I asked the one who had requested I stand. I thought using names would establish a personal rapport that might be to my advantage. I think the same strategy is recommended when you become the hostage of terrorists or bank robbers.

"Yes, I am, Ellen," he said, and put out his hand to shake. Sweet. He had put a condom on his cock and after shaking hands started applying lube to it.

The other man was just standing, stroking. "You're Steve?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said in an oily, condescending way that communicated he would soon have his cock in me in some way and I had no choice in the matter. He did not offer his hand. I had thought Jason’s handshake a bit misplaced but sweet. His effort to be sociable made the contrast with Steve all the starker. This tall man obviously found the situation one that included no demand for any sort of courtesy or social niceties.

Jason threw himself on the bed, rolling over on his back, legs draped over the end of the bed and his cock pointing at the ceiling. I did not want to have to be told. I paused for a moment and applied some lube gel, spreading it all along my labia and into my vagina. I did this without any self-conscious thought, and only in the middle of this action did I realize I had my hand between my legs applying lube to my pussy while two men I had met only hours before intently studied the procedure. The gel was a good idea, but I found my pussy was still soft, pliable, and warm from the fucking Patrick had given it.

Then I went over and straddled Jason's hips, taking his cock in my hand and guiding it into my vagina. "Oh, wow," he said, a smile on his face. "This is great," he added with genuine enthusiasm. I guess the boy just likes to screw. I began to rock slowly back and forth on his cock, Jason's hands happily kneading my breasts.

In a moment, Steve was in front of me on his knees, his cock before my face. As I mentioned, Steve is a tall guy, at least six-two, and his member was proportionately large. I was not about to tell him of my observation. I did not want to feed his ego. Steve smiled down at me. He put one hand at the back of my head and with the other guided his cock to my mouth and pushed in. He got his cock in as far as about half his length and my lips were stretched to accommodate his girth. I’d never had more than one cock in me at a time, had never wanted more than one in me at a time, and never imagined any circumstance in which I might have more than one in me. Isn't life just full of surprises?

Jason was moving his member, stroking in and out with abandon. He now had his face buried in my breasts, sucking and biting my nipples. Both my vagina and mouth were stretched, filled with cock. I felt hands on my hips as Jason’s hands left my breasts. Through it all I felt Steve, by far the largest of the four, stretching my mouth.

My concentration shifted to my filled vagina. Jason smothered himself in my breasts. He sought out my nipples, and alternated between sucking them forcefully into his mouth, flicking his tongue over them, and moving his mouth to somewhere on my areolae, sucking in the tissue hard in the same technique junior high school kids use to leave a hickey. Were David doing that I might have gotten a big charge out of it, but in fact it was not David’s mouth on my breasts. I flashed on what Roberta had said earlier about how surrendering your body to pay off a bet is a dead, non-erotic event. I discovered she was wrong, at least in part. As I felt the little jolts of pleasure/pain from my breasts, and how stuffed my pussy was, I could feel my vagina warm. This is an odd distinction I perceived. I was not erotically turned on, as I would be with David, but I was now sexually turned on. I now craved the entirely cold, functional release an orgasm under these circumstances would bring.

I did not want Jason, and especially not Steve, to know about it. I ground myself into Jason's cock as inconspicuously as I could and found what I was looking for: his pubic hair. I started making little forward and back motions with my hips, rubbing my clitoris against the rough texture. Suddenly, I felt waves from my vagina that sucked the sexual tension from my brain and body and dissipated it. A moment later Jason's body stiffen, and I knew he was emptying himself into his condom. He began to relax. I came off him to one side. Steve’s member popped from my mouth while I rearranged myself and Jason exited the scrum.

Steve’s cock was now all the way up the flagpole. I put my mouth around it again, getting about half his length in me. I began to bob my head, gripping the lower part of his shaft in one fist. After a short while he started to forcefully shove his cock in and out while holding my head stationary. He began to moan and murmur “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...” Without warning warmth spread inside my mouth. For the second time that evening I swallowed as quickly as I could. Steve took hold of a handful of my hair and wrapped it around his hand in a circular motion that pulled hard at my scalp. The pain was unexpected, my mouth involuntarily opened, and his semen poured out and down my chin, to land on the bedspread. The last of Steve's ejaculation was out. He took his penis from my mouth. Two final weak squirts, one hitting my forehead and the other my cheek below my left eye. His penis was coated with cum, and he proceeded to wipe it on my face, dragging it over my nose, chin, and cheeks. He took his time and made a conspicuous show of what he was doing. He at last released my hair, and flopped back on the bed, rubbing his slackening penis as it oozed the last of his cum.

Jason had watched me and Steve finish. As they left the room Jason made a point to tell me how good it had been and thanked me.

I told him not to mention it.

 

[Hangnail]

Sophisticated writing.

 

[BEThalia]

Sophisticated writing.

Thank you for your comment and compliment, hangnail. The encouragement is appreciated. I contributed the Alicia story (volume eight) because it seemed to fit in with the bdsm theme on this site/thread - with its heavy component of faux medieval judicial punishment. Not sure why I started into posting Ellen other than summertime boredom. It doesn't really seem to fit in on this site thematically. After I finish posting this one I think I'll likely post volume two also. It is Roberta's story, and so is very closely related to this story. (Volume two is Roberta's Bet and expands the small story she told to Ellen in chapter one of this story.) And so the two stories go very naturally together.

After that I don't know. All of the stories in Taking Chances are thematically related: Contemporary women who for a variety of reasons - sound or unsound, impulsive or considered - make a wager, the result of which - win or lose - will have a profound impact on their life and relationships. All of that is fine, and I am pleased with the series of stories, but I don't know necessarily how well they fit in here or how interested folks on a crux forums site would find them.

If anyone feels so moved and would like to share thoughts on that subject I'd love to hear from you.

 

[imoenbg1]

Well, the stories are a nice distraction from all the other stuff on the forum. I find them all very well written, and they definitely tell the story very well.

Please, do share them all

 

[BEThalia]

Well, the stories are a nice distraction from all the other stuff on the forum. I find them all very well written, and they definitely tell the story very well.

Please, do share them all

Thanks, imoenbg1, I appreciate the positive feedback and guidance.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Four​

A moment later Roberta tapped on the open door and walked in.

"I looked in on you in the middle of that," she said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," I reassured her. I lowered my voice. "Lost bet or not, I had a little bit of an O in all that."

Roberta looked at me, surprised. "I can see how that might happen."

“I tried not to let on.”

"Good for you. Just as well."

Roberta suggested I use the bathroom and try to recover to whatever extent I could before the next bout, saying she had laid out a washcloth and towel.

I wandered down the hall nude. Like lubricating my pussy before, I did not think anything about it - wandering around this strange house naked - until I made a conscious effort.

I closed and locked the bathroom door and flipped on the lights. I moved to the sink, sank to my knees, and rested my chin on my forearms. I could see only my face in the mirror – flushed, hair plastered to my forehead by sweat and cum, the hair on the sides of my head still spiked out from the rough handling Adam and Steve had given it, congealing semen around my mouth and on my chin and most of the rest of my face.

Oh, my God! I thought, regarding my reflection with horror. Look at you!

Well, what did you expect? another voice answered.

I straightened up and stepped back and could see myself to my shins. I gasped. My knees were red – I had been on them a lot tonight either kneeling or on all fours. My nipples were a dark, tender looking red, my areolae and the breast skin around them covered with dark red hickies. I spread my legs and held my labia open to see a pussy that was far rosier than I remember ever having seen it. The term well-fucked came to mind.

I sat on the toilet. I peed and then pushed out the poop that had been bothering me since sometime during the game. I looked at it as a matter of practicality. Sooner or later I was sure I would be getting one up my ass. No need to make the whole thing more distasteful and messy than it had to be. I finished and cleaned myself. Then I sat and turned my mind to making a plan for when I got home. It would be a Tuesday night and David and I would likely not have sex until the weekend, by when I hoped the red marks on my breasts would have faded completely. If he seemed amorous before the weekend I could beg off. I could hardly claim jet lag on a north-south trip, all in the Central time zone, but I could claim (and without lying about it) how tired I was and offer him a blowjob to tide him over. He is a sweet guy, and I am sure he would refuse out of consideration for me.

If the red welts were still on my breasts at the weekend I could, as I sometimes did, keep my bra and a tee shirt on during sex, complaining of a little backache and saying I needed the support. David never complains.

Tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. What was I thinking? I felt terrible guilt as I engaged in this plotting, but what could I do? It was not as if I were trying to hide an affair with a lover, although the distinction at this point did not seem to me too great or too important. It did not, in any event, make me feel innocent, and I hung my head.

I briefly considered maybe I should just tell David about what happened, about my absurd bet and try to explain why I had made it, how I had lost, and give him the details of the rest of the night. David is a very mild-mannered guy, my own personal Clark Kent. It is one of the traits that attracted me to him. I tried it on for size: Honey, I lost this bet at a Super Bowl party on my trip, and I spent the rest of the night as the party's gangbang slut. Hmmm. I do not think he is that mild-mannered. I decided I would have to table this internal debate for future resolution. I still had a long night ahead of me.

I lifted my head and sniffed, wiped the tears from my cheeks and brought the waterworks under control. I moved to the sink and turned on the water, washed my hands, and then started washing my face, scrubbing at the hardening semen on my chin and lips (and nose, and cheeks, and forehead, and below my left eye). I soaked the washcloth in hot water and applied it over my whole face, reveling in the warmth. After the cloth cooled, I repeated the procedure a second time and a third. It made me, at least a little, feel like a respectable woman again instead of a whore who opens her mouth and thighs in response to a stack of currency.

There was a brush to the side, and I ran it through my hair, setting my doo to rights as far as was possible. Again, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, Show time! I unlocked and opened the door, shut off the lights and walked toward the living room.

Everyone was there, of course, all fully dressed and I nude. The chair in which I had watched the game was empty and I went over and sat in it. When I did, a realization I found comical struck me: I had sat down in the chair sitting forward, my hands folded in my lap, my back straight, knees bent back, and my ankles demurely crossed, just like a female host on an a.m. talk show. Except they’re not totally starkers.

I looked at the clock on the mantle and was shocked to see that it was after 1:00.

After a few minutes of comments that could have grown into conversations but died quickly on the vine, Patrick said, "Well, I guess we're around to Adam again."

Adam sat back in his corner of the couch. He squinted his eyes, seeming to come to a decision. He got up and, to my surprise, took me by the hand. "I think I'd like to have a little private quality time with Ellen, if you don't mind," he said.

Adam pulled me up in a sudden move I had not expected. I came to my feet, my breasts bouncing and swaying, and he led me by the hand out of the living room and down the hall to the guest bedroom I now knew so well.

Adam closed the door, stripped off quickly, and walked to a spot directly in front of me. He reached up, cupping my breasts gently at first and then more firmly, feeling their texture and resistance, running his thumbs over my nipples. He put a hand under my chin and tried to bring my face up, so I was looking at him. I resisted, remembering the last time he had done that in the living room after his blowjob. He was insistent, and my face rose to meet his. Then he did the last thing I would ever have expected. He kissed me!

His lips met mine and his tongue pushed through my lips and into my mouth. I really did not want this so personal contact and resisted. I kept my lips pursed rather than offering him a loose and pliant mouth. His tongue explored and found mine, flicking and wrestling with it. His hands had left my breasts and were now on my buttocks, kneading them, pulling them apart, pulling my hips toward him.

He kept this up, breaking the kiss and then going back for more, for many minutes. Then he shifted around behind me. His hands snaked under my arms and found my breasts, handling and squeezing them. While this went on, he nuzzled his face into my hair and kissed the back of my neck. Then he moved his mouth to my shoulder, applying little kisses and licks.

He's making love to me! I thought but did not know what to make of it.

His cock was stiff and soon worked its way into my ass crack. The hotdog in the bun, like with David, and that creeped me out too much. I pulled myself out of his arms and went to sit on the bed. I preferred to get fucked than spend another second with this boy unknowingly doing a bad imitation of my husband. He went to the night table and found a condom, put it on, and slathered it with lube.

I was lying on my back, up on my elbows. As he got on the bed, I turned from him. Now on my side, I stuck out my ass, offering him my pussy from the rear. He got the idea and seemed to have no objection to that position. I chose it for two reasons. Making love spooning is something David and I have done only rarely, and it would keep me from being face-to-face with Adam.

I preferred him to fuck me this way, in this position, so I encouraged him. I brought my top knee up to give him plenty of access. He slipped his cock into my vagina. He had put his one arm under me, so I took the other and brought it around the top, putting his hand on my breast. I pushed my ass back inviting him to go deeper. He pushed farther into me while he played with my breasts and nuzzled my neck.

I closed my eyes and hoped he would finish soon, although I was not hopeful since he had already come once. I thought about whether my PowerPoint slides were all in order for tomorrow morning’s class. I was fairly sure they were. He fucked me like that for thirteen minutes (I was facing the side of the bed with the clock on the night table). Suddenly, he withdrew, and I felt disappointment that my plan had not worked entirely. He went to his knees and rolled me on my back. There was no point to resisting or trying to dissuade him, so I readily opened my legs.

He got between them and put his cock into my vagina again. He lifted my legs, obviously wanting me to wrap them around him and I obliged. Anything for the cause. He licked and sucked my breasts, grabbing my nipples with his teeth and pulling them gently. As I looked at the clock again (seven minutes since I went on my back) I thought that if a girl actually cared about this guy and wanted him on top of her, he would not be doing a half-bad job.

Adam reached back and pulled my legs from around him. Holding my legs at the back of my knees he splayed them wide and high and he began pounding his cock into me. His stamina after the blowjob was both impressive and distressing.

I was way beyond bored, although I kept up a low-key moaning that I thought might help bring him to a quicker conclusion. I saw that the ceiling was plastered. Some workman years ago had swirled the plaster onto the ceiling. I found one eddy that reminded me of a French horn, another that suggested a snail's shell, and a third whorl that was a dead ringer for the big ears on those Ferengi people on Star Trek. After another seven minutes of this he let go of my legs. I put my feet, soles flat, on the bedspread, knees up, in a way I hoped did not show too much disinterest.

Then he was at it again. His arms went behind my back, and he pulled himself tightly to me and was kissing me again, sloppy, wet kisses with his tongue licking around my lips and into my mouth. I had to try hard not to gag. But I got the impression this might be the big finale, and indeed it was. Two minutes more and he rammed his cock in to the hilt and I could feel the spasms as he ejaculated.

I have never seen the subject broached by Miss Manners in one of her columns, but I was certain sexual etiquette demanded I not recoil from him too quickly. Over the space of a minute or so he disengaged and withdrew his cock, still distressingly rigid, from my body and was mercifully off me.

As I sat up, he put his arms around me and hugged me from behind, placing a kiss in the middle of my back. I finally had to say something, but I decided to be gentle about it. Despite his testosterone-fueled outburst earlier, he seemed a nice enough kid.

I turned and looked at him. "You know, Adam, I'm not your lover or your girlfriend. I'm paying off a stupid bet. Don’t get me wrong. If some lady gets what I just got from you I'm sure she'll be thrilled and yours forever. But that lady isn't me."

He blinked his eyes a couple times and said, "No, um, no, of course not," and his arms fell away from me, the spell broken. I asked him to give me a minute and surprisingly he got the hint. Adam dressed and moved toward the door. Before he left the room, he stopped in the doorway and turned back toward me.

“Hey, Ellen?” he said timidly.

“Mmmmmmmm?” I replied.

“You know, about before, um, out there,” and here he nodded his head toward the living room. He did not continue, perhaps hoping I would carry the burden for him, but I thought the exercise would be good for him and I believed him up to the challenge.

When I did not pick up his thread he finally continued. “What I said was wrong, and I don’t know what got into my head. I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Well, there! “It’s okay, Adam. We all make mistakes. I appreciate you saying something.”

A shy smile crossed his face and he moved out into the hallway, pulling the door closed.

I fell backward onto the bed, exhausted. I looked at the clock: 2:13. I groaned, realizing I had been at this for something like five hours and still had five to go. Roberta came in then, her concerned eyes on me.

"Hey, girlfriend, how’re you holding up?"

"I'm all right. Tired. My pussy is sore, but thanks to you not raw. Thank you for looking out for me."

"Don't you mention it, Ellen. I saw right off before, with Adam out there in the living room, that you can watch out for yourself. What went on in here?"

I gave her the thumbnail sketch of our romantic encounter. She giggled a little too loudly behind her hand, and I hoped Adam had not heard out in the living room. I giggled a little too, trying to see the humor in it.

"I don't know if that's funny or sad," Roberta said. Then she put her serious face on. "Listen, my hubby is next, and you know he's really into this bondage thing. The next one might be a little tough."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Oh, you can trust me on that. When I lose a bet to him, I sometimes get it this way."

"Well, it can't be any tougher than big wet doggy kisses all over my face, can it?"

Roberta laughed her laugh again. "Okay," she said, "you take your time and come out when you're ready."

"No, let's go. I'm ready now."

I wearily stood and followed her to the living room.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Five​

I had gotten used to how this worked now. Out in the living room there would be a little perfunctory conversation or a lame joke, and then someone would clear his throat and it would be back down to business.

As soon as I entered the living room, I noticed some leather wrist and ankle cuffs on the coffee table.

Patrick picked them up and said, "Here, Ellen, if I could put these on you please."

I held out my wrists and he buckled the cuffs around them. I put one foot after the other onto the coffee table and Patrick buckled the other two cuffs around my ankles. I thought with some amusement how glad I had been a few hours ago that my toenail enamel was fresh and unchipped. Now it was the center of attention. I don’t think anyone noticed.

He asked me to kneel on the coffee table and lean forward on my hands. I complied. He shifted me back, so my knees were at the table edge, my shins and feet off the edge. Patrick took my right hand and clipped its cuff to my right ankle cuff. I supported myself on one hand. Then he took my left hand and did the same on that side. I was forced to lean my torso none too gently forward and lay my head on the coffee table's surface.

"Patrick!" scolded Roberta, just coming from the kitchen. She came over quickly and put a throw pillow under my head. "Don't you know how to behave?" She slapped his back.

"Sorry, Ellen," Patrick said.

Even with the pillow, the position I was in was uncomfortable. Despite that, I felt an unexpected thrill run through my body and mind. I pictured myself as Roberta: naked as I was, bound as I was. She had lost a bet to Patrick. I wondered what the bet might have been about. I wondered what she would have gotten from Patrick had she won. I was waiting, just as I was, for Patrick to take me: in this exposed, uncomfortable, lewd pose. One I would not volunteer for. One he had to risk something he was similarly reluctant to perform to get me to submit to. The position was becoming uncomfortable, and I realized how exposed I was. My knees were a foot apart. Everyone was behind me now, and I knew they all had an unobstructed view of everything on the bottom of me. Someone behind me whistled. It could have only been Steve.

I was there for longer than I cared to be in that exposed position with nothing going on. Patrick finally came up behind me. I heard him open his pants and lower them and his boxers. His erection brushed my ass. I heard him open a condom package and knew he was putting it on and coating it with lubricant. Then he was pushing his erection into my vagina, part way and then with a thrust in to the base.

I was familiar by now with his style, something that only Roberta should know. He moved his erection deep in me in a circular motion pulling back slightly before going in all the way again. Like before, occasionally he would pull almost out before jamming himself hard all the way in. Every time he slammed home my body rocked forward.

My face was turned to my left, and I saw Steve settle into in a chair on that side. I closed my eyes for some minutes while Patrick continued to fuck me. When I opened them, Steve was looking at me intently. He was not looking at all of me getting fucked but studying my face closely.

I realized he was excited, fascinated, and wanted to study the face of a woman who is nude and bound. Not nude and bound because she wants to be, but because she has lost a bet and has no choice and is reluctantly getting her pussy reamed. What was he looking for? Tears? Traces of shame? Embarrassment? Humiliation? Pleasure? Being the subject of his voyeuristic curiosity was worse than what was going on behind me. I turned my face to the other side.

Patrick pulled his cock from my vagina. I saw him come to the side of the table toward which I was now looking and pick up the lube. I had thought he was done, but now realized that was not the case. I also realized that without him behind me everyone, save Steve, was looking at my vagina that must now be a gaping hole. Humiliation washed over me, and I felt sudden heat in my face. Patrick was again behind me.

Now I was Ellen again. The girls were gone for a sleepover. And I was not in Patrick and Roberta’s living room, but our own. David and I had settled a wager - a bet on some sports event or game we had played - and I found myself like this: naked, bound on my knees atop the unique triangular coffee table in front of our fireplace and mantle. It was David behind me. He had just fucked my pussy. Now I felt his erection at my asshole. Tonight he did not have to wheedle for anal sex. He did not have to wait for his birthday to enjoy a special treat that was a gift of his wife’s generosity and love. No, tonight he had won the right to take my ass, and my willingness had nothing to do with it. I had given my consent when I had agreed to the terms of the bet. I felt his erection pushing at my ass.

Without thinking, I closed my eyes and turned my head to its original direction. I opened my eyes and saw Steve there, his gaze still intent on my face, my eyes. Just then Patrick pushed into me. The entry was uncomfortable, sharply painful, as it always is. My eyes rolled up in my head and then shut hard. I gave a soft but sharp exclamation, and my top teeth bit down on my lower lip. Then the pain passed, and my ass was just uncomfortably and unnaturally full of cock, pushing farther in. My eyes opened, a little unfocused by tears which quickly leaked away. Steve was still intently studying my face. I assumed my little display of discomfort was what he had been hoping and waiting for. Sick scumbag.

Patrick reamed my ass the same way he had my pussy: in to the hilt, stretching my anal opening wide. Circular motion. Out a bit then back in. Occasionally, almost all the way out then back in all the way hard. Soon my ass was accustomed to the invasion, and there was no longer pain or even discomfort. This seemed to go on and on. My knees began to hurt with much of my weight pressing down on them on the unyielding surface of the coffee table.

Patrick's second orgasm was a long time coming, just as Adam's had been. Finally, he stiffened against my ass and I knew he had reached his goal. After his orgasm was out, he draped across my back. Just when I was about to ask him to get off, he straightened up. My back, my knees, and my neck were hurting. I felt shame that everyone, even Steve now again behind me, was undoubtedly looking at my gaping, freshly fucked ass.

With alarm I heard Patrick ask, "Does anyone else want to do her like this?"

He got no answer. Apparently, the others had their own scenarios. So, Patrick unhooked my wrist cuffs from my ankle cuffs and I slowly got to my feet, stretching my aching muscles and joints.

I removed the cuffs from my wrists and ankles, left them on the table, and walked to the bathroom. I did not have to relieve myself. I just wanted to be away from everyone for a few minutes and rest in private. I went through the routine I had before, sitting on the toilet mostly for somewhere to sit, freshening up my face and hair, and swaddling my face with some of those comforting hot washcloths. After a while, I expected to hear Roberta tapping at the door, but I was left in peace. Finally, I looked at my naked self in the mirror again, took a deep breath, steeled myself for whatever was next, and I headed for the living room.

Apparently, we were around to Steve. I was wary of this one. I remembered vividly how he had smiled so condescendingly at me in the bedroom, pulled my hair so cruelly, came on my face and then used it to wipe off his cock. I thought about how he had watched my face with such morbid, creepy interest while Patrick fucked me. I had a feeling that what was coming next might be unpleasant in a way I had not experienced thus far.

There was no longer the pretense of conversation. Steve took off his pants and boxers without comment and sat on an armless kitchen chair in the center of the living room. I had a chance to see his cock without it being right in my face. It was already mostly hard.

As I mentioned previously, for his large frame it was proportionate, but I had never seen one hung on a guy significantly over six feet tall. David's penis is a little short of seven inches erect. Steve's was an inch or two longer and half again the girth. I hoped he was going to be considerate in using it on me. But I was pretty sure that Steve was not like a mutual fund: that with an asshole like him past results are very likely an indicator of future performance.

He signaled me over and indicated for me to get down. I sank to my knees directly between his legs, which were spread wide. I brought his penis to my mouth, working my lips over the head, and began bobbing my head up and down. He quickly swelled and stiffened the rest of the way, but let me continue sucking him, running his hands through my hair, for some minutes.

After a while he pulled my head off his cock. He got up for a moment, took a condom and put it on, squirting a large amount of gel over the length. I stood in front of him again. He told me to turn around and began pulling me back toward him. With no choice in the matter, I pushed my hips back, offering my pussy, but I soon discovered that was not his interest. His cock began to probe my ass.

I jumped up. "Please, wait a minute," I requested.

He let go of my hips and I got up and found the tube of gel. For the second time that night I stood in front of a small audience and reached down, applying lube to my personal parts, my face hot. I spread the gel thickly deep between my buttocks and pushed as much as I could into my back hole, which had already returned to its usual tight dimensions.

When I was ready, I went to Steve. I was trembling. His legs were spread again, and he did not close them. I had to step over, spreading my legs as wide as they could go, to get above his lap. When I was there, I was on my toes to stretch over his legs and hips. He pulled my hips down, using his hand to guide his cock to my ass, seating the head partly in.

Then he took my wrists and brought them to my hips, pinning them there, and began to pull me firmly downward. My feet came off the floor, my weight supported entirely by the backs of my thighs on Steve's lap and my ass riding Steve's cock. The head slipped in without much trouble because of the loosening from Patrick’s recent attentions.

Inexorably, Steve's cock penetrated my ass, or my ass sank down around his shaft, however you choose to look at it. I was determined to get through this. As my ass proceeded farther down his cock, inch by inch, I was intently aware of how my anus was being stretched. In fact, my whole mind was conscious of nothing else. He would give a little tug on my hips and a little thrust to his, and another half inch would sink in.

The lube worked like a charm. There was no friction. His cock and my sphincter ring were sliding smoothly past one another, however slowly. Then I had gone past any size I had accommodated that night. My eyes had been closed, as much to concentrate on the job I had to do as to shut out the view of the spectators watching me get my ass stuffed.

Now my eyes flew open, my face turned up to the ceiling, my mouth opened in a ragged, silent O. I reached and then passed the point that I could possibly take any more of Steve's cock. I knew there had to be some inches left. Two? Three? I wanted my hands free but struggling against Steve's grip was useless. My vision blurred as my eyes watered heavily and tears began to course down my cheeks. Steve pushed down a little more on my hips and another half inch slid into me, spreading me wider. Noises started out of my mouth. I don’t know exactly what I said, but the words came in a torrent.

"Oh, God. Oh, God," I think I shouted. "Oh, God, Steve. Please, no more. I can't take any more. Please, oh, please. Please, Steve, I'm not asking, I'm begging. Please, no more." The downward pressure on my hips ceased, but he did not release me. Then he very deliberately pushed up forcefully, maybe another inch. The hurt was not as bad as labor, but close. That seemingly impossible stretching. The expansion of an orifice beyond anything one had ever imagined possible. When I had given birth to Christina, my oldest, I had felt something like this: menstrual cramps, but the ones from hell, times ten. In all three labors, though, the overwork of the muscles, the pain, had affected my body over a much wider area - from the bottom of my rib cage all the way down and around to my tail bone. Now the impossible stretching and extreme pain came from just my butt. Entirely localized. That last inch had taken my butt hole and pushed it beyond anything I thought possible. The panic of being split in half, the terror of tearing tissue, consumed my consciousness. I found I was crying, and in this extremity of distress my brain came on the words that might free me. "Please. Please, Steve. Oh, God, Steve, I'm begging. Your cock is just too big for me."

Apparently, the magic words for Steve are 'beg' and 'your cock is too big.' He immediately stopped any further advances. I sat there, the backs of my thighs on his thighs, I seated, impaled on his cock. Hoping, praying that this was about to end. A self-satisfied laugh escaped his mouth, and I felt his cock begin to unseat from my rectum. As I came up, my feet found the floor again, and I was able to push myself up. Inches of Steve's cock were still up my ass, and I had to move forward to get the last of it out of me. It felt like the most immense turd I had ever imagined leaving my ass.

I sank to the floor, onto my hunches, my hands holding my buttocks, feeling like I had just escaped from the ordeal of my life. I was occupied with my own thoughts but heard Roberta's voice above me.

"You complete asshole!" she was saying to Steve. "What do you think you're doing abusing her that way?"

"Hey, 'Anything you want, any way you want it'", he said, quoting my exact words from so many hours ago.

"Don't you give me that, asshole," Roberta answered. "There are limits, and you just went way past them. You try something like that again and I'm going to do a Lorena Bobbitt on you."

They continued above me, but with the invasion of my ass over I was already feeling better.

Roberta, apparently finished with Steve, knelt to me, cooing and ready to take me away to another room, but I was either too determined not to let Steve have his victory, or too stupid to stop. I used Roberta to push against and came to my feet.

"No, it's okay, Roberta. I said I'd pay my bet and I will." I looked at Steve. "Can we finish this in my pussy?"

He got a little smile on his face. "Well, I think if you were to ask nicely, we might work something out."

Ask nicely? I am sure he meant ‘beg.’ But I remembered being on that cock, having it penetrating my ass. I remembered how I was balanced between agony and fear as I felt almost split in two, knowing that any more would be just too much. With those memories nothing was out of the question.

I made eye contact with him, my eyes still tearing, and said, "Please, Steve, I'm begging you. Please finish fucking me in my pussy. Please."

"Sure," he said, a smirk on his face, "I think I'd be willing to settle for that."

Roberta made a noise of disgust and spat out, "Asshole! You change that condom right now, shithead."

Steve got a fresh condom, put it on, and liberally lubricated it. While he did that, I lubed my labia and vagina. We were like two fighters in our corners readying ourselves for another round.

He looked at me with expectation. I turned around and backed up to him, again splaying my legs wide to get atop his lap. This time I felt his cock probe and then slip into my vagina. Again, I came off my feet; my weight supported by my thighs on his lap and this time my pussy riding his cock.

His dick, as large as it was, slipped inch after inch into my pussy with relative ease. A vagina is a marvelous organ that can expand greatly. I have never felt the need to bring home a bag of phallic-shaped vegetables to find out, but this seemed to be the case. My vagina was stretched wider than it had ever been except in birth, a cock deeper in it than I had ever experienced. His cock was now in me to my root, and my vagina was aroused by the stimulation of being expanded to such a degree.

I realized why Steve had used this position to fuck me. My legs were splayed wide, my little audience able to see in the most intimate detail his cock stuffed into my pussy. Steve began to bounce me on his cock with his hips, each bounce making my boobs jiggle. His hands reached around my body and squeezed my breasts. Then his right hand dropped to my crotch. I felt his middle finger find my pussy. It slid forward in the lube to my clitoris. He began to flick my little pleasure bean.

I was determined not to respond, but then he began to move it in little circles. When I masturbate this is the method of playing with my clit that makes me come almost immediately. If I want to enjoy jilling-off for a while, then I cannot use this method until the end.

Now Steve had inadvertently found my weakness. I felt my lubrication gush. The combination of the novelty of having so large a cock stimulating my vagina in ways it never had been, and my clit being manipulated in my favorite way was too much for me. Within seconds of his beginning to move my clit in those circles an orgasm hit me.

Like before, it was not an erotic orgasm, but an entirely utilitarian sexual one. But it made no difference. Before I had been able to come surreptitiously, but this time there was no hiding it. A few minutes earlier my face had been turned to the ceiling, crying out in anguish and desperation. Now my face was turned in the same direction, my mouth contorted, as I moaned and sang in orgasm. I felt humiliation as the others saw me desperately wiggling my hips back and forth, trying to draw out and enjoy every vaginal spasm.

It was soon after that when Steve came. I was soon off his lap, and I hated that we had so closely shared an orgasm. I’d had three rounds with him, and he had won them all: covering my face with cum in the first, making me beg him for relief in the second, and bringing me to orgasm in the third. As my glow wore away, I felt nothing but defeat.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Six​

Roberta walked over and put an arm around me.

She looked at Steve and said, "You're lucky I don't cut that thing of yours right off."

Then she aided me down the hallway to her and Patrick's bedroom. Their bedchamber is a cozy room with quilts and framed family pictures on the walls. One of the pictures caught my eye: a much younger, pre-Patrick, Roberta and two girls. The picture had a dated look. One of the girls was a pre-teen, and the older looked to be in perhaps her mid-teens. My eye was drawn a second time to the face of the older girl. She looked terribly familiar, but my brain did not have the energy or clarity to chase down whatever unlikely connection there might be.

“My only two nieces, Emily and Danielle,” Roberta said, and her voice was warmed by pleasant memories. “They’re really a couple of sweethearts. Dani is just sharp as a tack, and Emily isn’t but a lick behind her.”

I was glad to know a little more about my benefactor’s life.

“Pretty girls,” I observed.

“Yeah, they’re that, too.”

“You’re a lot younger.”

“That was taken when I was still in grad school,” Roberta said. I saw her face color and she continued with, “Well, that was before my gambling adventure with the boys. But, hey now, how about you take a load off for a while.”

I backed up the couple of steps to the bed, sat, and then let my body flop backward. My knees were over the edge, my pussy and ass still tingling from the cock they had just ridden.

Roberta sat on the bed next to me. "We're going to get through this, Ellen. I'm sorry about that jerkoff Steve."

I smiled at her. "I can't thank you enough. I have no idea how this would have gone without you acting as my guardian angel. There are always jerkoffs around. I'm just sorry I had to run into one tonight. I wonder what's up with him. I feel sorry for any girl who decides him and his big dick are ‘the ones.’"

"What else would I do?" Roberta asked. When I did not respond she said, "Actually, Ellen, that wasn't just a rhetorical question. I do know what I can do. You're beat and you've been fucked silly. I'm willing to take the rest of the night for you if the guys will go for it."

I was so exhausted, so tired of being naked, so tired of swallowing cum, so tired of being fucked that for a few absurd seconds I selfishly considered her offer as if it really were within the realm of the possible. It said something about the extremity of my condition that, even for a second, I gave a thought to visiting any of this on Roberta.

"God, you're sweet," I said. "Thank you, but no, I can't let you do that. It was my bet, and it's my bet to pay off. Anyway, I go home in a couple of days. You have to stay around here. With three guys at the office who’ve fucked the boss's wife? I don't think so."

“I guess you're probably right," she said. "Hey, you rest for a few minutes, and I'll see what the boys are up to next." She left the room, softly closing the door.

I glanced at the clock briefly. 3:29. Still three and a half to go. I drifted off again, waking to Roberta gently shaking my shoulder. I looked to the clock first thing. 4:03.

"It looks like Jason is up next," she reported. "Don’t know for sure what he has planned.”

“Well, let’s go find out,” I said.

Jason was waiting for me with the wrist cuffs in his hand. He held them up. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“Go for it slugger,” I said.

He came to my back and started putting the cuffs on. While he did that he said, “I really like blowjobs, but I don’t get them near often enough.” Soon my wrists were cuffed together behind my back. I really hoped this was not going to be too lengthy an encounter. His dick did not look terribly perky, and I would not be able to use my hands to move him along. Still, it was what it was. He encouraged me to my knees in the middle of the living room. The carpet was much friendlier to my knees than the tabletop had been. He was in front of me. He brought his mostly limp noodle to my mouth and I took it in. The feel of his penis was wrong. I was used to a hard one in my mouth, the solidity, something I could manipulate. This was different. There was no resistance to push against. But slowly he began to come alive. With only my mouth to work with his member slipped out repeatedly, but each time it did it was a little sturdier, a little more in the game.

Soon, Jason was again hard, if not rigid, and I found I could work my lips and tongue over his shaft. But I realized this might take a while. Back in the early days of our sexual relationship - when we might do it three times in a day and six or eight times over a weekend that was ours to do with as we pleased - I had asked David what doing it so often was like for him. I told him for me I had no problem lubricating, but sometimes my brain got tired. I found the mental energy I had to expend having sex so frequently could make my brain dull and my mental responses slow. But I had noticed that he not only lasted longer, but that his ejaculations did not seem especially diminished as I would have thought, noticeably dwindling only toward the end of a marathon weekend. He told me that his lack of diminished volume had surprised him too. He had masturbated about - he guessed - as much as anyone else when he did not have another outlet for his sexual energies. He ventured an estimate of a couple of times a week, looking surreptitiously to see how that frequency might agree with my estimate of how often an unattached male might rub one out. I allowed as how that seemed pretty normal, even though I had not the faintest clue. From previous relationships, and even with David, I found that guys seemed to value being reassured that whatever they were doing sexually could be classified as ‘normal.’ I told him it went in waves for me. I might have no interest in touching myself sometimes for two weeks, and at other times feel like bringing myself off every day. I told him it probably averaged out to three times a week. Maybe four. He said something like that was probably close to his regimen. But he had never masturbated several times a day, so before these experiences with me he had no familiarity with the physical repercussions of coming to orgasm frequently. Now he found that his long climb to the top had less to do with available ejaculate and more to do with diminished sensation in his cock. By the end of a long weekend his cock was usually sore and tender, but long before it reached that state it just became increasingly numb.

These are the musings and recollections that occupied my mind while I blew Jason. The thoughts of David were precious to me. I began to slip into guilt at what I was doing this night but with an effort managed to fend it off. I had no idea how long I had been engaged with Jason’s cock. My mouth and jaw were already sore, so I made the presumption I had been doing this for some time. I realized I had just been patiently stroking with my mouth. For the first time since I had started, I looked around to the degree I could. Adam was in a chair and Patrick on the love seat. Both were dozing. Neither Steve nor Roberta were in my limited field of view.

I decided I should move this along. I began to take Jason’s cock deep in my mouth, letting it rub the back of my throat for long seconds. This got a response. Jason groaned and backed up a few steps and sat on one of the chairs. After he was seated, I scuttled over and put my mouth again on his now rigid cock. I continued to seat him deeply in my mouth and started vibrations in my throat, trying to keep the term ‘hum job’ out of my mind. I thought he might be getting close when he brought himself upright and came to sit at the edge of the chair. His fingers found my hair and his back arched. He wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft. Then I felt the familiar warmth and slippery texture of semen. I took my mouth off his cock. He seemed deeply lost in the pleasure he and I had worked long and hard to produce. I thought he might stroke his cock, but instead he kept his fist where it was and just squeezed the base. Squeezing, releasing. Squeezing, releasing. I had never seen David do that and filed it away with a mental post-it note to give it a try on my hubby sometime.

I rose slowly, flexing my mouth and jaw. Jason was already asleep. I looked around and found Steve zonked out on the couch. Roberta then tip-toed into the room, a finger at her lips signing for me to be quiet. She motioned with a thumb over her shoulder toward the bathroom. I did not need to be told twice.

I found myself on the john again. This time I took inventory: super sore pussy, my asshole in the same condition. Mouth and jaw in need of a long vacation. I peed and moved to the sink. Cum was again hardening around my mouth.

I looked at my reflection: a woman with a sore pussy and ass from being fucked all night, globs of cum on her lips. Tears began to flow from my eyes. I realized I had to do some hard thinking about why I was in my present condition.

Making the bet had been a thrill like none I had ever felt. An electric jolt of adrenaline. Watching the game, my fate up in the air, had been a sexually supercharged and delicious experience in suspense. Now here I was ten hours later feeling my sore privates, looking at my cum-splotched face.

Had I secretly wanted to lose? Had I wanted to endure this sexual pain and humiliation? Why would I want that? I was sure I had not. Hours ago, when I had casually spoken phrases like ‘strip naked,’ ‘all night,’ ‘anything you want, any way you want it,’ I’d had no idea what I was wagering. I’d had no idea what the reality of losing a bet like this would be. I’d had no frame of reference to appreciate its true price. I’d had no idea of the reality of spending a night naked, getting fucked, sucking cock, swallowing cum. In short, I’d had no idea what I was betting.

But I knew that if I could go back twelve hours, the outcome not known but understanding the reality of what I was risking, I would make the same bet again without hesitation. I would hope, pray, for a different outcome, but the pull of the risk, experiencing the erotic tension between the fear of losing and the desire to win, seemed now to be irresistible.

I brought my thoughts under control. I took up the washcloth and started scrubbing my face and was soon satisfied. I heard a tap on the door. I unlocked it and Roberta came in.

"They’re all still out cold,” she said. “I feel peeved at them. As if this has been an exhausting ordeal for them!” She indicated the other bathroom door, the one that led to the bedroom. “With any luck they’re out for the count. It’s almost five already, so take a break.”

I took a bath towel with me and draped it on the seat of an upholstered chair before sitting.

That picture of the more youthful Roberta with her nieces caught my eye again. I paused for a moment, looking into the fresh young faces of the two girls. Again, the image of the older girl tugged at my memory. I briefly thought, No. How could that be? There are a million girls named Emily. Then another, more topical reflection passed through my mind, inspired by those immaculate, youthful countenances. If they only knew the games grownups play, what would they think?

I startled out of a deep slumber, had fallen asleep sitting upright. Roberta had shaken me. I immediately looked to the digital clock. 6:17.

“Sorry. They woke up,” Roberta informed me.

“Rats. So, what's next?" I asked.

“You know what bukkake means?”

“Shit. Well, on second thought okay. At least it doesn’t involve any of me getting fucked. Bring it on.”

“They’re in the guest bedroom.”

I rose and did my duty. In the bedroom they were waiting. Their dicks looked mostly unenthusiastic, and I wondered if this is how they wanted to finish because they were not confident of achieving enough of an erection for penetration. They were grouped around the foot of the bed. I scooted through and knelt amid them. None of them said anything as they began to stroke their cocks. Soon they were passing around the bottle of liquid lube. That seemed to make a difference. Their dicks were now at least at half mast or better. Finally, Jason moved in front of me. I’d had my face down. I was pretty sure I had not nodded off, but I could not be certain. He put a hand under my chin to raise my face. I closed my eyes and soon felt warmth as his ejaculations hit my features. After some minutes during which I could perceive myself going under and coming back up from micro naps, someone else was in front of me. I opened my eyes to see Adam aiming his dick at me, and I was rewarded with a shot just under my right eye. I closed, and he left the rest of his emission on my forehead, nose and chin. Patrick and Steve were still at work and neither seemed too likely to go a gusher just yet.

It gave me some moments to think about what I was doing. I had heard the term bukkake. I have no idea where. I had never experienced anything like this or seen anything like this on video. David has never suggested ejaculating on my face. But I knew what the term meant. I also knew it was supposed to be an act weighted with disrespect and disgrace. Perhaps the reason David had never brought up the subject. But I knew that there were women who just loved the experience, too: who looked forward to any opportunity to get their face jizzed on. Different strokes I suppose. Given my current circumstances I could hardly complain. This activity did not involve a strange penis directly engaged with my body. Well, I thought, you can cross being in the middle of a bukkake huddle off your bucket list.

While I had been busy with these thoughts Patrick had gotten himself ready. I closed my eyes and patiently waited for him to get himself over the top. Soon more warmth was hitting my face and seemed to go on for some time. I was impressed and thought, Not bad for a third come for a mid-thirties-something guy.

When he was done, he left, and it was just me and Steve again. I kept my eyes closed. I had no wish to watch him jack off. But then he was telling me to get on the bed. I complied, settling on my back with my head on the pillow. God please I hope he doesn’t want to fuck me again. My pussy and ass were super sore, and even with a load of lube the act would be an ordeal.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he said enthusiastically. He straddled my chest and squirted a generous amount of liquid lube on my breasts. Then he roughly gathered them together around his half mast cock and began pumping. The act seemed to be a hit for him. His cock stiffened, and he was pushing back and forth with abandon. I watched for a few seconds, his red cock head appearing and disappearing between my breasts. Then I disengaged. I drifted off to sleep again until I woke to Steve’s cock working at my lips. “Open wide,” he said.

“Can’t you just unload and be done with it?”

“Anything I want, any way I want it.”

I have never hated anyone so in my life. Every chance he had gotten he’d piled humiliation on me. He must have gotten off on it because he seemed to so revel in the experience. “What is it? Your mom didn’t breastfeed you? Why do you have to be such a complete asshole? You are seriously disturbed.”

A look of annoyance (anger? shame?) crossed Steve's face. He said, “Open. Or maybe I’ll decide your ass needs another fucking.”

I did not think his cock was necessarily hard enough for that. But this was the last thing I had to endure tonight. I opened.

“Say, ahh,” Steve said. But before I could do anything else his first ejaculation hit my upper lip. Some went up my nose. He readjusted him aim, brought the tip of his cock to my lips, and shot a couple times into my mouth. Then I closed my mouth and the last bit oozed onto my lips and chin. As soon as he was done and getting off me I spit the semen out into my cupped hand, got some tissues from the box on the night table and wiped my hands clean.

Steve was stepping into his pants. Still shirtless he walked to the door. "You sure can show a guy a good time there, Ellen," he said and was out the door.

Roberta came in and helped me to the bathroom. There I had my rudest visual shock of the night. My familiar facial features looked at me from the mirror, but, oh my good heavens, they were perverted by the load of cum they bore. I looked cockeyed from a large blob of cum clinging to my left eyebrow. My lips looked like they had a thick coating of pale lip gloss. I watched cum drip from my nose onto my chin, already with a thick layer of semen. My bangs were plastered in lurid swirls to my forehead. I cried then, as hard as I had all night. The shame and disgrace I felt were insupportable. How does a woman with a graduate degree, an executive job, and a loving husband and three children fall so low as to present the contemptable sight that now tormented my eyes? Had I wanted this? If so, why? And if I did not, what had ever motivated me to risk this extremity of humiliation and ignominy over money I did not need? My thoughts from earlier returned: truly, I’d had no idea what I was risking. But even with the horror I was looking at now, that hard core of certainty was still inside me. I knew there was something inside me that found a primal satisfaction in risking myself to win. Not money, not cleaning the kitchen, but risking the substantial essence that defines who I am. Risking at a level that brings either relief and satisfaction or utter humiliation and disgrace. And I decided: okay. I am okay with this newly discovered aspect of myself. Just get it on a leash, girl!

I had a thought that brought me some peace. Maybe I’d had a flash of wisdom while a blew Adam to start the night. Maybe I had seen clearly when I perceived that I could satisfy whatever itch I was scratching tonight in my own bedroom with David.

Roberta came into the bathroom then. I was still sobbing.

“Hey, Ellen. I’m sorry to intrude, but I heard you crying. I had to come in.”

“It’s okay, Roberta. Just making some self discoveries. Some pretty disturbing ones.” She went to take me in her arms, and I recoiled. “Oh, my God, no, Roberta. Look at me!”

She pulled me into her arms. “Never mind that.” She held me tight. “You were probably thinking some of the things I thought about myself nine years ago at the end of a certain Sunday afternoon.” She pulled away, and some of the cum I had been adorned with came away with her on her face, her hair. I started to wipe it away. “You never mind about that. Let’s see what we can do with you.” I let her minister to me. Using the washcloth to gently clean my features, she spoke as if she’d read my mind. “Whatever that impulse was you felt tonight. I found - me and Patrick found - you can satisfy it with the person you love.” When Roberta was satisfied with the clean-up job, she kissed me on the cheek, got up, and stepped into the bedroom. Her voice came back to me. “Hey, just to let you know it’s 7:17.”

I had to get moving. My morning presentation began in not much more than an hour and a half. Roberta brought my clothes in, while I tried to put my hair in some sort of acceptable arrangement. I dressed: climbed back into my 'smart casual' outfit. It felt good to have cloth covering my nakedness again. When I was dressed, I started to move toward the door. In the living room I found that Adam, Jason, and Steve had already left. Good. I gave Patrick a “see you later.” Then Roberta was in front of me. Tears started in both our eyes, and we kissed each other and embraced tightly. I knew I would see her again also: Tuesday evening at a dinner concluding my on-site work with the company.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter Seven​

I stepped through the front door into the streaming sunlight of a just-breaking dawn. The strong light was a welcome surprise. I squinted my eyes against the blazing proof that even the darkest of nights has an end. Still, my spirit could not soar too high. I yet had to consider the unprecedented events of the night just past. How would I come to reconcile – could I ever come to reconcile? – the acts I had committed with my body last night with the person I believe I am? I felt that wrenching weight of guilt reassert its tug at my soul. I knew I had to set this mental exploration aside for now, but I also knew the feelings would not wander far.

The streets were already busy as I drove my renter to the hotel. All the places I needed to go on this trip - hotel, office complex, Roberta's house - were close. The trip was not so short that I did not pass a few billboards that drew my eye. ‘Hell Is Real!’ read the first, along with the name of a local church. ‘Know Your Sins! Repent! Atone! Be Saved!’ read a second. ‘Do You Know Your Sins? God Does!’ a third assured me. I tried to laugh them off with a Shit, if I ran a billboard company I would dream up an exclamation mark surcharge just for the Baptists. But the effort was futile. I could indeed name all my recent sins, and I could describe them in intimate detail. But had I sinned against God? Or David? My girls? All of them?

Ten minutes after leaving Roberta’s I parked my car in the hotel's garage. By then the interior of the car had begun to take on a rank odor: a combination of wet hair, sweat, semen, and excited female genitalia. Aside from the shame the scent provoked, I was glad I’d had a chance to learn about my offensive odoriferous state. No way was I getting into an elevator. Lucky, my room was on the second floor.

In my room, I stripped and got in the shower, keeping the water as cool as I could abide. I knew if I took a hot shower I would collapse on the bed afterward. I scrubbed my body and hair, then I scrubbed everything again, working gingerly around my aching pussy and ass, filling my mouth with water and spitting it out again and again. Feeling the ache and tenderness, I began to reflect again on the night's activities, on my egregious sins. I stopped myself though. This was not the time.

Out of the shower, I dried my body and blow-dried my hair. My doo is not much of a chore: straight to my shoulders with no real styling except my bangs. I brushed and flossed my teeth and swished twice with mouthwash. Applied deodorant generously.

I picked out a business suit with a mid-calf-length skirt, to cover my red and raw knees, and dressed. I quickly applied the minimum of makeup. I felt confident that all the offensive odors had been washed down the shower drain, so I rode the elevator to the lobby. I grabbed a croissant and a tea from the hotel's continental breakfast bar. I drove to the office with the windows down, ate my pastry and sipped my drink during the short drive, keeping my eyes firmly focused on the pavement and avoiding roadside messages.

I arrived at my client's offices just at 8:43. The morning's session was for a large audience and I gathered my materials, put them on a pushcart, and went to get ready. I had been right while Adam was fucking me last night: I went through my PowerPoints and they were indeed all in order and ready to go. For just a second I stopped to consider the words that had just passed through my mind, While Adam was fucking me last night. I shook my head. Holy God!

Unexpectedly, I had energy I would never have imagined possible after the night I had endured. I was alert, awake, and at my best all morning and through a working lunch.

I only began to flag during a smaller session in mid-afternoon. Patrick and about twenty other managers and planners were in attendance, and I made an embarrassing gaffe.

The presentation was about the proprietary process the company was licensing from us. In my slides, the process is presented as a one-hour event, to demonstrate more clearly what happens and when. It is like a clock face you might see representing the entire history of the Earth, the Pleistocene represented by one block of minutes, the Cretaceous by another block, and then a little inset at the top to show that the interval since humans descended from the trees is represented by just three seconds. You get the idea. My presentation was peppered with slides that showed what was going on in the process at 'minute seventeen' and 'minute thirty-one' and 'minute forty-seven.’ I came to one of these, weariness catching up with me, and said loudly, as I was taught so my voice would reach every corner of the room, "Now you can see here just exactly where I’m sitting on the cock, er, that is, um, of course I meant 'where I’m sitting on the clock.'"

These were too experienced people to let a giggle slip, or even to react much, but there were looks exchanged, and I saw Patrick wince. I was sure the giggles would come later in groups of three or four. My face reddened but I pushed on, my embarrassing slip giving me a zap of adrenaline that helped propel me through the rest of the afternoon.

As soon as the day's presentations and meetings were through, I drove back to the hotel, arriving there before 6:00. I did not bother with dinner. I craved sleep much more than I needed food. I placed a call to David, but he did not pick up. Perhaps he was driving - he never answers calls when he is behind the wheel - taking the girls out to a treat for dinner. They are young enough that their idea of a culinary treat is still defined by golden arches. I left a message: told him I was retiring early and that a return call was not necessary. Reminded him of my flight information for the next evening. I told him I love him and would see him soon, my voice with just an ever so slight hitch in it.

I put in my wakeup call for the morning, stripped and went to bed naked, which I never do except when I fall asleep immediately after sex. I slept the sleep of the dead for twelve hours. The next morning, I dimly remembered waking at some point, the room dark, the air circulator humming, and my hand between my legs. I had been annoyed, the desire to sleep competing with the desire to come, both urges insistent. Staying clear of my sore vagina I began to rub my clit, pushing it to one side then to the other and then moving it in those little circles that own me. I came quickly and hard and kept coming for longer than I could ever recall experiencing. Finally, I settled down and drifted off to sleep again. I woke exactly eleven minutes before my wake up call, feeling refreshed, my sleep deficit at least partly repaid.

Tuesday, my last day with the firm, was relatively short: two training sessions in the morning, a working lunch, and then a last, short session that ended at 2:30.

After the last meeting, I was collecting and packing my materials in the small office the company had assigned to me. Patrick came by escorting the senior vice president for human resources. She had some questions about the personnel needs for the process they were licensing. I answered her questions, and when we were done she, Patrick, and I drifted toward the door making chit-chat.

We came to the door and stood there still talking. I had drifted out into the hall a couple feet, Patrick also in the hall and facing me, the vice president a couple feet inside the open doorway. As we conversed, I saw Patrick look over my shoulder. An expression of annoyance crossed his face. I glanced back and saw Steve coming down the hall taking slow, exaggerated, comical steps, rubbing his hands together, looking around himself, making sure the hallway was empty of others.

I turned my head back to Patrick who had the vice president engaged. I took an unobtrusive step backward, out of the view of the vice president. I stuck out my ass and waggled it back and forth, back and forth. Then I stepped forward again where the vice president could see me, and I seamlessly rejoined the conversation. Steve took the bait. A few seconds later he grabbed my hips, pulled them back, and I felt his crotch push against my ass.

Steve kept his voice low and growled, "Oh yeah! I would just love to fuck this ass right now!"

I made my eyes bug out and let go a sharp screech I thought conveyed both surprise and outrage. I thought I did it quite convincingly.

I am reliably informed by Patrick that Steve's face turned white when the vice president stepped out into the hall from where she had been obscured just inside the doorway.

Steve's hands were off me in an instant and he put a few feet of distance between us. Then the Senior Vice President for Human Resources spoke.

She looked at the employee security tag clipped to Steve's shirt. "Mr. Stephen Martine," she said, hot, bristling. "I could explain the identity of the guest you just sexually harassed. No. No, actually I believe Legal would advise that the act you just committed is called 'sexual battery.' I’m not sure if it’s a misdemeanor or a felony. I could ask you just who the hell you think you are and what you think you’re doing. But why bother? You're fired."

She reached out and yanked the employee tag from his shirt.

Just then, in what can only be described as divine timing, a security person came around the corner on some errand.

The vice president attracted her attention and said, "Would you please escort Mr. Martine here to his cubicle so that he can collect his personal belongings? Then escort him to his vehicle. Confiscate his parking placard. Please make sure a security vehicle follows him until he is through the gate and off company property."

I watched as the young woman from security turned Steve around, her hand grasping his arm just above the elbow. Before Steve turned his head and we broke eye contact, I could not resist giving him a little smile and a wink and pursing my lips into a kissy-face look. Holding my hand in front of my chest to block the view of the vice president I wiggled my fingers at him in good-bye. The security officer walked Steve down the hall in the direction from which he had come. He shook her hand off his elbow, but she immediately re-established the grip, only more firmly. She spoke into her communication device, apparently asking for more security officers to assist her.

The vice president offered abject and profuse apologies. She apologized on behalf of herself, the company, the CEO, the directors, the chairman, the long deceased founder. I don’t recall if she included the groundskeepers and the guy who changes the light bulbs. I played the offended victim a little, just because it was expected, but in the end shrugged it off and told her no actual harm had been done, and that I was entirely satisfied by Mr. Martine's dismissal.

The vice president was relieved, and hoping to mollify me further said, "I can promise you, Ms. Ryan, I will prepare a full description of this incident and place it in Mr. Martine's termination file. If we hear from another firm seeking information or references on Mr. Martine, his dates of service and that description are all they will get from this company. I will flag the matter for my personal attention."

And that is how I was reassured there is a God. She may not be a football fan, but She sure knows how to balance Her scales. I smiled inwardly at the little joke I had made. Then I sobered. I did not have to be reminded about God. She and I still had a lot of business to transact, and that part about balancing Her scales did not sound like good news to me.

Anyway, it was a good thing Steve still had his thousand dollars. He was going to need it.

After the vice president had left to return to her office and pulverize Steve's future, Patrick took me back into my office.

"Sorry," I said, "I hope losing Steve won't cause any problems."

"Are you kidding me?" Patrick asked. "You just did me a favor." I looked quizzically at him. "You learn things about people outside the workplace that apply to what they'll do inside the workplace. I'm at the head of Steve's supervisory chain, and after what I saw the other night he would have no future here. Putting him in any sort of responsible position would be asking for a world of trouble. I suppose after he’d been passed over a few times he would’ve gotten the message, put his resume together, and moved on, but that would have taken a while. No, in this economy by this time next week I'll have the resumes of dozens of well-qualified people to choose from. Thanks."

"Well, don't mention it," I said.

"Hey, Ellen," he continued, "I wanted to offer my apologies for the other night."

I stopped him by placing a hand on his arm. "Don't," I said. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm a big girl. I made a bet. I lost a bet. I paid off a bet. Anything that happened to me was no one's fault but my own. If I’d won, you can be sure I’d be going back to Chicago tonight with four thousand dollars in my purse.” I felt my face flush, but continued with, “I assume you were satisfied with your winnings."

"Oh, God," Patrick said, "you have no idea. I was...."

I cut him off by putting the fingers of one hand over his mouth. "Actually, Patrick, I'm glad you were happy, but I don't really need to hear exactly how happy."

Patrick smiled a little and looked down, bashful. He looked back up and said, "You know, Ellen, that's exactly the way I feel about Sunday night, but you know Roberta. She told me I should say something or I should expect to lose a testicle."

“I can imagine her saying exactly that.”

I drove back to the hotel, took off my outer clothing, and napped for two hours. The dinner was downstairs in the hotel restaurant, and after waking I dressed, straightened my hair, fixed my make-up and was at the restaurant entrance just as Patrick and Roberta arrived.

Patrick asked for the reservation and we were seated. While we waited at the table for the others in our party to arrive Roberta asked, "Did Patrick..."

"Yes, he did. This afternoon." I went on to explain what I had told Patrick: there was no one to blame. A bet was made. Someone won, someone lost, and a bet was paid. End of story. Then Patrick told her about Steve. Roberta looked like she had hit the PowerBall lottery and filled the restaurant with peals of laughter.

The others began arriving, company people closely involved with my visit and their spouses or partners. There were thirteen of us in all. We had an early and enjoyable dinner, and then it was done. I said my goodbyes again to Roberta and Patrick, Roberta and I promising to stay in touch. And we have. We email each other every so often. It’s an odd relationship. We don’t stay in touch because we are old sorority sisters, or because of a shared interest in gardening or crochet or the Chicago White Sox. We are joined by my night of sexual servitude, and her essential efforts to help me through it, although we’ve never mentioned that night in our letters.

I drove my renter to the airport, checked my bag, got my boarding pass, went through security. Shortly after, they called first class to board.

I settled into the leather of my seat, looked out the window, then closed my eyes and drifted into a light doze. I was aware of my seatmate's arrival, opened my eyes and exchanged greetings. I really wanted to sleep on the flight but made a little polite, obligatory conversation.

My seatmate said he was also down from Chicago, had arrived on Saturday for some meetings yesterday and today at his company's office here. He said he’d thought he would have to watch the Super Bowl alone in his room or at the hotel bar, but the manager of the local office invited him to watch the game at the manager's home with some others. He said it was a nice time and better than he expected.

"But, you know," he said, "being from Chicago I was rooting for the Colts, and everyone else was for the Saints. I opened my big mouth and made a bet with everyone, and I ended up losing five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars!"

I told him I was sorry he had lost so much money, but that I knew of someone who had lost a lot more on the game. Then I excused myself from the conversation. We pushed away from the gate, and I floated back off to sleep. As the plane carried me back to Chicago my sleep was fitful and uneasy, as was the unquiet slumber of the guilt and remorse growing inside me.

# # # # END # # # #​

 

[BEThalia]

Taking Chances - Volume Two: Roberta's Bet​

Thought I'd post this story too since it is so closely related to the Ellen story. Volume Two just expands the outline of Roberta's story she told to Ellen in chapter one of Ellen's Bet.

Sorry the stories have not been of more interest here, but I get the mismatch between the theme of the board and the theme of the Taking Chances stories.

Roberta's Bet is the shortest of the Taking Chances stories. It is about 13000 words in five chapters, so you can look at it as a long short story or a short novella.

 

[BEThalia]

Chapter One



My friend Ellen encouraged me to write this. I feel like I should call her my dear friend. I only met her a few weeks ago, but we have each had the ill fortune to fall into a terrible experience - the sort of ordeal no woman would wish on even her worst enemy - because of a foolish bet. That gives us a bond I do not have with any other woman.

When she told you her story, she also told you about how I had related to her an experience of mine while a grad student. I could only give her the barest bones of the story that night, but this complete telling will relate my entire event. Of course, you remember Ellen’s experience. Hers was like mine, although much lengthier and more grueling. At least hers had the advantage of being entirely private. Anyway, this is for you, Ellen.

I am Roberta Selwyn (then Roberta Charles), and I was at the time of this experience a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. I attended the same small, liberal arts college in the South for both my undergraduate and graduate work, studying there for seven years.

Nine years ago, I was in my last year of graduate study, with only my thesis to complete for my MS degree in Organic Chemistry. I had taken my BS degree in Chemistry. Developing my thesis topic involved lab research. At that time I was dividing my efforts between my research and work as a teaching assistant. I was the instructor for four undergraduate sections: two of Intro to Chemistry and two of Intro to Environmental Chemistry.

To assist with my lab research the college assigned me two undergraduate assistants. They were employed through the school's work-study financial aid program. The boys were not science majors, but when dealing with work-study students one seldom found a perfect match of skills. They were sophomores, and they’d both had two lab science classes. They knew most of the basics of how to work in a lab, and I taught them the rest of what they needed to know.

They were nice kids, football players. Our school was so small that it was not uncommon for sophomores to make the cut for the varsity football team. These boys were nineteen-year-old examples of that principle. They lived together in a two-student room in the dorm; they had lived together freshman year, too. The boys had become close friends, close to the point of developing a duel personality, exhibiting the traits of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, the World War 2 era comic duo.

Paul, the heavier of the two, was the latter-day incarnation of tubby Oliver Hardy, the one supposedly in charge but who often ended up the fall guy. Paul adopted a deeper voice when they fell into one of their spontaneous routines. Hank was slender, and so personified Stan Laurel, the gaunt and lanky simpleton of the duo, assuming Stan's higher pitched voice when in character. They seemed to fall into these personae when they wanted to come to an agreement on some issue or wanted to assure themselves that they were already in agreement.

I liked to think I was a good boss and that the boys and I had a good working relationship, but I knew there were times during the previous months when perhaps I had not been.

My only real demand was that they call me Roberta. Since childhood I have detested the diminutive ‘Bobbi.’ My immediate family always called me Roberta, but I had an uncle, my father’s oldest brother, I disliked because he always made a point of calling me Bobbi. He was creepy. He was the sole member of my extended family who always called me Bobbi. After entreaties from me and my parents he addressed me as Roberta, except when alone with me when Bobbi would make its return. That only made him creepier.

There were times, especially near the beginning of the semester, when I was probably not a particularly good boss and pretty short with my two assistants. As I mentioned, they had basic lab skills, but needed to be trained. I had never supervised others before. I was stressed. This was research for my master's thesis. One little error was not critical, but too many could invalidate the research, and I would be back at square one. I really did not want to be at the school any longer than necessary.

So, I was on them pretty hard at the beginning, and sometimes I was not too kind in my evaluation of their lab performance. I recall words like ‘idiot,’ ‘jerk,’ ‘stupid,’ ‘imbecile,’ and ‘numb nuts' coming from my mouth. I do not imagine words like that coming from an older woman were taken well, and I hoped that the hurt feelings and egos were behind us. But, then again, I had never actually apologized to them.

As I discovered later, there were some raw feelings.

I mentioned the boys were football players. Paul was a lineman of some variety, and Hank was a tight end. Being sophomores, they mostly sat on the bench. Each year the homecoming game was with a college we had played for decades. Now each school regarded the other as a bitter gridiron rival.

The boys worked for me on Tuesdays and Thursdays for two hours in the afternoon. The Tuesday before the homecoming game they were talking as they worked. Although benchwarmers, they had a great reservoir of team spirit.

They were talking about how our football team -- their football team - was going to win on Saturday next. It was a jointly-held, circular, self-reinforcing delusion: they were the better of the two teams and therefore they were going to win; and they were going to win because they were the better of the two teams. Why it constituted a delusion will become apparent presently.

I listened to them go on like this off and on for a while as they performed their tasks. Finally, I felt I had to say something. I brought up our college's website and clicked into the athletic department area. When I was armed with righteous truth, I decided the time was right to set them straight.

"Look, guys," I said, coming around the waist-high divider which separates my workspace from the lab area. "You’re going to lose on Saturday. Sorry, but I just thought I’d save you the trouble of dreaming up these absurd fantasies. This is only your second year here. This is my seventh, and in the years I've been at this school we’ve never beaten this team. It's worse. I just looked it up on the athletic department's web page. Our team lost this game for five years before I got here. This will be the twelfth time in a row we’ll lose to them. Sorry."

"Well, well, well, my good friend," said Paul, falling into his Ollie persona, his voice dropping. "What do you think of that, Stan?" On the word 'that' he poked Hank/Stan lightly in the chest, causing him to sway back a little, the joke being that his body was so thin and insubstantial it rocked to the slightest touch.

"Why, I'm sure I don't know, Ollie," Hank returned, his voice thin and reedy like Stan Laurel's. "I suppose she hasn't paused to consider fully how faithfully we've been exercising and how diligently we've been practicing."

"My thoughts exactly, Stan," said Paul/Ollie.

"Oh, c'mon, you two," I said, "this year is going to be the same as any other year. Every year the San Diego Padres go to spring training thinking they’re going to win the World Series. It doesn't happen. It's the same principle."

"Do you suppose that she, an alumna of this fine institution, has no faith in her dear old alma mater to win this year, Stan?" Paul/Ollie asked Hank/Stan in his deeper voice.

"I think it's entirely possible she may not have thought the issue through thoroughly, Ollie," opined Hank/Stan.

"Just the thought that was on my mind, Stan," said Paul/Ollie.

"Very funny, but you guys are just out in la-la land," I said. "Look, the first time you guys were here for one of these games was last year and we lost 31 to 17." "That. Was. A. Close. Game. I just looked this up. Over the last decade we've lost to these guys 43 to 7, 37 to 2, 53 to 11, 47 to 0. One year we lost 87 to 3. Even I’d forgotten how bad it was." They were looking at me with blank expressions, clearly unconvinced and unimpressed. "Okay, you guys. Look, I'll happily bet you a hundred bucks each you’re goin' down on Saturday."

They looked at each other, then they simultaneously reached into their pants pockets and turned them out, showing them to be empty. These guys really had their routine down.

"Why, Stan," said Paul/Ollie, "I don't seem to have a C note in my pocket. Do you have one?"

"My, my, no, Ollie," crackled Hank/Stan. "I don't have a C note in my pocket either. I would venture to say we don't have so much as a sawbuck between us."

"Exactly what I was thinking as well, Stan," returned Paul/Ollie.

I could not help being entertained by their routine, but I felt a big pang of guilt for the thoughtless bet I’d proposed. These guys were impoverished undergrads. They didn’t have a hundred bucks to piss away on some silly bet. And the thoughtless, running-off-at-the-mouth, talk-first think-later older woman in the room had reminded them of their penury: had succeeded in insulting them yet again.

"Okay," I said, trying to recover and smooth things over, again without actually apologizing, "but I'm ready to roll you guys on this one. If you guys want a bet on this game, then you decide what the bet is, and I'll take it."

I went back to my little cubby. I checked their work periodically over the rest of the afternoon. Sitting at my workstation I would sometimes look up and see them talking to each other, thick as thieves, occasionally looking in my direction. When it was time for them to go, they came over to see me. Hank sat in a chair in front of my desk, leaning his forearms on the edge, his chin on top of them. Paul sat on one corner of the desk.

Hank said, "Okay, so you want a bet on this game, right Roberta? And you said you would take any bet we came up with, right?" All traces of Laurel and Hardy were gone.

"Yes and yes," I said. "Lay it on me."

"Right then," Paul said. "If we win you show up at our room Sunday afternoon, you strip, naked, and we roast you on the dick spit. Twice. We each get a turn at both ends. When we get done with that the bet is paid and you can leave and go get your clothes."

I don’t know what expression was on my face but the boys both broke out laughing, which I took as a good sign.

"So, you're just kidding?" I asked, uncertain.

"Oh, no, we're not kidding," said Paul. "We were just laughing because you looked like you suddenly discovered you had a baseball bat up your ass." They both laughed again.

"Um, you know, guys..." I began.

"'You decide what the bet is, and I'll take it,’” said Hank, quoting me word for word. "I could swear I just heard that somewhere."

"87 to 3," said Paul. "Sound familiar to you, Hank?"

"Well," I said, "I'm not entirely sure something like this would be appropriate. Sexual harassment and all that."

"Hey, Roberta," said Hank, "we're not college employees. We're a couple of lab rats on a financial aid stipend. Besides, no one would be harassed, they would just be paying off a consensual bet."

"But" Paul stepped right in, "I can see you're doing some very fancy footwork to weasel out of this. I thought it was going to be just like the San Diego Padres. Right?"

I could see I was stuck. I had told them to come up with the bet, and I would take it. I knew we would lose on Saturday; there was no doubt of that. If I backed down now, after all my loud verbiage about blowouts and losing streaks and the certainty of their defeat, I would look like the weenie of the century.

"Okay, I said I'd take whatever bet you came up with. We have a bet," I said. They high-fived. "Just one little thing. What do I win when you lose this bet?"

"That's up to you, Roberta," Paul said. "We'll treat it the same way: come up with whatever you want, anything at all, and we'll agree to it. Let us know on Thursday."

They got up and walked toward the exit. As they neared the door, I could hear them talking.

"Oh, Stan," said Paul/Ollie, "would it be your estimation, my good friend, that we’ll be troubled by blue balls come Sunday evening?"

"Why, no, I shouldn't think so, Ollie," said Hank/Stan. "After popping off a couple of gushers on Sunday afternoon, I'm sure blue balls will be the least of our worries."

"Why, I think you've hit the nail right on the head, Stan," said Paul/Ollie as their voices receded down the hall.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Thought I'd post this story too since it is so closely related to the Ellen story. Volume Two just expands the outline of Roberta's story she told to Ellen in chapter one of Ellen's Bet.

Yay!!

Sorry the stories have not been of more interest here, but I get the mismatch between the theme of the board and the theme of the Taking Chances stories.

I wouldn’t fret about only a few readers, it’s actually quite normal for relative new writers. I think there’s a lot of scope for bdsm in these forums, and yours is a unique style. I, for one, am enjoying them although I would advocate publishing in a greater number of shorter chapters.

Roberta's Bet is the shortest of the Taking Chances stories. It is about 13000 words in five chapters, so you can look at it as a long short story or a short novella.

Novella

 

[BEThalia]

Yay!!


I wouldn’t fret about only a few readers, it’s actually quite normal for relative new writers. I think there’s a lot of scope for bdsm in these forums, and yours is a unique style. I, for one, am enjoying them although I would advocate publishing in a greater number of shorter chapters.

Novella

Thank you for the interaction and enthusiasm, Lionclothslave. I appreciate you expressing your enjoyment, and appreciate the advice. I've just been putting up the chapters in the form/length they were published, only splitting them when their original length exceeded the 20,000 character limit. But it is certainly easier for me to post shorter installments more frequently, and I can see greater convenience for readers too. Thanks.

I tend to favor novella too.

 

[Fossy]

Well, now I'm watching @BEThalia. I really enjoyed that. How very quirky ... a Laurel and Hardy themed tale, which has a very authentic, believable beginning and is clearly only heading in one direction. I am looking forward to reading more.

 

[Barbaria1]

Off to a good start. Nicely written!