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Roberta and Patrick's Bet

"Roberta and Patrick use a bet to explore their sexual relationship"

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Chapter One

My arms encircled Patrick’s shoulders from behind, and my nose nuzzled into the side of his neck. I left a kiss on his cheek as I pulled back and said, “Happy birthday, sweet thing.”

Patrick was sitting at the breakfast table finishing a bowl of cereal. Our two young ones were already off to school. Morning sunlight spilled across the table, a red and rippled patch of it on the opposite side of Patrick’s juice glass, a deep shadow on the opposite side of his coffee mug.

He turned his face toward mine, reached back, guided me around his chair, and encouraged me to take a seat in his lap. Patrick pulled me close, first returning the kiss on my cheek and then drawing my mouth to his. We kissed deeply, the sort of kiss that, even a decade after our first, still made my insides feel soft.

Patrick was thirty-seven today, and this was the seventh birthday of his we had shared as husband and wife. I wanted to share many, many more with him.

We had met ten years ago when I was a graduate student at a small liberal arts college in the South. We were an exclusive pair within a few months of meeting. It wasn’t long after that when I began to regard our wedding as a pre-ordained event. Soon I was confident that Patrick was on the same sheet of music.

I slipped off Patrick’s lap as he stood. I moved in to hug him, he returning the affection with enthusiasm.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “I can’t miss this morning; I can’t even be late.”

The morning in question was Friday’s. I had to be to work too, although my lab manager stuff was not so critical today, no disasters that I knew of needing my managerial magic. I could call in, but I thought it just as well that Patrick had important manager stuff going on at work. Birthday sex was on the unspoken and unwritten agenda for today, but I didn’t want to blow it (pun intended) on a morning quickie. I preferred to wait for the evening when we could take our time. I had a birthday surprise waiting for him anyway.

“Okay,” I said, “but get out of there on time or I may decide you don’t deserve your birthday present.”

Patrick regarded me with a questioning look. “Haven’t I already had all the birthday present I’m going to get?” he asked.

He was referring to the previous weekend’s Super Bowl Sunday. An executive visiting his firm for a week, Ellen Ryan, had been over to watch the game, as were four young guys from Patrick’s office. Here in Baton Rouge we, of course, were all in a tizzy over the possibility that the Saints might bring an NFL championship to the city that had been nearly destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. But Ellen was in from Chicago and wanted the Colts to win. A bet ensued.

Ellen and I became close friends that night.

Really the term ‘friend’ doesn’t quite do it for me. I’ve never shared a crisis so personal with another woman, and I feel closer to her than the word ‘friend’ really conveys. Patrick and our four male guests had each bet a thousand dollars on the Saints, but Ellen didn’t have the cash to cover the bets.

She proposed betting her body against the cash. I don’t know what motivated her to propose that bet, although having experienced a similar situation I can guess. I don’t think she herself even really knew why. But Ellen and I have promised to stay in touch, and eventually I want to explore that subject with her. But not yet. She is still too close to the event to begin to explore the whys and wherefores.

Of course, betting on the Colts she had lost her bet; had spent the rest of the night naked, her body available for use by the five men she had wagered against.

It wasn’t like in the erotic stories. She didn’t spend the night in orgasmic bliss. She spent the night getting fucked and sucking cock. The next morning she had a sore vagina, an overused asshole, and a jaw and mouth that begged for rest. It was an ordeal. My heart went out to her, remembering my similar experience, and I helped her through the night as best as I could.

I had told Patrick that with his birthday imminent my present to him would be permission to participate in the bet. Of course, the men could have lost, in which case I hoped he would not expect another gift today after blowing a thousand dollars on a Super Bowl bet.

But, hey, it’s the guy’s birthday. The thousand dollars is still in our account. I had thought of buying him something, but you know how men are. They’re about as likely to open up about what sort of present they really want as they are to start menstruating. So they get ties. Serves them right.

But yours truly put her little mind to it and came up with something, although it is not the kind of present you buy with a credit card, and it might well end up being a very big present for me.

“Oh, no,” I told Patrick, “I’ve got a present I think you might enjoy.” Patrick looked at me expectantly. “Go to work,” I said. “You know you’re not going to get it out of me now.” I made a zipping motion across my closed lips, turned the key and threw it away.

He collected his work things and was soon out the door. I was headed in the same direction shortly after.

* * * * *

On the way home from work I met Patrick’s at his favorite Mexican restaurant. We were going to celebrate his birthday with a few couples we are close to. I’m a steak house kind of girl, but that’s where we ended up on my birthday. I could have ordered a steak at the Mexican place, but preferred to join Patrick and our friends in a Mexican repast.

The dinner was great. We didn’t have to be in a hurry. The kids were at my mothers for the night, and likely for the weekend if anyone bothered to ask their preference. My guacamole salad filled me in a tasty way and a couple of margaritas got me feeling relaxed, satisfied, and slinky. I had thought of ordering a third, and would have had I not had to drive my car home.

By the time we had finished dinner with our friends, had the dessert birthday cake, and spent time enjoying each other’s company, Patrick and I didn’t pull our cars into the garage until after nine o’clock.

As soon as I had thrown my purse onto the entryway tree storage bench Patrick’s arms were around me from behind, his face buried in my neck.

“Cool your jets there, birthday boy,” I said. I led him by the hand over to the couch, and we sat.

“So I’ve been waiting all day,” Patrick said. “Do I get to find out now, or were you talking about next year’s present?”

“No,” I said. Now that it had come to the point, I either didn’t know quite how to begin or was reticent. One way or the other this could take us in some new directions. “Well, you know how we’ve tried a few things sexually over the years?”

Patrick nodded.

“I think we’ve found most of them good for both of us. Haven’t we?”

“The one we don’t see eye to eye on is the one where your dick goes up my kiester,” I said, using the term for butthole that my mother had always used. “Well, happy birthday.” I paused for effect, looked in his eyes and said, “Maybe.”

Patrick’s eyes sparked with enthusiasm. Our few forays into anal penetration had been enthusiastically promoted and sold by Patrick and were a big and satisfying hit for him. Not so much for me. It was painful for me at the entrance, even with plenty of lube. And the feeling was uncomfortable: too tight and full, too stretched, and too little sexual stimulation for me, except that which I provided to myself. But usually I was not turned on enough to bother.

Then I saw that spark in Patrick’s eyes dim just a little.

“Honey, thank you,” he said. “It’s great of you to offer, but you don’t have to do something that you hate just because it’s my birthday.”

My heart always melted at moments like these when Patrick firmly placed my feelings and preferences before his own. He did that a lot, I tried my best to reciprocate, and those efforts were one of the reasons I knew we would celebrate our fiftieth together someday.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I hate it,” I said, not actually lying. “Hate is really much too strong a word. It’s just far down my list of preferences. But it’s okay.”

Patrick smiled, but got a look on his face. “Um,” he began, “did I hear you say ‘Happy birthday, maybe?’”

“You did.”

“So it’s only a ‘maybe’ that I’ll get to open the back door tonight?”

“That’s right,” I said. “If you want it you’re going to have to win it.”

He looked at me perplexed, and then a smile showed, the recent wagering which had occurred in our home a fresh memory. “Okay, Jimmy the Greek,” he said, “but I think I better hear all of this before I say yes.”

I went to the dinning room hutch and took out our cribbage board and a deck of cards. I placed them on the coffee table, the same one a naked Ellen had graced just five nights previous. I turned to Patrick.

“A regular win is one point, a skunk win is two points.” I explained. “When a player gets one point the other player strips to their underwear. Whoever gets to two points first wins and the loser is done with clothes until noon tomorrow. If you win, my ass is yours until then.”

“Till noon,” he said.

“Yup,” I said, “as many times as you want it.” I let out a little laugh. “Well, as many times as you can manage to get it up for.”

“Oh, I think you might have a little surprised waiting for you.”

“You managed three times with Ellen the other night.”

“Which means I can definitely manage at least four for you, hot stuff. And if I lose?” Patrick asked.

“Do you remember that bet I made back in graduate school?” I asked, making a motion and sound like I was barfing, just as I had at the end of the football game at the moment I lost that bet and my fate was sealed.

“Sure,” Patrick said. “Wish I could have been there to watch you pay it off.” He put an evil grin on his face.

“Do you remember what the boys were going to have to do if I won?” I asked.

Patrick got a thinking-cap look on his face. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

“Well, at the time I really wondered if watching what they would have to do would turn me on,” I said. “And every once in a while over the years when I’ve thought about that bet that’s the part of it I’ve thought about most.”

“So?” Patrick asked.

I cleared my throat. “Well, they were going to have to strip for me, jerk off while I watched, and when they came they would cum on a plate and have to lick it clean. Oh, and they were going to have to suck each other off too, but since we don’t seem to have a spare dick around here I guess we’ll just have to skip that part.”

“My, my, you are one naughty little girl.” Patrick said, giving me a smile.

“Well, it seemed fair to me. They dreamed up this bet that ended up with me going through this humiliating ordeal. I just thought they should get as good as they wanted to give.”

“So,” Patrick summed it up. “You lose and I can fuck your ass all I want until noon tomorrow. I lose and I have to jerk off for you.”

“Every time I tell you to. And eat your cum.”

He seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. “You’ve got a bet.”

Chapter Two

Now, I realize the last thing you, my reader, needs, if you don’t play cribbage, is a complete description of the game’s rules and all the ins and outs of playing.

Let it suffice to say that cribbage is a card game. Various combinations of cards are worth certain numbers of points. The player to reach 121 points first wins. When the game ends there is no completing the hand or letting the other player see if they can catch up and outscore the other: whoever makes it to 121 first wins. End of game right then, even if in mid-hand.

Score is kept on a board with little holes, and little pegs are moved to keep track. A game takes about ten or fifteen minutes to play.

One last thing: there is a particularly ignominious way to lose called a ‘skunk.’ This happens when one player gets to 121 while the other player is at 90 or less. Usually when you are playing a game for money a player who loses by so much as to be skunked has to pay double.

We set up the board, put our pegs in the starting holes. To keep things entirely fair we cut for first deal and I won, shuffled the cards, and dealt. We are both good at this game, quite evenly matched. On any given occasion either of us could win.

The first game was very closely played all the way. Near the end we were both at 118 at the end of a hand. I dealt the next hand and Patrick played a seven. I countered with an eight, making fifteen and earning two points. I advanced my peg into the next to last hole. Then Patrick played a nine, making a run of three, worth three points, and advanced his peg past mine and into the victory hole. He had one of the two points he needed to win the bet.

He smiled widely. “Beginning to get a yearning for something big up your ass?” he asked.

“Who says it’s that big?” I returned.

“So that’s your attitude,” he said. “Let’s see if you’re still talking that trash thirty minutes from now with my boner up your ass.” Patrick cleared his throat very deliberately. “You seem to have too much clothing on for someone who just lost a point.”

I didn’t really have much on: my heels had come off at the door, and I was bare-legged. I stood and unzipped my dress and let it fall, then took my full slip down and stepped out of it. I sat back down in my bra and panties, feeling much more conspicuous than I otherwise would in just my underwear around Patrick.

I’m one of those girls who won’t fit into any bra. I find a b-cup a bit too small and a c-cup just a bit too big, so I wear one or the other depending on what my boobs are doing that day. You know how it is: around my period a c-cup works better, and most other times a b-cup will do without my feeling too crowded. Today I had on a b-cup, and it might have been of a Wonderbra: my boobs looking more plump and round and with more cleavage than they naturally have. Patrick stared and licked his lips.

I was disappointed by this turn of events. I had known that I could lure Patrick into this bet with the promise of winning anal sex. I was okay with paying off if I lost, although I did find anal an uncomfortable and demanding chore with little in it for me. Having to bend over two or three (!) or four (could it be possible?) times for it tonight made the prospect of losing an unpleasant one, and something to be avoided.

In my bet in grad school the boys I’d bet with, had they lost, would have had to strip for me, masturbate, eat their cum, and then suck each other off and swallow. I had wondered after making the bet whether putting those two poor unfortunate males through their humiliating little chores would be a turn-on for me.

At one point I had believed I’d won the bet, and at that point it had all become clear as glass to me. I knew that humiliating the boys, laughing at them, mocking them, making the most cutting and embarrassing remarks and observations would very much turn me on. The realization that playing the dominant female was something I could relish and wallow in for an afternoon became obvious to me. I found I wanted to explore that role, had just about started to salivate in anticipating it.

Fate had other ideas, and I ended up losing the bet. I was the recipient of deep and shaming humiliation, nude with one dick in my mouth and another in my pussy at the same time. But, as I had just told Patrick, I have from time to time wondered and dreamed and wished that the outcome of that bet had been different. Now I had a chance to explore that role, and it was slipping from me.

Patrick had never masturbated for me. Not that I or he was against it. It had just never come up in our sex play. We both masturbated on our own from time to time. I had...

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Written by bethalia
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