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?”
“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?’”
“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 seen him masturbating once, although he did not know I had.
One Sunday afternoon I had come back from a jog earlier than planned. I had told Patrick I was going jogging with a neighborhood girlfriend, and then I was going to her house to visit, likely for the rest of the afternoon. Patrick had said that was fine, that he might take a nap or watch a game, he wasn’t sure which.
My friend had cramped up after less than a mile, and I helped her back to her house. She just wanted to lie down, so I came home. I slipped into the house silently, not wanting to wake Patrick if he had opted for the nap.
As I walked through the house I heard from the media room the sounds of a game. I wasn’t being stealthy or sneaky, but how much noise do you make when walking in your sock feet on carpet? When I entered the room Patrick was in his recliner in front of the television, a basketball game on. I walked up behind his recliner to give him a hug, let him know I was back. As I looked over the top of the recliner I found Patrick settled deep in the cushions, his pants and boxers at mid-thigh, his eyes closed, his hands on his hard dick. He had one hand gripping the shaft while the other turned the head back and forth, oblivious to his surroundings.
Now, all of this was perfectly fine with me. I’m not one of those egotistical and insecure women who believe that every orgasm her man puts out must have her name written on it in flowery, perfume-scented script. I just couldn’t understand what he could possibly find so sexually arousing about the Los Angeles Lakers versus the Portland Trailblazers. But I knew as well as anyone that sometimes the mood just strikes.
I was at a loss as to what to do: surprise him in mid-jerk? Watch silently? Leave the room and then pretend I just got home after he was done? I settled on the middle option followed by a modified version of the third.
It was an interesting and entertaining show. I learned a thing or two about how he likes to be stimulated, like that little head turning technique; I would never have thought of that. And I put it to use in future encounters to his surprise and delight. I’ve wondered if he has ever asked himself how I might have learned that technique pleases him so much. I even pursued a little fantasy while I stood there: that he was doing this, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He had lost a bet, just like the boys might have, and now had to satisfy it by putting on this personal, intimate little show for an audience.
The thought was a real hottie, making my pussy lubricate and making me want to get my hand into my sweatpants pronto. But just then Patrick was coming his ejaculation thick, accompanied by deep, satisfied moans. I withdrew from the room before he regained his senses.
I went off to the bathroom to shower, a long one that included first the movable shower head, and then my fingers, on my pussy. Afterward, I went to see Patrick, telling him I was sorry I hadn’t come in to see him when I got back, but that I wanted to shower first; and how was the game?
But actually have him deliberately masturbate before me because he has to? That has never happened, and I thought it would be an interesting experience. It would certainly be more entertaining than the night that was ahead of me if I lost this bet.
He had agreed to the bet willingly, even enthusiastically, so I didn’t feel any guilt from the fact that I had used his love of anal sex to lure him into this bet.
Somewhere in my past I had heard the term ‘domme bitch.’ Well, now I hoped sincerely I would have the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity about just how much domme there was in this bitch. Chapter Three
Patrick, as the winner of the previous game, dealt first to start the second. I would have to win two games in a row to pull this out.
This game was also fairly close. We played hand after hand, our pegs creeping along, always near each other. We finally came to a hand in which we were both nearing that skunk line at 90. We played out our cards against each other, and I did well: I ended at 97 and Patrick was at 90, just one step from crossing the skunk line. Patrick had dealt that hand, so I got to count the points in my hand first. He was waiting impatiently to count his points so he could pass the skunk line, and, since he had the crib as well, likely pass me.
I’ll explain this for the cribbage players reading this. In my hand I had a 7, 7, 8, 9, and the cut card atop the deck was an 8.
“Let’s see,” I said. “four runs of three is twelve, four fifteens is eight to make twenty, and two pairs for four more. That makes twenty-four.”
I moved my peg the twenty-four points, dragging the bottom of the peg over the holes I was bypassing on the board. This method always makes a unique sound, like a baseball card in bicycle tire spokes, only much softer and more subtle. To a cribbage player it’s one of the world’s more splendid sounds, especially if it continues for a while as you fly past many holes. My peg came to rest in the victory hole with no points to spare.
“Now, that’s a skunk, isn’t it?” I asked Patrick.
The two points I earned by skunking him concluded our game and match.
“Shit,” Patrick commented.
I stood and put my slip and dress back on.
“I was happy with you the way you were,” Patrick said.
“Oh? Well, I wasn’t,” I said, a note of superiority in my voice, quite intentional. “I think you have too many clothes on for someone who just lost,” I said. “Strip.” The sound of that word coming from my mouth was pure sweetness.
He sighed, stood, and did what he had to. He pulled off his socks and threw them on the couch. His slacks came down and off next. He was still in his work clothes, minus shoes and jacket. He loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. Next he stripped his tee shirt over his head. It joined the growing pile of clothes on the couch. Then he sighed again and put his hands to the waistband of his boxers. After seven years of marriage, during which I’ve seen him nude hundreds or thousands of times, he actually hesitated twice, once as his hands traveled to the waistband and again when they were on it, before stripping them down and off and holding them in his hand.
His dick was getting near parallel to the floor, obviously partly engorged.
“Mister Happy seems to be enjoying this,” I observed, and I got a pair of boxers tossed in my face for my trouble.
What an interesting and engaging experience: sitting there on the couch with all my clothes on, smiling, watching a man (and an awfully good looking one, too) take his clothes off. As when I had contemplated winning my bet with the boys years ago, I found I enjoyed the role reversal, especially in the ‘no choice’ context of someone paying off a bet to me. Then my enjoyment had been entirely imagined and unrealized. Now it was a pleasing reality.
I stood and put my hand tightly around Patrick’s Mr. Happy and in a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners manner lead him to the bedroom.
Once there I seated myself with some pomp, deliberately and regally, in the bedroom chair. I crossed my right leg over my left at the knee and bounced my right foot slightly up and down. I looked at Patrick’s face, raised my eyebrows, and gave him look of expectation. His face was actually flushed, with arousal or embarrassment I don’t know.
Later, when we talked about the experience, he said it was almost all embarrassment. The arousal part was tough for him, not because he didn’t want to come or satisfy our bet, but because he was thinking about how arousal leads to erection, and erection leads to excitement, and excitement leads to orgasm, and orgasm (at least in this case) leads to eating cum. For him not a tremendous motivator.
Patrick went to the night table drawer and took out a tube of gel and returned to stand in front of me.
“No,” I said, “I want you in your cock ring.”
Patrick looked at me for a moment, perhaps trying to figure out just what he had gotten himself into. He returned to the night table and took his leather cock ring out, turned his back, and began to put it on.
“No,” I said again, “come over here and stand in front of me. I want to watch you put it on.”
He did as he was told. He spread his knees and thighs, reaching the cock ring underneath and behind his balls, then bringing the two ends together in front, snapping them in place. When done, he put his hands to his sides.
“No,” I said again. There were three ways to snap the cock ring closed. He had used the loosest, “too loose. Put it on at the tightest setting.”
He unsnapped the device. When he used the cock ring he always used the loosest or the medium tightness. Now I watched as he struggled to get the band around his cock and balls and snap it shut at the shortest length. He had to pull on it, trying to bring the two ends together at the right setting.
While he did this I said no words, but made little sounds of impatience and bounced my right foot up and down. After several moments of struggle he succeeded.
“Come here,” I said. He came close to me, our knees almost touching. I had been sitting forward in my chair, but now I sat back in relaxation, at ease. I had been looking at his face, but now my eyes dropped to his dick. It stood out prominently from his body, his balls looking big and fat under his penis as they do when a man is in a cock ring. His penis was standing out rigid and deep red.
“Oh, my,” I said, and let out a laugh. “Hands behind your back.” Patrick complied and I reached out a hand and tickled with my fingers under his balls. I cupped his scrotum, then grasped it. It made a nice handful. I slowly began to squeeze and watched his face as my grip became slowly tighter.
Patrick closed his eyes, then took a few deep breaths. He let out a bit of a whimper as my hand closed still tighter. When he drew in his breath sharply and his knees began to bend I stopped increasing the pressure, but didn’t lessen it either.
I suppose I was squeezing his balls a good deal tighter than I do when giving him a blow-job, but the context here was, for me, deliciously different. And for him the context took the sensations from the realm of pleasure to that of exposure and discomfort.
“We had a little bet, didn’t we?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t think I like at all how you’re addressing me, loser.”
He got the idea immediately: wanting to please me in any way that would remove the pressure from his balls and take away the feeling of panicky vulnerability he was now feeling.
“And you lost our little bet, poor thing, didn’t you?”
“You’re going to give me some good jerk-off shows tonight, aren’t you?”
“Good. Look at me.”
He had been looking anywhere but at me. Now he moved his eyes to my face, but he was looking a bit high, maybe at my forehead.
“No,” I said, “look in my eyes.”
His glance shifted slightly and our eyes locked.
“I risked my ass tonight. I risked getting my ass fucked all night. But I won. You’re going to pay off this little bet of ours, and I’m going to be enjoying every second of it. Now jerk off.”
I increased the pressure on his balls by just a slight bit. He moaned and his knees bent more. Then I released his balls, and he actually let out a little giggle of relief.
After just a moment he picked up the tube of lubricant off the bed behind him. He squirted a generous amount of gel into his hand and then wrapped it around his dick, which swelled even more as he grasped it.
He started stroking his dick, keeping his eyes anywhere but on my face. But I looked at nothing but his eyes, so that every time his gaze wandered unwillingly to my eyes we made contact. I wasn’t interested in watching his hand on his dick. Well, not too much. I saw that only in my peripheral vision. I was interested in watching his face, looking for signs of embarrassment, trying to decipher the outward signs of what was going on in his mind.
After a few minutes of this I said, “So, Patrick, I was just noticing how your dick is in your fist, and not up my ass.” He didn’t answer, closed his eyes, and his face reddened noticeably.
Shortly after that he stopped to put more gel in his hand, and I saw his dick was rigid as I have ever seen it, pointing straight to the ceiling, parallel with his abdomen.
I considered this scene and imagined the other way in which this could have gone.
At any time during our marriage I could have asked Patrick if he would let me watch him jerk off. He would have said yes, and we would both get naked and cuddle on our bed. He would lube his dick, begin stroking it. I would have my hands together on his near shoulder, my eyes on what he was doing to his dick. I might wonder where his mind was while doing this, but some things should remain private or be revealed only voluntarily. I would make little noises of satisfaction to encourage him and place kisses on his cheek and neck and shoulder, as he brought himself to orgasm.
That was not what was happening this night. Patrick was putting on the show I was watching because he had lost a bet; because I had won a bet, I mean. I had risked a night of activities that for me would fall on the spectrum somewhere between distasteful and undesirable. But that hadn’t been my fate this night. Instead, I had won our little match, and the power had fallen to me to control Patrick, make him do my bidding.
I’m sure I had made an impression earlier with my attention to his balls. I was sure he was aware that losing his bet was going to lead to an evening like we had never experienced before. I decided to try on my newly won power. Chapter Four
As Patrick again wrapped his hand around his dick and began stroking I said, “Knees.”
He looked at me. I wasn’t sure if he’d not heard me or had not understood what I’d said. “I’m sorry? Did you say something?” he asked.
I locked my eyes with his, gave him a level look and said, “I want you on your knees. That will make this so much more entertaining for me.” I glanced to the floor in front of me and then back to his eyes.
He obediently sank to the floor, me holding his gaze until he broke it.
“That’s better,” I said. “You can start pulling your dick again.”
As he continued to stroke his dick on his knees I considered this situation. I found I liked it. I was finally doing, nine years later, what I had hoped to do back when I had made the bet with Paul and Hank: exploring the role of the dominant woman.
I contemplated the scene. I had a nude man on his knees stroking his dick right in front of me. I, by contrast, was sitting at ease in a comfortable and cushioned chair, fully clothed. Patrick could see my bare calves and feet, my bare arms, my face and neck. But the rest of my body was hidden while his was explicitly exposed to my eyes.
As he continued to avoid my gaze I could feel the embarrassment coming off him in waves. He had no place to hide and had to continue in his current activity. I had seen Patrick nude so many times, but never like this: constrained by the bet he had agreed to. Nude not because he was taking a shower or changing; but nude, on his knees, and stroking his dick because he had lost a bet and had to do it.
Moreover, his longed for dream of a night of fucking my ass was gone, unrecoverable, at least for this night. He had risked to win something he wanted very much but he had lost and was now suffering the consequences.
Had our little cribbage games had ended in the alternate result our situations would be different at this moment.
Given Patrick’s enthusiasm for bondage I knew where I would be at this moment. I looked beyond Patrick to our bed several feet behind him. I could envision myself: nude and lying with my front side down, a ball gag in my mouth, a blindfold over my eyes, leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles, my four limbs pulled tightly toward the four corners of the bed, holding me immobile, pillows piled under my hips lifting my ass high. I could see the shine of the lubricant in my ass crack. Then Patrick was positioning himself behind, approaching. I could see him take his rigid dick, also shiny and slick with lubricant, and with his hand place it on the rosebud of my asshole. I saw his hips move forward as he began to work his dick past the tight guardian of my sphincter. I saw the head go in, and at the same time saw myself pull involuntarily on my restraints and issue a grunt through my gag as my ass filled with more and more of Patrick’s cock: the winner of our little cribbage match claiming his prize, one that he had taken a risk to win.
But that was not my fate tonight.
I dismissed from my mind the images of Patrick as victor and refocused on my masturbating little boy-toy knelling before me. I found I enjoyed this role.
As a life style? No.
As a regular part of our sex play? No.
But from time to time I could enjoy this thoroughly.
“Um, I’m going to need the plate soon,” Patrick said, his voice quavering, shaking me free of my contemplation. I looked into his eyes, said nothing, let a smile appear on my lips, amusement play across my face. I could tell by the sound of his breathing that his orgasm was seconds away, a sound I knew well and loved.
“Where?” he asked desperately. “Where do I come?”
I raised my dangling right foot to his mouth, my bare toes playing with his lips. I lowered it again, arching the top, wiggling my toes. He got the message immediately.
“And don’t you dare let a drop spill on the carpet,” I said, not giving an instruction but issuing a decree.
He placed his hand under my foot, and had to lean far forward to bring his rigid dick near it. Then I felt thick heat on my foot, wave after wave of it as his cum spilled from him. When most of it was out he moved both of his hands to the sides of my foot, making sure none of his cum escaped. Two final weak shots left his dick and landed near my ankle.
After the fireworks were over he breathed deeply, catching his breath. He looked up at me. I made eye contact and looked at him expectantly. “Well?” I demanded.
No explanation was necessary: he knew what that word meant. He brought his mouth to my foot. I felt his tongue begin to bathe my foot, on top first, then on the sides as he lapped and sucked in his pooled cum. He swallowed then, gagging a little, but after that he became used to the taste, smell, and texture of his semen and completed his task without further difficulty.
I felt his tongue on my toes, licking along the top of them and then taking each in his mouth and cleaning it off, running his tongue between my toes and under them. His tongue went up the outside edge of my foot and then to the arch, collecting into his mouth every drop of cum. He finished by licking off my ankle the product of the last two weak shots.
“Very good,” I judged. Then I rose, leaving him kneeling there forgotten, and went to the bathroom and began running water into the tub. I don’t know what Patrick did, but I soaked in a hot, soapy-sudsy tub for so long I had to replenish the hot water. Then I donned my bathrobe and went to find Patrick. I found him lying on the bed, a quilt over him, sleeping.
I shook him, and when he was fully awake I went over to my chair again and imperiously parked my royal ass on it.
“Again?” Patrick asked.
“It isn’t noon Saturday is it?” I asked in return. “I have two feet and you’ve so far only serviced one.
And so at it again. Patrick sank to his knees at my feet, his cock ring still in place. The show was very entertaining this time. With one orgasm out I watched for many minutes as Patrick worked to bring himself to hardness, helped by the cock ring, and then started laboring toward his orgasm. The last time only his hand and dick had been involved. Now I saw muscles moving in his legs and his abdomen, his pectorals and shoulders flexing, working his body to a state of orgasm.
This time even less of me was visible than before, my robe covering me to the middle of my shins, just my face visible at the top, my hair wrapped in a towel.
I rose and left him there knelling on the floor and masturbating, and went to the kitchen. I retuned a few minutes later with a glass of wine, but didn’t sit back down immediately. Instead, I walked around him, inspecting, examining, sipping wine at my leisure. I saw his buttocks working just as hard as every other muscle, clenching and unclenching and then clenching again harder. I had never known that gluts got into the act, too. Who knew?
I sat again in my chair, put my right elbow on the right arm of the chair, my arm raised and my chin resting in my fingers. I was genuinely enjoying this and I hoped it showed. I know I was smiling at Patrick. No, not really smiling: showing my amusement would be a better way to put it, and it was clear to me by the look in his eyes that Patrick knew the difference. I took occasional sips of my wine while I watched my late night entertainment.
I sensed he was beginning to get more excited. I just couldn’t resist.
“So you thought that dick would be up my ass tonight?” I asked. “Well, guess what, Bub, it’s in your fist instead. You need to get your cribbage game together.”
As I spoke these words I could sense his level of arousal build further.
“You know, I’m nude under this robe.” I said. “Would it help at all if I opened it?” I heard a light moan from him. “Or maybe just open it part way. What would you like to see? My tits? My pussy?” His moans became louder, more continuous and persistent. I watched as his hand changed from stroking to squeezing his dick. “Would it help if I licked my nipples or spread my legs? Should I drop the robe, turned around, spread my butt and show you the ass you won’t be fucking tonight?” I let out a laugh. The sounds emanating from him changed from a moan to just hoarse, ragged, open-mouthed breathing. “Sorry, loser. Just keep pumping.”
Patrick was a good boy, honoring his bet, working hard through it all to produce the cum he was required to. My chin still in my fingers, amusement still on my face, I put my left foot up to Patrick’s face, playing the underside of my toes on his nose. I ran my toes over his cheeks and along his jaw line. Again I could sense his arousal build. I brought my toes to his mouth and pried at his lips with them, ending with the bottom of my big toe right on his slightly parted lips.
“Suck,” I commanded. He pulled my big toe into his mouth, swirled his tongue around it, licking and sucking hard. Then his head began to bob slightly, like he was sucking on the world’s shortest dick, his breathing coming hard and ragged from his nostrils.
A moment later my toe left his mouth as he took my foot in his hand and brought it to his dick spilling a much reduced load of cum onto my left foot. Then his tongue was out, lapping and sucking cum into his mouth.
When he was done I left him knelling on the floor panting, and I went to the kitchen for a cup of soothing tea in a favorite flavor, lingering over it, thinking of the little scenes we had just experienced.
Frankly, I was enjoying this night, exploring this newly-discovered part of my sexual personality. But I also couldn’t wait until noon the next day when Patrick and I could leave our bet-enforced temporary roles behind and compare notes.
I finished a second tea and then made my way to the bedroom. I found Patrick under the covers seemingly deep in sleep. I took the towel off my head and brushed out my hair. Then I took off my robe and started to the closet for a nightie. But I thought better of it. I climbed into bed nude and scuttled over to Patrick.
His back was to me and I snuggled into him, spooning, my arms wrapping around him. He acknowledged my presence by pulling my arms more tightly around him, putting kisses on my hands and arms. I thought how we didn’t sleep both of us nude very often and how it was very pleasant. We had to do it more often.
Those were my last thoughts before I fell into a deep asleep. Chapter Five
I woke in the night, Patrick and I now parted, and I was filled with a desire for release. My hand wandered to my pussy and found it seemingly nothing but scalding liquid.
I woke Patrick from a deep sleep. It was some moments before he was fully awake and cognizant of where he was.
I was too hot and desirous of orgasm to be anything but curt.
“Jerk off for me,” I said, my voice, although commanding, was what the romance novels would call ‘husky.’ “Now.”
The look on his face changed from somnolent incomprehension to a dawning recollection of our little games of cribbage, his lost bet, and his position as the one who took the orders for tonight.
I stripped down the covers, and turned on the reading lamp on my side of the bed, making an island of light in the dark ocean of our bedroom, and nothing beyond its shores was of any consequence. As Patrick came to his knees I saw that he no longer was wearing his cock ring, but that his dick was already hard, had been rock hard while he slept.
I reclined back on the bed, spread my legs, and directed him to a position knelling between my widely parted knees. He knelt there and began pumping his dick, and this time our eyes were locked together. We devoured and savored the connection that gaze created between us.
There was no long session of stroking, no build up. In spite of his two orgasms just hours before, within just moments of him touching his dick I heard that familiar pattern of breath that signaled Patrick’s imminent orgasm. I directed him to lean over me and direct his cum onto my pussy. He did this and seconds later he emptied again as I held my labia open.
When his orgasm had run its course I told him to switch positions. He lay back on the bed where I had been, his head on my pillow. I straddled his chest, and then walked on my knees north. I settled myself onto his face, his tongue enthusiastically reaching for me.
Patrick licked at my labia, first up the seam from back to front, and then burrowed in to tease at my inner lips. He was drinking a combination of my juices and his cum, and lapping hungrily. I felt his tongue bury itself into my vagina, working its way in. Then I could stand no more. I had been trying to hold myself a bit above Patrick’s face, but now settled onto it.
As I began to feel my excitement build, little sights and sensations from our earlier scenes played in my mind, and not necessarily the ones I would have expected, each of them taking my arousal a step higher.
I saw my face in close-up, my chin resting on my fingers, an amused smile on my lips, my eyes twinkling as they took in a new and amusing sight; and in another part of my consciousness I saw a welcome friend in the distance, just emerging from the forest.
I heard my voice issue a single word command, ‘knees’; and I saw my friend walking my way, still indistinct in the mist.
I saw Patrick’s knees in close-up as they settled into the carpet; and now I could see my friend’s face, but at a distance: still just a blank oval, her head still covered by her hood.
I saw again the muscles in Patrick’s buttocks clenching and releasing in his desperate efforts to honor his bet and please his mistress, do her bidding; and my friend was now close enough that I could see her nearing face as she threw back her hood to the dawning sun and exposed herself.
I saw again Patrick’s eyes as they sought, embarrassed, to avoid mine; and I was surprised to find my friend already at the gate.
I saw a close-up of my legs from the knees to the floor, crossed, my right foot bouncing slightly; and my friend was inside the open postern - sometimes she came this close but then continued down the road, leaving me - latching it behind her, and I knew she would visit with me.
I saw my foot after I had taken it from Patrick’s face, the top arching, my toes wiggling, and I heard the little laugh that had escaped my lips at that moment; and my good friend climbed the few stairs to my front porch.
I saw again my big toe in Patrick’s mouth, the other four spread on his cheek beneath his eye, his head bobbing; and my friend was now at my door.
Then I recalled the feeling of warmth on my foot as Patrick orgasmed, leaving his cum in that unaccustomed place; and my friend treated me to a big smile.
Then the recollection of another sensation: Patrick’s tongue licking my foot, lapping his cum; and my friend entered, deciding to stay for a while, and I opened the door wide to let her in.
Waves passed through me. They were intensified as I recalled again the feel of Patrick’s tongue licking across the tops of my toes.
My orgasm built to new heights as I remembered the feel of Patrick’s tongue licking between my toes, and found its apex as I reveled in the remembered sensation of each of my toes in Patrick’s mouth. The waves passed through me over and over and I leaned onto the bookcase headboard unable to remain upright any other way, my legs rubbery.
After my friend had gone on her way I kept my seat, bringing myself higher, taking my vagina off Patrick’s impaling tongue, resting momentarily, breathing hard. But I knew I was not done yet. I brought my clit near Patrick’s tongue. He gladly tongued it, then sucked it in while flicking his tongue over it.
Again I leaned forward onto the headboard for support as my hips began to move on their own, grinding my clit into Patrick’s mouth and tongue.
The memory of the images and sensations of our scenario from earlier did not accompany me on my way to orgasm this time. I simply felt the loving, skilled and determined ministrations of my darling husband. Then my friend was back again, this time making my eyes tear and my breath ragged.
It was many moments until I had the strength and awareness to leave Patrick’s face. The whole time he put little kisses and licks all around my vulva.
We spooned again, not bothering for the customary trip to the bathroom, and fell deeply asleep. It was after eleven before I woke, brought out of slumber by Patrick’s stirrings.
We were still in the same position in which we had fallen into our deep slumbers. Patrick stirred more and turned over to face me. Our eyes were locked together, as were our lips, our tongues hungry for each other. We enjoyed each other for many minutes until Patrick moved back a bit and regarded me.
“Bet paid?” he asked.
I glanced over at the clock. 11:13.
“You still have forty-seven minutes to go, loser boy.”
“So, can I make you a nice breakfast in bed?”
“No. You can get yourself hard. I want all four that you promised me.”
His dick was already mostly hard: morning wood in spite of its exertions of the night before. He took gel from the tube, working it over his dick. He was about to put the tube back on the night table but I indicated he should give it to me.
While he stroked for the fourth time I began to build a little mound of pillows. When my construction was complete I sprawled myself over the pillows on my front, splaying my legs wide. I began to apply lube into my ass crack, dabbing it heavily directly on my back portal.
I looked over my shoulder at Patrick. He was staring at the treat before his eyes.
“Let’s just call it time off for good behavior,” I said.
There wasn’t much for me in this, but frankly I was orgasmed out. I felt Patrick enter me, and I gave out a little ‘uh’ as he did so, the entry and the growing fullness not nearly so uncomfortable as usual.
I wanted Patrick to have this little reward. He had been a good little subbie for me. And while he took his time enjoying the use of my back door I had time to think and consider.
My friend isn’t a stranger, but she seldom comes to visit as dazzlingly as she had last night, bringing with her such intense and rapturous ecstasy. Yes, I now knew this dominant female thing was very much to my liking.
But I also realized that part of what made it so satisfying for me was the circumstance under which I had experienced it. I realized that having a little subbie male who wanted, and got off on, his subordinate role would not be the same. Playing the role of dominant female was so much sweeter and more pleasurable when one had risked the undesirable and distasteful: had risked pain and humiliation to win it.
I had been up on my elbows, my forearms flat on the bed. Now I brought my hands up, intertwined my fingers, and rested my chin atop them. I might have even looked bored. But, while Patrick took his reward behind me, I began to imagine and plot how I could again win my way back to where I had been last night. # # # END # # #
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