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Roberta and Patrick's Next Bet - The Alternate Ending

Roberta and Patrick's bet resolves. But this time the other way.
…..A king? A completely, utterly, absolutely, entirely useless king!

Holy shit was I in for it now! The king was a nice card but of absolutely no use to me whatever. Patrick’s straight was good enough, and my hope of waving a full house in his face was dashed.

Patrick, of course, was grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, girl,” he said, “I’m afraid it’s time for a little payback.”

I had no reason to doubt that assessment. Well….. nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Patrick said. He rubbed his hands together. “Do I have to tell you what to do?”

I held a hand up to him. “No, you don’t.”

I rose from my cross-legged position next to the coffee table. I was in a mood to be contrary, disappointed that the return to FemDommeLand I had hoped for had been derailed by that king. So I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of any entertainment. I could take off my clothes any way I pleased. How to get naked was the last activity I’d perform until after my pay-off was done tomorrow over which I had even the least shred of control.

When I reached my feet, I just unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and pulled them and my panties down and off together. I cross-armed my tee shirt over my head, and then unhooked my bra and let it fall on top of the rest. It probably took ten seconds.

“Oh, I was hoping for something with a little music and a lot of ass shaking,” Patrick whined.

I displayed my middle finger.

Patrick rose to his feet and looked me up and down. How many times had he seen my body naked? Hundreds? Thousands? But now I was nude in a special and compulsory way. There was no romance here, no intimate exchange. I was just a nude woman standing in front of a fully clothed man.

I’ve not been nude in front of a man other than Patrick since the Sunday afternoon I had been required to strip in a dorm room for Paul and Hank, part of paying off the bet I lost to them on the homecoming football game when I was a grad student.

But now, this experience had almost that same underlying feeling. There was a distance between Patrick and me for the present. I was not nude because we were sharing loving feelings or a laugh or both. I was nude because I had lost a bet to him and was required to be unclothed.

Patrick, intentionally or not, seemed less my husband than an objective, voyeuristic observer, coolly evaluating my body. He seemed to be in the act of judging how pleasant he found the shape and size of my breasts, how agreeable to his eyes was the swell of my hips, how delightful he perceived the cheeks of my ass to be, how engaging he found my pubic hair.

Little nips of embarrassment teased at my mind from being nude in this way.

He gripped my chin between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, pushed my chin up just the tiniest bit, I suppose just to let me know he was now in control. Patrick made eye contact with me, held it, then he very deliberately smiled.

His forefinger began to trace a line under my chin, down my neck and chest to my left breast. His finger circled my areola and then he pinched my nipple lightly, and smiled again.

He began a circumnavigation of my body.

His hand went to my side, and he placed the palm of his hand there and slid it down until it was running over the swell of my hip bone. I felt the four fingers of that hand, spread a bit, each a separate sensation, skate lightly over the skin of my hip, and continue with him to the back of my body.

In a moment those fingers were moving over my left ass cheek, just a light touch. The palm of his hand lightly cupped that cheek, and his fingers moved under me in the direction of my vagina. But they never made it there, instead proceeding to my other ass cheek. A cupping, and then those four fingers again gliding over my skin.

The near contact with my vagina had lit a little match in me. A bit of wetness sprang into my vagina. I had started this little exercise feeling somewhat embarrassed, but Patrick’s teasing had kindled a fire. I tried to determine whether it was the teasing of his fingers that was the cause of the commencement of arousal, or if it was the embarrassment I felt, or some combination of the two.

His fingers continued their journey. Patrick came around to the front of my body again. The contact on my skin became just one finger that glided around my right hip. The finger stayed low and ended its journey at my pubic hair, ruffling and tickling it a little. Then two fingers moved between my legs, not far, just enough to spread my labia a little and find my clitoris.

The fingers were tight together. I felt them press on my clit, moving in a subtle circle, and then release. Pressure and release; and again, pressure and release. It was the exact attention I love from Patrick’s fingers on my sex.

After seven years of marriage, Patrick knows how to play my body as well as Weird Al Yankovic knows how to play a kazoo. Okay, lousy analogy.

But there was no question I was getting turned on. Patrick found my mouth with his and our lips locked together, our tongues greeting each other. I moaned as I felt Patrick’s two fingers slide back toward my vagina in slipperiness that had not been there just a minute ago. His fingers teased at my vagina, and then they slid back to my clit, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.

My arms came up and around Patrick’s neck pulling his mouth harder onto mine, and my hips began to move, trying to get every pleasurable sensation from what his fingers were doing to my clit. I could see my friend in the distance, and she was covering the ground between us in a hurry.

“Oh, my gosh, Sweetheart,” Patrick said, breaking our kiss, his fingers leaving my clit, my clit begging for them to return, “I’m so, so sorry. You must be anxious to begin paying off your bet. I can’t believe I’m making you wait. How completely inconsiderate of me.”

Well, it seems he’s a fast study in the fine art of how to get the most gloating out of winning a bet.

“Don’t you have a hot date with a razor?” Patrick asked sweetly.

I know what my first impulse for a response was, but I restrained myself: frankly, my middle finger was going to get awfully tired if I used it tonight all the times I had the urge.

Patrick got behind me and took me by the shoulders, pushing and guiding me toward the bathroom. Once there he stood me by the toilet while he rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a plastic bag of disposable razors. He held one out to me.

“There,” he said, “a nice new sharp one for you, to make your shaving experience a pleasant one.” He smiled and gave me a kiss on my cheek. “Come see me when you’re done.” He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Well, this was no fun; not at all the evening I had been hoping for and expecting. This was far and away the easiest task I had to perform to pay off my bet, but just as unpleasant as the rest. I sat on the john and looked down at my pubes. At the moment they were trimmed pretty short and not shaped to any great degree: just razored off around the edges to keep strays from escaping my panties.

I sometimes do more elaborate sculpting: occasionally a landing strip, and I’ve tried several widths; sometimes a defined shape of some kind. I tried a heart once, but it didn’t come out terribly well. Patrick said he liked it though, the sweety. But bare? Never. I hate it.

I understand there are plenty of women who like bare for any number of good reasons, and that’s fine. To each her own. I’ve tried it, but have never liked the ‘little girl’ look it gives me, or how stark and exposed it leaves my vulva. So I very much favor some pubes there. Now, Patrick bare: that would have been beyond hilarious, and the thought made me regret I had missed out by losing my bet. But there was no way I could change that last card to a winner, so I took a breath, let it out, and got down to my task.

My hairs were trimmed short enough that I didn’t think I really needed to shorten them any more for the razor. I got out the can of Patrick’s shaving cream and slathered some on. I started on top, using short strokes to take the cream and hair off. The fresh razor was nice: almost no pull at all. I moved each leg to the side in turn and stretched the skin to get into the crease between my abdomen and thighs.

Shortly, everything down to my vulva was gone. Then I spread wide and started in on the hard to reach places. Soon the job was all but done. I wet a washcloth with warm water to rinse off the last of the shaving cream, the warmth from the cloth a welcome addition to the sensations from down below. After wiping the shaving cream off, I warmed the cloth again, placed it directly on my clit, and rocked a bit back and forth, enjoying the sensations. I stopped abruptly, realizing I really didn’t want to get going too far in that direction right now.

I checked carefully, moving things around, looking for hairs the razor had missed and flicking the blade over them carefully to clean up the last. When I was satisfied I would pass inspection, I toweled myself dry.

I found Patrick in the living room watching a sports round-up show. I stood directly in front of him, presenting my bare pubis for his inspection. I was there for just a second when his hand grabbed my hip, pushing me to the side, his eyes intent on the television.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “Did you see that play at the plate?”

I gave him a little smack on the head. “I’m standing right in front of you naked as a jay bird and all you care about is some baseball game?”

Patrick looked up at me, a wry smile on his face. “Just kidding. Just kidding. Your pussy is still first in my book.” He picked up the remote and flicked off the television.

He pulled me back in front of him again, his eyes intent on my vulva. His fingers explored every crack and crevasse, and he seemed pleased that everything that could be classified as growing from a follicle was gone. Then his fingers slowed and came to a stop at my clit and he began again the process of applying pressure and releasing it. It would have been oh so easy to get into the pleasant sensations, but who could fall for that twice in one hour?

I pulled my hips away from him. “How dumb do I look, mister? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me.”

He looked a little disappointed, but then brightened.

“Well, only one thing to do then,” Patrick said. He took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom, and I was off to pay task number two of my lost bet.

In the bedroom, Patrick brought out the leather ankle and wrist cuffs I occasionally wear. He began to buckle them on me. Once, during a past encounter when he had been doing this, I had told him that I could do it, but he told me that buckling them on me was very pleasant for him and helped to warm him up.

He tied thin and smooth rope to the rings on all four and then piled pillows in the center of the bed. He put out his hand.

“Your throne awaits, Your Worship.”

I knew what was required. I crawled onto the bed, lay on my front, my hips over the pillows, my ass high in the air, lewd and inviting. Patrick took the rope emanating from one of the ankle cuffs and tied it off to the corner of the bed, then did the same with the other. Now that my lower extremities were anchored in place he took the rope from my right wrist cuff and pulled it to the post at the right side of the head board. He pulled, my arm now stretched, and he tied off the rope. He did the same on the other side and soon I was stretched in all four directions, immobile. He gave my bottom a little slap.

“Don’t go running off now,” he said as he went into the bathroom. This time I used both middle fingers, although I don’t know that he saw.

Patrick likes anal, I not at all. I’m happy to provide him with his heart’s desire from time to time. I mean, I’m his wife after all and one of the things that makes our marriage successful is that we are each ready to put the other first. I make my ass available to him when he asks, and he limits how often he asks, and the whole arrangement works out quite well. But our typical session with anal involves me on all fours on the bed, or out on the coffee table kneeling, my wrists attached by the cuffs to their corresponding ankle.

But doing it with me tied spread wide on the bed, my ass up in the air, is something that happens only on the rarest occasions, when the odd happenstance occurs that he is feeling particularly dominant and I happen to be feeling especially submissive.

Off the top of my head I can only remember one such aligning of those planets. It was within the first year or two of our marriage. So this was the first time I had been here and prepared like this in five or six years. I’m pretty sure at this point that it would take a lost bet to get me here. I don’t think I was going to volunteer or was willing to be drafted for the spread-eagle bondage variety of anal submission.

I wanted to complain, but really how could I? When I think of how willingly Patrick had paid off his bet to me in February. He really hadn’t been expecting to be the toy of a femdom bitch; hadn’t even known he was married to a woman who now had designs on reaching femdom bitchdom.

So, as unpleasant as it was, I really had no grounds for complaint. I just had to offer up my ass to satisfy my bet and be done with it.

I suppose that is why they call it a wager: you agree to put up what the other wants and you don’t want to give up, against the other putting up what you want and would prefer not to give up. The principle is no different than wagering money. I risk one hundred dollars in order to get your one hundred dollars, and we both would prefer to hold onto our one hundred dollar bill.

Except, of course, that wagers of a sexual nature, I was quickly discovering, were so much more interesting and suspenseful.

Let’s face it: anyone can take out their wallet and hand over some currency to satisfy a lost bet. What could be easier? It was much, much more difficult to have to take off your clothes and let others feast their eyes on your personal parts, or surrender your body for another’s use, or be compelled to engage in some embarrassing or humiliating activity to satisfy a lost bet. Of course, being on the other side, winning and receiving the payoff was exponentially better than being handed a piece of green paper and putting in your wallet.

In fact, I was quickly coming to the opinion that those who bet mere money are truly the world’s meek and spineless, faint-hearted and lily-livered: just weenies and cowards who simply don’t have the spine to make a bet of any substance or meaning or difficulty.

These thoughts occupied me while I waited for Patrick. As I lay bound, I reflected that I’d soon complete two out of three tasks. Our bet for tonight involved three forfeits: the shaving (and, darn it, wouldn’t Patrick have looked so cute sans pubes?), getting something big up their butt (and I’d gone out and gotten a few special items to give Patrick a surprise if he lost - they’d have to wait for another occasion now), and a third forfeit that wouldn’t take place until tomorrow. I’d have to go where Patrick told me to and get myself off in public. That one made me shiver. I knew what I had planned for Patrick. Would the way he required me to complete that task be just as difficult? All three were rather loosely defined, open to interpretation by the winner.

A moment or two later I heard the toilet flush and the door open.

Patrick came over and got the lube from the night table. He upended the tube above my ass, squeezing out gel as he moved the tube the length of my ass crack; much as if he were applying mustard to a hot dog. Then he worked the lubricant deep into my ass crack. He spread my cheeks and I felt more lube being squeezed directly onto my hole; then using a finger he mushed it as best he could into my small hole. Finally, I felt the opening of the tube seating itself in my anal opening. He squeezed and I could feel cool gel squirt into my rectum. Now I was all trussed up and ready for a boner up the ass.

Patrick moved off to the side now and began stripping.

My mind wandered to the first time I’d made that brave leap and bet more than mere money. I’d lost and had to allow two young men I had not the smallest romantic interest in the use of my mouth and vagina for their pleasure. No bondage was involved, but it still sucked (pun intended). Even now, nine years later, I felt myself redden in response to the memory of the shame and humiliation.

What made my present situation far more bearable was that, yes, I had to surrender my body, but at least I was doing so to Patrick, the love of my life. But still, under it all, I felt that uncomfortable rasp of embarrassment and subservience.

I conjured a mental image of me in my present predicament. What a sight I must present: trussed up tight, stretched, my ass end up in the air waiting to be taken, claimed, as the jackpot, the swag, the spoils in a bet I’d lost.

I dismissed the image, but could not dismiss the bonds holding me on the bed, I now the loser of the bet surrendering her body as the winner prepared to enjoy his winnings.

Before I knew it, Patrick was close behind me, and I could hear a moist sound as he applied lube to his cock. I could feel the heat of his thighs and abdomen as he came in close. The head of his penis was presently at my anal opening. I could feel the head as Patrick wiggled it up and down a little, finding the cleavage that indicated the passage that would let his cock begin its invasion.

I gasped as his head began to slip in. A sharp dart of pain shot from my end, but then settled into just an ache as the head of his cock opened me wider. The head slipped past my sphincter.

His cock was well lubed and there was no friction as it advanced into my ass, only an increasing degree of stretching, slowly wider. He must have been most of the way in because I felt increased stretching. I know I had been instinctively pulling at my restraints from the time I’d felt the head of his cock begin to pry me open, the desire to escape the invasion impossible but reflexive. Now, as the thicker root of his cock began to move through my opening, stretching it farther, I pulled with greater urgency on the ropes holding me motionless and open.

I thought with some chagrin and frustration about the strap-on I had gone to the adult store to acquire, had secreted in one of my drawers, and how I had planned to surprise Patrick with it after I had won tonight. Oh well, there’s always next time.

A moan was escaping my lips that expressed my worry and fear. We had been here before from time to time. Patrick’s cock had been fully seated in my ass on occasions in the past, and with no harm to me. But that stretching, my anal opening located far down the shaft of a cock, awoke in me an innate sense of vulnerability. But I knew I was safe under Patrick’s care.

Before he seated fully in me, Patrick began to move back out, about half way. Then his cock advanced again, stopping just a little farther in. This is what I meant about being safe in Patrick’s care: I knew he would not drive himself into me as far as he could in just one advance. Rather, he repeated these motions, using five or six to push the last and widest inch of his erection into me.

When he was finally in as far as he could go, I felt a wave of heat pass. I had never felt this before but recognized it as a combination of relief that the stretching was done, security in Patrick’s gentleness and consideration, and sexual desire.

My clit was hard and wanted stimulation. I felt a tickle of arousal that quickly swelled to frustration. I became desperate for a free hand to pleasure my sex with. Then it felt…something. A fold in the pillow case under my hips was all I could image. The contact was light and tantalizing. I realized that if I tried for too much that fold of fabric would simply find somewhere else to be.

Patrick began to move in and out of me, just a little at first but over the space of a few minutes his cock was coming back to where just his head was in before firmly thrusting forward. That faint teasing at my clit continued, a wave of pleasure sweeping through me with each contact.

It was frustratingly tenuous, but I could see my friend off in the distance, still a bit uncertain if she was going to come see me.

Then Patrick came up a little higher, his hands on my hips elevating them the small distance they could go bound as I was. I gave a cry of dismay as my slight contact with the fabric was lost, and my friend dissolved into the mist, gone for now.

Patrick was now close to his climax, and as much as I desired the pleasure of orgasm I could not begrudge him: he, after all, had won tonight’s bet; the victory, the evening, and the pleasure were his to own. Then I felt warmth in me, and I knew from that and his moans of pleasure that he was spilling his cum.

Patrick gradually slowed and then withdrew. He wandered naked to the bathroom. My hips were back on the surface of the pillow and I began to move them as much as I could trying with increasing desperation to find that fold, or another, looking off into the distance for a hint of my friend. But she was nowhere to be seen, and I relaxed my body, unsatisfied.

When Patrick reentered the room I could not contain myself, and I was surprised at the nature and urgency of the words that spilled from me.

“Patrick,” I said, my voice tremulous, “please, please, Honey, if you want me again go ahead. You won and my ass is yours to use. But if you’re done then please, please get my hands untied. Please.”

I was afraid Patrick might use the opportunity to gloat and tease, but I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t. There was urgency in my voice he couldn’t miss. He responded with kindness. He leaned over me, brought his mouth to my ear.

“You don’t need your hands,” he whispered.

He got up from the bed and was back seconds later. I felt one of my dildos begin to enter my vagina. Then it was deep in me, my hips moving back to get as much in as I could. Patrick’s two fingers were on my clit again. They pressed and released, pressed and released, and I humped myself back against them. Moments later I started to cry. Not really. I wasn’t really crying. But that’s what I sound like when I have the sort of orgasm that takes away all conscious thought. One of those orgasms ripped through me now. When it finally subsided and I could think clearly again I found that I was loose of my bonds.

Ten minutes later, after a quick clean up, Patrick and I were snuggling nude together under the covers. Sleep took us both quickly.


The next morning we were in the car before nine o’clock. I would have loved to sleep in, but Patrick said I might find my last payoff more workable and less public if we got going early.

My last task to complete payment was to bring myself to an orgasm in public.

When we got in the car I was about to ask Patrick where we were going, but before I could he handed me our blindfold and I told me to put it on. He wanted our destination to be a surprise.

I did as he asked, trusting him. However, I felt more than a little goofy riding shotgun with a blindfold over my eyes. I did the only sensible thing: reclined my seat as far as it would go. Now, if any passing motorists caught sight of me I would not be some woman riding along in a car blindfolded, but a tired car mate, perhaps sleeping between driving shifts.

As it turned out, I actually did fall asleep and sometime later awoke to Patrick shaking my shoulder, telling me we were at our destination.

I pushed the blindfold up and off my head, blinking my eyes, looking around, trying to identify where we were. It took a moment because we had not been here for a while. Slowly I came to recognize the facility: Hilltop Arboretum. It is a ways down Highland Road some miles south of the Louisiana State University campus.

It is a beautiful, peaceful natural setting: fourteen acres of marshes, woods, and meadows.

Well , I thought, just as good a place as any, and less public than right outside the Baton Rouge River Center, and more respectful than in the middle of Magnolia Cemetery.

There were only a dozen or so cars in the lot, some undoubtedly belonged to staff members. So I was pretty sure there would not be too many visitors around this early, and I would be able to lose myself fairly easily.

We paid our admission and walked through the wide entry. The visitor’s entrance and the administrative offices were in one long, low set of buildings, one end built out over a small circular pond, about one hundred feet in diameter. The effect of walking through the entry was to leave behind the ordinary world of work and cares and to step into a natural world of great beauty and natural peace.

We continued down the wooden walkway. There were large trees to our left, and I contemplated that getting lost in there might be a good place to do the deed. But then I saw another couple, visitors, exploring in there and hoped that was not what Patrick had in mind.

The planked walkway ended and we continued on a path. To our right was a meadow surrounding the pond. Forward, and circling around to the right, was a band of lovely trees which far to the right thickened in and around the small twenty foot deep ravine that ran through that part of the arboretum.

I felt relief when Patrick kissed my cheek and said, “Anyplace farther along the trail or off it. Have fun.” He sent me away with a spank on my rump and a ‘call me’ sign.

I wandered along the path, following it through the trees. Along the way I encountered several couples, some exploring in the woods, some reading descriptive signs that explained what flora they were looking at. The place really wasn’t as lightly populated as I’d hoped.

After strolling a ways, I found I was approaching the ravine, and saw that the natural path would take a person into the little valley. I certainly didn’t want to be in a place that was the natural destination for a walk. So I climbed to my left up a low bank, finding my way through the foliage at the top.

I was now atop the ravine. The trees and undergrowth were fairly thick and I continued through until I was as far as I could get from where I had left the path while still remaining a distance inside the woods.

I found a fairly large tree, and moved to one side of it, placing the tree between me and the ravine. I stood with my back to the trunk. It was a warm spring day and I was wearing a knee-length, colorful sundress. I thought it best to be as inconspicuous as possible so I slid down the trunk. I gathered the bottom of the dress around my hips so I’d not be sitting on it.

This bared my hairless pussy. There had been no sense in bothering with underpants. I began to run the fingers of one hand along my labia while with the other hand I brought out my cell and speed dialed Patrick.

“Well, hi there, sexy,” Patrick answered. “Anything interesting going on where you are?”

“Oh, shut up,” I answered. “I’m over in the woods between the path and the ravine.”

Since I wasn’t a man there was no way to ‘prove’ I’d an orgasm, so Patrick would be listening in and I had to convince him I had brought myself off for real. I suppose I could have faked it convincingly, but that would be to cheat on paying my bet and I was just unwilling to do that. Besides, as long as I had to do this I might just as well get a nice O out of it.

“I’ll be listening in,” Patrick said, concluding our conversation.

I spread my legs a little more to provide access. While masturbating in public was not an activity I would have chosen to engage in, the idea behind it was actually something of a turn-on. So between the little boost from the situation, the warmth of the day, and the pleasing scents of nature, I found myself fairly wet as I began the first passes with my fingers over my sex. I made a little sound composed of a lot of Ms.

I decided to allow myself to enjoy the experience, rather than push on as quickly as I could to completion. That’s why I was still there fifteen minutes later, highly aroused, moaning with great sincerity. I could see my friend drawing nearer, and I waved, inviting her to hurry up.

My fingers were slipping and sliding from my vagina to my clitoris and back with great abandon, Patrick listening to every whimper and groan of pleasure.

Then through the fog my senses twigged, and I knew someone was near. Not breaking my motion or my head or body position I could see with my peripheral vision two pairs of feet at the bottom of some bushes about ten or twelve feet away.

One of the people watching me was a woman. She was wearing sandals and her toenails were painted a light blue. The other person had on trainers, could have been male or female. The trainers turned, apparently to leave, but the sandals remained rooted to their spot. I could imagine the second person wanting to turn away, but the woman in the sandals putting a hand to his or her shoulder, a finger to her lips, indicating they would stay, remain silent, and watch.

I couldn’t look any higher without giving away that I knew they were there.

Until I had sensed the presence of these others, I had been masturbating with my eyes closed. Now I kept my eyes open. I looked down at my crotch, and saw that a shaft of sunlight had found its way through the tree branches and the young spring leaves and was lighting me with direct sunlight: a little spotlight about a foot in diameter highlighting my bare, shaven sex and what my hand was doing with it.

I was filled with sudden erotic longing, the idea that I had a little audience very appealing to me. Now that I knew of the sunlight I could sense its warmth on my sex. The fact of my own natural, solar spotlight awakened in me imaginings of brazenly standing at the center of some stage, starkly lit, masturbating for an audience: of two maybe, but at this point I would not have cared if it were a thousand watching. In fact, the thought of that watching multitude brought my orgasm rushing at me with freight train speed.

I felt a sudden gush of additional lubrication soak my pussy. Since I’d started, my legs had been spread so that my knees were about a foot apart. Now I spread my legs as wide as they would go. The knowledge of those four watching eyes, and my fantasy of thousands more, had me right on the edge. I knew what I needed to do just as clearly as if I were reading the directions off a shampoo bottle: press on clit, rub, release, repeat.

As I often do when approaching orgasm, I saw my friend walking toward me. Sometimes she just peaks out of the distant trees and comes no closer. Other times I wait for her on the front porch, and she comes as near as the hinged gate at the bottom of the walk, but then decides not to stop. Usually, she comes up the walkway and visits with me for a while. But this time I was out on the road, she running toward me and I toward her, and we came together in a tangle of limbs, embracing, kissing, pulling each other close.

Then I was crying into my cell, Patrick listening at the other end to the special sound I make when my orgasm is intense enough to make the world go away. I had just the shred of presence to bite my lip hard, or I would have alerted the whole arboretum to my shattering orgasm. Even so, I could not stop sounds of intense pleasure from escaping me as tears coursed down my cheeks

When I was aware of my surroundings again, I checked to see if my two voyeurs were still with me. They were, but as I pulled down the hem of my dress they turned to sneak off. But something didn’t go according to plan: one’s foot got on top of the other’s, and the other’s leg got tangled behind the first’s, and soon they were toppling headlong into my little woodland boudoir, like the end of a Three Stooges pratfall, their heads ending a few yards from my feet.

“Shit,” the woman with the blue toe nails said. She was about mid-twenties, her straw blonde hair pulled together in back. She wore circular, rimless glasses. The other person with her was also a she, the same age, with dark and close-cropped hair.

“Oh, God,” the sandaled woman said, as she and her partner came up on their knees, “I’m so sorry. We should have gone, but blame me because I made her stay and watch. We should have given you your privacy.”

I smiled to let them know that everything was okay. “Hey, I can hardly expect privacy if I’m going to jill-off in the middle of an arboretum. I guess I’m the one who’s sorry for doing something where I shouldn’t have been doing it. Sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“No, no, no,” said the dark-haired woman, shaking her head, “it’s okay. Once I got watching I couldn’t drag myself away. It was hot. By the way, I’m Kirsty and this is Laurel.” She and the sandaled woman began to rise to their feet. I rose with them.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Roberta.”

They began to move off, starting to push through the bush they had been hiding behind, but Laurel hesitated and then turned.

“I’m sorry, well, um,” she began, “I just, I’m sorry, but I just have to ask. Why?”

I raised my eyebrows at her in a questioning way.

“Well, why here? Why were you getting yourself off here?” she asked.

I hadn’t stopped to consider they might wonder about the strangeness of my masturbatory venue.

I felt myself flush deeply. I’m sure my face was ten shades of red.

“Oh, that,” I said. “Well, um, I lost this bet to my husband. This is one of the things I have to do to pay it off: get myself off in a public place.”

Laurel got a knowing look on her face. “God, that’s hot,” she said. “And he would have had to do the same if he had lost?”

I nodded my head and said, “Yeah, except I had a different place in mind for him.”

“Would that be cool or what?” Laurel asked Kirsty, slipping an arm around her waist and giving her a good-natured shake.

“Being able to make a guy have to go out and jerk-off in public?” Kirsty said smiling, and they both burst into laughter.

"All well and good," I said, "but, remember, it's a bet. You might lose and he'd be able make you do whatever you'd put up on your side."

The girls settled themselves. Kirsty spoke. "Yeah, that might suck. Pun intended. But, still what a concept. I can feel my insides getting tight just thinking about taking a risk like that. Wouldn't it be sweet to win!"

"It is," I assured her.

"So, you've won one of these?" Laurel asked.

I nodded. "That's a long story. But you're right: it was sweet." We stood uncertainly. Since the story they wanted to hear was too long there didn't seem much else to say.

 “Well, see you,” Laurel said.

“You’ve pretty much seen all there is to see,” I said, “and don’t worry about watching. Actually, I noticed your feet a few minutes before I finished and knowing you were watching made it ten times better.”

Kirsty nodded. “It seemed like you about went into orbit.”

I gave them a shy, embarrassed smile.

They each waved a hand, turned, and were gone.

I took my time, let them get ahead of me, and while I did spoke into my phone.

“So, you heard?” I asked Patrick. He was snickering and I just cut off the call. I moved off back toward the path and took my time walking back, enjoying my surroundings and the afterglow of my big O.

I passed Laurel and Kirsty on my way back toward the entrance. They were off the path looking at something.

I found Patrick at the nearer end of the wooden walkway.

We explored a little in that copse of big trees I had first seen. A few minutes later Laurel and Kirsty were just going by on the path to the exit as we emerged on our way in the same direction. They were bent over slightly, leaning into each other, heads together, lost in giggles.

They saw us and walked the few feet over. I introduced them to Patrick and we made small talk for a minute or two.

“Well, we’re off to home,” Laurel said. “Kirsty thinks she can beat me at strip poker, and she’d better be right because if she loses the rest of my day is going to be very entertaining. Although I don’t think she’ll quite see it the same way.”

Kirsty gave her a shove by leaning into her. “I’m going to win,” she told us frankly. “She can’t play cards to save her life. I’ve got a thing or two in mind, and I think it’s long past time I tried them out.”

“Play nice,” I said.

They walked off holding hands, their heads back together.

As Patrick and I walked through the parking lot to the car I slipped my arm around his waist, and we affectionately pulled each other close.

“Bet paid?” I asked.

“For this time,” Patrick said.

# # # END # # #

NOTE: When I wrote the original story and its ending I considered that if alternate endings were good enough for movies on DVD then....why not.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © (c) by B. E. Thalia

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