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Taking Chances

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Chapter Two (part 3 of 3)


In the years since I first baby-sat for Jerry and Toni, I have had the opportunity to see Toni take her monthly ass whipping in Vicki’s upright and stretched position. And tied over the back of the couch. And tied over the coffee table. And tied bent over the end of the dining room table. And tied spread-eagle on the top of the dining room table.

Sometimes Toni will invite me to their home for a meal. I always give my regrets unless it’s going to be a cookout.

I’ve seen Toni get it tied over a bar stool. Jerry and Toni don't have a bar, so I guess they went out and bought a stool special. I have seen her take it tied between two trees in the woods, her limbs making an X. I have seen her get it tied to a tree with a very large trunk, her arms not able to come close to going around, tied with her front tight to the tree trunk like she was at a whipping post. They had apparently bought a multi-tailed flogger I had not seen previously for that one, and by the end her back was heavily covered with welts and abrasions.



* * * * * * * *



Sitting some months ago in the living room of the house I share with three other women. I opened a file I had gotten during a sitting job for the eight-month-old of one of the assistant librarians, Astia. She often helps me with locating research resources. She was around thirty, I guess, with wide hips, layered dark blonde hair, and an easy and confident way of moving.

The video opened on a hallway, the person holding the camera, presumably her husband or partner, walking down the hall, the view a little shaky. The camera turned and entered the bathroom where Astia knelt naked in the bathtub. The camera came to the tub and looked down so all I could see was little more than Astia’s face. I could not imagine what this might lead to. Then she opened her mouth wide, closed her eyes, and a stream of pee began to flow onto her face. The aim was not too steady at first, the pee splashing on her forehead to begin, moving to a cheek before finding her wide-open mouth. Her mouth began to fill, the pee running out when it was full, she forced to breathe through her nose.

Another file on that flash drive opened with her mate lying naked on the kitchen linoleum floor. His arms were tied tightly to his sides, his legs securely tied together at the knees, his hard cock pointing up from the top of his thighs.

Then Astia made her entrance wearing a waist-length nightie and nothing else. She knelt at his side and grasped his dick. She did nothing with it for a while except squeeze the shaft. She would occasionally flick her thumb over the head. Her mate finally began to sound little whimpers, and I saw his hips come into motion as he sought to move his cock through Astia’s fist, create friction.

Astia moved with him, keeping her fist stationary relative to his dick. Finally, after many minutes of this, Astia released his cock. She straddled his hips, standing. I thought she would begin to lower herself to take his cock in her vagina. Then a stream of pee squirted from her. The stream started off course, the first bit landing on her mate's chest, but then it flowed straight down onto his erection.

The stream ended. I thought her bladder was drained but later I discovered that was not the case. Astia moved to a place above her mate’s head, and this time she lowered herself, planting her pussy firmly on his face. I could see only a bit of his chin below her buttocks. Obviously, he was providing Astia with oral stimulation, and apparently doing it well. She immediately began to moan and then her hips moved back and forth.

Meanwhile, he tried to move his hands. They were tied somehow around his waist such that when he lowered his left hand he could get his right hand closer to his cock. He was desperately trying to stimulate himself but could barely make contact with his middle and forefingers. He tried lifting his hips to get his left hand a little behind his back. It gave him enough slack that he could run those two fingers along part of the shaft. He could not reach the head at all, it being too high above his abdomen. It must have been terribly frustrating: some stimulation, but not nearly enough to bring himself off, but he did not relent. In just a few minutes Astia’s face was to the ceiling and the movement of her hips stopped as she screamed lightly and was obviously in orgasm.

Afterward, she spent a few minutes still parked on his face, her head down and her breathing returning to normal. When she was ready, she lifted herself and squatted there. I heard the first words I had heard in any of their scenes.

Astia said, “God, that was good. I have a little reward for you.” With that she let go with the rest of her pee directly onto his face.

Next, she squatted over his cock and put it in her, sinking onto its full length. She remained motionless while she rubbed her clit and brought herself to another orgasm. Meanwhile, her mate was whimpering in frustration trying to move his hips to create stimulation.

After her orgasm had passed, Astia began moving up and down on his cock. In just a minute or two she pulled herself off it and cum spurted from her mate strongly enough to reach his chin with the first shot.

Another file of theirs I watched was short. Astia’s mate was holding the camera, lying on his back. They were in bed, sheets visible to either side, bedroom images just barely visible at the extreme edges of the frame. Astia was on his cock, riding it, and the camera at its widest angle setting could show little beyond their pubic regions and hips.

Astia stopped her motion after a few moments. She pulled herself up, so that her mate’s cock was only about half in her. Slowly, piss began to trickle down the shaft. She was letting it out in a very controlled manner. They were both moaning loudly. Then Astia pulled up and off him but kept her vagina almost in contact. Her pee now trickled down onto her mate’s cock. He reached down with his hand, the view becoming shakier, holding his freed cock straight up and suddenly cum was shooting up to meet Astia’s pee.

I know what you're thinking, and I thought the same thing: They make plastic mattress covers in king size?

The following Monday I made an excuse to go to the library, invented something Astia could help me find. I did it, really, just to be near her, see her in her everyday surroundings, and watch her briskly apply her professional skills to finding and retrieving a scholarly paper. From time to time I thought, I saw you open wide and get your mouth peed in!

All of this made me wonder. Would I find to be a turn-on the kinks that Toni and Vicki and Astia were into? That was a question I really couldn’t answer. However, I have seen enough to know that Toni, Vicki, and Astia have found that special someone who shares their kink, their fetish, their secret delight, their perversion, their sickness. Whatever. They had all found that person and they were loved and supported and satisfied. Do I have a kink? Voyeurism? No, probably not since I really don’t get any sexual pleasure from watching my stolen videos or get myself off while I watch them. But what about one to actually be a participant in, to be in the middle of? Would finding my kink lead me to finding love? I’m afraid you (and I) don’t find the answer to that question within this story. Still, I found myself in the middle of some interesting adventures, and I thought you might like to hear about those.
 
Chapter Three (Part 1 of 2)


You may know how college campuses are. Maybe any self-contained and set-aside community, say a military base or a research station in Antarctica, might be similar. Not only are rumors propelled enthusiastically around the community, but there is a body of legends that accompanies the institution into its future. The legends come to the present from a murky and indistinct past, but it is at least possible to believe that somewhere in the conception of the tale is a real event, however distorted and exaggerated: an iota of truth that brought the legend to life.

If you have time to think about it, I suppose it could be fun to try to imagine what event might have sparked the creation of a particular piece of campus folklore: whittle the legend down from its over-stuffed and preposterous present incarnation to the pitiable and scrawny fact from which it had grown.

On our campus there is the legend of the full professor who, as he got older, found he could not keep at home his penchant for cross-dressing. As a full professor he had only some graduate seminars to teach, and some grad students’ programs of study to oversee and mentor. For the rest of his teaching career he did all that in makeup and women’s clothing, mostly cocktail dresses and heels. He was tenured and hurting no one so, as distressing as it was for some, the college really had no recourse.

There is a campus tale here of two sorority houses. Which ones now on campus are their present-day incarnations is not known with certainty but widely surmised. They got into a disagreement over which had the hottest and most desirable members. Neither would let it go, and the two houses ended up in a week-long competition to see which could fuck and suck the most males in that period. Legend has it that by the end of the week men on campus would check carefully before going anywhere in public, afraid of being waylaid yet again. Too much of a good thing.

Obviously both those fairytales are crocks, but from what happening or incident do you suppose they might have grown? Any truth to any of it? Urban Legend (that is, Campus Legend)? But there is one campus legend I did not at first believe had any truth to it, but I finally came to know with certainty that there is. I found the shape this story has taken is not so terribly distant from the truth of the incident that lay at its origin.

I should probably tell you about my Aunt Roberta. She is my only aunt. Well, I sort of have another one: the younger sister of my Uncle Patrick who is Roberta’s husband. Her name is Rita, but she is only related to me because she is the sister of my father’s sister’s husband. I don’t have a clue as to what her familial title might be. Some sort of step-aunt, three times removed? So, let’s just leave it at: Aunt Roberta is my only aunt. She is my dad’s much younger sister. My mom has no siblings. Roberta being my only aunt (and I being one of her only two nieces), she and I have always been close. Ever since she got her Masters and was out on her own - that would have been when I was about twelve or thirteen - I would visit her in Baton Rouge as often as I could, sometimes during the summer staying for weeks.

She was another big sister to me. She wasn’t of course, but I thought of her that way. My dad is thirteen years older than Roberta. There are two more bothers in my Dad’s family, two and five years older than my father. So, when Roberta was born the three boys, my father and two uncles, were thirteen, fifteen and eighteen. I love Aunt Roberta so much. It’s hard to think she was an Oops Baby.

Like Emily she was always concerned about my concerns and helped me to grow up in every way there is to help a kid grow. Being a scientist, she was and is so proud of my academic achievements and my decision to pursue science studies at her alma mater. Visiting her and my Uncle Patrick for a few weeks during high school summer vacations was literally the only thing for which I would put my baby-sitting business on hold.

This college is our family’s alma mater. Emily attended here before I did. My dad went here in the years before Roberta, as did my uncles, my grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great grandfather. My grandmother, and great-grandmother, and great-great-grandmother did not go to college here or anywhere else: they were of college age back in the days before anyone discovered that women were smart enough to go to college. Well really, back in the days before men were willing to admit the fact. Anyway, I am a Legacy. That probably would have been good for a few bucks off the tuition bill had I not been my high school salutatorian with 1600 SATs.

In the last few years I have found myself checking out erotic stories on the internet sites. I started doing it out of curiosity. You know: could I possibly find a story about some kink I had not yet witnessed? I soon came to love some of the stories and poetry and have found them to be of some assistance over this past year’s romantic dry spell, if you catch my meaning.

Well, one night not long ago I came on a story called Roberta’s Bet. Now, you really should have seen this one coming right from the start. Back at the beginning of my story, second paragraph for heaven's sake, I wrote, ‘I’m a senior at a small liberal arts college in the South.’ I later wrote that Emily went to a ‘small liberal arts college in the South.’ Roberta mentioned in her story that she studied at a ‘small liberal arts college in the South.’ So, you see, if you pay close enough attention you can be way ahead of the game.

I clicked on that story and read it because it was about a woman named Roberta, like my aunt.

There is another legend on our campus, one I’d heard before freshman year was out. My first boyfriend told me the story. I just dismissed the tale. Refused to believe it. I just figured he had some kind of thing for streaking and was trying to recruit me into the activity. Then later I heard the legend from others, always with interesting differences and variations in the details.

The legend says that sometime in the past (some tellings say about ten years ago, others twenty or thirty) one of the female staff members (different narrators claim it was anyone from an adjunct faculty member to a full professor, or maybe a woman on the support staff, or maybe a teaching assistant) ran nude (although some storytellers say she was only topless, others that she was in only her underwear) from the dorm (the only one the campus has ever had) all the way across campus and back on a dare (although some chroniclers say she ran from the dorm to the music building; others that she ran from the pool to her off-campus apartment; and yet others that she stripped in the library because she had lost a bet, had to hide in the stacks for ten minutes while her clothes were stashed in a trash can across campus, and then had to run naked through the library and across campus to get them. In some accounts they were there waiting for her and in others they were not).

So, anyway, my dear second big sis, Aunt Roberta, is the Roberta of that story, and I recognized her instantly: her major, how long she was at this school, when she was here and graduated. When I started here freshman year she even mentioned to me that when she did the research for her masters degree she had two financial aid lab assistants. She encouraged me to sign up for that to make some extra money but I made way more on my babysitting, and with the financial aid job I’d actually have to work. Also, I looked it up: that 23 to 22 final score in the homecoming game happened the fall of the last year Aunt Roberta was here. My jaw was on the floor, imagining that my sweet Aunt Roberta got herself into a situation like the one in the story. My mind brought to life the scenes she endured: pictured her in the flesh, naked and doing the things she’d had to do to pay off her bet.

When I lived in the dorm my room was even on the fourth floor, but was on the outside of the angle, so I knew not to be creeped out.

That is what I meant at the beginning. It was the first time since I was thirteen, and since I had naively bought into Jerry and Toni’s fiction, that I’d had that creepy and queasy feeling caused by knowing too much about someone, and a someone who is among the most important people in my life.

I just discovered the story a few weeks ago. I was surprised she had written about her experience, even using her own given name. Maybe she was just trying to work things out mentally? I suppose she never imagined anyone ever associating the story specifically with her. And I can’t imagine anyone else making that connection besides myself and maybe Emily. Of course, I have not told Aunt Roberta about recognizing her in the story. In my regular e-mails to her I am as silent about recognizing her as I am about my extracurricular video viewing activities. However, all of this has been at the very front of my mind preoccupying me, so much so that I actually got an A-minus on a quiz in my Applied Physics class.

Over a period of some days my thinking progressed from being shocked at what Aunt Roberta had to do, to feeling deep sorrow and sympathy toward her, to wondering how so many years after the fact I could make her feel better. My Aunt Roberta is a tough cookie. She can handle a lot, and I’m sure she has put all that behind her for the most part. I also know she has a large reservoir of pride and dignity. So I’m sure there must a piece of her that still feels humiliated and ashamed.
 
Chapter Three (Part 2 of 2)


That is how I concluded that perhaps there was something I could do to make it better for her, to even the scales somewhat. But what? I could not send her an e-mail and ask her about any of this or solicit suggestions. Aside from her embarrassment at me knowing her story, she would have just dismissed the whole matter anyway and told me not to bother. I did not want her to know I knew this about her. But I thought if I could tell her about something significant that would help her find a measure of relief and catharsis that then and only then she could know I am aware of her experience.

I gave this a few more days serious thought, costing me another A-, this time on a test in my Partial Differential Equations class. But I finally settled on a plan I thought might work; that I hoped very sincerely would work, because if it went wrong it would not be pretty for me. I thought maybe I could give Aunt Roberta the next best thing to the experience of having won her bet.

The first issue was to decide the identity of my victims. Who would be my equivalent of Hank and Paul, the two lab rats to whom Roberta had lost her bet? That part of the project was easy. I chose my two males with an eye toward improving our campus. There was no reason this little exercise couldn’t include some civic good rolled into it. Right?

If you are a woman and you have ever resided on a college campus, then you are undoubtedly familiar with the ladies’ lavatory Least Wanted List. You know: the list of the predatory date rape artists prowling the campus. You will find their names up on the partitions of the stalls, or sometimes on the wall of the bathroom itself. Sometimes there might even be a picture to help with quick identification.

I checked the ladies’ lavatories all over campus, and I found the occasional references to scumbags and sleazes. I finally found what I was looking for in the ladies’ locker room at the Field House. I don’t frequent that location at all; I only went there on this self-imposed assignment. Any exercise I get I sweat through at the health center. So, this was an unexpected, and to me a previously unknown, treasure trove. I must hand it to those lady jocks: they are proactive, motivated, have plenty of energy, watch out for each other, and do not take any shit.

This Least Wanted List was far more detailed and complete than any other anywhere else on campus. It seemed well and actively maintained and included the scumbags’ names; their pictures; their classes; their majors; if they live in the dorm or off campus or what frat they are in; and their particular modus operandi. It seemed to include a comprehensive listing of all the Public Enemies on campus. (By the way, this little several-day-long sleuthing expedition cost me yet another A-minus on a test in my Selected Topics in Pure Mathematics class.)

I found two guys on the list, juniors who are members of the same fraternity. I got an extra bonus, too. As I began to observe them it was immediately apparent that they are close buddies who hang together all the time. ‘Birds of a feather,’ as they say; or in this case I suppose it might be ‘scumbags of a bathroom waste basket.’



* * * * * * * *



I rarely go to parties. Well, I haven’t for a couple of years. Second semester freshman year I began socializing with a vengeance when I had suddenly and unexpectedly felt the urge to find out what sex is about. I kept it up through sophomore year at a lower level of involvement. It is how I met the boys with whom I had my first two relationships.

However, I have not been to parties much in two years and had to talk to some of the underclassmen in my department to find out where the parties were and when. It took a couple weeks, but I finally got what I was hoping for: a party at a sorority, the ‘sister’ sorority of the frat to which the two boys belonged. It was pretty much the only major organized party that night so they would likely be there, at least make an appearance and perhaps stay if anything interesting was going on. My intention was to make sure they had an engrossing activity to occupy them.

When the evening came, I got ready. I seldom wear makeup, but after I was out of the shower and dried, I applied perfunctory powder, eyeliner, and lip gloss. I sat naked on the toilet and looked down at my misshapen, forgotten, neglected bush. In my first relationship I had trimmed it fairly close. In the relationships after I had shaved bare. Now I calculated that something more special and alluring was called for.

I got out the clipping scissors and a razor and went to work. When I was done there was a great deal of pubic hair floating on the surface of the water in the toilet. My brown pubes were entirely gone save for a reasonably shaped isosceles triangle, the topmost side being the short one. I’m not terribly skilled or experienced in the art of sculpting my pubic hair, but I think the triangle ended up quite good: certainly well-shaped enough to escape being classified as obtuse or scalene. My artwork left just the tiniest bit of bare skin between the lower vertex and the front of my vulva.

Have you ever seen one of those neon signs outside a diner with an arrow that points to the establishment and flashes on and off, the legend above reading ‘Good Food Eat Here.’ As I looked at myself full-length in the mirror, I couldn’t imagine how the boys might miss my arrow, or the fact that it pointed out the location of a luscious, tasty treat. Tonight was the first step in my plan: lure them in. I guess in the movie The Sting tonight would be The Hook. You know, the part of the movie that starts with that Saturday Evening Post-looking picture of the train. I was confident that a good look at this savory treat would set the hook deeply.

I also put a bit of rouge on my areolae to darken them by way of further body prep. As I dressed was the first time my plan began to seem immediate and real to me, and it gave me pause. Tonight’s part of my plan would not be easy, although not necessarily the most difficult.

I stepped into the black thong I had bought: a first for me as I have always, even during relationships, just worn run-of-the-mill bikini underpants. I had a look in the mirror and my inspection was entirely satisfactory: the front of the thong more than covered my pubic artistry, leaving it a visual treat to be revealed. I turned around and looked over my shoulder at my back side. I do not know how or on what criteria guys evaluate asses, but I thought mine could pass muster.

As I told you, I grew up quite skinny. When I finally hit my delayed puberty my hips and ass made up for what was not happening upstairs. My hips widened nicely, and my ass developed into two fleshy globes with what I thought, later when I became interested in sex, was just enough jiggle to be appealing. The boys I had been in relationships with had used terms for my ass like ‘sweet melons,’ ‘succulent,’ ‘mouthwatering,’ ‘heavenly,’ ‘delectable,’ ‘divine,’ ‘savory,’ and ‘tantalizing.’ One of my relationship partners was an English major. He had come up with ‘deific.’ 'Fuckable' had also made the top ten.

I put on a padded bra. No sense in not giving the impression of more than there is. Although, as I mentioned way back at the beginning, my breasts qualify for an AA cup bra, I love them and think they are second only to my ass as appealing features, or perhaps ‘featurettes’ would be a more accurate descriptor. They ride high on my chest, and are super firm, nipples straight ahead, slightly elevated, and slightly to the side, as if they might want to peek around a corner.

I am a little cautious that they are so firm. Very firm, dense breast tissue is harder to x-ray through effectively, so were I a worrier the difficulty of detecting masses would be one thing I could worry about. I just examine them with extra care and ask the x-ray technician to make a note for the radiologist that he or she is reading a film from extra-dense breast tissue.

Well, I don’t suppose you’re reading this for medical insights.

I fastened the hook on the front of the bra. With the padding I would swear there just might be a pair of wham bam, hot damn, A-cup winnebagos in that bra.

I put on a skirt that ended a couple inches above my knees and had a slit to mid-thigh on one side. I donned a thin sweater that was tight and had a deep plunging neckline. Patterned, thigh-hugger nylons and low heels finished the outfit. Perhaps a little dressy for an ordinary party, but this one was at a sorority, so I would likely not be any more swish than at least some of the women there. Besides, I wanted to stand out.

I picked up a small purse and just took the very basics: keys, some tissues, a few cosmetics in case a touchup was needed, ID, a few bucks. As I checked myself one more time in the mirror near the front door my three housemates said they would see me later and told me how hot I looked. They were preparing for their own Saturday nights with their guys.

The drive to the sorority house lasted less than five minutes. All the while I became more and more nervous, thinking about my plan. If all went well, tonight would be the hardest part, or at least the most public. There was another part of my plan that would also be tough, but whether I ever got to that point depended on how tonight went.

I thought of how many people had seen me naked in my post-kid life, other than in groups like at the school locker room. Three lovers, my sister Emily once. That was it as far as I could remember. I don’t think my mom has seen me nude since I was in grade school.

Tonight, I would display my naked body in front of scores of men and women, most of them, I’m sure, laughing, hooting, and likely finding the whole display the most entertaining part of their evening.
 
Since I started posting these stories here I've been very cognizant of the fact that they tend to be not the best for a forum like this - they are complete stories (read LONG and complex) and involve way too much skimming for way too little 'good part' payoff. But I approach my writing that the good parts are learning about the characters and the plot surprises.

Whatever does it for you HT is fine with me, and I'm glad you are finding enjoyment here!!
 
Chapter Four (Part 1 of 2)


I stood outside the front entrance to the sorority house and took a couple deep breaths. They did not calm me, but I was reasonably sure I could brass my way through this.

Inside music blared, the bass throbbed. The crowd was of a civilized size, perhaps forty or fifty, about evenly mixed between men and women, but the hour was still early. I got myself a drink from a punch bowl and started to make my way around the first floor, to which the party seemed largely confined. Modesty prohibits me from telling you how many times I got hit on, but it was a major ego boost for an Astronomy major.

I did not see the boys I was looking for but decided to give it time. I was glad they were not there yet. I needed to make some connections before they arrived. Personnel at the party seemed to change slowly; people coming, people going. The total number of attendees seemed to swell to sixty or seventy, and I expected that the number would continue to grow.

I felt like standing outside the front door and chasing people away: Move along, move along. Nothing interesting is going to happen. No naked woman here tonight. I had a thought I could not help but giggle at, despite what the evening held in store for me. I thought the sorority should have a message board outside, like you see sometimes outside bars, with the legend: ‘Bare Naked Ladies Tonight.’ It would be a bit of false advertising, though, since there would only be one. At least I supposed there would only be one.

As it turns out the boys did not make an appearance for another hour and a half, by which time attendance had increased to well over a hundred. I scanned the crowd, walked around and found some women with whom I’m acquainted and had not seen for a while. I got into conversations with them, spending ten or fifteen minutes chatting them up, remembering wild parties in our pasts, reminiscing. I tried to dwell on the wild parties and wild times theme with all of them, being chatty, friendly, and ingratiating. I nursed my cup of spiked punch, not wanting to get even a little tipsy.

I had probably half a dozen such conversations in small groups of three or four or five, talking to at least a couple dozen old acquaintances in total, feeling them out, sizing up who might be in the mood for an adventure tonight.

Then, while in mid-sentence, I saw them come in the door with a swell of people. I kept talking with the group of women with whom I was sharing a story as the boys settled in. When a couple other women drifted into our little conversation I dropped out. I thought I had cultivated enough girls that I had found at least a few who would fit into my agenda for the evening. I went and sat on the wide stairs and watched the boys.

Douglas MacArthur Hurley looked to me to be just your average undergrad. I tried to picture him coming up behind a girl, cupping and squeezing her breasts and then trying determinedly to get her shirt off, as his little notice at the women’s Field House locker room said. Apparently, he did not take no for an answer without a serious struggle or shouting involved. According to the intelligence on him, he sometimes did not take no for an answer even with shouting and struggling.

Some women had just given in, made sure he was wearing a condom and let him fuck them if they were someplace where help was not at hand, chalking up the unpleasant experience as a lesson learned. Others would give him a blowjob to get him to go away. He was always quite insistent they be on their knees, and his hands had a habit of grabbing a large handful of hair, wrapping it around his fist, sometimes pulling hairs from his victim’s scalp while he fucked her mouth. He was average in height and weight, had a buzz cut. I could understand that growing up named after General Douglas MacArthur might play with one’s mind and could lead to arrogance and limited self-control. I don’t suppose that growing up in a household where naming a child after Douglas MacArthur was not dismissed out of hand would be conducive to healthy development.

Ed Pitt was the good looking one of the duo. He had jet black hair that he wore slicked back, and was a bit shorter than Douglas, lean but clearly with some good muscle definition under his shirt. He exudes calm and control that apparently does not last long once he is alone with a victim. While Douglas goes for the tits, Ed’s hands move to the pelvic region. If his date is wearing jeans or pants of some kind, he is at her from behind, a hand sliding into her pants and cupping her pubic mound. If she is in a skirt she will find the attack coming from the same quarter, but in that case the skirt goes up in back and a hand snakes into her panties, caressing her butt cheeks before a finger proceeds quickly to find her vagina. If she objects to either variety of attack, she is likely to find a forearm across her throat. Ed is the same as Douglas in that it is the rare attack that does not end with a fuck or a blowjob. Sometimes his hands find their way around her throat. I have always been suspicious of guys with names so short they only need six letters for both given and sur.

There had been no information on the Field House board as to whether they ever worked as a date rape tag team. Their notices also made mention of the fact that complaints had been filed against them, but apparently they know when and how to strike to make sure the matter devolves into a he-said-she-said muddle.

I considered what I had learned about them. Talk about knowing peoples’ secrets! I wondered if Douglas and Ed thought their activities were entirely undisclosed. I supposed they did. I supposed they had no idea their secrets were passed along and carefully documented by the campus sisterhood.

I was biting off a large and dangerous assignment here, and I was clearly aware of the hazards. I considered that I could have found a couple of ordinary guys to spring my scheme on, but I would have felt bad doing so. Douglas and Ed were really a couple of scumbags, so I did not feel conflicted about what they would suffer if I were successful.

My plan had been to let them get comfortable for a half an hour or more before making my approach, but I was alarmed to see them saying goodbye to people and heading for the door after only twenty minutes.

Fortunately, they were stalled in their progress by some friend who wanted to joke with them. That gave me the few moments I needed to get in position, although I was rushing into this more quickly than I had planned. As they disengaged from their friend, still half the room away from the exit, I came the other way, bumping into Ed.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, making firm eye contact. I could sense the lust centers in Ed’s brain engage. “Hey, um, you’re Ed, right? And you’re, ah, is it Douglas?”

“Yeah,” Ed said, clearly pleased. “I’m sure I would have remembered meeting you before.” His gaze dropped to my chest, and I was a little surprised he had managed to look at my eyes for the five seconds he had. Maybe it was a record.

“Oh, well, I don’t know that we’ve really met,” I said. “I’ve just noticed the two of you around, at parties, here and there.” Both were obviously pleased and flattered.

“I don’t really like Douglas or Doug,” said Douglas. “I grew up with Mac, so call me that.”

“Okay, Mac,” I said, and smiled broadly.

I found I had to work to keep the back and forth going; the boys did not seem to be great conversationalist. As we talked and I flirted I saw a few of the women I had spoken with earlier pass by, but I had not gotten the impression from our earlier exchanges that they were right for what I had planned. I concentrated on Ed and Mac, making lots of eye contact, touching their hands and arms from time to time. I draped a forearm over their shoulder and leaned into them when I laughed uproariously at their boorish and moronic jokes. It was often difficult to tell what the punch line was supposed to be.

Finally, I saw a couple more girls from my earlier conversations coming toward us. I had known both when I was a sophomore and they were freshmen; saw them at every party. Then they were party girls, good time babes always looking for the next thrill. They had pledged this house and were now sisters. Most undergrads get the party animal thing on a leash quickly if they want to survive academically, but these two had not changed. From our earlier conversation I knew they were hanging on scholastically, on and off academic probation, but they were certainly the same partying, hot times girls now as juniors. They were perfect.

As they approached, I made eye contact, motioned for them to come over. I introduced them, Helena and Samantha, to Ed and Mac and we fell into conversation and joking. I was able to pull back a bit from the interaction, jumping in only occasionally to keep the group together.

Finally, Mac said, “Hey, we should do something together.”

The girls seemed agreeable. Some activities were suggested, but nothing would fly.

“Hey,” said Ed, “why don’t we go over to our house. We can mellow, kick back, listen to some music, get out the bong.”

From their body language I could tell Helena and Samantha had likely heard rumors about these two, even if they had not been treated to the full workup at the Field House. Going to Ed and Mac’s house was out of the question. I knew I had to jump in and close the deal quickly.

“We should be able to have some fun here.” I held up my punch glass, still my first, and downed the contents in a gulp like it was my tenth. “God, I’m ready for something wild.” Helena and Sam woo-hooed in agreement.

“So, what?” asked Ed.

“Hey,” I said, and put a naughty smile on my face. “Strip poker, anyone?” I suggested, waggling my eyebrows up and down briefly. Ed and Mac, of course, were on it in a flash. The girls were agreeable too, but still seemed hesitant. They wanted the three of us girls to huddle and we stepped a few feet away.

“Hey, I’m okay with strip poker,” said Sam.

Helena nodded her head in agreement and said, “It’s cool. I’ve lost, but only once, and a lot of times a guy loses and has a huge boner. It’s funny as shit.” I wasn't sure just what could be funny about shit, but I didn't want to break the flow.

“Yeah,” Sam was in complete agreement, snorting out a laugh, “but I’ve heard things about these guys, and I’m not sure I want to be around them with clothes coming off.”

I sympathized. “Yeah, I’ve heard the same stuff, but we’re playing here at your house. I’d never play this with them anywhere else. We can play in one of your rooms and leave the door open.”

“I guess,” Helena said. “There are three of us. What can they do?”

"They're mostly sober," said Samantha. “I’m mostly sober. Mostly.”

I was glad I did not have to do all the heavy lifting myself.

They saw the reason in all this, and after just a moment or two of further hand holding we broke the huddle.

Before we turned toward the guys, Sam muttered, “God, I hope I don’t lose.”

I thought, Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got ya covered.


* * * * * * * *
 
Chapter Four (Part 2 of 2)


Five minutes later we were in Helena’s room on the second floor. The door was mostly open, reassuring the girls. We were just around the corner from the door on Helena’s bed in a rough circle, Ed shuffling cards.

I and Helena were sitting at the corners at the head of the bed. The boys were at the corners at the foot. Sam was sitting at the middle of the bed on the side opposite me.

We had the usual business to take care of before starting: mostly making sure that everyone had the same number of pieces of clothing between them and their birthday suit. I had on six pieces and we made adjustments and ended up at that number for everyone.

Just before Ed began to deal the first hand I asked, “What about an extra forfeit for the loser? Spice it up a little?”

If this part did not fly, I would have to find a plan B, but Helena was right on it. “Yeah! If a guy loses he has to jack-off in front of us.” Sam voiced her complete agreement, as did I.

“Yeah? So, what do you have to do if one of you loses?” Ed asked.

I could not leave that one to chance and jumped right in. “If it’ll get me a jerk-off show, I’ll tell you what I’ll risk,” I said. “If I lose, I’ll go down to the living room and stand on the coffee table in my birthday suit in front of the party.”

This was important. I wanted to make sure that after I lost we were all out of the room as quickly as possible, not leaving Ed and Mac any opportunity for mischief. There was another important reason why I had to endure the shame and humiliation of standing on a table naked in front of the party-goers downstairs, but I suppose that will become apparent to you a little later. I'll be sure to point it out.

Ed and Mac were agreeable. Sam and Helena put up a little fight.

“How long would we have to stand there?” Helena asked, not looking pleased with the idea.

I was ready for that one, too.

“Well, how about this,” I said. “If one of us has to do that she picks a number card from the deck, and that’s how many minutes she’s there. Ten minutes max.” The boys used the ‘come on-we-have-to-jerk-off-for-you-if-we-lose’ argument to impress on us they thought we were getting off easy. The girls looked at each other doubtfully but ended up falling into line.

Ed dealt the first hand. I picked up my cards and saw three 8s a 4 and a 2. Why do the good hands have to come when you can’t use them? When Ed asked about cards I threw away the 8s, and ended up with a jack high hand, plenty low enough to lose. I took off my heels.

When I picked up the cards for the second hand I saw an ace, king, jack, 7 and 6. When I traded in cards, I pitched the ace, king, and jack. A 2, 8 and 10 came my way, and I lost for the second time. I let out a little oath as I stood and pulled my leggings down and off.

Over the next five hands I dumped and lost two of them and was sitting on the corner of the bed in my bra and thong. Ed had lost two hands and Mac one. After that I just played the game. I was so far behind I thought losing eventually was just inevitable, but after another seven hands I had not lost again. Ed had lost twice more and was sitting in his jeans with boxers under. Mac had lost twice more and was like Ed, but with a tee shirt also. Sam had lost just her footwear; Helena had lost just once and was sans heels. I was encouraged by my observation of how badly the boys were playing. However, it was a little distressing to my plan, and I thought it was time to dump another hand, knowing it would cost me my bra.

I got two queens, a 10, a 6, and a 4 on the deal. I threw away the queens and the 10, and got in return a 3, a 5, and a 7. Shit! Why couldn’t I be playing with cash on the table? I revealed my straight, and Mac was the loser of the hand. He removed his tee shirt and, like Ed, was two pieces from nudity, just as I was.

Things went right on the next hand, if you want to call ‘right’ having to take off your bra and air out your boobs in front of strangers. I was dealt two aces, two 7s, and a 10. Again, I had that feeling of regret. If I were playing this game straight I would likely still be fully dressed. I dumped both aces and one of the sevens and got junk in return. Ed and Mac whooped. I had a real moment of hesitation. This was becoming distressingly real. All eyes were on me, Ed’s and Mac’s glued to my chest. My fingers trembled slightly as I unhooked my bra at the front and pulled it back and off.

“Damn, those are nice,” Mac complimented me. I was embarrassed that I had to bare them, and that he got the opportunity to look at them and make that evaluation, but I had to allow myself to be pleased a little. I estimated Helena was a C and Sam a D, maybe a DD. Here I had the boys salivating over my AAs. Of course I suppose it’s like the old saying about ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’: from Ed and Mac’s perspective a pair of tits hanging out in the breeze, however small, is worth two pair, however large, firmly hidden under a couple layers of cloth. Maybe I should trademark that saying.

Anyway, I was pleased both that he agreed with my assessment of my tits and that I was a step closer to hooking him and Ed.

I figured it was time to just get this over. On the next hand I was dealt two 10s, a king, a 6 and a 7. I tossed the 10s and the king. The 6 and 7 were in diamonds, and when I got my cards I was treated to the sight of three more diamonds. I made a mental note to find out when the next World Series of Poker started so I could sign up. I put down my flush.

Ed lost that hand too. He stood and took off his jeans, a boner clearly tenting out the front of his boxers. I exchanged a glance and a little giggle with Helena and Sam. Helena made a back and forth jerk-off motion with her hand, and I felt a little sorry she would not get her show. At least I hoped she wouldn’t.

Ed and I were now tied, one losing hand away from nudity. I was frankly a little amazed at how badly the boys played. Here I was dumping almost as fast as I could. They were playing the game straight, and I had to worry that one of them would lose before I could.

As the winner of the hand, I took the cards to deal for only the second time. I began to shuffle the cards on my knee that was off the edge of the bed. After two shuffles I let the cards go, spraying them all over the floor.

“Shit,” I said.

“A little nervous there?” asked Mac. I scratched my nose with my middle finger and bent down on the floor to retrieve the cards. As I crawled around the floor picking up cards and organizing them again into a deck I made sure my thong-covered ass was facing the boys; although obviously the word ‘covered’ was not accurately descriptive of anything the thong was doing to my ass. I stealthily pushed a few cards under a desk just so I could go from my hands and knees to down on my forearms to look under the desk, my ass way up in the air. One of the boys whistled in amazement. Again, I was flattered, and the hook was in a little deeper.

When I had the cards organized, I sat down at the corner of the bed again, shuffled a couple more times and dealt. I intended to end it now, barring any more unfortunate good fortune. I picked up my hand and saw two queens, a jack, a 10, and a 3. I dumped the queens and the jack. I picked up my three new cards one at a time. A 7 in clubs, matching the suit of the 3 and 10. Then a 6 in clubs. Oh, no, not again, I thought, but the third card was a 5 of hearts. Not another flush, just 10-high junk. When I put down my hand I was not even close to the next highest, a pair of 4s held by Helena.

Ed whooped, and Mac said, “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a loser!”

Although this had ended according to plan it was still incredibly difficult to stand, and even more difficult to pull my thong down and step out of it, but I got the job done with a minimum of hesitation. Ed’s and Mac’s eyes were immediately glued on my pointer, showing where the booty was located. Mac let out a “Shit, that’s hot;” Ed adding, “God damn.”

I was horribly embarrassed standing nude in front of strangers for the first time in my life. In the days since I had developed my plan, I had tried it on for size: stripping naked and standing in front of the full-length bathroom mirror. Not so bad, I had thought. But the reality of my nudity now was nothing like standing in the bathroom all by my lonesome.

The boys were looking my body up and down. The girls were sitting on the bed looking relieved it had been me. The boys insisted I turn around a couple times for them, and then turn around and bend over, saying they had taken the risk of having to strip and jerk-off and so wanted ‘to see all the goodies.’ I did it, giving them a detailed and unobstructed view of my shaven labia. I felt deep shame as I did it, but also knew it helped set the hook I had into them in concrete.

I did not want to play this out too long. As I had mentioned earlier, one of my goals was to get us all out of that room before anything regrettable happened, not only to me but to Helena or Sam, too.

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s get this over with.” I located a 10, then turned over all the cards so their backs showed, and I made a pretense of mixing them around while avoiding moving the 10 at all. The problem was, my eye had also flashed on an ace right next to the 10. I knew exactly where both cards were. The impulse to turn the ace was almost too much to resist. I moved my hand over the hodge-podge of playing cards, like the old woman inside the fortune telling machine at the fairground. Then I did what I had to, plucked the 10 from the collection and showed the card.

“Woooo! Tough titties!” Ed ejaculated.

Helena and Sam said, “Sorry,” at almost the same instant.

Mac added, “It’s show time tonight.”

Everyone stood. Their smart-alecky comments out, the realization seemed to be dawning for the boys that this was now going in a direction they would not have chosen. They had not yet begun to put their clothes on.

I pulled the spread off the bed and wrapped it around me. I began to walk toward the door, and as I passed Helena I whispered in her ear, “Would you get my clothes and purse together and bring them down?” She nodded that she would take care of that business.

We three girls were out the door and a little way down the hall. Ed and Mac came out of the room on the double, no footwear, their shirts still open, Ed’s pants back on. They were moving in that slightly bent over way boys do when they have to walk with a boner in their pants.

“Okay, let’s go,” I said, and lead our little group toward the stairway, on the way to the living room for my six hundred seconds of fame.
 
Chapter Five (Part 1 of 2)


As I descended the stairs wrapped in the bedspread, I could feel accumulating heat in my face: the deep red of acute embarrassment. By the time I was halfway down the stairway most of the people within view had seen me. Some went to chase into the gargantuan sorority house living room others who were in the dining room or kitchen or elsewhere: some show was imminent and they just knew it would be good. A woman was walking down the stairs wrapped in a bedspread. I could see faces animate and smiles begin to bloom. The ultimate in party entertainment was going to take place: a woman was about to be publicly humiliated!

More than a hundred pairs of eyes were ready for the show.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, the bedspread trailing out behind me like the train of a queen’s long robe. All I was missing was a crown and scepter. Oh, and clothes! I turned left and made for a large coffee table in a grouping at one end of the room. I stepped up. I turned to face the fireplace and mantle at the far end of the room. Maybe it was just the imminence of my public unveiling, but I was sure the party had swelled significantly. I estimated well over a hundred expectant and smiling faces were staring at me, waiting for the show to begin.

I had known this moment had to happen, had plotted to make it happen, but that did not make it any easier. I could feel tears begin to build in my eyes, but I knew it was crucial they be ruthlessly suppressed, and I succeeded. Ed and Mac had hold of the back of the bedspread.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ed said loudly and with a flourish, Mac providing a bad imitation of a drum roll, “May we present to you tonight’s strip poker loser…” he paused for effect, “…Voila!”

With that the boys both gave a hard tug on the bedspread. I had been holding it tightly but willed my hands to open as the boys yanked. I had to give them the impression that this – this business of standing nude on a tabletop for this throng of laughing, mocking partygoers - was no particularly big deal to me. Trying to keep the spread around my body would be very unhelpful in that effort.

But, God, I wanted it to stay on so much, and once it was off I missed it like an old and dear friend. The spread whipped back and away from my body, and I stood nude up on the table in front of a large roomful of laughing and pointing men and women. I have never in my life felt so exposed.

I told you before that this was a good way to get us out into the open, out of the bedroom and in front of people again, away from a situation in which we were in a private place where Ed and Mac had most of their clothes off and boners in their shorts. There was another object in my mind for this event, though, and I promised I would point that out to you.

The other reason I had to endure this embarrassing exhibition was it was crucial the boys see this was seemingly no big deal to me. It would be a gross understatement to say that the next ten minutes were the longest, most embarrassing of my life, but I think I succeeded in never once showing it.

For the next ten minutes I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I stood either with my arms at my sides or with them horizontally across my lower back, my hands gripping the opposite forearm. If a woman in this situation were to try to cover herself some loud objection would be made, but that was not going to happen with me. I knew that under no circumstance could I try to cover my nudity, or for that matter give any outward indication of shame or embarrassment. I could not allow any such thing to show. As best as I could I feigned boredom.

So, I put my head up and stared at a clock that was on the distant mantle. I tried my best to look nonchalant and unconcerned. For my next meeting with Ed and Mac I had to have maintained my composure through this ordeal; I tried to loosen, and to fake casual as much as I could.

My glasses were in my purse. The clock was too small and too far away for me to see in detail without visual aid. However, it gave me at least a sense of how much time had passed, how much time remained. As best as I could see, the minute hand had been about midway between the two and the three when the bedspread had been yanked from my body, and I pleaded with that minute hand to please proceed as quickly as possible to the midpoint between the four and the five. It either was not listening or was just being recalcitrant.

I tried to tune out the repeated and voluminous comments about my ass and my tits and my sculpted bush and my vulva. One thing about being as thin as I am: no matter how closely you keep your legs together, absolutely nothing is left to the imagination between your thighs. I tried not to hear the laughter my enforced exposure elicited. Everyone at the party had by now heard about the strip poker game; everyone knew I had lost, and because I’d lost I was now living the forfeit: having to display my nude body to them all, having to provide them with the entertainment of both my nudity and my humiliation. Well, they were getting the former, and there was nothing I could do about that; but I would not allow them to see the latter. I showed no emotion and stared at that clock.

From time to time I would catch sight of Ed and Mac. Mostly they were talking with boys I assumed were their frat brothers, laughing, joking, high-fiving. Ed and Mac were undoubtedly giving them a blow by blow of the game and how they had used their card playing prowess to strip me naked. I made a point to ignore them, feign indifference.

One guy came up to me, got down on his knees, and made a show of swiping his tongue near my toes. Okay. I had seen foot-worship on some of my purloined videos.

Two girls I recognized as art majors, one a redhead and the other with purple spikes, spent some minutes standing in front of me critiquing.

“Aren’t her tits just great?” Redhead asked, ignoring the fact that I was standing there listening to every word.

“I like her pussy,” said Spikes. “Not so much her pubes. I really prefer the female pubis to be natural. But would you look at those lips! Aren’t they just the plumpest, most delicious looking labia you’ve ever seen?”

“Yeah,” agreed Redhead, “I’d love to interpret them in acrylics.”

I didn’t even want to imagine what that particular piece of art might look like.

After more observations about the front of my body the two walked around to the other side of the table.

“Look at that ass!” Redhead exclaimed.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Spikes enthused. “And those hips! It’s like she’s a goddess. Shakti incarnate!”

Great. I'd been promoted from Dani Charles, senior Astronomy student to the Great Divine Mother, the Primordial Cosmic Power for female force and empowerment, the Divine Embodiment of feminine creative power. I hope there’s a pay raise involved.

Just for something to think about I hoped they might start using some adjectives about my ass, just so I could see if they came up with any that matched the ones used by my former lovers. They did not though. Apparently, their creative powers were limited to the visual artistic media and did not extend to vocabulary and syntax.

Finally, they seemed to notice there was a human being standing on the coffee table to whom they could speak.

Coming back around the table to my front, their heads and eyes traveling up and down my body, Spikes asked, “Would you model nude for me? I have a project due next week and you’d be perfect.”

I gave her my regrets.

“Well, you should consider signing up as a life drawing model,” Redhead said.

“You’d be a real hit,” Spikes informed me.

I’ll bet, I thought.

As they turned away back to the party Spikes was saying to Redhead, “God, how wonderful that would be. She really got lucky. What a freeing, liberating experience to be standing there naked in front of just everyone!”

Their conversation was lost to me as I thought, Well, come on up and try it, Honey. I could make room.

During my grand unveiling Ed had not used my name. A few of the guys thought to try to take a picture, but the ones from my back didn’t matter. The lights had been dimmed for the party, making clear photography difficult. In addition to looking at the clock, I kept an eye out for cells being held up, and when I saw one I put my head down and put a hand up to my forehead to block a view of my face.

If whatever pictures came out of this were not clear, then exactly who had been standing naked on this table for ten minutes this night would quickly blur into the stuff of which campus legends are made. Although, I thought this event to be rather small potatoes to become a school legend or myth. As I’d mentioned, I had not been on the party circuit in a couple of years, so I was largely an unknown here. Still, I would have to keep my ears open for whatever sort of exaggerated rumor this episode might generate.

Helena returned to a place near the coffee table. I thought that minute hand was getting close to the goal I wanted it to reach. I asked her if I had served the ten-minute sentence. She had a watch with her and studied it.

“A minute and a half,” she said.

I stood there and endured, counting down in my mind ninety seconds. When I reached zero, I asked her if I could get down.

“Sorry,” she said. “Thirty-one seconds.” So much for my ability to count time accurately. During those last seconds I thought dully that this was a Saturday night, and how I was missing out on a baby-sitting job to do this.
 
Chapter Five (part 2 of 2)


Finally, Helena told me I was done. She handed me my clothes and purse as I stepped down to whoops and laughs and applause. I did not want to be anywhere the boys could ambush me alone so, as embarrassing as it was, I stood right there in the middle of the crowd and dressed. I only pulled on my skirt and sweater, carried my underwear, hose and heels.

When I was done, I asked Helena, “Hey, could you and a few of the other girls walk me out to my car?”

She told me she would be happy to arrange it and took off to get a few sisters together. She was gone for a few minutes during which time I was complimented by perhaps a dozen men and women about how great I look naked (for the first few I managed a ‘thanks’ and a very thin smile; the rest got a cold stare, and I was about to start in with a finger as Helena got back).

One woman told me she wished she could have been me. Hey, knock yourself out, I thought, and just held my hand out to the coffee table inviting her to give it a try. I was asked for my phone number by four men and three women (I guess it pays to advertise). At least the constant stream of rude people kept Ed and Mac at bay.

When Helena returned there were four of us and we headed for the exit. I did not see Ed or Mac on our walk to the car, just noticed in the cool evening air how hot my face felt and how my nipples pushed at the front of my sweater. Once there, both Helena and Sam insisted on hugging, for what reason I could not imagine. Then I was in my car and on my way.

When I got home, I peed, stripping after I was done and looking at my naked self in that mirror again, the deed now done. Holy God, I thought, shaking my head. I was in bed five minutes later. You might think there were some waterworks before I fell asleep, but I did not feel even remotely like crying. I was just a little shell-shocked, but before letting myself drift off I reviewed what I had accomplished that night.

Ed and Mac had gotten a fabulous look at the goods.

They had watched me do a slow strip.

They had seen my tits from close range.

They had seen my fetching pubic doo.

They had seen my succulent, mouthwatering, delectable, and (most importantly) fuckable ass.

They’d had a good look at me bent over, the booty on display.

They had not actually started salivating but given their track record I knew they would not quit until they had gotten some of what they’d seen.

They believed they had beaten me in a game of strip poker, not knowing I was dumping the whole time.

Perhaps most important, they had seen me stand on a table nude in front of a party, seemingly not particularly bothered by it.

I’d had a chance to see they can’t play poker to save their lives.

All in all, an exceptionally good night’s work. The hook was set.

Thinking, I wonder if they’ll be pulling their meat tonight with me on their minds? I surrendered to sleep.



* * * * * * * *



From my observations of Ed and Mac I knew they ate lunch at the student union cafeteria on some weekdays and didn’t on others. I had observed them for so little time that I had not been able to discern a pattern. So, I just spent my lunch times at the student union, remaining as conspicuous as possible. The second part of my plan would start there. In The Sting it would be called The Tale, where on the title card the one guy holding the newspaper is getting an earful from the guy in the straw hat.

On Wednesday they were there. They were eating at a table near the serving line. I made myself noticeable. I went through the line, letting a plastic cup drop and rattle loudly on the floor. Then I went back for another item after I had taken my tray to a table. They were facing the line, and I did not think they could miss me. Just to make sure, I made another couple superfluous wanderings around the room.

They noticed me.

I sat half the room away, oriented so I could keep track of them with my peripheral vision while reading a text and eating. I had to let them come to me. I was sure they would.

I had gotten a little absorbed in my text when without warning hands were on my shoulders from behind, squeezing and giving me a shake. It would have scared the bejesus out of me had my mind not immediately identified the contact as the ministration of either Ed or Mac. They sure do like sneaking up on girls from behind.

The boys came around my chair. Ed sat on a corner of the table, evidently liking the superior position the high ground gave him. Mac swung a chair around on the other side of the table, lifting a leg over and sitting in it backward.

“So, Danielle,” Ed said. “Hi.”

“Hi, guys,” I said and fell silent, my attention moving back to my text. I had decided it would be best to let them do as much of the talking as possible, me just jumping in to work the rudder occasionally and keep the right heading.

“So, Danielle,” said Mac, repeating Ed. This was going nowhere fast. “Hey, we didn’t see you after your little turn on the catwalk Saturday night.”

“Yeah, I left,” I said.

“Yeah, that must have sucked,” Ed said, “but, you know, a bet’s a bet.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I win some bets and lose some bets. I always pay off. Welchers are the scum of the Earth.”

“What? You do that a lot?” Mac asked.

“What?” I asked.

“Play strip poker,” Mac said.

“Well, I make bets,” I said. “But, yeah, strip poker can be fun.”

“Not if you play the way you did the other night,” Ed said. He winced, evidently letting out a sentiment that on reflection he thought should better remain unsaid.

“I don’t,” I said, “but everybody gets bad cards every once in a while.”

“Man, I’ve never gotten them that bad,” said Mac. He laughed, but got a warning look from Ed. Obviously they were here for a purpose, and did not want to offend me. Mac looked reminded.

“So, Dani,” Ed said, getting a little less formal, “that’s why we wanted to come over. We were thinking maybe you’d like to give it another shot with us. A chance to get even. Whadda ya say?”

I gave them both a level look in turn. “I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, Dani,” said Mac, “I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”

“I know I’d do better if there were a next time,” I said.

“So, what’s the problem?” asked Ed. They really had the tag team routine down to a science.

“I just don’t think you’d be interested,” I said.

“Hey, we’re interested,” said Mac.

“Yeah, we’re definitely interested,” said Ed.

I gave them a level look: put an expression on my face like I was coming to a decision.

“Well, you see guys, it’s like this,” I said. I scooted in closer, lowered my voice, they leaning in toward me. “Maybe I don’t look the part, but I like to play. I’ve been here four years and I’ve gotten to know, well, some people here on campus and in town.” I paused, let the pause drag out.

“And?” asked Mac.

“Yeah, well, we get together to play,” I said. “Strip poker, strip pool, strip darts. Hell, strip anything. Sometimes we just make straight bets, no game involved. Not all of us usually. Maybe just a few of us will get together and play. Sometimes more.”

“So, then what’s the big deal?” Ed asked.

“Well, what I had to do Saturday night,” I said, “I’d rather not have had to do. But stand on a table naked for a bunch of people for a few minutes? Hey, that’s nothing.”

“I have to admit you looked pretty cool up there,” said Ed.

“Yeah,” said Mac, “at a party at our house last year a girl had to do that because she lost this bet, and she was just fuckin’ bawlin’ her eyes out the whole time. You remember that Ed?” Mac started laughing at the memory of a nude girl being publicly humiliated.

“Hell, yeah,” said Ed, also laughing. “God, she was goin’ crazy cryin’. Funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Nice tits though.”

“Yeah, well, it was no big deal,” I said. “Not compared to what happened to me the next night when I lost a game to a guy in the group I play with. Not such a great weekend.” We were definitely not having the conversation Ed and Mac had come to my table to have.

“What did you have to do?” Ed asked.

I took a breath in preparation for answering, then made a show of noticing my watch. “Shit!” I said. “I’m gonna be late. I’ve got a class like right now and I can’t be late today. Gotta go. Any chance you guys might be here tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” said Ed, looking at Mac, making a little play out of trying to remember if they would be here tomorrow. “Yeah, sure, I think we’ll be here.”

“Okay,” I said, “see ya.” I collected my stuff and took off. Yeah, I thought, a little giggle running through my mind, maybe you’ll be here. I let out a laugh. I went to the library to do some reading until my class started in an hour and a half.
 
Chapter Six (Part 1 of 2)


I thought it important to let the boys stew for twenty-four hours; get their imaginations in gear about what intensely sexual activity I had been involved with in the immediate past. Get them thinking about how I could be one of the willing. Get them thinking about how they could get into my pants; no screaming, shouting, hair pulling, or choking involved.

In the period between my Saturday exhibition and when I had met the boys on Wednesday, I had reviewed my party performance and thought it had gone well. The idea of standing nude on a table for scads of people to ogle had been distasteful and humiliating. Sometimes the dreading is worse than the actual deed, but not this time. The deed was every bit as bad as I had anticipated, and more.

I thought I’d handled it well. No tears, no covering, no outward show of shame or embarrassment. When I had told the boys that Saturday night had been a minor nuisance, I thought they could believe it from my performance.


* * * * * * * *


Thursday noon I walked into the student union cafeteria. Surprise! The boys were eating lunch at the union today!

I got my lunch, ignored the boys, found a table. I had not taken two bites of my sandwich when Ed and Mac were sitting down at my table. Having to carry their trays over had made it impossible for either of them to greet me with the Shoulder Grip of Death.

“Hey, Dani,” Ed greeted me.

“Dani, hi,” said Mac.

“Hi, guys,” I said. “You’re here. I didn’t see you.” There was a pause while I chewed my sandwich, took a drink of milk. The boys’ lunches seemed of no interest to them.

“So,” Ed commented.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Yeah, so,” Mac said. “Um, about that strip poker thing.”

I could not help but quote my dear Aunt Roberta. “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“So,” Ed commented again. “So, what did you end up having to do over that bet? You know. Sunday night.”

As he asked the question I bit off a large chunk of sandwich. I had to chew for a while to whittle it down for swallowing while they waited expectantly.

“Well, hey, we’ve really kind of agreed to keep the group’s secrets within the group,” I finally said. “Only members get to see the payoffs or hear the blow by blow descriptions.”

“So, you guys are like a swinger group or something?” Ed asked.

“Oh, no, not exactly,” I said. I thought it was time now to play out some line: give them information to chew on since they didn’t seem interested in their sandwiches. Get it? “We don’t get together to swing. Swinging is people just getting together to fuck. We get together to challenge each other and take a challenge. Of course, there’s a ton of sex involved.” The boys brighten noticeably at that news. “But, no, it’s not exactly swinging. There’s only one couple left who are relationship partners. Mostly now it's some single women and some single men. We like to keep it close to even between Ps and Vs.

“I got into this with a boy I was in a relationship with a couple years ago. We played this game with another three couples once. The couple who lost had to have sex while the other six watched. Not too much of a payoff, but it seemed like a big deal at the time.”

“So, how did that bet come about?” Ed asked.

“God, I don’t know,” I said. “We were just hanging out with these other couples one night. Somehow, we got on the subject of wouldn’t it be hot to watch another couple go at it. We all thought it would, but of course everybody wanted to watch rather than perform. So, we played some kind of game, I don’t even remember what it was, and the couple that lost had to do it. I thought it was even hotter because they had to do it to pay off their bet. And it was totally sweet that me and my guy had risked having to be the entertainment, but instead got to sit back and be entertained.

“Well, one of the other couples thought it was really hot too, and they told us about a couple they knew in town that they’d done something like that with, and that couple had thought it was hot too. And that couple knew a couple of women they’d played with. And those women knew a couple of guys they’d played with, and, well, you get the idea.”

“So, like what do people have to do?” Mac asked.

“Well, everyone has their little specialty they like to pursue,” I explained, keeping it general, not answering his question. “They basically risk on a bet being the subject of what someone else wants to do in order to get the chance to pursue their thing. Usually it’s fetish stuff. You know, bondage, discipline, S&M, water sports, humiliation, that sort of stuff. If we all just wanted to have straight sex we could go out and find someone, you know? But this gives us the kick of risking something to get something. And the combinations of players and kinks is quite wide.

“What makes it interesting, the thing we all seem to have in common, is we tend to lean to the dominant side sexually. So, winning and having someone compelled to submit to what we’ve won is great. On the other side of the coin because we all tend to be dominant losing especially sucks. Being dominant, it just completely sucks having to submit to whatever payoff you’ve lost.”

“So, what’s your specialty?” Ed asked. It was the million-dollar question I still didn’t know the answer to, although on Saturday night I guess I'd discovered it wasn’t exhibitionism.

"Gettin’ a little personal there, don’t you think, Ed?” I answered.

“But you’d be willing to get fucked over a lost bet?” Mac asked.

“’Be willing to’?” I asked. “I have. Many times over the last few years. Get fucked, give blowjobs, get tied up, get my ass smacked.” I rolled my eyes. “God, you won’t believe it but once three of us girls lost a bet to three of the guys. Of course, we had to strip, and then we had to….” I trailed off, seeming to remember to whom I was talking. “Well, let’s just say these are some highly creative people. But to me it’s worth the risk to get what I want. I’ve won more than I’ve lost, so I’m a happy camper.”

The boys were silent. I’m sure they did not know how to proceed from here. So, I took up the tiller again.

“So, you see,” I said, “I play, but I play rough. Rougher than you guys can handle.”

“I don’t know, Dani,” said Ed, “I think this could be fun.”

“Yeah,” interjected Mac.

“We’ve got another year here,” Ed said, imagining.

I supposed the thought of something like this was attractive to them. I was counting on it. As it stood now they could forget about ever getting laid. With what the women on campus knew about them they could not even get a date anymore except with a few clueless freshman women. And by this time in the year - late in the Spring semester - even naive frosh were clued in.

“Well,” I said.

“Well?” Ed and Mac asked at the same moment. God, this was a riot.

“Well,” I said, “there was this guy, Jared. He was a Civil Engineering grad student, but he had to drop his courses for this term just after the semester started. Some sort of family thing. Had to get back home. You know who I’m talking about?”

“Um,” Ed said, “no, I don’t think so.”

“Well, people can’t know everybody,” I said, thinking, of course you don’t know him you fucking idiot. I just made him up. “So, he left an opening, and we had a married couple. He worked in operations over at the plant, but got transferred in January, so they’re gone. We want to keep the numbers even. We got another lady pretty quickly, and she's worked out. We’ve tried out a couple of guys, but they haven’t worked out. Got cold feet about honoring their bets when they lost. You know? We’ve found there are about a million single guys who say they want in on something like this, but, well, when the rubber meets the road….” I trailed off.

“Any chance?” Ed asked. “We’d love to get it on this.”

I thought this was a good place to leave our little negotiations for the day; a good place to leave them hanging for another twenty-four hours.

This time I glanced up like I was thinking about the request, said, “Well, I don’t know.” Then I made like I was focusing on the wall clock. “Oh, man,” I exclaimed, “late again, late again for class. Shit. Gotta go. Can I count on you guys being here tomorrow?”

There was no pretense today. “Yeah,” said Mac. “You know it,” Ed added.

Then I was on my way. My class was not for over an hour, so I went off to shoot the shit with my academic advisor, Vicki. You remember her from earlier? I wanted to sit there and yak with her while picturing her trussed up from the ceiling straining to get off on her vibrator and huge dildo.

Now that the boys and I had progressed this far I had come to a point where that other disagreeable task I had mentioned a couple of chapters back was before me. And it had to be accomplished that very evening.


* * * * * * * *


Friday, I did not bother with pretense either. I spotted the boys, gave them a wave, went through the line to get my lunch, and sat down at their table. I sat sideways in my chair, crossed one leg over the other at the knee. My left foot in its sandal bounced with my leg. The lurid purple lacquer I had applied to my toenails was unmissable.

I was right at it. “So, you guys are sure you want to give this a try?” I asked, taking some soup into my mouth. They both enthusiastically indicated in the affirmative.

“Well, I got in touch with a few people last night, told them I know a couple guys who might be interested. We really want to even things out again,” I said. “Too many ladies. Too good a deal for the guys.”

“Is there, like, an initiation or anything?” Ed asked.

I speared them each in turn with a look. “I’m your initiation. If I say we should let you in conditionally then you’re in.”

“So, what’re you going to make us do?” Mac asked.

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” I said. “We’re going to make a bet. And it’s a real bet. You win and you take your winnings. You lose and you pay off. You don’t pay off you can forget it.”

“So, what’s the bet?” Ed asked.

“How about our old buddy strip poker?” I suggested.

“Sure,” said Mac.

“Sure,” said Ed.

They were up for it, thinking they had beaten me just days before. I thought I would take a moment to cement their perception that the bet was next to a sure thing for them. But first, about strip poker.


* * * * * * * *
 
Chapter Six (Part 2 of 2)


You may read sometimes that people or characters ‘sharpen their game’ in preparation for playing. Or perhaps they do not want to play because they think they are not good enough at poker. Or, the other side of the coin, they want very much to play because they think they have the poker skills that will assure triumph.

Forget it. Strip poker is a game almost entirely composed of luck. Sure, you have to know what the hands look like: straight, three-of-a-kind, pair, two pair, full house, flush. After that there is little knowledge or skill involved.

Now poker, real poker played for money, is a game of considerable skill. At least I’m told it is. The back and forth of betting, raising, checking, folding, calling, and doing those things successfully, are skills not easily learned. Knowing when to bet and when not to bet, when to bluff and not bluff, when to call a bluff – those are skills.

But in strip poker there is no active betting. The bet is the same for every hand: the person with the lowest hand takes off a piece of clothing. You don’t raise, you can’t fold, there’s no bluffing. You get five cards, you throw back none, one, two, or three, and you get some new cards. You put them down. Whoever has the lowest hand takes off a piece of clothing. Where’s the skill in that?

To the extent that there is any skill whatsoever to strip poker, the skill lies not in knowing how to have the best hand, but in knowing how to avoid having the lowest hand. That is why you don’t even really have to know how the hands rank. You have to know a full house when you see it. You have to know a flush when you see it. But you don't really have to know that a full house beats a flush because if you have either of those hands you are not going to have the lowest hand and lose that round.

That is what I had noticed on Saturday. The boys were always going for the highest hand. They would turn over a hand with a 4, 7, 8, 10, jack after having drawn only one card. Obviously, they had been looking for a 9 for a straight but had not succeeded because the odds against filling that straight from the inside are under one in ten. So, they ended with a jack high hand. Had they kept the jack and 10 and drawn three cards the odds would have been much higher for getting a pair, and in strip poker any pair is usually enough to avoid being the lowest hand.

They did the same thing trying to complete flushes, too. In hand after hand they tried the long odds to get the best hand, instead of exploiting the good odds of getting a good enough hand not to be the lowest. The result was I had to dump hand after hand Saturday night to make sure they did not fumble their way to naked before I could get there.

Now, you may be wondering how I, Ms. High School Social Coma, might know all this. Good old Emily, my sister. Remember her from back in the first chapter? Me? Play strip poker? Forget it! But Ems used to play strip poker games all the time at college parties. Told me all her war stories. I especially liked the ones about boners popping out of boys’ underpants. The stories did not interest me in a sexual way; Ems just brought the mental images to life for me. And those were some funny images. They got us two conspirators giggling with each other, our heads together. Sometimes she got to watch a guy who had lost jerk off. Now, that’s a story Emily can really tell.

In all those years and all those games she only once had to show her tits. She never lost, and she taught me exactly how you avoid losing at strip poker. She must have been thinking the information would come in handy someday.

This was not knowledge I had a practical application for at the time. When you come right down to it, though, in my day-to-day life I don’t have much in the way of practical applications for quadratic equations. I’ve never had any urgent need to calculate the trajectory of an artillery shell or design an audio amplifier. I learned Emily’s lessons, though, about how to avoid losing at strip poker just as soundly and unforgettably as I learned about quadratic discriminants, factorization, and derivations; and Lagrange resolvents.

It's all the same thing really. Well, for someone like me it is. Except the strip poker stuff was a lot easier.

It’s mostly just luck. Absolutely no one can be ‘good’ at strip poker. Absolutely no one can be ‘skilled’ at strip poker.

Okay, now back to my conversation with Ed and Mac.


* * * * * * * *


“Let’s face it,” I said to Ed and Mac, “I’m taking a big risk here. You’re both really good at poker. You really have the skills.” They looked pleased. “I mean look at what you did to me the other night: stripped me naked and put me on a table in front of everyone at that party. Hardly the worst bet I’ve ever lost. As a matter of fact it was the easiest one I’ve lost in a long time. But it was the last thing I ever expected to happen. No, you guys are good at it; you’ve got the skills. So, I realize the huge chance I’m taking.”

I don’t know if they had any doubts left, or even if they really had any to begin with. But I had to make sure they believed this was real. I had to draw them in with some proof.

I gazed at them, trying to make my face look like I was calculating, deciding if I should reveal something hidden. I nodded my head in what I thought was a convincing, I’ve-come-to-a-decision sort of way.

“Okay,” I said, “look, you guys should see this before you make a decision.”

I got up and started walking toward the exit that led into the inside of the student union building, my laptop and books in my backpack. I was halfway to the exit before they got the idea they were supposed to follow me. When they caught up, I led the way to the second floor.

Two side hallways up there have nothing but study rooms, little six by eight cubbies that students can use as a refuge from the noise and distractions of the dorm or a frat or sorority house. Students who reside off campus make use of them during the day while on campus. I’ve used them dozens of times over the last few years.

I led them the length of one hall. I was glad to see that many of the rooms were occupied. There were lots of people around and the boys could not help but notice that, too. At the end of the hallway I turned back around and went to an unoccupied room close to the main hall. I motioned for them to step in. I followed them. Each room has a small study table with a lamp. I put my laptop on the table, opened it, booted it up.

“You guys remember the other day?” I asked. “I told you that Saturday night was nothing compared to the bet I lost on Sunday to one of my compadres? I blew off answering. How could I have known you might be interested in filling our openings?”

I did not say anything more, just clicked on a file.

The video started on a woman’s feet, but she was not standing flat footed on the floor. Just the fronts of her feet and toes were in contact with the carpet, the nails with a lurid purple polish on them. The image made the boys shoot surreptitious peaks in my direction. Her heels were elevated by several inches. Then there was a crack like the report of a cheap, small-caliber gun, and the toes turned white as they dug into the carpet, the purple polish standing out in sharp contrast. The feet turned, and the woman issued a grunt of pain.

As the camera panned up her legs, her calves came into view, muscles twitching and working. There was another crack, and the calves jumped as much as they could, a little exclamation of pain coming from the woman. Then her thighs came into view, muscles also active. Another crack, and the woman emitted the same expression of pain. The thighs tried to turn, tried to help the woman escape whatever was happening to her, but she had no range of motion.

The camera continued up her body, reaching the flair of her hips. The woman’s pubic hair was shaved bare save for a neat isosceles triangle, the bottom point ending just a smidge above the front of her vulva. Then there was another crack, and this time something black could be seen to flick around the woman’s hip. The woman’s sound of pain this time was louder, more panicky.

The boys looked at me at that point, their gazes lingering, but their eyes could not for long stay off the scene unfolding before them.

As the camera continued upward past her hips, the width of the woman’s body rapidly diminished to a narrow waist. Just before the camera left her hips there was again that flick of something dark, then the crack sounded, and the woman let out a screech of pain.

Soon her breasts came into view, the same breasts the boys, and a hundred and some partying kids, had been looking at Saturday evening. Again a crack sounded, the woman cried out, and the small breasts jiggled and bounced as the woman moved her body in a futile effort to escape the pain that was consuming her body and mind.

The camera passed by the woman’s neck and then my face came into view. The boys saw my look of pain and torment. At that moment my eyes flew open to the sound of another crack, and I spat out, “Oh, shit,” not an expression of anger, but one of resignation, of the knowledge that much more of the unbearable pain I was experiencing was coming my way and there was nothing I could do about it.

The camera traveled up my arms, settling on my hands bound tightly by rope. The skin on my hands was red, contrasting with the white of my arms. My hands were holding tight to the rope that held me up on my toes. There was another crack and my fingers splayed out in pain, expressing agony and pleading, the sound from my mouth a shapeless grunt of agony.

The scene jump-cut to a wider view. Two men were standing behind me. One was off to the side, watching, but you could see only the extreme edge of his body: part of a leg, the very end of arms that were folded across his mid-section. The other man, the one whipping me, was almost entirely obscured by my nude body, unrecognizable. There was a woman at the other extreme edge of the frame, also only partly visible. A second woman stood behind the man with the whip, also obscured. The man behind me with the whip swung again, another crack sounded, and my body jumped, an anguished and pitiable sound of suffering escaping my lips.

Another crack, and now I had reached the point where trying to limit my expressions of pain was useless. This tenth crack brought forth a loud cry and I said, “Oh, fuck! Fuck!”

I froze the image at that point. I turned my back on the boys and unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned, unzipped, and wiggled my pants down, lowering both my jeans and underpants at the same time. The boys were now staring at my bottom, crisscrossed with red welts. I looked as much as I could over my shoulder and saw their gazes move from my bottom to the frozen image on the computer screen and back to my bottom.

I let them take a good gander for about fifteen seconds then pulled up my pants and refastened everything. I hoped I was not scaring them away, but they had to believe, and now they had seen the evidence with their own eyes. Now my tale had a memorable visual to embellish it.
 
Chapter Seven (Part 1 of 2)


“You win some, you lose some,” I said nonchalantly.

“Shit, that’s not so bad,” Ed said. “My ass looked a lot worse than that the whole time I was pledging.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mac, “they swing that paddle hard on some frosh ass. That looks like a walk in the park.”

“Well, I don’t think you need to be too worried about that anyway,” I said. “The guy I lost too only likes to string up the girls and tickle their asses. I just want you to know what you’re getting into. This is playing with the big kids. With the sweet comes also the sour,” I said, trying to sound wise and worldly.

“So, you lost that bet and that’s what you had to do: get strung up and get your ass whipped?” asked Ed.

“Yeah, that,” I said. “The guy I lost to is into BDSM, so that’s what I had to do. And he likes to fuck the asses he whips, so after he was done, I had to bend over for him. You’ll lose some, but you’ll never want for getting laid for the rest of your days here. If you want sex all you have to do is make it what you want for winning. And if you think you’d like to explore deeper or wider you can just go there. There are women with the group, obviously, who will risk an ass whipping.” I gave my butt a light slap. “So, if you’ve wanted to explore smacking a woman’s ass or tying her down and fucking her, you’ll get to do that.”

I thought those concepts would be a real selling points with these two, and I noticed a spark in their eyes as they contemplated those scenarios. They gave each other a look.

“Who knows,” I continued, “maybe you’ll be tying me down and fucking yours truly.”

“Yeah,” said Ed.

“Yeah,” echoed Mac.

Each was clearly attracted by the thought of fucking what he had seen Saturday night; even more attracted by the thought of me tied down while he did it. I don’t suppose I naturally look the part for all these adventures, but the boys were at a point at which they did not even bat an eye. It made the whipping I had taken the previous evening worthwhile.


* * * * * * * *


It had been a pain in the ass in more ways than one.

First, I had to explain to my housemates what I was doing. I told them about the previous Saturday night, the strip poker game I had intentionally lost, and why it had been necessary.

Alicia said, “Wow, I heard about that. It was you! Dani? You up on a table at a party in your birthday suit?” I nodded, and she let out a wholehearted laugh. “Well, shit. I was thinkin' about stopping by that party. Sorry now I didn’t.” She laughed again, shaking her head.

Alicia is a take charge girl, a Sociology major with a minor in Social Services and one of the officers of the Black Students Association. She has sweet, gently beautiful milk chocolate skin and has found a preference for wearing her hair in corn rows. If she could not get something done – school project, BSA resolution passed – it could not be done.

They had doubts about what I was doing, but they were my closest friends and they finally agreed to do whatever I needed. The whipping and the video were my main requirements. My housemates would also be involved later, and I explained what their participation in that would entail. That put some smiles on their faces, and they were looking forward to it with great anticipation.

We needed two males to stand in for a couple of my fictional group mates. Alicia and Gloria were sure their guys, Dave and Martin, would be willing.

Gloria is the one who always challenges people. A natural redhead, she had all the questions for me about my plan, trying to find holes in what I was doing. She did not fully understand my commitment to Aunt Roberta, my desire to give her a gift that might help assuage the humiliation of what she had endured years ago. She also did not see the need to do my civic good by reining in Ed and Mac’s serial-rapist-in-training activities. But even though she could not understand my motivations, she could not find any holes in my plan, or at least no risks that were avoidable. That was a great reassurance.

My third housemate is Monica. She has ebony hair, although she usually wears it in a buzz cut. Now her color is a little hard to tell because it is just a week or so into growing back. She took a notion some months ago to shave her head bald, but now is letting it grow again. She is an earthy sort of woman: wide, full hips; large, generous breasts; a willingness, even enthusiasm, to engage on personal issues. Monica is a Journalism major, learning the whole spectrum of that subject, but her intense interest in that area seems to have settled on photo/video journalism.

All three of my housemates are in their junior year of studies. I will graduate in another six weeks, but I am doing my graduate work here, so we will not be parting company. I’m extremely glad of that. The work had to be completed this Thursday night so my video would be ready for Ed and Mac's eye at lunchtime on Friday.

After Dave and Martin arrived they pushed furniture out of the way and took down wall art, so only a nondescript wall would be in the background. They got the large O bolt I had purchased screwed into the ceiling. They made sure it was seated into a joist so it would not come crashing down. While they did that, I asked who wanted to tie my hands.

“I will,” said Alicia. “I’ve gotta learn how to do that. I think the skill might come in handy with Dave.” She said the last sentence increasing the volume on the last few words so Dave couldn't not hear.

"Bring it on, Hot Stuff,” Dave said.

We went into my bedroom. I stripped and held out my wrists to Alicia for the rope she had bought. She began to wrap the rope around my wrists, which I held with the insides facing each other. After she had a couple coils around, she asked if it was tight enough.

“Just keep tightening until I till you to stop,” I instructed.

She pulled on the rope and I felt the bonds begin to crush my wrists together immovably tight.

“Okay, there,” I told her. She kept the same tightness as she proceeded to wrap the rope around my wrists again and again, my hands coloring to a deep red.

Soon there were many loops around my wrists, and Alicia began to tie some knots. Then she took the long length of rope remaining and tied one end tightly about the area between my wrists, the rest of the rope trailing out to a length of thirty feet or more.

Alicia stuck her head out the door. “All ready out there?” she asked.

“Ready when you are,” Martin called.

I took a breath, then stepped through the door and walked to the living room, for the second time in a week making my naked body available for the viewing pleasure of others. Stopping under the bolt, I faced so the blank wall was behind me and waited. Martin stepped up on his short ladder and threaded the rope through the bolt and Dave received the loose end. He took it to the couch, wrapping it around one of the legs. He pulled the rope, and my arms began to rise. When they were stretched above my head, but my feet still flat on the floor, he stopped.

“High enough?” he asked.

“Higher,” I instructed.

He pulled again lightly on the rope. “Okay?” he asked.

“Higher,” I said again.

“You sure?” he asked.

There are those who love BDSM, and that is fine, but I was not into it and neither were any of my assistants, at least not that I or they knew about at this point. I figured it was time for a speech: a motivational talk while standing nude in the middle of a living room with my wrists tied and pulled above my head.

“Look, Friends,” I began, “I appreciate what you’re doing to help me. Thanks. I know this isn’t your thing or mine. But what I need right now is to be tied and look extremely uncomfortable. Then I need about ten hard lashes on my ass. The quicker we can get that done, the quicker I can get down from here and go put my clothes on. Okay?”

Alicia took the rope from Dave, gearing up into her take-charge mode.

I felt my wrists pulled up and up and my heels come off the floor. Then she pulled some more, and I was standing on my feet as if they were in six-inch heels. At least I think it felt like they were in six-inch heels. I could not be sure because I’ve never had my feet in such shoes and cannot imagine I would ever be stupid enough to put my feet into such shoes. Anyway, it was somewhere on a scale between very uncomfortable and painful, and I knew it was going to get more uncomfortable and painful by the minute.

My arms were stretched, and muscle, sinew, some help from my toes giving their little contributing pushing against the floor, and my hands grabbing for dear life onto the rope, were the only things holding my arms in their shoulder sockets. I knew I would not want to ever be like that for more than fifteen minutes. Alicia tied off the rope.

“Okay, Dave? Sweetie?” Alicia asked. “We need to get this done. Monica are you ready?

“Any time,” Monica said. She was to operate the camera, record this little fiction for Mac and Ed’s benefit.

We did not actually have a whip or strap that would pass muster in a real dungeon. We had to use one of Monica’s belts, had spent considerable time picking through our four wardrobes debating which of our waist accessories was best.

“Okay, Dave, we’re gonna need hard ones on her ass for the video,” Alicia said. “Can you do that? Hard. We need to hear that crack.”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Dave.

“Sweetie, we don’t need ‘think so.’ We need hard ones on her ass so we can get this done and get her down,” Alicia said.

“Okay,” Dave said.

“I’m not believing you, Sweetie,” Alicia said.

I could see Alicia if I turned my head, which was not particularly easy to do. I saw her take her jeans and underpants down to her knees, holding them there with slightly spread legs. She leaned forward on her hands with her palms flat on the surface of the dining table. She was almost upright, but leaned slightly over the table, the position by its nature making her ass stick out as a target.

“Whip my ass with that thing, Sweetie,” Alicia said to Dave. He took a swing that looked hard to me, but it left no mark, and the crack was nonexistent.
 
Chapter Sever (Part 2 of 2)


“No, Baby,” Alicia said, “I could hardly feel that. We need to hear those cracks on the video. Go.”

He swung again, harder.

“No, Baby, we need to get this done. Harder,” she said.

He pulled the belt back and swung it in a tight arc, his arm for the first time coming all the way across his body, swinging through her ass instead of at it, producing a decent sound.

Then Alicia and Dave started a back and forth. “Harder.” Crack. “Harder.” Crack. “Harder.” Crack. The sounds became louder with each try. After about fifteen or twenty of these exchanges angry red welts were springing out on Alicia’s ass with each lash. With the last few, solid cracks accompanied the impacts of the belt, and Alicia emitted sharp cries of pain in response. I almost cried as I watched the beautiful rose brown skin of her ass marred by red welts. And a tear did slip down my cheek when I thought about what my friend was suffering for me.

“God damn! That hurts like hell!” Alicia said, catching her breath. “Okay, Baby. Just a few more to make sure you’ve got it. Go.”

Dave reached back and swung, putting his whole body behind it. Alicia jumped, letting go with an, “Oh, God! Shit! Fuck!” Dave swung again, and Alicia let loose a sound that indicated tears would be in the offing with just a few more lashes. I thought he had it, but Alicia just stood there silently, and Dave finally figured out he was to keep going. He swung the leather again eliciting a good loud crack and Alicia bowed her head and said, “Sweet Jesus! Okay, baby, I’d say you’ve got some skills.” Alicia’s ass was taking more punishment than mine would in a few moments, but I knew much worse would be coming to me later.

“You’re ready,” Alicia said to Dave. She put her clothing back in place, went to him and snuggled into his body, her arms going around his shoulders. “Oh, Lover, I think maybe we just discovered something,” she said and put a hard kiss on his cheek.

Then she was back in director mode. “Okay, Monica, get that camera going. You know what we need. Dave, I’m watching the camera screen. When I point at you start lashing her ass hard, just like you just hit mine. Let’s get this over. Go.”

I could not hear anything, but I knew the camera was running, capturing the images I’d briefed Monica about, starting at my feet and tortured toes, climbing my body. So here I was. The others did not know it because I never shared any of my purloined videos, but Vicki was the inspiration behind this cinematic production.

Without warning, Monica’s belt impacted with the top of my ass. My brain could process nothing for some seconds but the pain. The crack was impressive. A little grunt jumped from my mouth.

Seconds passed. Then for a second time the belt lashed across my ass. A crack sounded, and a high pitched ‘ahh’ left my lips. Some seconds later the same thing happened. The accumulating pain was becoming impressive, but was nothing to what was to come later. The camera continued to slowly reveal my bound body as another lash impacted my ass cheeks. This time I know I shouted louder, becoming a bit panicky.

Another lash, and a screech of pain left my lips. The lash raked my ass again, and again I cried out, and began to pull on the rope restraining me. Again, the belt lashed my ass, and I let out a “Shit! Oh, shit!” knowing that I had more to come and resigned to it. Another crack sounded in my ears followed by agony as the pain traveled up my nerves and was interpreted by my brain; I had been hanging onto the rope to help relieve my shoulders but I let it go with that lash, stretching my fingers, pleading, a scream jumping from my mouth.

Finally, Alicia said, “Okay, that’s good. Let’s get the wide shot.”

Monica made some camera adjustments. Martin went to stand at the extreme left side of the frame. Monica told him to adjust his position until a viewer could tell he was there, but he was not entirely visible and recognizable. Monica positioned Gloria similarly on the extreme right side of the frame. She coached Alicia into position behind Dave so that you could see another woman was back there, but not see her clearly.

“Okay, everyone’s in position,” said Monica. “Go.”

Another crack filled the room as pain invaded my brain, and I knew the pitiable sound I made would have caused the most hard-hearted to show mercy. A few seconds later, the belt hit my ass for the tenth time. I heard, “Oh, fuck” followed by sobs coming from me, my breath bellowing in and out.

After a few more moments, so Monica would have a little editing room, Alicia said, “Okay, get her down from there.”

We had the footage I needed for the next day’s noontime with the boys. Martin untied the rope from the couch, and I came down hard on my heels, feeling nothing but relief. The whipping my ass had taken had removed my mind from the pain in my feet and shoulders and all up and down my body. Now freed, my body painfully reminded me of the tortured position it had been in. Gloria brought a knife from the kitchen and carefully cut my wrist bonds, and I went off to my bedroom to dress.

I lingered there, letting the others do the work of bringing the living room back into order. After dressing, I emerged and we had some wine and conversation for a short while before Dave and Martin took off.

After they were gone, Alicia asked me, “You ready to get the rest of this done, Dani?”

“No, but let’s get it over with,” I said.

When I had looked in my bedroom mirror the ten welts across my ass were impressive: sharply defined, red, and angry in appearance. Of course, I needed to have the boys see more than that; had to let them see that our little group was real, for why else would my ass look so punished?

Alicia had done so much for me, had taken her lashes to get Dave ready to do what I needed him to do. Now she would lay the rest of my ass whipping on me. All four of us went to my bedroom. I stripped off my jeans and underwear, piled pillows on my bed and draped myself over them, pillows under my hips, ass elevated. I pulled my top up to mid back. I saw Alicia standing to the side, belt in hand. I turned my head straight into my pillow, burying my face in it.

“You ready, Dani?” Alicia asked. I nodded my head into the pillow.

We had agreed that another couple dozen would likely get my ass looking punished enough. The lashes came, hard jolts of immense pain, spaced about ten seconds apart. Each one brought pain to my consciousness I had never imagined. The pain accumulated until I lost control and started to whimper, then cry bitterly. Soon my crying was punctuated by drawn out wails after each lash. I no longer heard the cracks of the belt on my skin, I only felt the pain. Soon I took a big bite of my pillow, kept it between my teeth, the better to help me manage my suffering.

Finally (I had no real sense of how long I had been whipped), Alicia touched my back. I jumped at the contact; my senses not able to tell immediately that it was not the belt starting in a new place.

“We’re done,” was all she said, and she and Gloria and Monica filed out of the room.

I lay inert for I do not know how long, calming myself. My face was still in my pillow, and I realized for the first time how wet it was with tears. At last I felt the strength to rise. My first stop was the bathroom. When I looked at my ass in the full-length, I got lightheaded and felt a bit nauseous, amazed at the clotted mass of red welts my ass had become.

I peed, holding myself squatting over the bowl, not wanting my welts in contact with the seat. Then I went back to my room. I did not put underpants on, just a loose skirt with an elastic waist to keep any pressure or friction from my ass. I went to the kitchen and dining area where the rest of the girls were.

I immediately went to Alicia and hugged her tight, knowing what an ordeal laying those lashes on my ass must have been for her.

“Thank you,” I said, pulling her tighter. I thanked them all and hugged Monica and Gloria in turn.

I tried sitting in a chair around the dining table with the other girls as we shared wine. I bent slowly, gingerly setting my ass gently onto the seat, but knew immediately from the warning pain leaping to my brain that sitting on my raw ass was not something I wanted to do yet. So, I stood and talked with the others, thinking for a moment of Toni and the ground round ass that once a month obliged her to stand while talking in the church hall after service. We sipped our wine and conversed for a while.

A little later I went to bed, sleeping on my stomach, thinking that my plan was another step closer to completion, and would be over soon. I tried it out: let my fingers wander to my clit while I concentrated on the pain from my ass and conjured the pictures of my bondage and distress. Nothing. So I guess it’s not bondage or S&M. With that thought I fell into sleep.
 
Chapter Eight (Part 1 of 3)


“So, you guys are sure you’ve got the nuggets for this?” I asked, standing in the study room, my pants up again. I shut off my laptop and started to stow it in my backpack.

“Hey, we’re there,” Ed assured me.

Mac nodded his agreement and said, “You said you initiate us?”

“I’m the one who found you,” I said, “so I’m the one who has to find out if you’ve got what it takes that we should take a chance on you.”

“So, how does that go?” Ed asked.

“You’ll be here at eight o’clock Saturday night.” I said and handed Mac a slip of paper with the number of the suite I had already booked at the local Hilton.

Well, hey, if you are going to do something like this you might as well blow a few baby-sitting bucks and do it in style. Right? Also, the girls and I did not want Ed and Mac to know where we live. We were sure this would be the best we could do to keep that information secret.

“Okay,” Ed said.

“I’m initiating you, so I set the terms of the bet,” I said. “Once you’re in the group you can set whatever you want to win. But don’t worry, this bet will be fair. You’re not going to get just a pat on the back if you win.”

“Okay,” Mac said. I had learned by now that these guys have an extremely limited vocabulary.

I cleared my throat. “We’re going to play strip poker, me against the two of you together. You win you roast me on the dick spit. You get to do it two times so we don’t have any squabbling about who gets which end. You each get a turn at both.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mac enthusiastically.

Ed looked confused, which was not exactly difficult for him: it pretty much seemed his natural state. This time, though, there really was something he might have a legitimate question about.

“So, how do we play strip poker with the two of us together against you?” he asked.

“Simple,” I said, “we just play hands of poker. If both of your hands beat mine then I have to take something off. If one of your hands is higher than mine and the other lower the hand is a draw. If I beat both your hands then both of you have to take something off. We play until either I or the both of you are bare-assed.”

They both looked as if they had just heard the complicated secret for putting a Saturn V rocket together. They saw how it evened the game and made it possible for one person to play against two in a way that was fair to both sides.

I could not imagine how I could lose. Well, I could, but I have explained to you what I had observed Saturday night: how the boys always play for the high hand, rather than play to avoid the lowest hand. I could just keep avoiding the low hand consistently, resulting mostly in draw after draw, and wait for the periodic high hand to slowly strip them. Whether that reasoning would work with only three playing, rather than four or five or six, was an open question.

“So, what do we have to do if we lose?” Mac asked.

“Okay, here’s what I want,” I said, and proceeded to outline for them the bet Aunt Roberta had made with Paul and Hank all those years ago. “If you lose you both jerk off onto a plate. You lick that plate clean. Then you’re going to take turns sucking each other off.” I paused. “Yes, you will swallow,” I said, quoting what Aunt Roberta had said to Paul and Hank word-for-word. I noticed their faces both redden considerably when I mentioned the reciprocal blowjobs.

“Shit, Dani,” Ed said, “I don’t know.”

“Then we’re done here,” I said, and closed the last zipper on my backpack. “That’s why we do this. To make sure the guys who want to join are not weenies; that they can pay off a bet when they lose.” I gave the welted ass they had just seen a slap. “I’ve got the cojones to pay my bets; I guess you guys don’t.” I shouldered my backpack and moved toward the door.

“Hey, hey, Dani, Dani,” Mac said, “hey, we didn’t mean we’re no longer interested.”

I paused in my motion but remained facing the door.

“Yeah,” added Ed, “the idea just takes a second or two to get used to. Besides, with how bad we saw you play the other night….well. We’ll pay off if we lose.”

A smile formed on my lips, then I suppressed it and turned back to face them, ready to review the main selling point.

“You go through this initiation and you’re going to meet some people. Some very interesting people. You’ll pay off a few bets you lose, but you’ll never want for getting laid again. You’ll be hip deep in pussy.” I don’t know where that last sentence came from. Maybe I heard it in a movie.

“Okay, Dani,” Mac said. “Don’t get us wrong. We’ll be there and whatever happens happens. We definitely want in.” Now that I had them practically begging it was time to lay my last two agenda items on them.

“My three apartment mates will be there,” I said. I was not meeting the two of them alone in a room with a bed. I used the term ‘apartment mates’ just so if they had hard feelings after all this and wanted to risk payback, they would be looking for the wrong type of residence. “You’ll pay off in front of them if you lose; you’ll fuck me in front of them if you win.”

They did not dispute the basic fact of Alicia, Gloria, and Monica being there. I was glad I did not have to waste my time setting them straight on that.

“Well,” said Mac, “if you can have three of your friends there can we have three of our frat brothers there?”

I was gravitating toward the conviction that Mac was essentially Stan Laurel, the simpleton of the duo. Ed laid a solid smack on the back of Mac’s head.

“Ow!” Mac exclaimed. “What’d you do that for?”

“What if we lose, numb nuts?” asked Ed. “You want three of our frat brothers there to watch us suck each other off?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Mac conceded, “I guess not.”

“Ya think?” said Ed.

Now I laid the last condition on them.

“The payoff of the bet either way gets recorded,” I said. “I have to show it to the others. It’s to prove you played and were honest. If I lose, then the rest of the members get to see that you won, and they’ll be willing to put you on probation and give you a tryout. If you lose it shows them you paid off and are okay to be admitted. You guys all right with that?”

They both nodded their assent.

“Okay, that’s all,” I said. “I put my cell number on that paper so you can call me if your balls begin to sweat too much and you have to weenie out. Eight o’clock on Saturday. Be there or have blue balls.”

I walked out the door and down the hall.


* * * * * * * *


So, there: I had laid out the bet to mirror exactly the terms of the bet Aunt Roberta had made with her two lab assistants. I had thought about this bet. Could I get the guys to do these things with a camera rolling without it? Could I just call doing these things an initiation and have them roll over and do them? I did not know, but I didn’t think so. After a lot of thought I had concluded that this had to be wrapped up in a bet. It was what this group was supposed to be about.

But truth? I was beginning to sense that I didn’t so much need this bet as I wanted it: that if I could do this another way I wouldn’t want to. This was my choice, my preference, a risk I wanted to explore.

I thought this was a card game and a bet I could win. Ed and Mac suck at poker, but this variety of poker is still largely a game of luck. I was betting my body on a game that truly could go either way. Frankly, I was beginning to relish the idea, the tension, that my fate rested on the outcome of a card game.

It was Friday and I had a baby-sitting job that evening. The couple was one of my regular clients. He was into cross-dressing; she was into using a strap on. The last file I had watched he had been bent over the dining table, his skirt pulled to his waist, panties around one ankle, while she banged his ass for quite some time. She would pause every time her excitement began to build too high: take herself down a notch and then begin to climb again. Eventually she came, the dildo deep into his ass, her hips grinding, a high-pitched screech leaving her mouth.

After she had come back down, they hugged for a while, kissed. Then he was on his knees, the strap-on put away, using his mouth on her while she stood before him. After she had enjoyed a second orgasm, she was on her knees sucking him. At the end she took his erection in her hand, stroking it and guiding his cum into her wide-open mouth.

When I had booked the job, I’d been looking forward to seeing if they had a new episode to view, and if not then delving back further into their library. However, when I got settled in and they had left I found I wasn’t interested. I wondered about that and considered that my disinterest might be because now I’d been in the middle of my own kinky scenario last night and – although my exact role was as yet undetermined - had another on tap for tomorrow night. After their seven-month-old was asleep, I spent the remainder of the evening studying for a Monday test in my Regression and Analysis of Variance class. Aced it.


* * * * * * * *
 
Chapter Eight (Part 2 of 3)


Gloria, Alicia, Monica, and I checked into the hotel at three o’clock Saturday. Hey, if we had the suite we might as well get our money’s worth out of it. I was treating. It was the least I could do after all they had done to support me in my little project. My reservoir of baby-sitting money was sloshing abundantly.

Alicia, Gloria, and I visited the spa. We were a group with quite peculiar and individual needs. Gloria got the mani, pedi and massage. Monica took a pass on all but the massage. And Alicia and I had to take a pass on the massage, not wanting the massage lady to faint dead away when she got a look at our asses. But I got the absurd purple paint removed from my toenails, switching it out for some clear enamel. Then we went to the pool. Swimming was out of the question for Alicia and me, what with the condition of our butts. But, while Monica and Gloria swam and played in the pool, we two poor victims put towels around our waists and luxuriated in the sauna.

Afterward, we went to the game room and played pool. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw Monica drop shot after shot, moving her short, Earth Mother frame around the table with confidence and authority. When I questioned her, she explained that she had been a shy teen and had not had many friends in high school. All those hours other kids spent hanging out she spent either on extracurriculars or at home playing pool. They had always had a table. Her father had taught her the basics, and she decided to get good at it. Why not? I filed this information away. Considering the current project I was working on, I thought I would have to take Monica aside some time and make some suggestions to her.

We had a lovely dinner in the hotel restaurant and were back at the suite by a little after seven o’clock. All we had to do now was wait and see if the boys showed.

They did, knocking on the door five minutes early. As I went to open the door my mind was again on The Sting. I flashed on that chapter title card with the three thoroughbreds racing. Here we were at The Sting itself. I just hoped and prayed this wouldn’t end up being the special anniversary edition director’s cut with the alternate ending where Doyle Lonnegan gets wind of the caper before hand and sends all his goons to smoke everyone in the place.

I showed them in and introduced them and the girls to each other. They each had a bottle of beer in a stay-cold sleeve. We all stood around making small talk for a few minutes, but the game was on all our minds, and conversations and observations, comparisons of majors and classes went nowhere.

“Well,” I offered, “ready to play?” Mac and Ed gave each other a look and they both said they were ready.

I took out the deck of cards I had bought for the occasion, showed the boys the intact seal on the pack. We sat down at the table and I broke the seal and began shuffling cards. As I did this, I reviewed the rules of how the game was played for this occasion, and what the bet payoffs were for each of us if we lost. We evened our clothing, putting six pieces between our present state and nudity, defeat, and humiliation.

We cut the cards for first deal, and the honor fell to me.

I shuffled the cards a few times again and offered the deck to Mac for a cut. I took a little breath and started dealing. As I did so I reflected on the inescapable fact that this game was not rigged or fixed in any way. It was still strip poker and largely a game of luck. I thought my theorizing about the advantage I had over the boys was sound, but I realized it was just that: theorizing.

Albert Einstein had theorized about a ‘cosmological constant,’ a modification to his Theory of General Relativity needed to postulate an unchanging universe. Then Edwin Hubble’s discovery of extremely distant and red-shifted galaxies proved Einstein’s idea wrong. Later in life Einstein had called the concept his worst blunder, although the discovery of cosmic acceleration in the 1990s had astronomers revisiting Einstein’s idea, theorizing that perhaps Einstein’s ‘cosmological constant’ does exist after all in the form of dark energy. Anyway, I hoped I also was not wrong in my theorizing. The fact that I am not an iota as smart as Einstein was not encouraging.

I lost the first three hands, taking the lowest position on all three. First my right heel and then my left came off. After the third hand, when I had had to take off my top, the boys were hooting. I spent a moment reflecting on luck and theories. God, I did not want to have to get on my hands and knees and get fucked by these two junior felons.

Aunt Roberta’s bet had been with a couple of guys who were six years younger than her: she twenty-five, they nineteen. As much as she had dreaded losing, Paul and Hank were just a couple of horny teens. Ed and Mac had the distinction of being documented sexual predators. Putting out for a couple of harmless boys with non-stop boners was one thing; getting it from a couple of predatory beasts was something else entirely.

I kept to my game plan: played for small hands, just good enough to avoid being the worst.

The next two hands were draws. Then I beat both boys’ hands for their first loss, and they both removed their shoes. We played another draw, and then they lost another hand, removing their socks. Three more draws. Then for the third time I showed the highest hand, and we were even, the boys now taking off their shirts.

We then played a total of six hands, one draw after the last. On the next hand I knew I would pull ahead. I put down two pair, an excellent strip poker hand, smiling. The boys dropped trey 7s and trey queens on me and my smile went away. I stood and removed my skirt.

This was getting too real now.

We played another draw and then I got three 9s and prayed for no surprises. This time there were none, and the boys stripped their tee shirts over their heads and off. We were tied again, each of us with two items left.

Two more draws and then I found myself on the losing end of another hand. My bra came off, and I again showed the boys the tits they had been so impressed by Saturday last.

My stomach was now continuously churning the Caesar salad within, and my heart, despite my efforts to calm myself, was racing. One more bad hand and all my work and preparation, my embarrassment and pain would be for nothing. I would have to spend the rest of the evening surrendering my body to two boys who represent the scum of the Earth.

However, I won the very next hand, and we were even again, the boys now out of their pants and sitting at the table in just their boxers.

We played a hand I was sure would end as a draw. I had a middling pair, 8s, and I thought it would likely be good enough not to lose. When Mac put down a pair of jacks my heart took off racing again. Even after Ed showed an ace high my heart did not slow appreciably.

Mac dealt, and when I saw my cards my heart leapt: 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Thank God. This was it. I was about to win. I took no cards, as did Ed. Mac took three and put down an ace high. I proudly put down my winning straight to the nine. Then Ed trumped them with a straight to the queen.

I shuffled and dealt, and we were at it again.

This time I found myself looking at a queen, 10, 7, 6, and 2. I kept the queen and 10 and tossed the other three. I got back a 7, 5, and 3 and my heart fell. Queen high. This was a loser for sure, and I prepared myself to be defeated. Defeated and fucked. That fate was now just a few seconds away, and I felt as if I was out of my body, floating half an inch above my chair.

“Shit,” I said and dropped my cards contemptuously on the table. Ed showed a pair of 5s, and Mac dropped a hand that I looked at with nothing but fear. 3, 4, 6, 7, 10. Incredibly, I had survived the hand. And I had survived because Mac had played for the high hand again and come up short. Truly a stupid move. There were only four cards that could finish his straight, the four fives, and as it turned out Ed had two of them. By keeping the 6 and 7 and taking three cards he would have had three chances to get one of fourteen cards - one of other three sixes or one of the other three sevens, or any of the four kings or four aces - that would have given him a hand that beat mine. And that did not even include other possibilities.

Still, my face was hot, and I could not stop my mind from going places I would rather it not go. While Ed shuffled for the next hand, I pictured what would be happening this moment had Mac played his hand without his head up his ass.

I step out of my underwear. The boys’ eyes again take in my nude body. They laugh, mock. Then I am walking naked into the suite’s bedroom, defeated. The boys are laughing, cheering, and congratulating each other. I advance to one of the beds, crawl on, position myself on my hands and knees, spread my legs, just as Aunt Roberta had been obliged to do. I feel one of the boys behind me, the other’s hard cock at my mouth. Then one cock pushes painfully into my barely moist vagina. Obedient to the obligation imposed on me by my lost bet, I open my mouth and fit it around a second hard cock.

Then two cocks begin to move inside me, picking up speed and force, using my body, no need to be gentle or considerate. Blinding pain jumps from my scalp as the one in front pulls my hair forcefully. Both cocks wantonly take the pleasure their owners have won. The boys are soon absorbed in the sensations from their cocks and their approaching orgasms that will leave a load of one’s cum in my vagina and the other’s cum pouring into my mouth. But before they reach that point, they began to laugh. This stupid bitch thinks she could beat them, and I hear the words they speak to shame and humiliate me, mock and degrade me.
 
Chapter Eight (Part 3 of 3)


Before those words could form in my mind, I pulled myself from my thoughts.

My heart had seemed congested from the moment I’d thought my queen-high hand to be a loser until the moment I broke my reverie. Now it seemed to clear and pump again freely. My face felt numb.

I had dodged a bullet and I knew it.

Ed was distributing cards. After discarding and getting new cards I had a pair of jacks, and I supposed we likely would end in a draw on this hand too. At least I hoped we would. Ed showed a pair of 4s, so I knew that at least I had survived to play another hand. Then Mac turned over his pair of 10s.

The girls, who had been sitting and standing nearby, broke into loud cheers and laughs even before I had registered that I’d won. Then they were all over me: hugging me, kissing my cheeks, mussing my hair. When we had finished with our celebration the boys were standing, but still in their boxers.

I put the issue nakedly before them. “So, are you guys welchers?”

They looked shocked and almost ready to cry. Mac’s eyes were shiny.

“No, we’ll do it,” Ed said. Mac voiced his assent. They glanced at each other briefly and then pulled their boxers down and off, two boners bouncing into view.

I thought, You were right, Emily! This is just the most hilarious sight imaginable! This is just great!

We girls started another little celebration.

“Good,” I encouraged them, speaking as I put my clothes back on. “You’ll be glad tomorrow you did, and really glad for the next year.” Keep their eyes fixed on the prize.

We directed the boys into the bedroom of the suite. There were two queen beds. Alicia and Gloria sat on the inside edges of the beds up near the head. I was just ahead of Gloria, feet off the bed, lying on my side, propped up by an elbow. Monica had gotten her camera and was setting it up on a tripod between the two beds just behind Alicia and Gloria. After finishing her setup Monica leaned back on the night table between the two beds.

“Oh, oh, wait!” said Alicia, jumping up and going into the other room. She brought back her purse and two dinner plates. She put the plates on the inside corner of each bed. “Almost forgot those. I brought them from home, but, you know, I think we’ll just leave them here when we go.” Always the planner and doer.

The boys stood nervously back about five feet from the foot of the beds. Their cocks, which had been hard as rocks when their boxers had hit the floor, had gone as limp as overcooked pasta now that they stood naked in front of their little audience of already smiling, giggling, mocking women. Again, Alicia was on it. She reached into her purse and pulled out a tube of lube and tossed it to Mac.

“Get going, boys,” Alicia said. She was laughing, her eyes sparkling, as she said, “I can’t wait to see this.”

The boys greased their hands and got going. They kept at it for a few minutes, but apparently this scene was not as big a turn-on for them as choking girls into submission. Their dicks remained flaccid, entirely wilted.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Alicia said. “These boys need a little encouragement. Dani has inspired me, and I’ve come up with a little game that might help them.” The three of us voiced our willingness, and Alicia continued. “Okay, here’s the deal. You get five seconds to come up with a euphemism for male masturbation. If you make it the next person has five seconds. The other three will count. The first time you don’t make it you have to strip from the waist up. The next time you strip to your undies. The third time you’re butt naked. Let’s see if our fine bodies can’t inspire these boys. Alphabetical order: I’ll go first, then Dani, then Gloria, then Monica.”

We all understood the rules of our little game, and Alicia started off while the boys watched and pulled on their limp dicks. “Beat the meat,” Alicia said.

I was next and thought for just a moment as the other three counted. By two I said, “Spank the frank.”

Gloria said, “Oh, good one, Dani. Pull the pud.”

Monica was ready, “Stroke the oar!”

Alicia did not bat an eyelash, “Whip the lizard.”

My brain froze as the girls counted to three and then four, “Um, shit, um, um, Bang your bacon!” I said just in time.

Gloria’s count was also to four before she blurted, “Flog the dolphin!”

Monica ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed’ but could not come up with anything before we reached five.

“Shit!” she exclaimed. “Brain fart! I just couldn’t think of anything.” She stood and pulled off her top. She was braless, and her big round Earth Mother boobs bounced into view. She stuck them out to the boys and pinched her nipples.

The boys’ cocks responded splendidly.

Alicia let out, “Slap the salami!”

The moments it took Monica to strip off her top and tease the boys were ones I had put to good use. “Burp the baby!”

Gloria had almost faltered last time, and this time did. “Oh, man,” she said. A moment later her top and bra were off, and she was holding her boobs up and together, running her tongue over her nipples, the boys’ cocks growing redder at the sight.

Monica laughed and said, “Slam the ham!”

Alicia must know them all. “Choke the chicken,” she said without hesitation.

As the girls counted, I stammered. “Um, oh, oh. Oh shit, shit, shit.” Just as they were about to say five, I said, “Tickle the pickle!” I have no idea where that one came from. I don’t think any of the girls had heard it before, but no one objected. It had all the right elements: a noun that suggested the shape of an erection and a verb that either rhymed or was alliterative.

Gloria said, “Poke the pork!”

Monica was stuck again, and we were soon to five. She took down her jeans and the boys got a view of her beautiful round hips and thighs.

Then we all seemed to find fresh inspiration and our entries came in quick succession.

Alicia: “Hone the bone!”

Monica’s strip once again had given me the moment I needed to be ready. “Doodle your noodle!”

Gloria: “Wax your weasel!”

Monica: “Jerkin’ the gherkin!”

Alicia: “Here’s one I’ll bet you haven’t heard. Dishonorable discharge!”

Me: “Pound the flounder!”

Gloria: “One-gun salute!”

Monica: “Jack your joystick!”

Alicia still did not slow down at all. “Saw the log!” she said.

After such a flurry of entries I needed a few seconds before my muse provided a revelation, but I was quickly out with, “Whack the whammy!”

Gloria must have been inspired by Alicia’s contribution. “Lube the lumber!”

Monica came through again, this time with, “Crank the shank!”

Alicia, ready as always, said, “Shake the steak!”

I was still going strong, “Buff the banana!”

Gloria ‘ohhed’ and jumped a little like she had to pee bad, her boobs bouncing. As we all counted four, she said, “Pump the python!”

I thought Monica was toast this time, but before three she was out with, “Hitchhike to heaven!”

Alicia, probably with dozens more under her belt and ready, said, “Tug the slug!”

I had to think for precious moments, as the girls counted in threatening voices, but just before they reached five, I said, “Slake the snake!”

Gloria was running out of gas too, but by the count of three offered, “Spank the monkey!”

Monica was once again momentarily stuck, but we were not yet close to five before she said, “Thump your pump!”

Alicia was out with an offering before we could even start counting. “Milk the maggot!”

I was lost. I could not think of another one to save my life, and soon I was taking my top and bra off for the second time that evening. I could see the boys were breathing hard, looking at Monica’s body and my and Gloria’s tits. They seemed distant.

Gloria said, “Yank your plank!”

Then Monica just sat there and said nothing; didn’t even try. We counted to five, and she stood behind her camera, pulled her underwear down to her feet and kicked them off. The boys were staring at her big, dark, natural bush, and I wondered, When was the last time, do you suppose, they’ve seen a real bush?

Mac broke for his plate, followed seconds later by Ed. They left them on the corners of the bed, dipping their knees down, pointing their dicks at the plates from just inches away. Then they were spilling their cum, their eyes moving from my tits to Monica’s tits to Gloria’s tits to Monica’s bush.

The boys were moaning with pleasure as they pumped cum onto the plates. Their legs seemed a bit shaky. After a few moments they seemed to come back to their full senses. Both looked down at their plate, their next task before them. Literally.
 
Chapter Nine (Part 1 of 3)


Monica, still nude, unscrewed the camera from its tripod and brought it to her eye, apparently wanting to get some interesting angles of the boys engaged in their next activity.

“Well?” I stated. The boys made little ‘oh, shit,’ ‘oh, fuck’ kinds of noises.

“You know,” I observed, “I’m sure this is going to be a lot more palatable warm than cold.”

That thought got them to their knees in front of their plates. Finally, Mac just went for it, his face in his plate. We heard lapping and sucking noises, and we all had a good laugh, particularly when we saw his torso heave, rejecting the unaccustomed taste and texture.

Ed was soon doing the same, having his own little experience with the taste of cum. It took a few moments, but the boys were soon running their tongues over their plates in wide arcs, cleaning the last of their juice from the surface. The entire activity was accompanied by commentary and considerable laughter from the four of us. Monica was over at her camera, recording their faces in close-up, as they accomplished their task.

The boys finished, both with a bit of cum remaining on their noses and chins. Gloria took the lead, approaching the boys, her boobs still bare and bouncing slightly. She used her finger to collect the extraneous cum and, saying “Open”, deposited it in their mouths in turn.

“You two are such good little cum lickers,” Gloria observed, patting Ed on the cheek. The boys looked defeated and shell-shocked. Their cocks were still at half-staff. I was in a mood to get this over with.

“Well, I’m surprised, but I guess you guys maybe have the balls to pay your bets. So, let’s finish this off. Ed, get on your knees and suck off Mac,” I said, all business in my voice. To my surprise, he complied without any complaint or resistance. Mac turned toward him, his cock parallel to the floor, straight at Ed’s mouth. Monica sat on the edge of one of the beds with her camera to bring herself down to about the same height as Mac’s cock and Ed’s mouth.

As soon as Ed was kneeling Mac’s cock, which had begun to droop, reacted like I have never seen. From half-staff and droopy it shot to straight up and rock hard in one second flat. Ed’s head and neck moved forward toward Mac’s cock several times, as he tried to get up the nerve to put his mouth around a dick for the first time. Finally, he made brief contact with the head of Mac’s cock. He backed off, sat back on his heels.

I decided to remain silent, not demanding or encouraging. He knew he had to do this, and I wanted to watch the entertaining show of him coming around to doing it on his own. After a couple of short moments Ed came to his knees again, and all in one motion took hold of Mac’s straight-to-the-ceiling cock and bent it down, opened his mouth and closed it with Mac halfway in him.

The upward force of Mac’s insistent erection made Ed come higher on his knees, his face now above Mac’s cock rather than in front of it. His head soon began to move up and down, Mac’s pole disappearing into and emerging from Ed's mouth.

“Shit! Fuck!” Mac exclaimed. “Watch the fuckin’ teeth, man!”

We all got a good laugh out of that one.

Mac at first looked stricken, a man’s mouth around his cock for the first time, but that look quickly faded and he began to moan with pleasure. This was not some little frosh co-ed he had off by herself, whom he’d forced himself on; not some poor girl whose hair he was ripping out by the roots and whose mouth he had shoved his cock into; not some naïve girl out on a casual date with a guy who was pretty good looking, wondering and judging if he was worth a second date, then finding his hands on her, being overpowered and used.

Mac’s look of mortification was soon gone. He was responding to the stimulation of Ed’s mouth, his breath deepening almost immediately, and moaning involuntarily. Ed’s mouth was moving on Mac’s cock. At first, he had been timid, but now he was moving with abandon, slurping Mac’s cock in and out, sounds of pleasure escaping from him. They were both oblivious and clearly enjoying the sensations they were feeling.

Mac’s eyes were now closed, his body posture indicating that all his mental attention was focused on his cock. Then Mac’s hands went to Ed’s head. Rather than pulling hair as he had so often done with the dates he’d raped; he was running his hands over Ed’s hair with what looked like affection.

Now, all of this had taken about two or three minutes. Then it was clear that Mac was emptying his balls into Ed’s mouth. Ed’s eyes were wide as he experienced sensations he had not before, and likely never imagined he would. Ed was swallowing, gulping, and a moment later Mac slowly pulled his cock from Ed’s mouth. I could have sworn I saw Ed plant a kiss on the head as it left his mouth.

Interesting reactions for macho man rape artists, I thought.

We girls had not said anything. I had certainly never watched a show like that, and I was all but certain the other girls hadn’t either.

“You make sure you swallow all that tasty cream now, Ed,” Gloria said, and Ed’s throat swelled slightly as he swallowed the last, and then took his finger and wiped a little trickle of cum from the corner of his mouth and sucking it clean.

“Mmmmm. You must like the taste of egg salad omelet,” Monica said from behind her camera. Mac was standing with his eyes closed, his breath slowing.

We girls, who had been watching in silence while this little scene unfolded, now broke into raucous laughter. After a few minutes of this Alicia took charge. “Okay, Mac,” she said, “time to get your tonsils tickled.”

At this point the boys’ world had been turned so upside down, their conception of the relations between the sexes so torn and mutilated, that they were quite compliant. They had apparently never had an experience in which their sexual agenda had not been the reigning paradigm, never been in a situation in which the woman they were with was not browbeaten or battered into compliance.

I and Gloria put our tops back on, and Monica stepped into her pants and pulled her shirt over her head. We figured the boys had seen enough. Ed had sat on the edge of the bed, seemingly oblivious. His cock was mostly hard, clearly aroused. Mac knelt before Ed. I had thought Ed’s cock was hard, but as Mac’s mouth approached it came up straighter. There was a noticeable increase in its excited state: it swelled more, and the redness deepened.

Well, this is all very interesting, I thought.

Then Mac took Ed’s cock into his mouth, feeling for the first time the rubbery hardness of an erection, the pliability of the head. Ed reclined back on the bed, resting on his elbows. He immediately began to moan, his eyes closed, his hips beginning to move.

Last time we had quietly watched. This time my three friends decided to take advantage of the opportunity, both to be more actively entertained and to pile some humiliation on a couple of guys who were more than deserving.

Mac’s head began to bob up and down now, and his own cock, despite two orgasms within the last fifteen minutes was rising, hardening again.

“Wooohooo,” said Alicia, “you sure do like to eat cock there Mac.”

Gloria: “How do you like having a man’s mouth around your cock, Ed?”

Monica: “Think his cum is gonna to taste better than yours, Mac?”

Gloria again: “You must have been practicing on some other cocks, Mac, cause you sure are deep-throatin’ Ed’s trouser snake.”

Alicia: “That’s one all day sucker you’ve got in your mouth, Mac.”

The boys were mostly oblivious, again deeply focused on the activity in which they were engaged. Still, with each comment Ed’s excitement seemed to build. His hands were soon on Mac’s head, holding Mac’s mouth on his cock.

Monica: “You’re ridin’ that baloney pony with your mouth, Mac.”

Gloria: “I thought you’d have a bratwurst in your pants, Ed, but that’s just a little Vienna sausage.”

Monica: “How’s that corn dog for a late-night snack, Mac?”

Alicia: “Can I get you some mustard and ketchup for that tube steak, Mac?”

Gloria: “You really know how to give a knob job there, Mac.”

Monica: “Shit, Mac, you sure can play that skin flute.”

We could all tell that Ed was now reaching a peak of excitement. His orgasm seemed imminent.

Gloria: “I think that love torpedo’s about to explode.”

Monica: “Yeah, the meat missile is about blast off. Wait, wait. We have lift off!”

Indeed, Ed had risen to his feet, still holding Mac’s mouth on his cock. Mac’s head was now bent back as Ed invaded his mouth from above. Then he was emptying into Mac’s mouth. Mac was making sounds of enjoyment. As Mac’s mouth filled with cum Ed held fast, his face pointed to the ceiling, his eyes closed, breathing hard, slamming his cock in and out of Mac’s mouth.

Alicia had the last word. “Yes, the sperminator has spoken!”
 
BEThalia said:
Since I started posting these stories here I've been very cognizant of the fact that they tend to be not the best for a forum like this - they are complete stories (read LONG and complex) and involve way too much skimming for way too little 'good part' payoff. But I approach my writing that the good parts are learning about the characters and the plot surprises.

Whatever does it for you HT is fine with me, and I'm glad you are finding enjoyment here!!
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I have read it all so far, which I don’t many times do with a long stories. In this case, it seems important to understand who she is. In my book, she qualifies as a very interesting person.
 
Stungiskhan said:
I have read it all so far, which I don’t many times do with a long stories. In this case, it seems important to understand who she is. In my book, she qualifies as a very interesting person.
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Thank you for taking a few minutes to express your enjoyment, stungiskhan. I very much appreciate that kind of engagement. And glad you are enjoying the story. Have you also read Ellen and Roberta? If so were they good for you? Since you take the trouble to engage your view is important to me. Do you think it worthwhile to go on to the fourth story? It is about Dani's older sister and Roberta's other niece, Emily. Anyway, thanks for sharing your ideas, and glad you are enjoying the story.
 
BEThalia said:
Thank you for taking a few minutes to express your enjoyment, stungiskhan. I very much appreciate that kind of engagement. And glad you are enjoying the story. Have you also read Ellen and Roberta? If so were they good for you? Since you take the trouble to engage your view is important to me. Do you think it worthwhile to go on to the fourth story? It is about Dani's older sister and Roberta's other niece, Emily. Anyway, thanks for sharing your ideas, and glad you are enjoying the story.
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I haven't read your other stories yet, and I didn't finish this one either. It was getting too late, which means 3am for me. I'm still quite new here and have spent maybe too much time browsing past content. There's quite a lot of it, but I'll catch up. A long story needs special moment, since I should read them in one pass. When reading in English, I can't remember them same way than using my native language, I have to rely on the image forming on my head, and it don't stay there very long.

I'll probably try to find time to read the rest of this one today. I'm anxious to know what happens. I have had few options in my mind, and that's a sign of a good story and interesting person. Does she get caught sniffing people's stuff, punished and highly turned on by it, or does she take her social experiments even further by submitting on painful punishments just for her curiosity to find out people's reactions. If she does, Is it going to turn her on and how far she's ready to go. Some people here, for sure, would like to see her as a sexual predator, who first seduce people, then torture and finally kill them in brutal ways. Again, just for curiosity.

Two first these scenarios would be interesting for me, as well as many others, most likely the actual continuation of this one.
 
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