0 comments/ 48242 views/ 0 favorites Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet Ch. 01 By: BONNIEBREA This story is presented in a total of five parts. There is this chapter one. Following this will be a chapter 2A with a part one and two, and a chapter 2B with a part one and two. I think the story hangs together fine on its own, but I think having read the stories Roberta & Patrick's Bet and Roberta's Bet will increase your enjoyment of this story. The story is complete and all installments have been submitted so hopefully you should be able to begin reading the story and have an installment to read each day to the story's conclusion. As always your comments and observations are very welcome. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet -- Chapter One "OK. Seven card no peak. How does that go again?" I asked. "I thought you'd remember, Roberta," said Patrick. "We've played this before." "I know," I said, "but it's been such a long while. Indulge me. Please. If I'm betting my ass on a game I'd really like to be reminded how to play it." "Well, if you insist," Patrick said with a little smile. "You get seven cards all face down and you can't look at them. We turn over the top card on what's left of the deck, and then the first player turns their cards over one at a time until they beat the up card. "For example, if the top card is a 5 and you're going first then you start turning over cards one at a time until you have beaten the 5. If you turn a 6 or higher with your first card you're done. But you might have to turn more cards before you've beaten the 5. Now, if the turned card is an ace, then the first player will have to turn at least two cards, and likely more, before they get a pair to beat the ace. "The starting stake is one piece of clothing. But when that first player beats the up card they have the option to up the bet by one piece of clothing to two. The second player must agree to that or fold. If they agree then the bet on the hand is then two pieces. But if they fold then they have to lose the two pieces plus another as a penalty for folding. After the first player has beaten the up card the second player goes. They turn cards one at a time until they beat whatever the first player has. Say the first player beat the 5 with a king. The second player turns cards until they have an ace or a pair or some other combination that beats the king high. "At that point that player has the option to up the bet by a piece of clothing. If the first player accepts then the bet on the hand is now three pieces, but if they fold they would have to take off three plus a fourth as the penalty for folding. "The hand is over when all of both players' cards have been exposed, and the winner is the player with the highest five card hand. The loser then has to remove however many pieces to which the bet has accumulated. The game is over when Roberta is naked." I snorted at his presumption. "Don't count on it, Sweetness," I said. "I remember this game now, and do I remember cleaning your clock the last time we played?" "Well, they say that with age the memory is the first thing to go," Patrick said. I socked him on his shoulder. We were sitting on the living room carpet next to the coffee table. It was Saturday night, the kids off to grandma's again. A fire was burning in the hearth, two glasses of wine near at hand. I sat cross-legged and Patrick had his bent legs out to the side, leaning into the table, his bent left arm resting on the table's surface. For this bet we had decided to put eight pieces between us and defeat: top and bottom underwear for both of us, top and bottom on the outside, and counting each shoe and each piece of hosiery separately. We never anticipated the game would be over with one hand. "Deal the cards," I said. "No, on second thought I'll deal." I picked up the deck and shuffled eight or ten times, then began dealing cards. When we each had seven Patrick let his sit on the carpet as they had fallen. I arranged mine into a neat little stack. I turned the top card on the deck to reveal a 7. "OK," I said to Patrick, "beat a seven." He selected one of his cards that were helter-skelter before him and turned it. A 4. He turned another to reveal a 6. His next turn produced a 5. He cleared his throat, sounding nervous. "Oh, my," I said, "having trouble beating a little 'ol seven?" I giggled a little. He selected another card and turned it. A 7. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. Technically, his 7-6 beat the 7, but by about as little as it could. I put my fingers to my mouth, more than a giggle escaping this time. "Oh, goodness. Four cards to beat a teensy little seven. I think I like where this is going." Four cards to get to a seven-high. "Maybe you're laughing a little too much to notice, but from where I'm sitting that looks like a nice straight on the way," Patrick observed. "I'll happily add a piece of clothing to the bet." "OK. It's two," I said. I reached for the top card on my tidy little pile. As I did so I reflected on why we were sitting here. It was a few months ago, on Patrick's birthday in February, that I had lured him into a cribbage match, offering him my ass to fuck all night if he won, but a night of his subservience to me if I won. Well, let's just say I discovered a few things about myself that night as I gave orders and Patrick obeyed. You'll know all about it if you've read Roberta and Patrick's Bet. What I discovered I liked very much. Years ago, as a graduate student, I had suffered humiliation, sexual subservience, and public nudity at the hands of two horny sophomores because of a lost bet. But I had finally had the chance to turn the tables. Patrick was my little toy all night and into the next morning and I found myself experiencing emotions, and orgasms, I had never felt before. This wasn't something I wanted us to be at all the time. But, yes, I found I could from time to time like very, very much being in the driver's seat, the dominant female with a male to use for her amusement and pleasure. And Patrick liked it too. Well, alright, let's not say 'liked.' But he said he was fine with the premise: that he had risked the little humiliations and degradations I had subjected him to in the hope of winning something he very much wanted; that he had simply lost and had to pay-off. And he did so honorably. It was not the night he would have chosen, but he was all right with honoring his bet and accepting his role. When we had discussed the experience afterward he said he, of course, would have preferred to win, but that the little exercises I had put him through were entirely bearable, and that he would risk them again for the right to put me in a position to be compelled to honor a disagreeable, but hardly impossible, lost bet. I could have pursued the activity again right away, make another bet that would resolve into submission on one side, dominance on the other. But I thought I'd wait for Patrick to do the suggesting were he really interested. And a few days ago he did. He suggested this game and, even though we were alone in our bedroom at the time, he whispered into my ear the forfeits he wanted me to perform if I lost. I had a little, involuntary shiver of dread at the thought of losing. He suggested this Saturday evening as our play date. The kids were off to grandma's. They had not been there for a weekend sleepover for more than a month, so it was a treat for which they were more than ready. And Patrick suggested I should think of what I wanted should he lose. I thought about it and this morning, the two of us alone again, I whispered into his ear his fate were he to end up the vanquished. Patrick seemed interested in what I proposed, and we talked for a few minutes, bringing our two suggestions into closer conformity with each other. The loser of our card game would have three forfeits to perform, and they would be similar for both of us. Well, a successful marriage is all about compromise. Right? The look on Patrick's face indicated to me that he found the consequence for losing every bit as undesirable as I did. But I hoped I had the better poker face. I turned my first card. A queen. "Well, now. Ahead with one card," I observed. "I think that's worth raising the stake another piece of clothing. Don't you think, Sugar?" "I'm with you," Patrick said. "Three it is." Patrick took a little breath and selected another card to turn. A 6. Now it was his turn to smile. "A pair of sixes beats a queen high, now doesn't it? I'd say we're at four pieces?" I just nodded my assent. I turned my next card to find an ace. A nice card, but it didn't beat Patrick's pair. Then I turned an 8, and then a jack. Now it was me futilely turning my very limited number of cards, looking for a winner, beginning to sweat. But with the fifth card it finally came: a second ace. Now Patrick and I had both spent five of our cards. I was ahead with a pair of aces to his pair of 6s. "Just two cards left," I observed. "You have the balls to raise it to five pieces?" "Oh, I've got them. You had them in your hand not long ago in a rather uncomfortable way if I remember right," Patrick said. "But that was then and this is now. Five." I looked over the five cards we each had exposed and noted that there was no possibility that either of us could make a flush with our two remaining cards. I'm sure Patrick noticed the same thing. Patrick selected one of his two remaining cards, turned it. A 4. Patrick's eyes got dreamy and far away. "I see....I see," he said, envisioning, "I see a woman named Roberta. I think she's...yes, she's paying off a bet! Two pair: 6s and 4s. Beats a pair of aces last time I checked. It's six pieces, unless you would like to fold now and at least get to keep your panties and survive to another hand." "No way, Bub. It's now six," I returned and immediately turned my next card. Ace. I laughed out loud, not sure if it was from amusement, superiority, or relief. I reached for that little extra card that is in the deck with the hand rankings on it. "Oh look," I said, "it says right here that three aces beats two pair. Boy these things sure do come in handy. It's seven pieces now Patrick, and if you fold you lose the extra piece so you will have lost the game." Patrick did look a little shaken. I think he might have folded were he not in a situation in which he would lose by doing so. I looked over the six exposed cards we each had. Patrick with a 4, 6, 5, 7, 6, 4. Me with a Queen, Ace, 8, Jack, Ace, Ace. "OK," he said a bit grimly. He picked up his last card, held it so only he could see the face. "Oh, the Amazing Selwyndini has foretold truthfully; the prophet has seen the future. Do I recall saying something about a straight?" He put his last card down: a 3 to complete a seven-high straight. His grin was ear to ear. "Now I suppose that's worth making the bet eight. Don't you think? You fold you lose. It's all up to that last card," he said. "OK," I said, feeling a bit as if I had some stuffing missing. I was so hoping to reprise my role as the female dominant queen, a little male slave to use for my pleasure and amusement. I looked over my cards. The fourth ace would make me a winner, but that was quite unlikely: a one in thirty-nine chance, about two-and-a-half-percent. The only other possibilities for victory were a second queen, eight, or jack to complete a full house. I work in the sciences, plenty of math classes under my belt. I noted that there were no others of those cards showing, so the other three of each were still unaccounted for. Nine cards out of thirty-nine unseen. Nine chances out of thirty-nine. Roughly a twenty-three percent chance for a full house. Between the two possibilities ten chances out of thirty-nine or about a twenty-six-and-a-half percent chance for victory, give or take a fractional smidgen. My odds of winning were about one in four. It did not look likely that Roberta, The FemDom Bitch, was likely to make another appearance this night. "Well?" Patrick egged me on. He looked at me, and I knew that look, had seen it with my mind's eye during the night of my won bet against Patrick. I had sat on the bedroom chair, clothed, with a nude and red-faced Patrick masturbating on his knees before me, a look of superiority and amusement on my face. A bit of a gratified smile had play across my lips, hilarity in my eyes. Now Patrick leaned into the coffee table, his elbow on the surface, forearm raised, his cheek resting against his fingers. And that same superior, amused look was on his face as he gazed at my eyes. I took a deep breath and noted that my hand had just a hint of wobble to it as I reached for the card. I hoped Patrick hadn't noticed the outward sign of my inward tension. This bet, either way, would be a challenge to pay off. I didn't want to have to be the one to have to live out that challenge. I would much prefer to watch as Patrick paid. Should I pick up the card so only I could see before revealing it? Get the bad or good news privately first? Or just turn the card on the floor? Make the information immediately community property? I opted for the second choice. I placed my fingers on the card's back, slid them in a back and forth pattern over its surface. Then I just did it. I turned the card and we both saw... Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet Ch. 02A-1 This story is presented in a total of five parts. There will be a second part of this chapter 2A, and there is a two part chapter 2B. I think the story hangs together fine on its own, but I think having read the stories Roberta & Patrick's Bet and Roberta's Bet will increase your enjoyment of this story. The story is complete and all installments have been submitted so hopefully you should be able to begin reading the story and have an installment to read each day to the story's conclusion. As always your comments and observations are very welcome. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet – Chapter 2A, Part 1 A queen!!! That gave me a full house, beating Patrick's straight. Patrick got just the gloomiest look on his face, poor dear, now that he was a career 0 for 2 in our little erotic bets. But I'll turn this over to Patrick now. Roberta is completely right. This sucked! I was really hoping to win this time after having to surrender to her after our last bet. And when I saw that 3 on my last card and completed my straight I knew it was in the bag. Well, so much for sure things. She was very direct about the whole thing, telling me immediately, "Looks like a full house. And that beats your straight. Strip." There's really not too much to a guy stripping, is there? I mean, I love to read descriptions of women stripping. Very hot. But, well, I just took my clothes off. Do you really need to know any more than that? Roberta was certainly enjoying the situation. When my boxers came down my dick was half hard. Shit! That certainly gave the wrong impression! She told me to stand in front of her. She was still cross-legged on the floor. She reached up and gave my dick a few pushes back and forth, wrapped her hand around it, brought herself up a bit until her mouth was within an inch of it. Now there is no way Roberta's mouth can be an inch from my dick and have it not stand up and take notice. I was fully hard in an instant. Then she got up and left for the bedroom, calling over her shoulder that she would be right back. I just kind of stood there. I mean, there wasn't really much else to do. My boner was doing a great imitation of a telescope, pointing to the sky. Roberta was back after a few moments, several items in her hands. She handed me the leather ankle cuffs and wrist cuffs that so often adorn her and told me to put them on. I think if you know the Ellen's Bet story you can imagine perhaps what was going to happen to me next. She had me get on my hands and knees on the coffee table. My shins and ass were hanging out over the edge. Then, as I expected, she pulled first my right and then my left wrist back to the corresponding ankle and clipped the cuffs together. When she pulled my left hand back my head did a barely controlled face plant, my forehead clunking into the surface of the table none too gently. "Ow," I complained. "Oh, shut up," Roberta said, "you did the same to Ellen. Serves you right." However, after my cuffs were secured she got me a pillow and placed it under my head. Then she put the blindfold she so often graces over my eyes. I was now ass up on the table and with no sight. She went away then. I had some minutes, actually longer than I was very comfortable with, in this position. This was a first for me, although I enjoy Roberta in this position, restrained in this way and in this place, every once in a while. But I have to think about this some. Roberta never says a word of complaint, but this was just plain uncomfortable. Not having a choice about staying in the position made it worse. I pinned a post-it note to my frontal lobe to check in with her about this. I was beginning to feel some rising tension after some minutes without her return. But then I heard the swish of her feet on the carpet as she entered the room. I turned my head as best as I could in her direction even though I was sightless. I sensed her behind me, and had known this was coming. She spread my ass cheeks and I felt her paint lube all up and down my ass crack and onto my asshole. Shortly after I felt something finding its way to being seated there, moving up and down as it began to find and push into my ass. 'Well, shit,' I thought (no pun intended), and waited for my ass to be pried widely opened. Clearly it was a dildo of some kind, how big I did not yet know. Roberta was holding it in her hand and pushing it into me. And it was an invasion, my asshole spreading farther and farther, my breathing becoming more shallow and little vulnerable-sounding 'ah, ah's leaving my lips. There is nothing, I was now experiencing, that can make you feel more vulnerable and exposed than being bound as I was and taking something large up your ass. But then the stretching stopped and my sphincter settled back around a shaft narrower than what had just gone past it. That got my attention. A butt plug? But, no, the narrower part was continuing to push into me. Had it been a butt plug the advance would be done and it would be seated motionless until pulled out. Obviously it was a realistic, penis-like dildo, the head having now slipped past my sphincter and the shaft advancing. But to my knowledge we don't have a toy like that. All of ours are of the smooth shape, not anatomically correct. Where had this one come from? I felt the shaft of this artificial penis continue to slide into me. There was no more pain, just discomfort as my ass was filled more and more. Then I heard an electric buzzing, clearly from some sort of vibrator. But the object up my ass was not vibrating. What was going on? Then, another bit of sensory input I couldn't quite reconcile. As the phallus went farther and farther into me I had expected to feel Roberta's hand gripping the outside end, pushing. Instead I felt growing warmth, and then Roberta's thighs were flat up against the backs of my thighs, her abdomen against my ass cheeks. As the expression goes, the clear white light of stupidity illuminated my brain. Realization dawned on me. She didn't have a strap-on, did she? I didn't think she did. I've never seen one around here anywhere. Had she made a special trip to the adult store? Got one specifically for this occasion? I had some questions that wanted answering. But right at the moment I was a little preoccupied with a big piece of molded rubber deep in my ass. I guessed that the questions might need to wait. Then another piece of sensory input. This one I knew well and loved. It was the sound of Roberta moaning in pleasure. The dildo began to move faster, increasing its depth in my ass until Roberta was right up against me, her hips pressed tight against me and grinding. A moment later I heard crying and was so glad to hear it. When Roberta cums and cums very hard she makes a sound that anyone but me would mistake for crying. And that sound was now coming from her in spades. When her orgasm had passed she rested her forearms on my back, panting. But the dildo only pulled slightly out of me. She gave the side of my thigh a hard slap. "Not bad, Lover Boy," she said. "This is a little uncomfortable," I said to Roberta. "Too bad. You had Ellen like this using her for a lot longer than this," Roberta said. "If she could take it so can you. And I'm not done yet." She gave my thigh another smack. That seemed to inspire her, and I felt the dildo moving in me again. After being so well fucked my ass now had no complaints. It was stretched and could accommodate the dildo easily. And Roberta fucked me again, this time taking much longer to build to her orgasm, the vibe's sound reaching several notches higher in pitch as she proceeded. She seemingly took her time but eventually came, this time in a more controlled and orderly way, a way that involved 'ohhhh'-ing rather than her simulated crying. Roberta moved back and away from me, the dildo coming out of me suddenly and unceremoniously. Then she was releasing the clips holding my ankle cuffs to my wrist cuffs, and I sighed with relief. I immediately came to my feet, my knees sore and my muscles badly in need of a stretch. But I ripped off the blindfold. Before me was my beautiful Roberta, nude, just loosening a harness strapped around her hips, the phallus that had been up my ass moments previous jutting from her crotch. "What do you think?" she asked, waving the intruder at me. "Um," I said. "Get used to it, Big Boy," she said, "I enjoyed that too much." When we had agreed to the three forfeits for the loser of our bet one of them, this one, had been relatively general in nature: just that the loser would have to take something up their ass. I had assumed that if I lost it would be a dildo for me, but never imagined it would be attached to her and that she would end up bucking her hips back and forth fucking me with it. I watched as the harness dropped from around her hips and she slowly disengaged from a piece of molded plastic nestled between her legs. The front was a little bulky, a wire emerging from it: the clit vibe I had heard. And as the plastic came away from her I saw a larger vaginal dildo and a smaller anal dildo emerge from her body. I don't know diddle, speaking strictly personally, about the physical stimulation that produces an orgasm in women in general, but I was certain I was looking at one sure-fire possibility. My boner had not subsided at all. Roberta took a few steps over to me, put her arms around me and kissed me hard and deep. This did not help the boner situation at all. But after a few moments she began to slide down my body ending on her knees. Without any working up to it at all both her hands encircled my boner and she had it in her mouth. And she was working hard on it, forcefully sucking and running her mouth over it, in and out with great enthusiasm. One hand moved to my balls, cupping and squeezing them the way I like. She began moaning, the pace of her mouth on my boner picking up, me deep in her mouth each time. Much faster than it usually happens, I could feel those first sensations deep in my body and brain that lead to orgasm. Roberta started a little like she had just remembered something. In an instant her mouth and hands were off me and she was standing. "Oh, gosh, Patrick, I'm so sorry," she said. "Wow, I completely forgot that you're going to need all that cum tomorrow afternoon. Gee, I'm so sorry to have gotten you so worked up." The smile on her face and the little laugh that escaped her mouth leaving no doubt that she had known exactly what she had been doing. Then she turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with a boner that might have been sculpted from marble. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet Ch. 02A-2 This story is presented in a total of five parts. There is this second part of this chapter 2A, and there is a two part chapter 2B. I think the story hangs together fine on its own, but I think having read the stories Roberta & Patrick's Bet and Roberta's Bet will increase your enjoyment of this story. The story is complete and all installments have been submitted so hopefully you should be able to begin reading the story and have an installment to read each day to the story's conclusion. As always your comments and observations are very welcome. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet – Chapter 2A – Part 2 Roberta turned as she went. "I'm going to take a nice bath, and you can come with me to the bathroom. You have another little task that needs doing to pay off your bet, don't you?" She was smiling and laughing again as she turned and walked toward the bathroom. I followed her and as she turned on the water to fill the tub I reached into the chest above the sink and took out some small scissors and a razor. With Roberta smiling at me I sat on the toilet and began using the scissors to cut away my pubic hair. I had not been engaged in this activity for more than a few seconds when Roberta said, "Let me have that razor. You know what the advice columnists all say: set some boundaries." And she proceeded to use the razor to shave away a razor's-width of hair across my thighs about half way to my knees. She then shaved the hair from another strip that had its upper edge at my navel, all the way across my body. "There," she said. "You can just get rid of all the hair inside those borders." "Why so much?" I asked, an obviously absurd question. "Because that's what I want," she said; an obvious answer. "You bet your pubes on this game, and that's how I want them shaved. Now get to work before I decide you're shaving to your ankles and your armpits." I don't suppose this was strictly within the terms of the bet, but, really, why make an issue of it? There was really no arguing so I continued to chop with the scissors through the densest of my pubes, finally leaving nothing but stubble. Then I slathered on some shaving cream, wet the razor, and began shaving the stubble off to leave only bare skin. This really did not take more than a few minutes. Although I think it took a bit longer than it really had to because I had a raging boner to work around, and I couldn't help but indulge myself: while Roberta's eyes were closed I stroked my shaft a bit every now and then, giving myself little jolts of pleasure. When I had finished I was shocked at how stark and defenseless my genitals looked. All the hair was gone from the front of my body from my navel to mid-thigh on both sides. "OK?," I asked Roberta. She had reclined in the tub, her eyes closed, relaxing. She opened her eyes. They focused on me standing a few feet away. Her eyes got wide and she burst out laughing. "Oh my good heavens!" she exclaimed through her laughter. "Oh my God! I knew this would be an entertaining sight, but I had no idea." And she began into another loud round of laughter. I turned to look in the mirror, and was more shocked at the full-length sight than I had been just looking down while seated on the john. My skin for more than a foot was white and smooth, a huge patch of clear cut in the middle of my forest of body hair. My dick, still as hard as ever, was totally hairless and jutting out. It looked defenseless and, even I thought a bit ridiculous totally bald. I had never seen myself naked of pubes since before puberty. Task two was complete. I calculated that I might just as well go to bed. That would allow me to deprive Roberta, at least for now, of her entertainment. And I could try to get unconscious so I didn't have to think about my unremitting boner and the desire to cum that Roberta had sparked in me. This night had brought two firsts for me. Tomorrow would also be a new experience. But at least my bet would then be paid in full. When we had negotiated the terms of our bet we had determined that the last task to pay off the bet would be to cum in public. But the details were left to the winner. Sunday afternoon we sat in the local high school's auditorium. One of the local dramatic companies rents the facility for their productions and this afternoon was a matinee performance of Ira Levin's Deathtrap, playing to a full house. It is wonderful entertainment: no especially deep meanings or symbolism to decipher; just suspense, humor, very entertaining characters, and a nicely constructed plot. But I hadn't been quite as involved and entertained as I might otherwise have been, anticipating with dread paying off the last part of the bet I had lost. Finally, Clifford back from the dead and Myra dead of a heart attack (talk about reversals!), the curtain came down and the lights up signaling the end of Act One and intermission. I felt the tip of Roberta's forefinger under my chin, turning my head and attention from the stage to her eyes. "Well?" was all she said. I stood and headed for the men's room, patting the outside right pocket of my sports jacket to make sure the items I required were still there. The high school's auditorium is located near the main entrance. Because of that location it is large, boasting about ten stalls. Of course, this being the men's room, many of the stalls were empty. Most of the male drama enthusiasts in attendance just needed to piss. However, all four of the stalls that were occupied were at the farthest end, had likely filled from farthest to nearest. So I had to take a stall about in the middle of the row. I would have paid hard cash for that last stall at the end. I did not have the luxury of waiting for that last stall. My task had to be completed, and I back in my seat, before the curtain went up for Act Two. I hung my sports jacket on the hook on the door, dropped my trousers and boxers, and sat on the toilet. I could see a little bit of the shoe of the man in the stall to my right. Then the door of the stall on my left opened, and I was soon looking at another piece of shoe. I was surrounded. Other men continuously went by outside the door on their way to and from the urinals. Precious moments ticking by, I stood halfway up and reached into the pocket of my sports jacket, removing a bottle of liquid lube. I sat back down and squirted a bit on my right hand. I didn't want too much because I wanted to avoid any juicy noises as I did this, wanted just enough to allow my hand to slide over my dick. I held onto the bottle in my left hand in case I needed more. I looked down at my little hairless poodle. It was limp and slightly shriveled: didn't seem interested in a compulsory jerk-off in a stall of a busy men's room during intermission. But I began stroking it. What else could I do? To my surprise, Admiral Winky began to rise to the task almost immediately, growing at a very encouraging pace. This looked like it might be easier than I had thought. But then the name Larry Craig flashed into my brain. Senator Larry Craig, that is. Republican Senator from Idaho. The Minneapolis-St.Paul International Airport men's room. Playing footsy with the undercover vice cop in the next stall. Mug shots. Fingerprints. Plea bargains. In a Minneapolis minute my dick was doing a convincing imitation of overcooked pasta. 'Damn,' I thought. 'Clear your mind. Associate. Make a connection. Something hot.' House. Our house. A room. Living room. Coffee Table. Ellen. A bra coming off. E cup tits. Tits doing a fetching little sway. Nipples erect. Oh, Mister Chubby liked this. He was again finding his footing in a very bold way indeed. "Oh, my gosh! Would you look at that!" The voice was right outside the door of my stall. Loud. Peter the Great deflated like one of those really long balloons they make the balloon animals out of after the fingers pinching it shut are loosed. I expected to hear air spluttering from my dick and see it going flying in great looping circles right out of the stall. "Isn't that just the cutest picture you've ever seen?" the voice observed. "Three weeks old? This is your second grandkid or your third?" I tried to reassure myself by remembering that the incidence of heart attack in thirty-eight year old men is not that great. But the knowledge didn't help slow my racing heart. Damn it. Why couldn't some of all that blood racing through my body make a detour again into my dick? I closed my eyes; tried to associate again. Ellen. Up. Naked. Up. Coffee table. Up. Right where I had been last evening with Roberta fucking my ass with a dildo. Down. Shit. Start over. Ellen. Up. Tied to the guest room bed. Up. E cup tits. Up. E cup tits cradling and encircling my dick. Up. Up. The head of my hard dick poking in and out at the top of Ellen's amazing cleavage. Up. Up. That first spurt of cum shooting from my crotch cannon onto Ellen's face. Oh, man! Up! Up! And away! I stood halfway up again; reached into my sports jacket pocket and found the little flat packet. The lights in the lavatory dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened: the traditional signal for 'The performance is about to resume, so pinch it off and get in here.' Not giving up the grip I had on Pink Floyd, keeping the stimulation going, my cum boiling and ready to burst out in seconds, I brought the packet to my mouth with my left hand. I ripped the packet open with my teeth and pulled the rubber out, letting the foil wrapper fall into the boxers around my ankles. Quickly I rolled the rubber down my shaft. I was just in time. In seconds cum was spurting, filling the reservoir and leaking down the sides. I squeezed the bottom tight against the shaft of my erection to prevent any of the cum, now swelling the crimped condom slightly, from leaking out. I kept my mouth and throat wide open, the better to let my breath in and out without engaging my tongue or vocal cords in the process. But I knew. Somehow I just knew. I could see the piece of shoe on the other side of the divider in the stall to my right. It was the third shoe to present itself there since I had sat down. And somehow I knew that whoever was wearing that shoe had twigged to what was going on over here. The toilet over there flushed, the occupant now on his feet. The door of that stall opened and the occupant emerged into the bathroom at large. For just the shortest time his progress slowed as he passed the little gap between my stall's door and the door frame. But by then I was sitting with my forearms over my thighs, an expression of boredom on my face, my shrinking, condom-covered hardon concealed behind my arms. He proceeded to the sinks and I heard water running, then paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. There were only a few men left in the room at this point, and I knew which footsteps were his, heard them recede toward the door and out. I pulled the condom from my dick, twisting the end. Again I reached into my sports jacket pocket and pulled from it the tiny plastic food storage container there. I dropped the condom into it and pressed on the air-tight lid. Good, now my cum was less likely to grow mold and would be fresh for weeks and weeks, and freezer-safe too, at least if the Tupperwear advertisements are to be believed. I was on my feet in a second, pulling my boxers and trousers up, zipping, buttoning; flushed the toilet just for effect. I left the stall and made a perfunctory pass of my hands under the faucet of one of the sinks; I dried my hands on the way to the door and tossed the paper towel and the condom wrapper in the trash as I exited. As I walked quickly toward the auditorium I sensed something. There were less than half a dozen people still not inside the auditorium yet. Had I noticed with my peripheral vision a man standing off to the side, motionless, his eyes on the portal to the men's room? Fuck him. I was soon down the wide aisle, the lights inside the auditorium already dimmed. Then I was excusing myself down the row of seats in which we were seated. My ass hit the seat just as the curtain went up, and I handed Roberta the little plastic container. She stowed it in her purse. She directed a whisper at me, but a loud one, audible for at least a couple rows. "Isn't this just the most fun we've had in a long while?" she asked. "What? Do you think I stood at the sink and squirted liquid soap from the dispenser into a condom in the middle of a crowded men's room?" I asked. "Well, I suppose you're right," Roberta said. We were home again and she was holding the condom up to the light, holding it by the opening, swinging it back and forth, the weight of its contents turning it into a little pendulum. "OK, Sweety. Bet paid. I'm sure it's cum," she said. "Yeah, and there's more where that came from," I said. I took the condom from her, tossed it in the trash, and pulled her by the hand toward the bedroom. Our little romp in the bedroom was fun, but I found myself distracted by a thought I hoped would not grow into too much of an obsession: when was I going to manage to win one of these bets? Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet Ch. 02B-1 This story is presented in a total of five parts. There has been chapter one, and a two-part chapter 2A. This is the first part of chapter 2B, with a second part still to come. I think the story hangs together fine on its own, but I think having read the stories Roberta & Patrick's Bet and Roberta's Bet will increase your enjoyment of this story. The story is complete and all installments have been submitted so hopefully you should be able to begin reading the story and have an installment to read each day to the story's conclusion. As always your comments and observations are very welcome. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet – Chapter 2B, Part 1 A king!?! Holy shit was I in for it now! The king was a nice card but of absolutely no use to me whatever. Patrick's straight was good enough, and my hope of waving a full house in his face was dashed. Patrick, of course, was grinning like an idiot. "Oh, girl," he said, "I'm afraid it's time for a little payback." I had no reason to doubt that assessment. "I've been waiting for this," Patrick said. He made a show of wetting his lips and limbering his jaw. By way of explanation he said, "I've so been looking forward to this, and I just want to make sure this next word comes out just right. Strip." I rose from my cross-legged position next to the coffee table. I was in a mood to be contrary, disappointed that the return to FemDom Land I had hoped for had been derailed by that king. So I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of any entertainment, at least not in an activity over which I had a shred of control. And taking off my clothes was the only activity over which I had that control until my bet was paid. When I reached my feet I just unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and pulled them and my panties down and off together. I cross-armed my tee shirt over my head, and then unhooked my bra and let it fall on top of the rest. It probably took ten seconds. "Oh, I was hoping for something with a little music and a lot of ass shaking," Patrick whined. I gave him a smile and the finger. Patrick rose to his feet looking me up and down. How many times had he seen my body naked? Hundreds? Thousands? But now I was nude in a special and compulsory way. There was no romance here, no intimate exchange. I was just a nude woman standing in front of a fully clothed man. I've not been nude in front of a man other than Patrick since the Sunday afternoon I had been required to strip in a dorm room for Paul and Hank, part of paying off the bet I lost to them on the homecoming football game. But now this experience had almost that same underlying feeling to it. There was a distance between Patrick and me for the present. I was not nude because we were sharing loving feelings or a laugh. I was nude because I had lost a bet to him and was required to be unclothed. And Patrick, intentionally or not, seemed less my husband than an objective, voyeuristic observer, coolly evaluating my body: seeming to be in the act of judging how pleasant he found the shape and size of my breasts, how agreeable to his eyes was the swell of my hips, how delightful he perceived the cheeks of my ass to be, how engaging he found my pubic hair, how entertaining the thought of the delicate treat my pubic hair partly concealed. Little nips of embarrassment teased at my mind from being nude in this way in front of my husband. He gripped my chin between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, pushed my chin up just the tiniest bit, I suppose just to let me know he was now in control. Patrick made eye contact with me, held it, then he very deliberately smiled. His forefinger began to trace a line under my chin, down my neck and chest to my left breast. His finger circled my areola and then he pinched my nipple lightly, smiled again. He began a circumnavigation of my body. His hand went to my side, and he placed the palm of his hand there and sliding it down until it was running over the swell of my hip bone. I felt the four fingers of that hand, spread a bit, each a separate sensation, and skate lightly over the skin of my hip, and continue with him to the back of my body. In a moment those fingers were moving over my left ass cheek, just a light touch. The palm of his hand lightly cupped that left cheek, and his fingers moved under me in the direction of my vagina. But they never made it there, instead proceeding to my other ass cheek. A cupping, and then those four fingers again gliding over my skin. The near contact with my vagina had lit a little match in me. I knew a bit of wetness sprang into my vagina. I had started this little exercise feeling somewhat embarrassed, but Patrick's teasing had started a fire burning. And I tried to determine whether it was the teasing of his fingers that was the cause of this beginning of arousal, or if it was the embarrassment I had felt, or some combination of the two. His fingers continued their journey as Patrick came around to the front of my body again. The contact on my skin became just one finger as it came around my right hip. The finger stayed low and ended its journey at my pubic hair, ruffling and tickling it a little. Then two fingers moved between my legs, not far, just enough to spread my labia a little and find my clitoris. The fingers were tight together, and I felt them press down on my clit, and then the pressure was released. Pressure and release; and again pressure and release. It was the exact attention I love from Patrick's fingers on my sex. After seven years of marriage Patrick knows how to play my body as well as Weird Al Yankovic knows how to play a kazoo. OK, lousy analogy. But there was no question I was getting turned on. Patrick found my mouth with his and our lips were locked together, our tongues reintroducing themselves to each other. I moaned as I felt Patrick's two fingers slide back toward my vagina in slipperiness that had not been there just a moment ago. His fingers teased at my vagina, and then they slid back to my clit, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing. My arms came up and around Patrick's neck pulling his mouth harder onto mine, and my hips began to move, trying to get every pleasurable sensation from what his fingers were doing to my clit. I could see my friend in the distance, and she was covering the ground between her and me in a hurry. "Oh my gosh, Sweetheart," Patrick said, breaking our kiss, his fingers leaving my clit, my clit begging them to return, "I'm so, so sorry. You must be anxious to begin paying off your bet. I can't believe I'm making you wait. How completely inconsiderate of me." Well, it seems he is a fast study when it comes to learning the fine art of how to get the most gloating out of being the winner of a bet. "Don't you have a hot date with a razor?" Patrick asked sweetly. I know what my first impulse for a response was, but I restrained myself: frankly, my middle finger was going to get awfully tired if I used it tonight all the times I felt like using it. Patrick got behind me and took me by the shoulders, pushing and guiding me toward the bathroom. Once there he stood me by the toilet while he rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a plastic bag of disposable razors. He pulled one out and held it out to me. "There," he said, "a nice new sharp one for you, to make your shaving experience a pleasant one." He smiled and gave me a kiss on my cheek. "Come see me when you're done." And he turned and left, closing the door behind him. Well, this was no fun; not at all the evening I had been hoping for and expecting. This was far and away the easiest task I had to perform to pay off my bet, but likely the one I found the most unpleasant. I sat on the john and looked down at my pubes. At the moment they were trimmed pretty short and not shaped to any great degree: just razored off around the edges to keep strays from escaping my panties. I sometimes do more elaborate shaping: occasionally a landing strip, and I've tried several widths; sometimes a defined shape of some kind. I tried a heart once, but it didn't come out terribly well. Patrick said he liked it though, the sweety. But bare? Never. I hate it. I understand there are plenty of women who like bare for any number of good reasons, and that's fine. I've tried it, but have never liked the 'little girl' look it gives me, or how stark and exposed it leaves my vulva. So I very much favor some pubes there. Now, Patrick bare: that would have been beyond hilarious, and the thought made me regret I had missed out by losing my bet. But there was no way I could change that last card to a winner, so I took a breath and let it out, got down to my task. My hairs were trimmed short enough that I didn't think I really needed to shorten them any more for the razor. I got out some of Patrick's shaving cream and slathered it on. I started on top, using short strokes to take the cream and hair off. The fresh razor was nice: almost no pull at all. I moved each leg to the side in turn and stretched the skin to get into the crease between my abdomen and thighs. Shortly, everything down to my vulva was gone. Then I spread wide and started in on the hard to reach places. Soon the job was all but done. I wet a washcloth with warm water to rinse off the last of the shaving cream, the warmth from the cloth a welcome addition to the sensations coming up to my brain from down below. After wiping the shaving cream off I placed the cloth directly on my clit and rocked a bit back and forth on it, enjoying the sensations very well. But I stopped abruptly, realizing I really didn't want to get going too far in that direction right now. I checked carefully, moving things around, looking for hairs the razor had missed and flicking the blade over them carefully to clean up the last. When I was satisfied I would pass inspection I toweled myself dry and put all my tools away. I found Patrick in the living room watching a sports round-up show. I stood directly in front of him, presenting my bare pubis for his inspection. I was there for just a second when his hand grabbed my hip, pushing me to the side, his eyes intent on the television. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "Did you see that lay-up?" I gave him a little smack on the head. "I'm standing right in front of you naked as the day I was born and all you care about is some basketball game?" I asked, a little annoyance in my voice. Patrick looked up at me, a wry smile on his face. "Just kidding. Just kidding. Your pussy is still first in my book," he said, picking up the remote and flicking off the television. He pulled me back in front of him again, his eyes intent on my vulva. His fingers explored every crack and crevasse, and he seemed pleased that everything that could be classified as growing from a follicle was gone. Then his fingers slowed and came to a stop at my clit and he began again the process of applying pressure and releasing it. It would have been oh so easy to get into the pleasant sensations, but of course who could fall for that twice in one hour? I pulled my hips back away from him, my ass sticking out in back. "How dumb do I look there mister?" I asked. "Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me." He looked a little disappointed, but then brightened. "Well, only one thing to do then," Patrick said. He took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom, and I was off to pay task number two of my lost bet. In the bedroom Patrick brought out the leather ankle and wrist cuffs I occasionally wear. He began to buckle them on me. Once during a past encounter when he had been doing this I had told him that I could do it, but he told me that buckling them on me was very pleasant for him and helped to warm him up. He tied thin and smooth rope to the rings on all four and then piled pillows in the center of the bed. He put out his hand. "Your throne awaits, Your Worship." I knew what was required. I crawled onto the bed, lay on my front, my hips over the pillows, my ass high in the air, lewd and inviting. Patrick took the rope emanating from one of the ankle cuffs and tied it off to the corner of the bed, then doing the same with the other. Now that my ankles were anchored in place he took the rope from my right wrist cuff and pulled it to the post at the right side of the head board. He pulled it, and then pulled again, my arm now pulled tight, and he tied off the rope. He did the same on the other side and soon I was pulled tightly in all four directions, immobile. He gave my bottom a little slap. "Don't go running off now," he said as he went into the bathroom. This time I used both middle fingers, although I don't know that he saw. Patrick likes anal, I not at all. I'm happy to provide him with his heart's desire from time to time. I mean, I'm his wife after all and one of the things that makes our marriage successful is that we are each ready to put the other first. I make my ass available to him when he asks, and he limits how often he asks, and the whole arrangement works out quite well. But our typical session with anal involves me on all fours on the bed, or maybe voluntarily bent over some piece of furniture. But doing it with me tied spread wide on the bed, my ass up in the air is something that happens only on the rarest occasions, when the odd happenstance occurs that he is feeling particularly dominant and I happen to be feeling especially submissive. Off the top of my head I can only remember one such aligning of those planets. It was within the first year or two of our marriage. So this was the first time I had been here and prepared like this in five or six years. I'm pretty sure at this point that it would definitely take a lost bet to get me here. I don't think I was going to volunteer or was willing to be drafted for the bondage variety of anal submission. I wanted to complain, but really how could I? When I think of how willingly Patrick had paid off his bet to me in February. And he really hadn't been expecting to be the toy of a femdom bitch; hadn't even known he was married to a woman how had designs on reaching femdom bitchdom. So, as unpleasant as it was I really had no grounds for complaint. I just had to offer up my ass to satisfy my bet and be done with it. I suppose that is why they call it a wager: you agree to put up what the other wants and you don't want to give up against the other putting up what you want and would prefer not to give up. The principal is no different than wagering money. I risk one hundred dollars in order to get your one hundred dollars, and we both would prefer to hold onto our one hundred dollar bill. Except, of course, that wagers of a sexual nature, I was quickly discovering, were so much more interesting and suspenseful. Let's face it: anyone can take out their wallet and hand over some currency to satisfy a lost bet. What could be easier? It was much, much more difficult to have to take off your clothes, surrender your body for another's use, or be compelled to engage in some embarrassing or humiliating activity to satisfy a lost bet. In fact, I was quickly coming to the opinion that those who bet mere money are truly the world's meek and spineless, faint-hearted and lily-livered: just weenies, cowards who simply don't have the balls to make a bet of any substance or meaning or difficulty. These thoughts occupied me while I waited for Patrick. A moment or two later I heard the toilet flush and the door open. Patrick came over and got the lube from the night table. He upended the tube above my ass, squeezing out gel as he moved the tube the length of my ass crack; much like he was applying mustard to a hot dog. Then he worked the lubricant deeply into my ass crack. He spread my cheeks widely and I felt more lube being squeezed directly onto my asshole; then using two fingers he mushed it as best he could into my small hole. Finally, I felt the opening of the tube seating itself in my anal opening. He squeezed and I could feel cool gel squirt into my rectum. Now I was all trussed up and ready for a boner up the ass. Patrick moved off to the side now, taking off his clothes. In my mind I could picture exactly what I looked like; in fact, I had pictured it before. When I had won my bet from Patrick in February, as he masturbated before me on his knees I had envisioned what would be happening instead at that moment had I lost that bet. Sitting in the comfortable and cushioned bedroom chair, not five feet from where my right ankle was now bound, I had looked beyond subservient Patrick to the empty bed, had pictured myself there just as I was now. I could see my nude form lying on my front. My four limbs were stretched tight toward the corners of the bed. Pillows were piled up holding my ass high in the air, and could see the glisten of lubricant in my ass crack. My head was lying on the bedspread on one side, and I was waiting, waiting for Patrick to begin the use of my ass for his sexual pleasure. Now I dismissed the image, but could not dismiss the bonds holding me on the bed in this position; I now the loser of the bet surrendering her body as the winner prepared to enjoy his winnings. Before I knew it Patrick was close behind me, and I could hear a moist sound as he applied lube to his cock. I could feel the heat of his thighs and abdomen as he came in close. The head of his penis was presently at my anal opening. I could feel the head as Patrick wiggled it up and down a little, finding the cleavage that indicated the passage to open me, that would let his cock begin to loosen and invade my asshole. I gasped as his head began to slip in. A sharp dart of pain shot from my end, but then settled into just an ache as the head of his cock opened me wider. The head slipped past my sphincter, which now settled back around and gripped Patrick's shaft. His cock was well lubed and there was no friction as it advanced into my ass, only an increasing degree of stretching, a little wider and a little wider. He must have been most of the way in because I felt increased stretching. I know I had been instinctively pulling at my restraints a little from the time I had felt the head of his cock begin to pry me open, the desire to escape the invasion of my ass impossible but desired. But now as the thicker root of his cock began to move through my opening stretching it farther I pulled with greater urgency on the ropes holding me almost motionless and open. I thought with some chagrin and frustration about the strap-on I had gone to the adult store to acquire, had secreted in one of my drawers, and how I had planned to surprise Patrick with it after I had won tonight. It would have to wait for another occasion. A moan was escaping my lips that expressed my worry and fear. We had been here before from time to time. Patrick's cock had been fully seated in my ass on occasions in the past, and with no harm to me. But that stretching, my anal opening located far down the shaft of a cock, awoke in me an instinctive sense of vulnerability. Patrick and I had done this before but not often, so it took a moment to recall to my mind that, while the sensations coming from my ass were not arousing to me, that sense of vulnerability coupled with the knowledge that I was safe under Patrick's care, were a turn-on. I would have liked the freedom of one hand so that it could find my clit and encourage that arousal, start driving it in the direction of orgasm. Before he seated fully in me Patrick began to move back out, about half way. Then his cock advanced again, stopping just a little farther in. This is what I meant about being safe in Patrick's care: I knew he would not drive himself into me as far as he could in just one advance. Rather he repeated the motions he had just completed, using five or six back and forward movements to push the last and widest inch of his erection into me, slowly allowing my asshole to stretch the last bit required to fully accommodate him. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet Ch. 02B-1 When he was finally in me as far as he could go I felt a wave of heat pass over me. I had never felt this before but recognized it as a combination of relief that the stretching was done, security in Patrick's gentleness and consideration, and sexual desire. My clit stood out hard and long seeking out some sort of stimulation. Then it felt...something. A fold in the pillow case under my hips was all I could imaging. The contact was light and tantalizing and I realized that if I tried for too much that fold of fabric would simply find somewhere else to be. Patrick begin to move in and out of me, just a little at first but over the space of a few minutes his cock was coming back to where just his head was in me before firmly thrusting back in. And that faint teasing at my clit continued, a wave of pleasure sweeping through me with each contact. It was frustratingly tenuous, but I could see my friend off in the distance, still a bit uncertain if she was going to come see me. Then Patrick came up a little higher, his hands on my hips and pulling them up off the pillow. I gave a cry of dismay as my slight contact with the fabric was lost, and my friend dissolved into the mist, gone for now. Patrick was now close to his climax, and as much as I desired the pleasure of orgasm too I could not begrudge him: he, after all, had won tonight's bet; the victory, the evening, and the pleasure were his to own. Then I felt warmth in me, and I knew from that and his moans of pleasure that he was spilling his cum into me. After he withdrew he left the room, wandering naked to the bathroom: the back door could be a little messy. My hips were back on the surface of the pillow and I began to move them as much as I could trying with increasing desperation to find that fold, or another, looking off into the distance for a hint of my friend. But she was nowhere to be seen, and I relaxed my body, unsatisfied. When Patrick reentered the room I could not contain myself, and I was surprised at the nature and urgency of the words that spilled from me. "Patrick," I said, my voice a little tenuous, "please, please, Honey, if you want me again go ahead. You won and my ass is yours to use. But if you are done then please, please get my hands untied. Please." I was afraid Patrick might use the opportunity to gloat and tease, but I wasn't surprised that he didn't. There was an urgency in my voice he couldn't miss, and he responded to it with kindness. He leaned over me, brought his mouth to my ear. "You don't need your hands," he whispered. He got up from the bed and was back seconds later. I felt one of my dildos begin to enter my vagina. Then it was deep in me, my hips moving back to get as much of it in me as I could. Patrick's two fingers were on my clit again. They pressed and released, pressed and released, and I humped myself back against them. Moments later I started to cry. Not really. I wasn't really crying. But that's what I sound like when I have the sort of orgasm that takes away all conscious thought. One of those orgasms ripped through me now. When it finally subsided and I could think clearly again I found that I was loose of my bonds. Ten minutes later, after a quick clean up, Patrick and I were snuggling nude together under the covers. Sleep took us both quickly, but my last thought before slumber was that my last task to pay off my bet would come tomorrow morning. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet Ch. 02B-2 This is the last of the five parts of this story. I hope you have enjoyed it so far. I think the story hangs together fine on its own, but I think having read the stories Roberta & Patrick's Bet and Roberta's Bet will increase your enjoyment of this story. As always your comments and observations are very welcome. Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet – Chapter 2B, Part 2 The next morning we were in the car before nine o'clock. I would have loved to sleep in but Patrick said I might find my last payoff more workable and less public if we got going early. My last task to complete payment was to have an orgasm in public. When we got in the car I was about to ask Patrick where we were going, but before I could he handed me our blindfold and I told me to put it on. He wanted our destination to be a surprise. I did as he asked, trusting him. However, I felt more than a little goofy riding shotgun with a blindfold over my eyes. I did the only thing I could think of and reclined my seat as far as I could. Now if any passing motorists caught sight of me I would not be some woman riding along in a car blindfolded, but a tired car mate, perhaps sleeping between driving shifts. As it turned out I actually did fall asleep and sometime later awoke to Patrick shaking my shoulder, telling me we were at our destination. I pushed the blindfold up and off my head, blinking my eyes, looking around, trying to identify where we were. It took a moment because we had not been here for a while. But slowly I came to recognize the facility: Hilltop Arboretum. It is a ways down Highland Road some miles south of the Louisiana State University campus. It is a beautiful, peaceful natural setting: fourteen acres of marshes, woods, and meadows. 'Well,' I said to myself, 'just as good a place as any, and less public than right outside the Baton Rouge River Center, and more respectful than in the middle of Magnolia Cemetery. There were only a half dozen cars in the lot, some undoubtedly belonged to staff members. So I was pretty sure there would not be too many visitors around this early and I would be able to lose myself fairly easily. We paid our admission and walked through the wide entrance. The visitor's entrance and the administrative offices were in one long, low set of buildings, one end built out over a small circular pond, about one hundred feet in diameter. The effect of walking through the entry was to leave behind the ordinary world of work and cares and to step into a natural world of great beauty and natural interest. We continued down the wooden walkway. There were large trees to our left, and I contemplated that getting lost in there might be a good place to do the deed. But then I saw another couple, visitors, exploring in there and decided to move on. The planked walkway ended and we continued on a path. To our immediate right there was a meadow surrounding the small pond I had mentioned earlier. Forward and circling around to the right was a band of lovely trees which far over to the right thickened in and around the small twenty foot deep ravine that ran through that part of the arboretum. I decided that was perhaps the best place to get my task done. It seemed the most heavily wooded area and as far from the visitor and administrative complex as you could get. Patrick was now kissing my cheek, and giving me a little spank on my rump. "Have fun," he said. As I turned away he gave me a smile and the 'call me' sign: thumb and pinky extended, his three middle fingers closed as if around an old style telephone hand set. I wandered down the path following it through the trees. I came to another couple examining a small sign that described the flora they were looking at. After a short walk I could see I was approaching the ravine, and saw that the natural path would take a person into the little valley. I certainly didn't want to be in a place people would come upon me so I moved to my left, climbed up just a bit, finding my way through the foliage. I was now atop the ravine with it between me and the meadow, pond, and buildings at the entrance. The trees and undergrowth were fairly thick and I continued through until I was as far as I could get from where I had left the path while still remaining a distance inside the woods. I found a fairly large tree, and went to one side of it, placing the tree between myself and the ravine. I stood with my back to the trunk. It was a warm spring day and I was wearing a knee-length, colorful sundress. I thought it best to be as inconspicuous as possible so I slid down the trunk, planted my ass on the ground at the base. I pulled the hem of my dress to my waist, baring my hairless pussy. As I began to run my fingers along my labia with one hand I brought out my cell with the other and speed dialed Patrick. "Well, hi there, Sexy," Patrick answered. "Anything interesting going on where you are?" "Oh, shut up," I answered. "I'm over in the woods on the far side of the ravine." Of course, I not being a man there was no way to 'prove' that I had an orgasm, so Patrick would be listening in and I had to convince him I had brought myself off for real. I suppose I could have faked it convincingly, but that would be to cheat on paying my bet and I was just unwilling to do that. Besides, as long as I had to do this I might just as well get a nice O out of it. "I'll be listening in," Patrick said, concluding our conversation. I spread my legs a little more to provide access. While this was an activity I would not have chosen to engage in, the idea behind it was actually something of a turn-on. So between the little boost from the situation, the warmth of the day, and the pleasing scents of nature I found myself fairly wet as I began the first passes with my fingers over my sex. I made a little sound composed of a lot of Ms. I decided to allow myself to enjoy the experience, rather than push on as quickly as I could to completion. That's why I was still there fifteen minutes later, highly aroused, moaning with great sincerity. I could see my friend was off in the distance, and signaled to her to take her time coming to me. My fingers were slipping and sliding from my vagina to my clitoris and back with great abandon, Patrick listening to every whimper and groan of pleasure. Then my senses twigged, and I knew someone was near. Not breaking my motion or my head or body position I could see with my peripheral vision two pairs of feet at the bottom of some bushes about ten or twelve feet away. One of the people watching me was a woman; I knew that. She was wearing sandals and her toenails were painted a light blue. The other person had on trainers, could have been male or female. I saw the trainers begin to turn, apparently to leave, but the sandals remained rooted to their spot. I could imagine the second person wanting to turn away, but the woman in the sandals putting a hand to his or her shoulder, a finger to her lips, indicating they would stay, remain silent, and watch. I couldn't look any higher without giving away that I knew they were there. Until I had sensed the presence of these others I had been masturbating with my eyes closed. Now I kept my eyes open. I looked down at my crotch, and saw that a shaft of sunlight had found its way through the tree branches and the young spring leaves and was lighting me with direct sunlight: a little spotlight about a foot in diameter highlighting my bare, shaven sex and what my hand was doing with it. I was filled with sudden erotic longing, the idea that I had a little audience very appealing to me. Now that I knew of the sunlight I could sense its warmth on my sex. The fact of my own natural, solar spotlight awakened in me imaginings of brazenly standing at the center of some stage, starkly lit, masturbating for an audience: of two maybe, but at this point I would not have cared if it were a thousand watching; in fact, the thought of that watching multitude brought my orgasm rushing toward me at freight train speed. I felt a sudden gush of additional lubrication soak my pussy. Since I had started my legs had been spread so that my knees were about a foot apart. Now I spread my legs as wide as they would go. I looked down again and saw that my brightly lit sex was a deep red, engorged and soaked. I could feel my juices running down in between my ass cheeks, and I stopped long enough to hike myself up and scoot the back of my dress behind me. I put my ass down again, this time on bare ground; but I knew at least that now I would not later walk back to the arboretum entrance with a huge wet spot of my own lubricant adorning the back of my dress. The knowledge of those four watching eyes, and my fantasy of thousands more, had me right on the edge. I knew what I needed to do just as clearly as if I were reading the directions off a shampoo bottle: press down on clit, rub, release, repeat. As I often do when approaching orgasm I saw my friend walking toward me. Sometimes she just peaks out of the distant trees and comes no closer. Other times I wait for her on the front porch, and she comes as near as the hinged gate at the bottom of the walk, but then decides not to stop. Usually she comes up the walk and visits with me for a while. But this time I was out on the road, she running toward me and me toward her, and we came together in a tangle of bodies, embracing, kissing, pulling each other close. Then I was crying into my cell, Patrick listening at the other end to the special sound I make when my orgasm is intense enough to make the world go away. I had just the shred of presence to bite my lip hard, or I would have alerted the whole arboretum to my shattering orgasm. Even so I could not stop sounds of intense pleasure from escaping me as tears coursed down my cheeks. When I was aware of my surroundings again I checked to see if my two voyeurs were still with me. They were, but as I pulled down the hem of my dress they turned to sneak off. But something didn't go according to plan: one's foot got on top of the other's, and the other's leg got tangled behind the first's, and soon they were toppling headlong into my little woodland boudoir, like the end of a Laurel and Hardy pratfall, their heads ending a couple yards from my feet. "Shit," the woman with the blue toe nails said. She was about mid-twenties, wearing circular rimless glasses, her straw blonde hair pulled together at the back of her head. The person with her was also a she, the same age with dark and close-cropped hair. "Oh, God," the sandaled woman said, as she and her partner came up on their knees, "I'm so sorry. We should have gone, but blame me because I made her stay and watch. We should have given you your privacy." I smiled to let them know that everything was OK. "Hey, I can hardly expect privacy if I'm going to jill off in the middle of an arboretum. I guess I'm the one who's sorry for doing something where I shouldn't have been doing it. Sorry if I embarrassed you." "No, no, no," said the dark-haired woman, shaking her head, "it's OK. Once I got watching I couldn't drag myself away. It was hot. By the way I'm Kirsty and this is Laurel." She and the sandaled woman began to pick themselves up off the ground, got to their feet. I rose to my feet with them. "Nice to meet you," I said. They began to move off, starting to push through the bush they had been hiding behind, but Laurel hesitated and then turned. "I'm sorry, well, um," she began, "I just, I'm sorry but I just have to ask. Why?" I raised my eyebrows at her in a questioning way. "Well, why here? Why are you doing this here?" she asked. I hadn't even stopped to consider they might wonder about the strangeness of my masturbatory venue. I felt myself flush deeply. I'm sure my face was ten shades of red. "Oh, that," I said. "Well, um, I lost this bet to my husband. This is one of the things I have to do to pay it off: get myself off in a public place." Laurel got a knowing look on her face. "God, that's hot," she said. "And he would have had to do the same if he had lost?" I nodded my head and said, "Yeah, except I had a different place in mind for him." "Would that be cool or what?" Laurel asked Kirsty, slipping an arm around her waist. "Making a guy have to go out and jerk off in public?" Kirsty said smiling, and they both burst into laughter "Well, see you," Laurel said. "Sorry again to have watched." "You've pretty much seen all there is to see," I said, "and don't worry about watching. Actually I noticed your feet a few minutes before I finished and knowing you were watching made it ten times better." Kirsty gave a little nod. "It seems like you about went into orbit." I gave them a shy, embarrassed little smile. They each gave me a little wave of the hand, turned, and were gone. I took my time, let them get ahead of me, and while I did spoke into my phone. "So, you heard?" I asked Patrick. Of course he was snickering and I just cut off the call. I moved off back toward the path and took my time walking back, enjoying my surroundings and the afterglow of my big O. But I passed Laurel and Kirsty on my way back toward the entrance. They were off the path looking at something. I found Patrick at the nearer end of the wooden walkway. We explored a little in that copse of big trees I had first seen. A few minutes later Laurel and Kirsty were just going by on the path to the exit as we emerged on our way to the exit also. They were bent over slightly, leaning into each other, heads together, lost in giggles. They saw us and walked the few feet over. I introduced them to Patrick and we made small talk for just a minute or two. "Well, we're off to home," Laurel said. "Kirsty thinks she can beat me at strip poker, and she'd better be right because if she loses the rest of my day is going to be very entertaining. Although I don't she'll quite see it the same way." Kirsty gave her a little shove by leaning into her. "I'm going to win," she told us frankly. "She can't play cards to save her life. I've got a thing or two in mind, and I think it's long past time I tried them out." They walked off holding hands, their heads back together. As Patrick and I walked through the parking lot to the car I slipped my arm around his waist and we affectionately pulled each other close. "Bet paid?" I asked. "For this time," Patrick said.