0 comments/ 132361 views/ 12 favorites Gambling, Sex and Alcohol By: beerlovr88 I submitted my first story to Literotica many months ago, and would like to give countless thanks to all the positive feedback, words of encouragement and constructive criticism that has inspired me to try and write again. This is just something I do for fun, and I submit my work in the hopes that someone somewhere can derive half as much pleasure from reading my stories as I have from writing them. That said, sit back, relax and I hope you enjoy. Oh, and though it should go with out saying, all characters are of at least 18 years of age or older. * Marshal saw his mother once a year at Christmas. Every year he would dread it, and every year he tried coming up with an ingenious excuse involving a children's hospital or homeless shelter as to why he was unable to complete the visit. In the end, however, he always went. It's not that he hated her, for he supposed she did hold his best interests at heart, but still. It got old as her voice droned on and on about how ashamed she was of her son. "Where did I go wrong with you?" she would ask. "All of your brothers and sisters went to school and became doctors and lawyers. They help society and make a descent, honest living, but you and your sort are the scorn of the earth, no better than vermin. I hope you know that I couldn't be more ashamed of you than if you were in prison." He only made the mistake of trying to defend himself once. "You know mother, what I do really isn't all that different from going to school." "What?" she asked incredulously, "how could you possibly say that?" "Well think about it. Anyone paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for an education where there's no guarantee that they will get a job afterwards, are in essence gambling. The only difference really, is that with my gambling I see my losses or gains almost instantly, whereas with school it can take years." After giving her son a brief stare as if he had just compared the Nazis to a small group of pacifist nuns who spent their livelihoods caring for the sick and feeding small children, she replied, "As much as it pains me to dignify such reasoning with a response, surely it goes with out saying that the chances of success are significantly higher with your average college graduate than your average gambler." "Maybe true," he reluctantly conceded, "but then again, maybe you should try telling that to the college graduate with out a job or the successful gambler making millions." Marshal was a gambler. All his life he never felt he had belonged anywhere, but when he was at a poker table—raising, check raising, calling and folding—he felt as if he was in his element, as if playing poker what he was born to do. Though he took no pride or comfort in his gambling, at the humble age of thirty he had officially acclaimed professional gambler status, and paid for his rent, food, and all miscellaneous expenses through gambling. Though he was fond of success and relished the independence that came from being able to work for himself, he still felt as if something was missing in his life. Every morning he would wake up in his small home and think to himself, all I do is drink, smoke and gamble. I don't work, answer to anybody's schedule, or resort to kissing anyone else's ass. So why am I so miserable? It was a question he asked himself nearly every night as he slowly drank himself to that precious state of oblivion. Sometimes he felt that what he needed in his life was a female. Many years ago, when his last girlfriend broke up with him after kindly informing him that she was no longer interested in men, marshal would find himself at various bars doing what he thought was the best way to find company. Initially he was persistent and tried not to let bad beats bring him down, but in the end it became painstakingly obvious that he lacked whatever redeemable quality it was that so many females looked for in men. He had officially given up and accepted his new found life of celibacy after a good looking female he had once bought a drink for and tried talking to ended up leaving the bar with a deformed, albino midget. Maybe that was why he drank so much. Sometimes he felt that given just the right amount of alcohol, it was almost as if he could relive his glorious teenage years—back when he was well acquainted with various teenage females who were quite literally turned on by the very thought of rebelling against their parents and teachers, and were more often than not willing to try alcohol and whatever else sparked their lively interests given the circumstances. Sometimes he found himself missing those days, and wondered what had changed. Was time just exceptionally cruel to him? Or did females everywhere grow exceptionally more rigid when they found out their virginities were worth millions on eBay? He knew other gamblers would sometimes resort to paying for their love. Strippers, hookers, escorts, massage therapists; the stories were all the same. He had given it more thought than he cared to admit, and sometimes found it disturbingly tempting when he would fall asleep alone with nothing but the thoughts and memories of his past. In the end, though, something was always holding him back, but what it was exactly he couldn't tell. Maybe he had a soft spot he wasn't unaware of, and for whatever reason considered sex a sacred, spiritual, benevolent act that was in essence perverted as soon as he tried paying money for it. That, or he was subconsciously and irrationally petrified that the moment he tried paying for a prostitute, she would take one look at him and charge double. Either way, night after night he found himself falling asleep alone. The only source of solace in his life—drugs and money aside—came from his nice, quite life at home. That was why he was caught off guard when one midsummer Saturday afternoon, he heard his doorbell ring. As marshal silently prayed that it was not the police or the IRS, he begrudgingly sat up, went to his door, and opened it with the most sincere intent to tell whoever it was to go and fuck themselves. However, he abruptly halted with the profanity as he found himself face to face with a young female. He stood there for a second in wonderment, for in truth, he didn't think he would have been more surprised if it were the lord almighty himself. Now, in the past when magazine or insurance salesmen came to his door, he would kindly and politely tell them he wasn't interested. This time, however, as his gaze lingered over her soft freckles and round, blue eyes, something came over him. He knew it couldn't be sympathy or kindness, but what else could it be? What kind of world do we live in, where females like this have resorted to knocking on my door in the hopes that I'll buy their product? He knew he didn't want what she was selling, but at the same time he didn't have the heart to tell her he wasn't interested. As he internally struggled to overcome such a profound predicament, he decided a twenty ought to be more than sufficient to settle the matter. He took out his wallet and started searching through the bills. He kept searching and searching until to his utmost horror, it suddenly occurred to him that the only bills he was carrying were hundreds! Now, even though it felt like he was parting with a small part of his soul, he plucked out one of the bills, thrust it into her hand, and shut the door as quickly as he possibly could, counting himself both lucky and fortunate that he was able to escape from such a vulnerable position with such a minimal loss, and all before she was able to say a word. Tracy stood at her neighbor's door stunned for a moment, and then quickly realized he must have had the wrong idea. She knocked on his door again. "Please, sir, I'm not interested in your money. My name's Tracy, I live across the street. We're neighbors." In the ten years marshal had been living in his home, it had never once occurred to him that there would actually be people living nearby. That these people also happened to be female and claimed not to be interested in his money made the matter all the more bizarre. Curiosity eventually got the better of him, and reluctantly he opened his door once more. "Yes?" he asked. "Sorry if I've disturbed you, I came here with the intent to find out if you could spare some fresh eggs, but instead you gave me this." Tracy handed him back the money. Then, as if trying to justify to herself parting with such a valuable commodity that had been more than freely given to her, added, "And besides, I've only seen the look that came across your face when you handed me your money once before, and that was when an 8 year old had just found out that his new born baby puppy had died." In spite of himself, marshal laughed. And I call myself a poker player. Wordlessly, marshal walked to his fridge, took out a carton of eggs, walked back to his door, and handed her the carton. She thanked him, left, and as far as marshal was concerned, that was that. Amazingly though, several hours later he heard his doorbell ring once again, and once more he found himself face to face with the softly freckled, blue eyed female. "Hello, again," she said with a small smile. "Your generosity has enabled me to make us some cupcakes." "Cupcakes?" He asked as if certain that he must have misheard her. "My special recipe," she replied. Then, after a brief pause, added, "So, are you just going to stand there all day? Or are you going to invite me in?" Marshal was fully aware his home was in no way fit for entertaining a guest, and a brief wave of anxiety seized him as he desperately tried coming up with an excuse to prevent her from coming inside. "Believe me, I'd like to, it's just… now's really not the best of times," he said as he hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. "Come on, now's not the time to be bashful! We're neighbors, after all," she said as she moved forward to enter his home uninvited. Marshal was at a loss, but in the end decided he really didn't want to start making a habit of refusing young females with freshly baked goods entry into his home. "Okay," he said with a sigh, "just don't say I didn't warn you." Tracy couldn't help but lose a small piece of respect for humanity as she stepped inside his home and studied her newfound surroundings. Wow, she thought. This guy wasn't kidding. There were empty beer bottles everywhere, unkempt dirty laundry in the most peculiar of places, dishes that looked like they hadn't been washed in several years, and a ghastly odor that made her want to ask what had died recently. In spite of her better judgment, she felt a small pang of sympathy for the poor creature that had let life's transgressions bring him to such a low, diabolical level. She set the cupcakes on the table, and casually walked to his fridge as if she had lived there her whole life. She was hoping to find a drink to serve along with her snack, but instead found a minor collection of beverages that would have put most small liquor stores to shame. Jesus, he has enough booze here to last a small army several weeks. Just as she was about to give up finding an appropriate beverage, she spotted a small carton of orange juice in the far corner and took it out. In truth, he was as surprised as she was when he saw that she had successfully managed to procure a non-alcoholic beverage from his fridge. Tracy sat down at his table with the cupcakes and orange juice. "So, what do you do exactly?" she asked curiously. Marshall was suspicious by nature, so when the female invited herself into his home and proceeded to share cupcakes and ask about himself, he had assumed the worse. If she's not an underground DEA agent, then she's one of them born agains undergoing unprecedented measures to save your heathen soul. "I do all sorts of things, I suppose," he replied diplomatically. "Oh? Like what?" "Where to begin?" he laughed half heartedly. "I Read to the blind, build shelters for the homeless, take part in community efforts to clean up inner city parks, donate money to the feed the children foundation, the works." "Ha!" she replied skeptically, "I suppose next you're going to tell me you vote, pay your taxes, and attend church every Sunday, too." She's a sharp one, he noted. "Okay, fine," he said attempting to undergo a different tactic. "If you must know about me, my name is marshal, and I specialize in reading and analyzing human behavior for profit." Despite herself, she was intrigued. "Oh, really?" "Really," he replied. "Take yourself for example. My money says that when you were younger, you had a peculiar habit of caring for animals; in particular, bringing home strays, mending the broken wings of small birds, and caring for whatever other feeble creature you happened to come across. Now, a bit older, I'm guessing you're a devout vegetarian and a pragmatic perfectionist. If you don't have a 4.0 right now, then you cried for at least a week the first time you got a B. It's obvious you care for your health and your body, so I'd say you're a runner, maybe a dancer even. You take a bit too seriously the praise and criticism of others, as it's this that you rely on for the helpless justification of your pious existence. You have a small group of close friends, a good part time job where you get along well with your co-workers, and though your relationship with your parents is far from optimal, you still know you love them and wouldn't know what you would do with out them. You donate to whatever secular services you attend to on Sunday, and you're hoping to study education and become a teacher when you go to college." Marshal was about to go into the reasons he thought she was a virgin, but thought better of it. "So, how'd I do?" he asked. Tracy knew that he had struck closer to the truth than she cared to admit. "You couldn't possibly be more wrong." "Oh, and you're also a terrible liar," he added with a note of triumph. "Whatever," she replied. "You can go on sitting there thinking that you're so smug and clever, but let me assure you that it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that you're nothing but a misanthropic, drug addicted, low life with a poor mother somewhere crying daily over where she went wrong her son." Marshal gave a despairing sigh as he realized he was just defeated at his own game. "Oh, don't look so gloomy!" she said guiltily. "Here, take a cupcake." Marshall would have preferred a shot of gin, but he wanted to be polite so he took the cupcake. "So, where do you work?" he asked trying to change the subject. "I work at a coffee shop." "And do you enjoy it?" What kind of loaded question is that? She wondered. "No one likes their job," she retorted, "that's why they get paid to do it." "Ah, but of course." "Are you trying to get at something?" she asked suspiciously. "Oh, no, not really," he replied, "just… what if there was another way?" "Another way? What do you mean?" "You know. Not everyone likes to be asked to work overtime, to take double shifts, to do the tasks of a co-worker, to be constantly accused of getting an order wrong. I'd bet good money that there's a realistic way for you to easily make more than 5 times what you're probably making now, and all with out a manager constantly breathing down your neck." "Oh, really?" she asked. "And what's the catch? Ending up like you?" "Come now, there's no need for that. It was just a suggestion is all. Think about it, you would have nothing to lose and everything to gain." "And what would I be doing exactly?" "So long as you're at least 18 and interested, you'd be playing cards. I take it you know the fundamentals of poker? What beats what and when you're allowed to place your wagers?" "I suppose so, but…" "Excellent," he interrupted. "I can't imagine how a girl like you couldn't do well. I'd recommend incorporating a basic strategy at first. Raise 2-3 times the big blind for any premium hand, limp in for any given pair or suited connector, fold everything else, and bet with nothing less than top pair, though optimally you'll be getting two pairs or sets. As you gain experience and start recognizing betting patterns and different playing styles, you'll eventually be able to add in your own twists and deviate from the given strategy accordingly." "That's pathetic," she informed him kindly. "Suite yourself. Though, I feel like you should know, I'm willing to bet good money that if you did exactly what I told you, that you'd be able to pay me back twice over with more than enough left over for yourself, and I don't say that lightly." "You'd be willing to hand me over money, just like that?" she asked disbelievingly. "Sure." He replied solemnly. "So long as you're willing to follow my instructions implicitly, I see no reason why this investment shouldn't turn out like my others." "So let me get this straight. By taking your money and incorporating your 'strategy,' you believe that I'd eventually be able to pay you back twice over with more than enough left over for myself?" "Precisely." "You're crazy." "Oh? And what do you have to lose? Worse case scenario for you, this is free money. Take it and make yourself happy by trying to feed stray kittens for all I care. I promise I'm not going to hunt you down like the IRS or some other ruthless creditor." As much as she despised the very thought, she had to admit he had a point. "Alright, fine," she said at last. Marshal took out his wallet, plucked out 10 bills or so, and handed them to her. "Good luck." Tracy took this as her notice to leave, but stopped as he said, "Oh, and one more thing." "Yes?" she asked. He briefly studied her more than modest dress. "If you do this, you might want to consider a different choice of apparel." She didn't think there was anything wrong with how she was currently dressed. "And what might you suggest instead?" Tracy asked. "For a job like this? The shortest skirt you can find with any low-cut t shirt—the tighter the fit the better." "And if my wardrobe doesn't permit such provocative attire?" He plucked another bill from his wallet and handed it to her. "Then go buy yourself some." After she left, Marshal didn't know if he was the world's biggest idiot or greatest genius. What he was hoping, what he was gambling on, was that it wouldn't matter if she couldn't lie to save her life. He suspected that if she played poker and took his advice, then the vast majority of those around her would be far more interested in stealing glimpses down her shirt than counting the number of times she was raising pre-flop. Tracy couldn't help but wonder how many times in history someone was able to visit their neighbor with cupcakes, only to find themselves leave with almost eleven hundred dollars cash. Now that she was away from his undue influence, she began to think of all the greater thing she could do with his money. Help a kid with cancer pay for his surgery? Help an inner city school buy text books? Give it to her church? Initially, she found every single one of these options more tempting than to gamble with it. In fact, it wasn't until her boss who had at the last second asked her to work overtime on an evening when all her friends were out having fun, that she felt the conviction needed to go along with her neighbors' foolish notion that she could play cards for profit. Reluctantly, she also bought the clothes he had suggested to wear. As much as she hated the idea of feeling so naked and exposed in front of a roomful of strangers, she felt like she owed it to marshal to follow his advice, as it was technically not her money she was going to be gambling with. Gambling, Sex and Alcohol Ch. 02 Marshal awoke with a long, drawn out sigh, cringing at the thought of living yet another day in paradise. His vision was blurred, his memory from last night still groggy, and the pains in his head made him question if life was really worth living. After stumbling around confused for a few moments, he made his way to the sink and began splashing cold water onto his face. Clarity arriving too slowly for his liking, he stepped out of his room. Looking around in horror, he couldn't help but second guess reality and all that he thought he knew. His usual surroundings had virtually vanished; gone was the dirty laundry, empty liquor bottles and random piles of rubbish. He also detected a lemon scented aroma and could almost hear a faint echo which, if he hadn't known any better, might have faintly resembled a dish washer or laundry machine. Wondering if he hadn't been cursed somehow, he cautiously made his way to the fridge and grabbed his wake-up beer. Then, kicking himself for being unarmed during the time of uncertainty and swearing that there had to be somebody nearby, he made a heroic leap into the next room. "You!" he cried out accusingly. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" "Oh, hi Marshal. I'm so glad you're finally awake." He couldn't help but stare at the young woman in amazement; standing in awe for a few moments and not knowing what to think, he slowly took a seat. Then, wondering if he wasn't somehow in a dream, he started to drink, fully convinced that the world would make more sense afterwards. Marshal stared at the woman blankly as if expecting an explanation. "Do you really have no idea what happened last night?" she asked. The question struck Marshall as an odd one. "Of course I do," he sneered. "I... I..." Marshal was at a loss for words as he tried to figure out what he had done the previous night. "Well regardless, after waking up in the morning and studying my surroundings, I was appalled that a human being could descend to such degeneracy. I couldn't help but pity you, and did what I could to help out during the time when you were out cold." Marshal sighed as he looked around and contemplated recent events, cursing when he realized that a vase filled with flowers had managed to replace his lucky bottle of Jameson. "Listen. I don't know who you are or what you think we've done, but after I get my apology I think that it would be best for both of us if you left," he told her with conviction. "An apology?" she asked as if not knowing what he was getting at. "For altering what was once considered a perfect home prior to your unwelcome intrusion. When I've done nothing to upset you yet you still insist on going out of your way to make my life misera-" Marshal halted briefly as she stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" he fumed while mildly upset that she cared so little about what he had to say. "I'm talking to you!" It wasn't long before the woman returned with a beer in hand. "Sorry," she told him meekly as she opened the bottle and handed it to him. "I saw that you finished your drink and thought that you might want another one." "Oh, right," he said not knowing how to respond. "Anyways, where was I?" "I don't know. Perhaps you were upset about something and wanted to rant about it?" "Of course! Like I was saying, we need to have a talk about boundaries. You just don't go into a guys house and move everything around. All things considering, I must insist that you leave right now so I can try to fix all that you've ruined." "Oh, marshal," she sighed. "Do you mind holding that thought for a moment? I know it's crazy, but for some reason this is really starting to irritate me." "What is?" Marshal asked, more than a bit confused. The woman turned around and got on her knees. "This stain on the carpet. No matter what I do it just won't go away!" she wailed as she began scrubbing the floor furiously. Marshal was amazed that the the woman considered the discolored carpet something important enough to warrant her time and effort. Not knowing the protocol for the situation, he did what he normally did - sat back with a drink while contemplating the world around him. And strangely enough, more and more he found his gaze linger on the woman before him; and despite himself, formally acknowledged that he found her presence to be immensely irritating. He wasn't able to put his finger on it, but for whatever reason he wasn't able to divert his attention to anything else. He couldn't help but notice the sizable cleavage that bobbled back and forth as she worked, and was soon transfixed by their forward and back motion. The low cut shirt she wore barely covered herself, and with every forward thrust she made with her arms he thought for sure that she would expose herself completely. His irritation continued to increase, and more and more he began to see the small, curvy frame before him as a pleading, irresistible invitation of sorts. Her name, her words, her desires, her family, the type of life she led, the reason for her being there - none of it phased him in the slightest as he considered all the great and uplifting things he could do, and it wasn't long before his wondering thoughts got the better of him. Intoxicated and unable to restrain himself, he got up and pushed her forcibly to the ground. Using his weight he pinned her so that she was underneath him and couldn't escape. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he quickly pulled down her shirt and marveled at the glory which lied beneath. Not thinking about anything else, he fondled her breasts to his hearts content, and was positively delighted to note that her nipples hardened considerably in response to his touch. Almost immediately she started to struggle, pushing against him wildly trying to break free. "No...!" she sobbed in between heated breaths. "Don't do this it's not want I want!" She started to whimper as he eventually pulled her skirt down and opened her legs. She begged, cried, and screamed for him to stop, but in the end her body betrayed her as her hips shamefully began moving forward to meet each of his thrusts. *** At long last, the itch that he had had for years had finally been scratched. He didn't know what to think as she continued to lay there sobbing. Perhaps trying to compensate for something that he didn't know he felt, he wordlessly procured a wad of cash and laid it beside her. And, feeling the sudden need for cleanliness, went upstairs for a shower, half hoping that it would do him a favor and drown him. After a lengthy period he returned to the kitchen, and again found himself questioning what he once thought about reality. "Hello, again?" he asked suspiciously, still bewildered that the woman continued to choose to remain in his house. "Hey, it's good to have you back," she exclaimed as if nothing had happened. "After the work out you had earlier I thought you might be hungry, so I decided to make a late breakfast. I wanted to cater to all your tastes by making a little bit of everything." Scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, roasted potatoes, buttered toast, pancakes with maple syrup - it all looked very much appealing, though at the same time he could hear a voice warning him that something was very much amiss. Helpless and wondering if it'd be the last thing he ever did, he succumbed to yet another instinctive desire. And, determined to get the last words in should it come to that, added, "well if you've decided to poison me then for the love of all that's good in the world, how I hope it's something that'll be quick and painless." "Oh, marshal," she giggled. In all honesty Marshal couldn't remember eating so well. "Wow it's delicious," he exclaimed as the woman beamed with delight. "Oh Jesus, what time is it?!" he asked as if suddenly remembering something. "No need to worry," she told him while knowing why he asked. "I was afraid you might have been burdened with an unforeseen distraction, so I took the liberty of recording the game for you." "The game?" he asked as if not certain he heard her correctly. "Manchester City vs Real Madrid clashing together for the first time in the group of death; your mind might have been elsewhere earlier but I still thought you might want to watch it." Marshal looked at her before answering. He seemed to consider each time what sort of woman this was to whom he spoke. "I don't know what to say," he said at last, certain that there was some type of angle that he was missing. "You don't have to say anything. Just sit back on the couch, watch the game and let me get you another beer." For the first time in a what seemed like ages, marshal felt wholly satisfied as he sat back with a beer in hand and watched the match up. He imagined that the champions of Spain and England gave the bookies a bit of a nightmare, as both European power houses were some of the largest spenders in the world. Though each team contained star ridden rosters, he still fancied Real Madrid as the favorites when he considered that they were at home and that Manchester City were still relatively new to European competition. All the same, after getting almost 3 to 1 on his money, he couldn't help but place an affordable wager on a Manchester victory. With out a doubt the money made the game more interesting, as part of himself died inside when Balotelli hit the wood work twice before getting booked for a careless challenge. Then, just as he began to rage over an unjustified free kick rewarded a few yards outside the box, he heard an unknown sound that gave him a short pause. Trying to ignore it he continued to watch the game, but as the sound persisted and grew louder he was eventually forced to divert his attention elsewhere. Tracey was crying. Initially at a loss for words, he looked back and forth between the game and the crying woman, before reluctantly turning off the TV with a grimace. For the life of him he couldn't remember the last time he tried consoling another human being. "Is there something wrong?" he finally asked. Her crying grew louder in response to the question and he reprimanded himself for being so careless. "Sorry, don't mind me," she sobbed before continuing, "it's not like you even care." "Okay, well is there somewhere else you can make that noise then?" he asked. Tracey got up, sat down next to him and put her head on his lap. "Why do I stay with you? You're mean, uncaring, abusive, and I hate it because whenever you force yourself on me I don't even feel like a person. I cry because it hurts so much, I've always said no, and yet for some reason I continue to remain here. Tell me, is there any way we could be together with out the sex? Or am I just being hopelessly naive?" Marshal was only vaguely aware that she was even talking, as by that time all the crying had made her shirt considerably wet. Inspired, he reached down and cupped both her breasts together, taking delight in their soft warmth. Almost immediately she tried pushing him away, a bit surprised that he still had it in him. "You know that I'm going to have to tie you up if you keep trying to struggle," he told her. Tracey paled considerably at the thought. "You wouldn't!" she pleaded as he pushed her to the ground and tied each of her wrists to the table. "Okay," she said as she lay there helplessly and trying to remain calm. "I see what you meant when you said it'd be better for both of us if I left. Can you please let me go now? I promise to leave and stop bothering you." "No need to worry," he told her reassuringly as he stripped her bare. "I'm certain you'll have plenty of time for that later." *** The next day Marshal woke up in an uncharacteristically good mood. Invigorated with the certainty that the rest of his day was streaming with potential, he headed towards the fridge to grab a drink. Not surprised at all to see Tracey at the table with a coffee and Women's Health magazine, he took the opportunity to take the seat across from her, noting how modest dress had suddenly replaced the short skirt and low cut shirt, as if the thought of getting raped was no longer on her mind. "Good morning! I wanted to tell you I've got an appointment with my therapist later, so there's no need to be too worried if I'm out for a few hours." "Why are you seeing a therapist?" he asked while knowing he wasn't going to like the answer. "I'm glad you care enough to ask. The truth is that I find his insight valuable, as he his specialties lie with people who are unable to get away from abusive relationships," she told him as if she was talking about the weather. "And I want you to know, this wouldn't even be necessary if somebody didn't want to tie me up and rape me for hours." "Oh, please," he sneered. "You can't call it rape if you were asking for it and loved every second." "I want to pretend I didn't just hear that, but you're sick, twisted and in need of serious help if you honestly believe that. Here, I think making an appointment could actually do you a lot of good," she told him while handing him her therapists card. "And as much as I enjoy having these social debates, I should really get going if I don't want to be late," she said before leaving him to his thoughts. He knew he wasn't attached to the woman, but at the same time he couldn't help but despise how she felt the need to make it perfectly clear that she was leaving him to spend time with another guy and for such a ridiculous reason. Smug and always thinking she had the moral high ground, he found it irritating that she acted like she was so much better than him. Thinking it was time for a lesson, he logged onto his computer and created an email which he addressed to the guy on the card. It read as follows: Dear sir, It is for her sake that I must inform you, in part out of moral obligation, that the woman you are about to see has an unsatisfiable fetish for sex, with anal being a strong preference. She's made a nasty habit of denying the claim and may protest vigorously if tested, so restraints may prove to be necessary. And rest assured, she's perfectly clean and will be most reluctant to make any kind of public insinuation. Wondering if he might need further convincing, he attached some nude photos he had taken when she was bound and gagged with her legs forced apart. Then, after adding a caption that read, 'she's waiting,' sent the email while hoping her therapist would read it in time. *** Dr. Spottersworth read the email twice while not believing a word, but soon second guessed his original assessment after studying the photos. Noting the enlarged breasts on the thin and curvy figure, he was quite certain that the woman was indeed the patient he had been seeing for the last few months, and was wholly convinced that the photos wouldn't have been in existence unless the rest of the email was true. Although he prided himself on being a professional, he couldn't deny that he had been attracted to her since they first met, and in a strange way found himself relieved that he didn't have to spend his entire life without ever being able to see what lied beneath her modest dress. It wasn't long before his thoughts were interrupted by a knock, and he couldn't help but beam considerably as he graciously welcomed Tracey into his office. And as was the custom, Tracey helped herself to the couch as she started to rant about her various misfortunes. Excited by what he had seen earlier, Dr. Spottersworth found it difficult to concentrate and was only vaguely aware that she was in the mood for talking. "Are you even listening to me?" she asked at long last, more than a bit surprised that he had remained silent while she told him all about how degraded she felt whenever guys took advantage of her. "What?" he asked. "Oh, yes of course." "Are you feeling okay?" she asked him while thinking his heavy breathing and flushed appearance was unusual. Hearing her ask the question made him aware of the fact that he no longer trusted himself with her. Flustered and chain bound to his code of ethics, he finally came out and said what he needed to. "I can no longer help you. I think it's time you find a new therapist." Thinking she had made a lot of progress with him over the months, she was more than hurt by the request. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked him while wondering what had changed. Realizing that he wasn't going to reply and feeling that her presence was no longer welcome, she got up to leave. Then, sensing that something wasn't right and that he was suffering, she instinctively put her arms around him in what she hoped he would consider to be a consoling gesture. Feeling her breasts pressing lightly against his own, he couldn't help himself as he felt his arms return the embrace, before quickly using the opportunity to push her snugly against him so that he could better feel their fullness. Then, as his hands on her back moved lower and lower, he firmly forced the lower half of her body towards him so that she was bound tightly and unwillingly against his growing arousal. Not expecting the sporadic change in his behavior, she sat their stoically as if she was somewhere else and that it wasn't really what she thought. Still too surprised to speak and not fully aware of what was happening, she wasn't able to tell him to stop. It wasn't long when, as if waking up from a dream, she suddenly realized that she was completely naked with her legs wide open before him. Ashamed of her positioning, in a last ditch effort she desperately tried to push her legs together, only to learn that she had straps attached to her which prevented her from doing just that. Not knowing what else to do, she tried to cry out and tell him not to go any further, only to find some type of object covering her mouth, which in turn muffled her screams and prevented speech. Lying there helplessly and feeling vulnerable, she felt him move his fingers inside of her. Moaning softly in response to the touch, she hated how her body responded by trying to push itself forward so that his fingers would go in deeper. Then, almost as if he was teasing her, he moved his fingers around in a circular motion, happily exploring her moistening entrance while being careful not to push them too far. She found the sensation agonizing, and in spite of herself, was ashamed of how her hips tried harder and harder to meet up against the soft pressure his fingers created. At long last he removed his fingers as he began to position his throbbing member just outside her exposed opening. Then, just as she started to moan with relief as she felt the head of his shaft trying to make its way through, he remembered that she preferred anal. 'No, not there anywhere but there!' she desperately wanted to tell him as she realized his intentions. Shaking her head vigorously and irritated by her helplessness, she grew hysterical and started thrashing against the restraints as he positioned his fully engorged member. Shortly thereafter, as her back arched and body began to spasm, she felt herself stretch considerably to make way for the head of his shaft. Seconds seemed like hours as she felt him penetrate deeply, whimpering with each thrust and wishing desperately for release. Then, just as she started to struggle with lucidity and the darkening of her vision, she felt his fingers return to the moisture between her legs, pushing them much deeper than the first time, before moving them in and out in a quick and steady rhythm. Instinctively and with out even thinking about it, she felt her hips attempting to match the thrusts of his fingers, only to learn that that the motion enabled even deeper anal penetration. Not being able to bear the sensation, she quickly tried holding her hips still, only to find that there was nothing she could do to prevent their involuntary movement. Gambling, Sex and Alcohol Ch. 02 Wet, fully aroused, and upset about the part of her body that got most of the attention, part of her desperately wanted him to switch orifices, and she became increasingly frustrated with her inability to communicate. Eventually he removed himself from her, and, just by looking at her, couldn't help but feel like something was wrong. "What's the matter?" he wondered out loud as he began massaging her breasts and exploring their fullness. "I think I know the problem. Is it that you want your pussy fucked?" he asked as she reluctantly nodded her head with shameful enthusiasm. "Of course!" he said with delight as he began moving his hands up and down between her thighs. Tearing with carnal joy as she realized the wait was almost over, she came almost instantly as she felt herself stretch considerably when he pushed himself inside of her. Eager and excited for more, she felt her body desperately try to push itself forward every time he pushed himself in, while at the same time hoping that he wouldn't go any deeper. Then, as if reading her mind, he repositioned her legs so that they were upwards and behind his back. With the new position offering a better angle, it wasn't long before she got off repeatedly to his deep, penetrative thrusts. Wondering how much longer it had to last, her body continued to respond to his movements as she sat there moaning. At long last, she wouldn't have been able to tell you her name as she felt him pulsate wildly from within. Eventually he withdrew from her, and, disgusted with his lack of self control, quickly removed her restraints while hoping that she wouldn't take long to leave. With the conviction that she'd never see him again, she quickly got dressed and left. *** Her self-loathing escalated considerably as she returned home. Defeated, she sat down at the table and put her head down. Beer in hand, Marshal couldn't help but look over and take pleasure in her disheveled clothes and dispirited demeanor. "My how difficult life must be when guys everywhere find you irresistible," he told her. Determined to get a reaction when she didn't say anything, he continued. "Women... they spend lots of money and countless hours trying to make themselves look more attractive, and then have the audacity to act all butt hurt when guys don't want to take the word 'no' seriously." "Are you done gloating?" she asked before continuing. "And besides, you couldn't be more wrong. If women try to look more attractive it's because they want to be more confident with who they are - not because they're looking to get raped." "Well I guess we can't always get the best of both worlds," he retorted. "Well I guess you can call me crazy for wanting to be treated like an actual person and not a sex object," she told him. Almost as if he was feeling guilty about what he thought she might have went through earlier, he placed a sandwich and a beer in front of her, thinking she might be hungry and knowing that if such a gesture was ever returned that it was apt to make him feel better during a time of turmoil. "Did you want to do something later?" he asked at long last. "Like...?" "I don't know. Maybe there was a movie out that you wanted to see? We could also grab a drink if you were interested." Tracey wouldn't have been more surprised if he had read her mind - the last thing in the world she expected from him was a gesture that might have been considered romantic. Almost afraid of what he'd do to her if she tried to decline the offer, she agreed to go on the outing after requesting time to prepare. Gambling, Sex and Alcohol Marshal was a regular at the 25/50 10k max ring games at the nearby casino. At any given time, he was able to recognize most of the people he was playing against, and felt confident with his superior poker and reading abilities to play and do well against them all. One evening, however, he found himself sitting next to a young female whom he had never before seen in his life. "Hello, marshal," she said quietly. Marshal was so surprised that she knew his name, that he reluctantly tore his gaze away from her chest and studied her face. Realization soon dawned upon him as he recognized the round, blue eyes and softly faded freckles of his neighbor. "Tracy?" he asked in stunned disbelief. "What the devil are you doing here?" "You were right," she said with a sly grin, "I've had a bit of success, and have been fortunate to move up quite rapidly in this card playing world of yours." Jesus, he thought. I only gave her a thousand dollars. How was she able to get herself in a 10k max ring game in less than a week? Marshal found himself oddly ill at ease sitting so close to Tracy. As much as he tried concentrating on the game and looking else where, his gaze always seemed to linger back to her now barely concealed breasts. It was like his mind was playing tricks on him as he started to imagine would it would feel like to pull her shirt down just a little bit, and witness her bodies full glory right then and there. His heart began beating rapidly in heated exhilaration as he couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to move his hands along those soft, round curves, and to explore their fullness to his hearts content. And if that wasn't enough, thoughts about the game soon became all but impossible as he felt a warm hand softly touch his thigh from underneath the table, and slowly begin to move its way upward toward his now massively, stiffening erection. "Why so tense?" Tracy asked him innocently. That night, Marshal experienced the greatest loss ever in his ten years as a gambler, and had successfully worked himself into small fit of rage by the time he finally made it to his home. Just as he grabbed himself a small bottle of liquor with the intent to drink himself to that ever so precious state of oblivion, he heard a soft knock on the door. "Tracy?" Marshal asked as he opened his door, "what are you doing here?" Tracy took it upon herself to walk into his home, and made herself comfortable at his table. "Paying back my debts." She took out her purse, counted some bills, and set the money on the table. "There. I've now paid you back twice over with more than enough for myself, just as you predicted." Marshal had to resist the temptation to slap that smug look off her face. She knew perfectly well that that money didn't even come close to covering his earlier losses. He studied her short skirt and low cut t-shirt that she still wore from earlier, and began to toy with the thought of taking her, right then and right there. To push her down on the table, lift up her skirt, and relentlessly force himself onto her again and again. No one was there to hear her if she screamed, and if she took the matter to an authority it would be her word against his. That would show her. Just as he started to think of the matter as settled, a small voice crept up into the back of his mind. If you go ahead with this then she will never see or talk to you again. Is that what you really want? Marshall collected the money with a sigh. "Oh, don't look so gloomy!" she said. "Every time you get that wounded puppy eyed look you make me want to hold you and bake you cupcakes all over again." Am I really that obvious? He wondered. Marshall took one of the bottles of liquor, poured it into a shot glass, and just as he was about to down it; remembered his guest. "Would you like some?" Marshal asked trying to be polite. Tracy apprehensively studied the bottle of liquor. Other than small sips of wine at the occasional family get together, she had never tried alcohol. "Why would I want some?" Tracy asked. Marshal had been drinking for years, and the question of why had simply never occurred to him. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "If you ask me, I think this calls for a celebration. I mean, it's not everyday you discover a newfound talent for yourself that has the unlimited potential to rake in thousands." "And you think you need alcohol to celebrate and have a good time?" Marshal's first impulse was to reply, 'yes, of course,' but he thought better of it as he suspected it was a trick question. "Of course, I suppose there ARE other ways to celebrate and have a good time," he admitted through clenched teeth. "Oh? Like what?" "Like…" Marshal sat there dumbfounded trying to come up with an answer. He wanted to say like sex or other drugs, but for some reason he didn't think she'd be very impressed with that sort of response. "Like reading the bible and praising the lord?" Marshal asked. "Ha! That'll be the day," she said as she curiously took a shot glass and began pouring herself the drink. "Cheers," he said as they both went bottoms up. Never in her life had Tracy imagined that a beverage could taste so foul. Her initial inclination was to gag and spit it out, but marshal had expected what was going to happen, and already he had the orange juice used from earlier prepared. She took the bottle greedily, and desperately drank the juice down in the attempt to rid her mouth of the vile taste. "You're telling me that people drink this for fun?" Tracy asked him flabbergasted. Marshal gave a soft chuckle as he replied, "Most people drink because they enjoy the effects—not the taste." "Effects?" she giggled, "what effects?" "If you're asking yourself that question then clearly you haven't drunk enough. Here, how about another?" Marshal asked as he poured her another shot. In no time at all, Tracy was giggling and laughing sporadically. For the first time ever, she was making more money than she knew what to do with. Her teachers at school were talking about mitosis and quadratic formulas, her friends were talking about boys, tiffany jewelry and Ugg boots; and yet here she was, consumed by thoughts of aces, kings, queens, and the rush of being able to check raise with nothing but a seven, deuce off suite. She felt so happy, so on top of the world, that she decided Marshal was right—she deserved a minor celebration. She couldn't remember how many drinks she had, but she tried taking another shot, missed, and felt the wet, cool liquor softly pour down her shirt. "Whoops, clumsy me," she giggled. Eventually, she felt herself get a bit drowsy, and moved into the next room to lie down on the couch. Marshal followed her, and as he sat down next to her, she immediately moved next to his warm body; put her arm across his chest, her head on his shoulder, and slowly drifted off to a dreamy state of unconsciousness. Marshal peered down at the sleeping body next to him, and all he could think about were her firm, soft breasts pressing against him. He wondered if he had any right to touch her. She was asleep and he felt a bit guilty for what he was thinking about, but at the same time he felt a bit of resentment from earlier. Had she asked him his permission to touch him from underneath the table? And besides, he thought looking for any way to justify his behavior, it's not like I'm going to have sex with her. Timidly, he put his cold hand on her chest, and slowly worked his way down until he was cupping the full weight of her breast. He gently massaged her nipple with his thumb and forefinger, felt it almost immediately harden, and swore he heard a soft moan escape from her sleeping lips. He rested his other hand on top of her knee. Gently, he slowly moved his hand up along her inner thigh, gradually getting closer and closer to the point where he could almost touch her pubic hair. For a little while he lightly traced the outside layering of the soft fabric of her under garment with his finger, until finally, he moved his hand underneath so that he could gently fondle her soft pubic area. Slowly, he moved his hand even lower, and with a finger he lightly traced and very outside folds of her moist opening. At long last, he eventually put one of his fingers inside of her. He moved his finger up and down along the soft inner folds of her opening, and grew nervous and almost retracted his finger as he heard her stir softly in her sleep. After he felt confident she wasn't going to wake up, he started experimenting with pushing his finger inside of her to different depths. Eventually he began to move his way upwards, and tenderly began applying soft pressure to the areas around her clit. In all his life, Marshal could never remember a female feeling as wet she felt. Tracy let out a soft, involuntary gasp as he finally applied direct pressure to her clit. Slowly, she regained consciousness, and was horrified as she finally became fully aware that he was slowly moving his fingers inside and out between her slightly parted legs and exposed opening. She desperately wanted to tell him to stop, that this wasn't what she wanted, but her body betrayed her as he put yet another finger inside of her and thrust them slightly deeper than he had before. She gasped, felt her body convulse, and despite herself starting thrusting her body in a rhythmic motion in accordance to his fingers that were moving inside and out of her. Suddenly he stopped, and with a small pang of nervous fear, Tracy heard the light snap of a belt buckle, followed by a soft zip. It suddenly occurred to Tracy that there might only be one way out of this. As Marshal stood there with his enlarged, throbbing organ between them, she nervously took the opportunity to take his organ into her hands. After a moment, she gingerly moved her head forward, and did her best to take his organ into her mouth. At first she feared she might not be able to open her mouth wide enough to take it, but with a little grunted effort, she finally managed to stretch her jaw wide enough. She moved her mouth deep along his shaft until she nearly gagged, and as she tried to move her head back, she felt his hands on top of her head push her forward and make her take just a little bit more. Then, with his cock still in her mouth, she felt his hands apply soft pressure to the full weight of her breasts, while his fingers lightly caressed her nipples. With this she started to moan longingly, and started moving her mouth up and down along his shaft with increased frequency, and even felt encouraged as she heard a soft moan escape his lips. Then, just as she felt she was about to succeed with her original task, she felt him remove her head, turn her around, and place her on her knees before him. While holding her down forcibly, he removed her under garment and spread her legs. For a brief moment afterwards, Marshal couldn't help but marvel at her beauty as she lay there bare and exposed before him. Tracy could have wept as she helplessly lay there before him with her legs spread and wide open before him. The heavy breathing she heard from behind frightened her, and more than anything she wanted to tell him that this wasn't what she wanted. Marshal silently knelt behind her, and positioned his organ just behind her pink, inviting opening. At long last, he attempted to move his organ inside of her. At first he struggled trying to enter her, and he realized he had almost forgotten how difficult it could be to enter a virgin. He spread her legs further apart and used his hand to spread her opening as wide as he could. Finally, after a moment of heated, grunted effort, he managed to get the head of his shaft inside of her. God, he thought. She's so tight that it almost hurts me. Tracy let out a sharp, involuntary cry—in both agonizing pain and excruciating pleasure—as she felt herself stretch to make way for his thick, pulsating organ. In between heated breaths, inch by inch he slowly made his way further inside of her. Every bit of the way she squealed and panted helplessly, and she suddenly began to fear that it would never end. Finally, with one sharp thrust and excruciating cry from Tracy, he penetrated her deeply using the full length of his shaft. Then, with his hands lying firmly on her hips, he pulled out slightly, then pulled her hips to him and entered her fully once again. With every thrust Tracy involuntarily squealed louder and louder as marshal began to relentlessly penetrate her again and again. Finally, with one final thrust and one final cry from Tracy, he felt his organ pulsate deeply from within while Tracy lay there helplessly moaning in soft, twisted pleasure. At long last, Marshal pulled out and sat down next to her. He was completely and utterly spent, and had completely forgotten how hopelessly exhausting sex could be. Quietly, he took out a cigarette from the carton in his jeans pocket, lit it, inhaled deeply, and took the moment to ponder reflectively on the magic that had just occurred.