The Game

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“Fuck this shit!”

The Albino shoved all his chips to the center of the table.

“This has gone on long enough. Let’s end it here.”

I studied him through the cigarette smoke drifting through the harsh glare cast by the buzzing fluorescent light above the table. His appearance reminded me of a snake. The eyes were tiny red dots lost in a rolling mass of jowls. All I could see of his nose were two flared nostrils that seemed to have been cut into the surface of his sickeningly white skin. His thin lips, barely discernible above his multiple chins, framed a mouth that was nothing more than an angry slit from which a reptilian tongue would occasionally dart. I could see no evidence of a neck; just a blob of fat that emerged from his too tight shirt collar. If his scale told him he weighed three hundred pounds, it was only out of pity.

But he sure could play poker. I’m good; he was better. Every other player in the bar had cashed in their chips. Now they stood around us, waiting to see who would survive this marathon ordeal. We’d started at nine and it was half past two. Usually, the Wet Spot closed at one on a weeknight; but morbid fascination persuaded Ned to keep the bar open to slake the thirsts of the spectators who sadistically waited for one of us to fall.

Like I say, I’m good. I’d held my own through most of the evening, but I could never quite put him away. The past few hands had gone badly against me, and now The Albino sensed blood. But I had two things going for me.

First, the boys downtown would be very upset if I wasn’t able to pay my gambling debts the next day. If I won the pot, at least my face wouldn’t be rearranged for the next few weeks.

And then there was the scotch and soda in his fist. Not that I didn’t also have one in my hand. But I was still nursing my first, and I stopped counting when the waitress handed him his third.

I pushed my chips into the center. The pile was barely half of his. I took out my Blackberry and added it to the pile. He stared impassively. I added my cell phone. Still nothing. Sighing – but only inwardly; had to keep that poker face – I slipped off my Rolex and gently put it down on top of the pile. He waited a second, then nodded.

“Call,” I said.

He spread his cards on the table. A pair of aces.

I looked directly at him and put my cards down, one at a time. Three tens. The Albino stared in drunken disbelief . Then he – deflated. I swear, it looked like he’d instantly lost at least one hundred pounds as he contemplated the wreckage of his evening.

I raked the chips in. “I love this game!” I exulted to no one in particular.

“So do I.” The moment I heard her voice, I was lost.

I don’t know what it is about me that leads me to spend most of my free time in seedy bars in the roughest neighborhoods, playing seemingly endless, illegal poker in some grimy backroom. I’m good enough to play the casinos in Vegas or Atlantic City with reasonable success; had done so several times.

Maybe it’s the occasional easy mark one encounters in dumps like the Wet Spot; the big casinos are required to protect these chumps from themselves. Or maybe it’s the fact güvenilir bahis that the big casinos tend to get ugly if they think you’re winning too much. But I think I’m most turned on by playing in some dark, hot hole in the wall that reeks of cheap tobacco and sweat. It’s the excitement of knowing that, if things turn out badly, someone might break a bottle over your head or pull out a switchblade. It’s the edginess of places like this that give me such a hard-on. Like the raging boner I experienced the moment I heard her voice. For I like my women the way I like my poker; edgy and dark.

Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. I probably would not have heard her if she weren’t standing just behind me, a little to my right. As soft as it was, the voice commanded attention.

She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. I’ve never understood why most men are so hot for girls in their twenties. They may have the bodies – although many of them would die for the body I was staring at now. But those sweet young things haven’t read the owner’s manual. By the time a woman reaches her late thirties, she’s not only read the owner’s manual; she’s written it.

Her hair was a deep red, wavy, shoulder length. She was dressed in a white silk shirt, the top two buttons open, revealing just enough cleavage to tell me that it would be well worth my time to open the remaining buttons. No bra. Over the shirt she wore a black leather vest that matched her skintight pants. The stiletto heels on her black boots added at least 2″ to what I estimated to be her 5′ 8″ height. Her blue green eyes fixed me with her gaze, boring into my soul. I could feel that familiar melting sensation in the pit of my stomach; she wanted me.

She took a step towards me and held out her hand.

“Congratulations.”

I’ve never been at a loss for words, even when arguing before a jury on behalf of the lowest human vermin imaginable. Now, my tongue clung to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. Belatedly, I took her hand and managed to mumble, “Thank you.”

She leaned forward and whispered a question, her eyes still locking mine. I could only nod weakly in response.

She straightened up.

“I’ll bring my car around. Be outside in five minutes.”

Five minutes later, I stood shivering in front of the Wet Spot, my light jacket way too thin for the blustery wind and 40 degree temperature of a prematurely wintry evening. A light blue Mercedes CLK 430 Cabriolet screeched around the corner on two wheels and pulled to a stop in front of me. In spite of the temperature, she had the top down. Madonna’s “Shoo-Bee-Doo” blared from the speakers. She leaned over and opened the passenger door for me. I slid onto the plush black seat and she roared off.

We had left the city behind us and were climbing the hills towards the trendier suburbs. I found just enough of my voice to ask for her name.

She told me. “Yours?”

“James.”

I started to ask her why she hung out in dumps like the Wet Spot. But then I remembered what she had first said in the bar. Like me, she was drawn to the thrill of the game. But, unlike me, she didn’t play poker. She played türkçe bahis the men who played poker. Or at least the winners.

The lights of the city glittered twelve miles away and two hundred feet below. Looking through the French doors leading out onto her condo’s balcony, the city lights seemed to reflect the constellations above. Her complex, at the edge of the woods that climbed further up the hills, consisted of a group of faux rustic log cabins, four units to a building – two up, two down — twelve buildings to the complex. There were the usual accouterments of a suburban condominium complex – gated entrance, pool, tennis courts. Her unit probably sold for $250 K six years ago. With the red hot real estate market, it was worth at least $650 now. Six years from now, with luck, it might be worth that much again. She struck me as the lucky sort.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Mineral water, thanks.”

I take a scotch and soda when I play, to lure fools like The Albino into overindulging. Otherwise, I never touch the stuff. Alcohol is one vice a smart gambler avoids.

I looked around the place while she busied herself in the kitchen. Recessed lighting turned down low, hardwood floors, lots of glass and chrome furniture, decent contemporary artwork – I recognized some of the better known local artists – a working fireplace. She had taste, or paid someone who did.

She started a fire and put a CD on; Coltrane. Her musical tastes were certainly eclectic. We made small talk for a few minutes. I was right; she was 42, ten years younger than I. Finally, she put down her glass, wrapped her arm around my waist, and moved me to her bedroom. She didn’t turn on the lights. Instead, she busied herself lighting about a dozen candles scattered around the room. I smelled jasmine. The bed, a king, was fitted out all in black. Three sets of pillows were propped against the headboard. I had no doubt that some nights, three heads came to rest on those pillows. There was a full-length mirror on the ceiling.

She drew me to her, and kissed me once, deeply. Her eyes wandered to a chair in the corner. Mine followed hers there, then returned to answer the question I saw in her gaze. She smiled and kissed me again.

“I’ll be right back.” She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

She came out, wearing a lime green kimono, brushing her hair with a heavy wooden handled hairbrush. I stood in the middle of the room, waiting.

She looked me over from head to foot, an approving grin on her face.

“Turn around.” I did.

“Nice. Very nice.” She came up behind me and gently patted my ass. “Now. To bed.”

She pushed me down on my back and stepped out of the kimono. I silently gave thanks to the God I didn’t believe in.

Straddling my face, she pressed her pussy to my mouth. Her cunt was already dripping wet. Hungrily, I began to lick, kiss, suck her labia, probe her vagina, flick my tongue around and over her clit. She grabbed my head and pulled me forward, humping my face, pulling my tongue deeper into her. “Eat me, baby, eat my pussy.” I obeyed.

I lost all sense of time and space. I could have, would have, eaten her pussy güvenilir bahis siteleri all night and all the next day if she wanted. But eventually, she shuddered, moaned, roared through her first orgasm of the night, her head thrown back, her eyes closed.

When she was done, her eyes slowly opened, focused. There was a lascivious grin on her beautiful face. She kissed me wetly, her tongue probing my throat. We shared the taste of her sweet pussy juices.

“That was divine.” She rolled away from me, and busied herself with something in her night table. I studied my reflection in the overhead mirror, amazed at my good fortune tonight. First, the poker game. And now this. She turned back to me.

“Your cuntlicking is to die for. Are you up for some cocksucking?” My cock certainly was. It was harder than I could remember it ever being; it oozed precum.

And what heavenly cocksucking it was! I never knew anyone could take nine inches so deeply into the human mouth. It was animalistic – wildly licking all around and along the shaft, tongue rapidly flicking the tip, greedily sucking the whole shaft into the throat. I couldn’t get enough.

I was on the very edge, when she broke away from me.

“Are you ready to fuck?”

“Yes, oh dear God, yes. Please!”

The fucking was even better than the cocksucking, if that was possible. Nine inches, pounding, thrusting, back arching, moaning, groaning, crying. I came. And came. And came. Louder, longer, better than ever. When I was done, she climbed off and looked down at me.

My reflection in the mirror revealed a total slut. The black slip pushed up above my waist, exposing the matching garter belt and stockings that, with the slip, she had directed me to take off the chair. My wrists, handcuffed to the headboard. She continued to stroke my cock, milking it of the last few drops of cum, after what seemed like a gallon I’d shot all over the slip, my face, my hair. My legs spread eagled, the knees drawn up almost to my chin, my ankles supported in restraints attached to bolts in the ceiling.

She leered at me, triumphant, dominant. My eyes wandered over her gorgeous body, the marvelous firm, red-tipped breasts, the legs. But inevitably, my gaze focused directly between her legs. At the nine inch strap-on she wore. The strap-on I’d sucked so wantonly, the strap-on she’d fucked me with so wildly, the strap-on I’d wanted from the moment she’d whispered to me in the bar; “Do you want me to fuck you in the ass?”

We talked quietly until dawn. She told me that she knew I was the perfect slave the moment she saw me in the bar; the one she wanted to keep. Then she kissed me goodnight and rolled over on her side, presenting her luscious ass to my delighted gaze.

Well, I didn’t pay the boys downtown the next day after all. Instead, I hid out at her place while she made the arrangements. Two days later, we left for – well, let’s just say we left for warmer climes. It’s been three years, but you never know; those boys can be very persistent when they’ve been stiffed. I never knew what she did with the condo; I never asked. Probably, she rented it out.

She still does her thing, and I do mine. I search out all the squalid holes in the wall where I can get a hot game of poker. Usually, I win. When I do, there’s always a hotter night of strap-on dildo sex as a reward. And when I lose — there’s always that hairbrush.

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