Luck had deserted me, full stop. Tossing my hair off one shoulder, I watched his fingertips drum slowly and silently on the green felt of the tabletop. There was no point in looking up into his face, in confirming his faint smile while he studied my boobs. That was all right. No problem. Quite good, my boobs. But I could predict what he would suggest next -- and the answer was no way. Bad enough being trapped in this city I loathed. Bad enough having lost my "shirt", literally -- well, my frock, and my panties: the lot, in fact. All of which I could bear. No pun intended. Well, I'd just have to now, wouldn't I? To go further would be sheer stupidity.
Yet the odds had to be in my favour now, surely? Didn't they?
'Another hand?' he suggested, predictably -- his voice carrying that lilt of Orientals everywhere.
For the first time, I felt perspiration. On my forehead, and the palms of my hands. Wiping the latter discreetly on my naked thighs proved futile. 'What stakes?' Was that me? Daft! Had to be! Just say no and be done with it!
'My five thousand remains on the table,' his soft voice conveyed his amusement, 'plus everything you've lost to date.'
I glanced up then, into his twinkling dark eyes. Greasy bugger and no mistake. Too handsome, too rich, too polite. In my experience the worst sort by a long chalk. I'd bonked worse, mind. Much worse. And Oriental men were supposed to be practised, weren't they?... In a whole range of...What was I thinking about?! Just say no! Sipping for the champagne in my glass, secretly pleased by the steadiness of my hand, I smiled and said: 'I don't think that answers my question?'
Jesus, girl -- but you're pushing it! Still, no harm in seeing what he has in mind, is there? And it would buy some time, keep me from getting up and walking out of here starkers. To go where, exactly? Now that was a thought.
'Very well.' He snapped his fingers and one of his entourage passed a notepad into the circle of light encasing the table. I took another sip, needing the moisture, as he produced a gold pen from his inside breast pocket -- and with some flourish jotted a brief note on the top page of the pad. Tearing off the sheet in question, and folding it neatly in half, he passed it via the female dealer to me.
Initially I noted the embossed letterhead on the top of the page, bearing information regarding his firm. Money this. Real vellum, embossed not printed. Face, of course. Then my eyes slid down, to his neat copperplate notation. My breath caught in my throat. Just say no! For Christ's sake, no! My eyes flitted from his faint smile, to the wrapped bundle of cash: my ticket out of this godforsaken city. And the odds had to be in my favour! Had to be! Collecting the detritus of my last hand, tapping the cards into a neat pile and setting them carefully to one side, I nodded and, over the pounding of my heart, and the rush of blood through my temple, said: 'You're on...'
I was trembling uncontrollably, both inside and out. Even my pussy muscles seemed to have caught the habit. Fortunately, after a fleeting moment of weakness, my knees had locked into place to support my weight. For whatever reason, it was vitally important to face his faint wry smile with dignity.
The female dealer, her role transformed by a nod from him -- for her lord-and-master: now my lord-and-master! christ! -- busied herself silently behind me. She slipped the silk bight over my head, snugging it gently to my throat. Then she took my right wrist and, folding the arm across my back, to a point an inch or so below my shoulderblade, fastened it into the padded leather of the manacles. Closing the lock with a resonant click. She repeated this quickly and efficiently with my other arm. It wasn't especially uncomfortable. Just utterly restricting.
