Smiling cheekily, her gorgeous eyes sparkling, she winked and said, "You know I can't pass up a classic cliché – especially one with a double entendre."
The comment was gratuitous, of course. First, because we'd been together just about long enough for me to know that about her. More importantly, there was the pattern of play on this particular afternoon. Especially this current hand.
"No-no," she'd wagged a finger, holding out the wineglass in the other hand for me to top up, "with your current IOUs if I was a loanshark I'd be breaking your legs. Table stakes only. We agreed that from the outset today."
I figured I knew what she meant but it was always best to ask. Returning the wine bottle to the ice bucket, I said, "What constitutes Table Stakes?"
"Anything you care to actually put on the table. If I like whatever it is, I'll make an offer to cover it."
Yes, there was a double entendre in there – and a twinkle in her eye. "An being the key word."
"Of course," she confirmed.
"As in one offer."
"Of course. After all, you're not exactly in a position to negotiate."
See what I was up against? She wasn't just funny, and witty, and extremely attractive – she was ruthless. Sipping my own wine, to moisten my throat, I set aside the glass to check my current hand. Two pair – Eights, over Fives. Worse, that was my best hand of the day by quite a bit. So I had to be in-it to win-it, as they say.
So I started to unbutton my shirt. Something she very much enjoyed, judging by the smile. In fact, she waited until I had undone every button and pulled the flaps of the shirt out from under the belt and my jeans. So that the whole shirt was open and hanging down my hips and back.
Only then did she wag a finger again. "No-no, I'm not interested in the shirt...at this point."
Note, please – at this point? "What would you like?"
'That's the spirit," she chuckled. "Ask first."
I waited for the answer.
"Shoes," she said, finally, "No, shoes and socks – you know I think bare feet are sexy."
Doing my shirt back up would've been, you know, churlish – and, given her mindset overall, probably punishable in some diabolical manner. So I slipped off first my right shoe, and after a moment's hesitation to decide the next move, the right sock – then the left shoe and sock.
She insisted they actually go on the table. Of course.
Then she 'covered' with a $5 chip and raised a $2 chip. Ridiculous, since she had '$150' or so in chips in front of her.
At that rate... deciding WTF, I unbelted, unbuckled and slipped off my jeans. And would've removed my slightly askew briefs but once again she wagged the finger. Insisted I put the jeans on the table, with the belt only.
Then she covered it, with the same Check and Raise as the shoes and socks.
Then she wanted my briefs, separately...
I loved this, ladies. Perfect. He has a great cock – seriously cute. That lovely long curve shape and big enough I could spread my full hand from just above his balls and not reach the quivering tip. And in his current state with the shirt tacky from the perspiration and sticking to his flesh – and with it opened a good 6 inches from top to bottom, putting that lovely cock in a superb frame, and... Can't you just picture it? I mean, well, yummm. If I hadn't resolved to teach him a lesson I'd've been off my own stool there and then and riding him like a bicycle.
But I had so resolved.
And it was important.
You see, we are a new couple but mature-ish in age. We both have back stories, of course, and we both have some habits and patterns...and, well, he wasn't a 'reno' exactly, but he needed to come to heel in some areas: especially in his gambling.
Besides, the situation was too hot to waste.
When he started to peel off the shirt, I quickly lowered my wineglass from my lips and wagged my finger.
Imagine: all you have to do is wag your finger and he winces, AND his cock twitches. He is beyond bluffing. In fact, given that we were playing poker he was de facto utterly unable to defend himself.
No reason you can't explore, and teach a lesson at the same time. That's part of my back story. Get him by the balls and squeeze. It's great fun.
"No-no," I said, watching every square inch of him flash crimson, "We're going to put the shirt back – that flap, the one in your hand, a few inches out," I gestured with the hand holding the glass, " A little further..."
When his cock did another little quiver, I had a tug so hard from the rings-and-folds I had to control my breathing for a moment...
She was going to screw me. Part of me knew that now, for sure. Sitting there all but stark naked, and certainly fully exposed, while she was fully dressed: the eyes dancing in mischievous mode. With only a weak two pair between me and whatever diabolical plot she was hatching. Part of me also knew that the hand was irrelevant – that she was eventually only going to let me, at some time entirely of her choosing, fold. NO – that she was going force me to fold!
Alarms bells rang then...but seemed to recede, yet again, as they had several times already.
Fact one: I was much too horny to think clearly. That concept I could hang onto, for several seconds every so often. Then it too dissipated in the haze around me.
Fact two: I was this horny because of the sheer, well, 'edginess' really...because I simply didn't know her well enough yet. I knew she would exploit my predicament. I knew her will enough to know she would be ruthless. I just didn't know her well enough, yet, to know how 'far' she would go.
So the mix was intoxicating. Truly. Part of me was screaming 'get out!-fold now!' – but the bigger part of me was saying 'don't be silly-let's see what she's got'. And inevitably I would settle the debate along the lines of 'so long as you don't actually lose the shirt – and fulfill the cliché...you know, it should be okay'
So when she wagged her finger to prevent me from removing my shirt, my heart jumped – and so did my engorged cock. Even when she was directing me to replace the shirt and adjust it just so – and I realized she had something in mind she considered much more fun, for her at least, than merely taking my shirt – and that she was probably going to truly screw me, somehow...
"Hello."
I snapped back to the present.
"Bottom button. No-no!' the finger wagged, "Don't block my view..."
It was lovely watching him struggle. Wriggle physically, to remove the button without his hand or hands getting between his yummy cock and my eyes – and seethe mentally, trying to work out my next move and what to do to get out his predicament.
"Uh-uh, hands clear."
I mean it, ladies. His cock wasn't just seriously cute...it was big. Long enough so it stretched up beyond his navel. Beyond his navel by the full inch-plus of the engorged cut tip. A side benefit of which was that when he couldn't wrench loose the bottom-most button with just his right hand he also couldn't reach across with his left hand to steady the shirt fabric without blocking part of my view.
Okay, it was only a fleeting, fraction of a centimeter blocking of the view. But it was enough. Enough for me to use a sharp tone;
And then relish the way his hands snapped away in opposite directions. And the way his cock stood up there rolling, and quivering. And the fresh perspiration.
And the simple realization that I owned him. Completely.
The realization that he wouldn't even question me now. That he wouldn't risk it. That I could say he'd blocked my view and he'd accept it without question. And he's accept any instruction to follow. And also any punishment I chose to impose?
Sipping my wine, because my own throat was dry – and my breathing a little shallow, I decided to test the theory. "What punishment do you think I should demand?"
There was a fresh burst of heat on his face and, well, his body.
And a fresh little ooze of pre-cum.
