Shi-tat-ta, shi-tat-ta, shi-tat-ta, the presses boomed as the men’s room door swung open, interrupting my deliberations, only to be muffled again, seconds later, when it banged shut.
“We thought we had Frank’s ass Friday, but the guy’s just too good,” drawled a voice I recognized.
“You need those guys—like in the movie—to count cards,” snorted the other.
“No, his luck just hasn’t run out yet—or ours hasn’t come in.”
Laughter. Zip. Zip. Flushing.
“When you all playing again?” A third voice.
Running water. Thud.
“This Friday. Nine o’clock. You oughta come.”
Whir; rip. Whir; rip.
“Where is it?”
“Frank’s place. Twenty-one Britt. Third house on the right, up the corner from Menaul.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Where’s the commitment? You’re just worried you’d be the first prize.”
“No, I …”
Hand slapping on shirted back. Laughter.
Shi-tat-ta, shi-tat-ta, shi-tat-ta, shi-tat-ta. Bang.
I wiped. They were either oblivious to my presence or didn’t care that I heard their banter, cloaked with enough vagueness, they reckoned, to make the meaning indecipherable. But I knew what they were talking about, and they had provided the answer to my quandary. I was going to be there this Friday.
Just not to play.
It wasn’t supposed to be this cold in Albuquerque in September. Now I wished I had worn a light jacket as the chilly evening air insinuated itself between my long- sleeved shirt and my skin, already with hairs on end in an effort to provide warmth. Or was it nerves?
I turned onto Britt. The sight of the cluster of vehicles in front of a burnt orange ranch contorted my stomach. I slowed my pace to plan an approach. It was dark enough to cut through a neighboring yard without attracting attention, but I’d have to scale a wall or two. Best to just slide behind the Ram in the driveway and skirt around the far side of the house to the back.
I got out of my car and shut the door quietly. There was no moon. Street lamps in the Northeast Heights section of ABQ were rare. In fact, the only light in a several-house radius was the warm glow spilling out in two trapezoidal patches, one from Frank’s side window, and a larger from his sliding glass door facing the backyard. His stuccoed walls were almost six feet high, providing privacy.
Suddenly, a cheer erupted from inside. Then clapping. Hooting. Table banging.
My heart leapt toward my throat and began galloping with the thrill of the opening of the starting gates. I had to see if what was going on didn’t pale to what I’d heard so much about.
The location of the window was too high for me to sit next to and gaze in, and too low for me to stand upright and be concealed. So I crept toward it and bent over, hands propped against knees and peered in sideways. Inadvertently, my mouth gaped. In the middle of the room stood a round table surrounded by four chairs, three occupied by seated gamers. A man I didn’t recognize from the Journal balanced on the fourth. Obviously having a bad night, his mouth pulled back into a tight grimace, he was naked from the waist up and was poised precariously, removing one foot from the leg of his jeans while repeatedly righting himself. The three onlookers were taunting him, swilling their beers, slapping the oak tabletop, and looking around at each other’s state of undress. Strategizing? Savoring the momentary security of this round? Or lustily anticipating the end game?
He tugged the right legging free from a hairy ankle without lurching, then feigned a little hip rocking to the roar of the other three, and managed a smile before taking his place again. I couldn’t help noticing that for his apparent losing status in the game, he had a prominence in his bikini briefs that was larger than what nature, in a more casual situation, would have endowed him with.
I surveyed the player to his right. Manny, a pressman from the paper. Hispanic. In his mid twenties, I guessed. Jet-black hair, oiled back, prominent cheekbones tapering to a squared-off and cleanly-shaven jaw. He, too, was bared above the waist, and his chest was remarkably smooth, maybe even hairless. His pecs, though not massive, were classically defined, as were his shoulder and forearm muscles. Someone Lise would ooze over, I smirked.
Across from Manny, and to “bulging briefs’” left, was Randy, the stacker that I had overheard in the bathroom. Unlike the other two, he was more clothed, but only barely so. A reddish-brown mustache of Yosemite Sam proportions draped from Randy’s large nose. His hair was receding at his temples and he had the habit of slicking the thinning strands back using the sweat of his forehead. Too many brews had enlarged his gut, and too few menial tasks had shrunken his upper torso. Nothing denied him his bravado, however, as it was he who had whooped most loudly at the last victory.
Undoubtedly, my biggest shock came from the fourth player—who was a she. Her blonde hair was frizzed at the ends, but laid in tantalizing waves across her naked, tanned shoulders. Through the slats in the chair back, I saw the pleasing curves of her upper torso merge into waist, then flare into rounded hip. Shiny, blue panties glinted between the golden oak supports, and toned calves crossed below the chair rung, revealing soles that were no stranger to sand and turf. Conspicuously hanging from one post of her chair was a black leather thong harness, fitted with silver buckles and a deep purple double-headed dildo, bigger than I imagined any cock could be. If I thought my heart was racing earlier, it was now on the backstretch of Santa Anita.
Unless the lady had a masculine nick-name, by process of elimination, “bulging briefs” must be Frank. And judging from his earlier grim expression, he was dangerously close to being exposed, for the first time, if one were to believe Randy’s account.
They were in no hurry to dole out another hand, and Manny got up to fetch a beer from the kitchen. My back was beginning to ache in my present position, so I retreated a few steps out of view before stretching. Randy’s commando voice soon barked again, and I surmised the dealing had begun.
It looked like five cards were dealt down. Then, one at a time, each player picked up his or her hand.
“Whataya got, cocksuckers? Are you in or not?” Randy’s voice betraying a cocky confidence—or overconfidence?
Manny glanced left and right. “I’m out.”
“Then take one off!
Manny arose, as the others, given a momentary reprieve from a weighty decision, took full advantage of the show. A strikingly well proportioned man, he nimbly stepped up on the wooden seat to applause and catcalls. He turned a profile to the trio, took in a breath, accentuating his chest and further defining his abs, and struck up a dramatic pose of a body builder, arms arcing to wrists, hands loosely draped above his head. Slowly lowering his arms in another grand sweep, Manny’s fingers came to rest on the belt loops of his Levi’s. With deliberateness, he unsnapped, unzipped, and unencumbered his swelling groin, sliding the thick denim over first one leg, and then the other. His yellow, green, and red striped boxers parted at the fly and a meaty cock tip poked out. Screams erupted. Hoots of approval followed.
The lady ran one hand through her static-filled hair and shook it out. The urgency in my own groin was unstoppable, stiffening and straining against its own restraints, hurting itself in the foiled attempt to expand in my contorted posture.
Manny descended to raucous clapping. Randy wiggled his mustache. All eyes stared at Frank.
“I’m in.”
“Whoaaaa!” Manny and the lady squealed as Randy pounded the oaktop with vigor.
“Me too!” Randy yelled, his crooked teeth revealing themselves in a greedy grin.
“Make that three,” shouted the lady as she leaned forward to emphasize the point, her breasts swaying like succulent pendulums, heightening my pain.
“Whataya got, Frank?” taunted Randy, confirming for me that he was indeed the revered master.
“Two pair.”
“I’ll be shit fucked,” dismayed Randy, and laid his cards face down to conceal a losing hand.
“Up, up, up” chanted the others.
“Off, off, off,” they continued.
Randy, in T-shirt and jean shorts, teetered as he balanced himself upon the chair. Not the performer that Manny was, Randy simply reached both hands over his shoulders and hauled the cotton-poly over his head and off his arms. Then, swinging it around his head like a stumpy lasso, he let it fly.
“Two, two, two,” the chorus entreated, and he complied, unbuckling his belt, unfastening the button, running the zipper to its nadir, and then letting the weight of the garment carry itself to his ankles. He stepped his left foot out first, kicked away the shorts with his right, and good naturedly mocked Manny in a weight lifter’s pose, before sitting, as the cheering infused his pecker against the graying white of his boxer briefs.
Once more, the tension mounted as the men now shifted their stares to the lady.
“Come on Christy, honey. Purple Passion is ready for Frank,” pleaded Randy.
“Uh, uh, uh. Do it to him, do it to him, do it to him,” Manny intoned.
Christy did it in style. Her five, face down on the table, were turned up card by card. Two of spades. Eight of spades. Ten of spades. Whoops and shouting. Frank managed a weak smile. Jack of spades. Frenzy. Just the slightest hesitation, extracting the most from this moment, before she exposed her diamond lady.
She had lost, but we had won. “Ohs” of sympathetic disappointment morphed into excitement. They had a first prize, after all, made quite clear by their chanting. And as the gorgeous Christy arose, I almost swooned as all the blood, diverted from my brain, rushed into my cockhead. She gracefully leapt upon her chair to the lecherous appreciation of the men, and her skintight panties betrayed themselves with a darkening in the crotch. Raising her arms above her head and entwining them, she let them unwind over her hair, cheeks, shoulders, breasts, belly, and buttocks, culminating in palms crossed over her groin. Sensually swaying her hips, she worked her soggy underwear to her ankles, and I took in a most marvelous view of her white-highlighted asscheeks pinching two red labia lips together. Lifting the discarded silks to her nose, inhaling, and then dropping it into the center of the table sent the room riotous. To applause, she crossed her ankles and perfectly lowered herself to the chair.
Manny ‘s cock was now fully exposed, Frank was methodically shuffling, and Randy anxiously raked the sweat off his brow and onto his already damp hair.
Frank dealt, this time only three hands. Judging by the last round, and that each was wearing but a single garment, I reasoned that this would be the final one. It appeared that folding was not an option.
Randy, his voice a shade higher pitched, bellowed,” No need to bluff now.”
“I love the suspense,” toyed Manny.
“You tease,” Christy said.
Randy laid his hand on the table. By the tempered buzz, it sounded as if he had nothing but a high card. Manny was next. With flair, he spread his cards, and the “Ohs” registered a win for him.
Randy groaned and stood. His first step up didn’t have the momentum, but on his second, he succeeded. His arousal was apparent, the cotton tenting under a large mass. He stretched the waistband out and over his bulge and it leaped up, ruddy, and cloaked, a good seven-incher, oddly wide at the base, narrower at the tip.
Rhythmic clapping and the chanting, “Peak, peak, peak,” built to a crescendo. He slid the underwear off, and performed the same ritual as Christy, dropping them onto the table. Smiling, he sat awkwardly down and leaned in.
Everyone turned to Frank, whose stone face stared back. He picked up his hand and calmly laid it on the table. Cheers, hoorays. I couldn’t tell who was the winner.
As if to spare me the long wait, Manny arose to clapping and acrobatically bounded to his perch, his cock bouncing joyfully out the fly. He worked the cloth over his manhood and slipped it out of his boxers. Another magnificent sight. Oh Lise, if you could only behold him! I thought. Coffee bean sheen to his gluts, sculpted back, thick thighs, and taut calves. But what a beautiful cock – cylindrical, thick rimmed, proudly hoisted at 45 degrees. A twinge of fear hit me, as I caught myself dwelling on his bounty. Maybe I was gay? Those old insecurities again hollering from the backroom of my brain.
More clapping tore me away from my worries. Manny, too, deposited his undergarment onto the table. The players were rising now, and, hurriedly, the table was cleared. Cocks were bouncing and breasts jiggling as cards were gathered, bottles hoisted, and a dishcloth wiped over the surface.
Frank, the last one naked, had himself a probe to be proud of, at least as thick as Manny’s, a good inch longer, but with a curious hook at the head. He had gained some new attire, temporarily wearing the three pairs of knickers on his head like a jester’s crown, before distributing two of them.
Randy brought out a bowl full of something, along with a bottle that looked like lotion—or lube? Manny doused the overhead bulb and the room darkened to soft amber, warmly bathing the four players.
The three men reached into the bowl, ripped open the packages, and excitedly sheathed their cocks. Then they fell upon the first prize, Christy, kissing her full mouthed and raking her everywhere – breasts, arse, and cunt. Frank, with his shaking crown of Manny’s bold boxers, pointed and shouted to hold her down. Knowing their roles, Randy, adorned in a blue silk beret, led a willing Christy to what had been the card table, now the rack. Allowing her feet to remain on the floor, he stretched her top half out prone across the top. Securing her wrists in his meaty mitts, he sat on the carpet under the head of the table applying traction to her upper body. Meanwhile Manny, wearing Randy’s boxer-briefs atop his head, ducked beneath the foot of the table and clamped his long fingers around Christy’s ankles and spread them wide. In this crouched position, his face was in a prime place to partake of the nectar of her nether lips—and to see what was coming next.
Frank apparently had his choice of orifices, and the fact that he was squirting a gob of lube into his palm and liberally applying it to his XL condom and to her anus, made it clear to me where he would be probing. Inserting first one then another of his stumpy digits into her hole to prepare, he then pushed his pecker into her. I felt her pain, shoving my hand over my mouth to stifle any inadvertent squeals as she gasped, then moaned, while Frank rammed into her five or six times. Yelling Tarzan-like, he backed out.
Then he took Randy’s place, who took Manny’s, who stood to have a go at Christy. With his gorgeous cock, Manny took her cunt and agilely glided himself in and out, Christy sighing with every stroke, gasping, “Yes, yes, yes,” until he too stopped, and the three rotated, giving Randy a round with her.
Again the chanting, “Peak, peak, peak” as the man with the wide-based dick took hold of Christy’s hips, and forced his thickness up to the hilt in Christy’s primed cunt. “Do it to her, do it to her,” the others shouted, and Randy complied, banging her over and over and over, until she was screaming not to stop. His staying power was enviable. After her two orgasms, he still hadn’t relented, and he withdrew, lubed up, and with renewed vigor pummeled her arse, bringing on the primal screams of two copulating mammals.
Spent, Christy needed assistance in levitating, and tenderly Manny and Frank led her to the floor beneath the head of the table. The men removed their raincoats, and Manny and Frank each donned a new one.
“I’ve been obsessing about your ass all week,” confided Frank, with a smile, as Christy secured Randy’s wrists and Manny, his ankles. Randy’s pecker, now flaccid, hung within inches of Manny’s nose and I thought I saw him take it into his mouth. The thought was paradoxically repulsive and arousing. I had ached watching Christy getting fucked, and I thought I might lose my load along with Randy. My rigidity twitched again with what I thought I just saw. I wasn’t going to last much longer.
Frank, again, got to deflower. For the night, anyway, his amplitude hadn’t declined in between. Generous again with the lube, he didn’t pause to stretch out Randy’s’ hole, but pressed his tip up against the entry, then leaned his torso foreword and began digging his thumbs into Randy’s upper back. Randy gyrated against the knob of stiffness like a cat in heat, apparently wanting Frank in him. This foreplay was, for him, agonizing.
“Give it to me, you fucker,” he pleaded. Finally Frank penetrated him, stretching his ring five or six times while Randy arched and pulled against his holders in an effort to ram himself onto Frank. “Oh, you god damn butt fucker,” he said, as Frank jerked his crooked cock out, and Randy persisted in cursing until places were traded and Manny could resume the banging.
Again with deftness, rather than brute force, he brought Frank into sobs of pleasure, and, then he, too, expelled his pent up cum into the sheath.
Finally, Manny assumed the position as Frank lubed up. I had seen enough. My back would be permanently hunched and my balls swollen forever if I didn’t straighten up and come soon. I hobbled away with one fixation. Well, maybe two. To relieve myself and to tell all to Lise.
She wasn’t Christy-gorgeous, but from the gleam in her eyes, to the swish of her thighs, from the dazzle of her short blue-streaked hair, to the pout of her ruby lips, from the sleeveless blouse tightly restraining her luscious boobs to the skin-hugging shorts molding the fullness in her belly, Lise was something to behold and be beholden to. She had me.
But I was never certain if I had her. We could have eaten each other for breakfast in bed, picnicked naked along the Rio Grande, dined cheek to cheek at the Flying Star, and desserted on each other in the glow of the Sandias at sunset, but it was never enough. Falling asleep with her in my arms many a night, I stood atop the pinnacle of love, only to awaken the next morning in the bottom of a dumpster, as she ranted about how dull her life was, how ordinary we both were, and why we couldn’t ever do anything really wild. She was the veritable mystery shrouded in an enigma. The sphinx of the riddle.
What did she really want? I knew what I wanted—her. To the point that I would do anything to earn her enduring love (which was why I had gone to Frank’s). And when she returned home on Sunday, I could hardly contain myself in the telling of the poker game. She loved the story and made me give it to her the way the three men had given it to Christy. And as I toppled onto her, and we, onto the bedspread, she made me promise to take her there next Friday.
When she pranced into my apartment on the following Friday night with her sandy hair, freshly lifted in blonde streaks, bouncing in the waning sunset, I immediately regretted my decision. A belly protuberance peeked out between her metallic blue short shorts and pearly white top. Burgundy lipstick matched the confetti of finger- and toe-nails, choreographed to the song she was humming. She was too boisterous for stealth and dressed to attract attention, not concealment.
The faintest sliver of a moon peered over a row of scrub pines as we turned the corner of Britt and hurried, hand in hand toward Frank’s. Looking ahead, and pointing out the cluster of vehicles, I felt Lise surge. My dread pegged the needle as we rounded the truck and crept past the wall.
“We have to be quiet and careful. It’s lighter out than last week, and there’s going to be two of us looking in the window,” I cautioned. Her stouter frame demanded the side with the longer wall. Leaner, I took the other, precariously close to discovery at the corner, should anyone venture out onto the patio for a smoke.
We peeked in. “That’s Randy with the jean jacket and big red mustache,” I whispered. “Frank’s the guy with the orange and brown plaid shirt, and Manny’s wearing the lavender pullover.”
Saving the best for last, I continued the introductions, “And Christy’s back, too.” She wore a tight, black, sleeveless chemise with pink bra straps showing, matching black stretch pants, and sandals. Had Lise happened to reach her hand into my front pants pocket, she would have felt me surge.
The chatter abruptly ended when Frank turned to Christy, asking her what game they were to play tonight. She mouthed something and the other two men raised clenched fists in signs of approval. Swallowing a gulp of her Corona, she took the deck from Frank and began to shuffle. There may have been the briefest hesitation—in retrospect—but I didn’t register it in time. For as Christy passed the deck for Frank to cut, Manny and Randy jerked their thumbs in opposite directions, got up, and left the table. Seconds later, we were being horse-collared into the house amid whoops and hollers.
“Look what we found—Tim and his girlie-girl lookin’ through the window at us. What should we do with them, Frank?”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, works as a stacker with me and Manny at the Journal.”
“And her?”
“Never seen her before.”
“What we’re you doing, trespassing on my property?”
I blubbered something unintelligible. Lise confessed to the crime.
“Let’s let them go,” said Manny.
“Yeah, let’s get on with the game.”
Christy ratified, “I’m ready to deal.”
But Frank, eyeing first me, then Lise, then me again, broke into a big, orthodontured grin.
“Let’s see their wish to watch. But let’s raise them. One can play for the other. If they lose, we’ll make the other the first prize.”
There wasn’t the slightest hesitation.
“Yessir, “ shouted Randy, “ I kinda like that,” he nodded, smiling at Lise.
Manny agreed, “I’m in.”
Stroking Purple Passion fondly, Christy concurred, “Us, too.”
Everyone erupted.
“G-fucking-dammit,” I shouted into my cranium, the table banging growing frenetic. A dizziness over took me.
“Which of you is going to play?” inquired Frank, slyly.
I reeled. Lise calmly answered, “I will.”
The rules were explained. Lise nodded in agreement. I basically knew them already. The only difference was that whenever Lise removed a garment, I had to stand next to her and take one off, too. Why, why, why me?
Tonight’s game was five-card draw. Christy dealt the first hand. Lise lost. I glanced menacingly at her. She smiled back wickedly. Standing on the chair, I removed one sock as Lise shed a sandal, and the mate when Lise lost hers.
I imagined what she must have been thinking. Some months ago, after she had coaxed me into doing her ass for the first time, and we lay together savoring the experience, she hesitantly hinted at a secret that she never had the nerve to tell any of her other lovers. Feeling privileged, and entertaining that “I’m-going-to-win-her-heart-after-all” feeling, I had encouraged her to bare her soul to me. Which she boldly did—that she had always wanted to fuck someone up the ass and wanted me to be that one. And as much as I tried to muster an “I’ll consider it someday,” the mere thought of it made me quiver with fear. I kept putting it off, with one de-tumescent excuse after another. So this was poetic justice. By losing tonight, she would vicariously win.
Frank’s deal. Randy and Frank folded. Lise’s pair of jacks beat Manny’s threes and Christy’s king high.
The tempo was rising; so were the decibels. The only thing going down was the beer. Even Lise was belting her share, which she could do, I knew, but I fretted that it would dull her card sense. I didn’t dare restrict her, though, for fear of retaliation.
Manny took the cards to shuffle. I breathed a bit easier, but I couldn’t relax. Lise glided into the kitchen, moving those hips in big arcs, and returned with two more Coronas, gave me one, and clinked my bottle. God, I loved her.
Christy put her fingers through her frizzed blonde hair, and then laid it over her left shoulder. Manny gazed fondly into her baby blues and smiled. Christy puckered her lips and winked back. Whether it was the beer hitting my bloodstream or my proximity to Christy, my head tugged upward like a tethered helium balloon.
As Manny silently shuffled the deck, Randy boasted of his exploits—how he had seen the glint on Lise’s hair through the window and had nonchalantly signaled Manny, and how the two of them had corralled us in the side yard and what a great idea Frank had had for forcing us to stay. As the overall winner thus far, he was beginning to celebrate—and salivate, no doubt.
Frank, down to three pieces, won the next hand, but not before Lise and Christy had folded. Once more I got up on the chair next to Lise. Whereas I pulled “a Randy” and just tore off my top shirt, Lise undulated and rolled her hips like a belly dancer, then straightened her left knee and flexed her right, jutting her hip up abruptly to the roar of the players. Provocatively, she unbuttoned her blouse, slid it gracefully over one, then the other shoulder and down her arms, her breasts heaving in her sugared-violet uplift.
“She’s a pro!” boomed Randy. Manny joined Frank in the thunderous clapping, which redoubled when Christy arose and titillated the guys with a hip-grinding, breast-bouncing exposé of laced demi and low rise in matching Cherub-pink.
Manny’s two pair was no match for Frank’s straight and he ascended, elegantly extracted arms from his pullover, and with his eyes now locked onto Lise’s, he delicately lifted it over his head as he tensed his pecs under his ribbed blue A-shirt. Then pivoting to stare at Randy, he gave Christy his ass in profile, running palms over buttocks and around to his groin, then up to his fly. And again, as his denim was yanked slowly in agonizing inches down his pelvis, orange and royal blue stripes parted company and his russet cock leapt from the crevice, glistening. Rowdy cheers and table pounding reverberated in my skull. Would I, too soon, feel this mighty prow?
Randy, likewise, followed, the strength of his pair of aces dwindling before him. Unceremoniously, he got down to three garments, managing a little mimicry of Manny, jocularly rubbing his ass cheeks to more riotous applause.
Lise’s limbs were unfurled and reaching—leaning right, she playfully streaked the perspiration from Randy’s forehead onto his already soggy hair. Her feet first kneaded Manny’s muscled calves then struck beneath the table against Frank’s covered thigh. For a fraction of a second, her smile vanished, then just as quickly returned, as he grabbed at her painted toes, tickled her sole, and they both laughed uproariously.
Christy made her way back from the bathroom, brushing so close to me, that I could feel the hairs on my forearm stiffen with static electricity—or excitement. Her fragrance was intoxicating. Hesitantly, my cock began to stir from its hiding place.
Randy’s deal. Manny folded. As his chorizo bobbed freely, surrounded in color, he stripped the A-shirt from his torso. Her mouth gaping as she sat transfixed, Lise hungrily eyed his body, then clapped approvingly when he sat down.
My lover had two pair, but Christy’s three Kings beat that. I drained the rest of my brew and mounted the chair between Lise and Christy. I was a little tipsy. Christy must have noted it, for as I struggled to take my sweaty foot out of its legging, I lurched, slightly, and her hands on my back and thigh to steady me felt wonderfully kind and wondrously arousing. As Lise removed her shorts in a seductive display of swivel and grind, and Christy pressed her warmth into me, I think I even managed a weak smile—and a green banana in my burgundy and blue briefs.
It began to ripen as the players chanted, “one more, one more, one more!” Lise responded with a coy turn of her back, and reaching up behind her, released the clip on her bra. Dropping a shoulder to lose one strap, then the other, she completed her pirouette, bringing her hands up from below to cup her purple covered cantaloupes. The left was freed, then the right, and they quivered deliciously.
Although I tried to satisfy the table’s hunger for more exposé, with the stark realization of Lise—my Lise—nearly naked before all these strangers, and me, one flimsy pair of panties away from a thorough butt-fucking—I managed only a pitiful parody of Lise’s strip tease. Whether from riding her wake or from their state of inebriation, my cameo, nevertheless, got a rousing reception.
Frank slapped his three nines against the table, and grim-lipped, stood to disrobe.
“Off, off, off,” they chanted, fists beating out the rhythm, rattling the bottles. My head entrained with the pounding of my frightened heart. What if I..? What if I…? That dream—chess pieces, growing larger, and one pawn becoming a queen. What if I…?
Cheering. Frank’s white bikini-briefs stretched tight. Turning around, stooping over, he flashed a quick moon to the group, and the roar became deafening.
Randy didn’t even show his cards, just smoothed his forehead sweat backwards and hopped up on the chair seat, his face flushed with Anchor Steam, and wiggled his ass to us, bent over, and dropped his cutoffs. His back still to us, he hoisted his T over his shoulders and covered his chest, turned to face us, and imitated Lise’s moves, to our raucous pleasure, his cloth-covered cock swelling before our very eyes.
The last hand coming up, and it was Lise’s deal. Everyone felt the frenzy of the end game only minutes away. While Randy ran out to the patio for a smoke and Manny raced to the bathroom, Lise coolly took the pile and began to shuffle.
“Frank? Will you be a dear and get me another Corona with a slice of lime?” Lise’s toes caressing his left calf couldn’t be refused. As he departed for the kitchen, Lise sped around to Frank’s chair, fumbled under the table, and brought out five cards, flashed them to Christy, and returned to her seat.
“What the …,” was all I had time to get out.
“There you go, darling,” Frank drooled in his deepest register, and winked at me. When the others returned, Lise apportioned the cards.
My heart was hurtling. “Breathe,” I commanded myself.
As Lise doled out their requested cards, I began to drift on currents of perfumed air, updrafts of sweaty arousal, jostling, flirtation, and laughter. Glistening skin, pallor, pink nipples, flushed chests, muscled calves, cocks of all shapes and sizes, concealed and constrained, begging for release. Christy’s puffy red labia and Lise’s manicured cunt.
Man touching woman, and woman touching man. Woman touching woman, and man touching…man touching, licking, sucking, fucking, fucking, fucking man…and screaming in release and loving it, loving it. And what if I loved it too. There, I got it out. So would I be gay?
“Yessir,” blared Randy. “Now, we’ll see who wins the first prize, aye Christy?” He jerked his bushy red mustache in my direction. Nodding, one corner of her mouth drawing back in a half smile, she reached over her right shoulder to bring Purple Passion to her lips.
“Whoo-hah!” yelled Manny.
Lise eyed Frank, who added, “I won’t be dying for twenty-four virgins, but I’ll settle living for one.” Everyone laughed.
With his fingers on the tabletop, Manny tapped out a drum roll with a distinctive Latin flavor, and Christy laid down a full house.
Stunned silence. Then swelling “hurrahs.” Christy’s face showed only a trace of emotion, but the twinkle in her eye was unmistakable, as she gazed my way. My sphincter spasmed. My phallus filled.
All eyeballs riveted on Frank. After a lengthy pause, he laid down a measly pair of fours. If the excitement for Christy was fireworks on the Fourth, this reaction was an A-bomb. Frank’s ass would finally be had by someone—maybe by them all.
He may have lost, but the look Frank gave me as he mounted the chair was lewd and lascivious. I would be the recipient of a thorough reaming by his knobby cockhead. His brief strip tease was punctuated with a pelvic thrusting that would have embarrassed Elvis, and grunts of “Uh, uh, uh” from the others, as his gnarly-tipped penis waved menacingly in the air.
Manny quickly produced a couple of aces, topping Frank, but not Christy, and his display, too, focused on me, albeit, in a most sensual way, sucking his beauty into the fly of his boxers before revealing it again in slow-motion.
Randy could hardly contain himself. Forget having no poker face; he had no poker body, and he shifted excitedly on his seat. Finally, when everyone’s gaze gave him the permission he sought, he laid down two pair, pounding the surface with both fists, then whooped and grandstanded as he, too, raised himself onto his pedestal. His gums and crooked teeth showing, he speedily removed his drawers, flexed his muscles, then shaped his index and thumb into a ring, and shoved his “peak” into it a couple dozen times.
The three men stood as if it were all over. Only Christy, Lise, and I stayed put. Lise waved her bundle of cards. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. At least let me lay down my hand.”
Miraculously, I had managed to dodge the proverbial bullet. And justice had been served. Graciously declining offers to stay (“We’ll take a rain check”), we dressed and exited. With me leading the way, yanking her after me, I ran down off the porch—and almost lost my arm in the process.
“Hey, it’s this way to the car!”
“We’re not going right to the car,” she said. “Judging from this crowd, virgin ass is hard to come by. I want to watch one get deflowered. Then we’re going to my place, and we’re going to deflower another one.”
I gulped.
“A straight flush got me the first prize, and I’m keeping him all for myself.”
I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. In the dimness of the room, they fell upon Frank, tugging chest hair, kneading fleshy buttocks, licking and mouthing his crooked cock. When Christy gestured to the table, he kicked and bucked against the restraints of Manny’s grip on his wrists and Randy’s on his ankles. Her gentle persuasion pacified him. Slowly, she had run her soft palms up and down his back, across his tensed butt cheeks; one between them to cup his sac, while tracing, with her other fingertip, a corkscrew around his knobby poker. When his back relaxed in a permissive arch and his asshole rolled upward, she knew he was hers.
Generously, she lathered Purple Passion with lube—viscous beads forming on the undershaft and falling in long silken drops—then began the anointing of anus. His body stiffening with the initial coolness, Frank appeared to melt when warm fingers touched the delicate lining of his anus. Probing, softening. Cock twitched upward. More stretching, grinding against the welcome intruder. Blunt coldness against the rim; cock surrounded by a reassuring hand, stroked. Heaven. Angels. Cherubim and Seraphim.
Then the cries—shriek after shriek—rasping, heaving, gasping, sobbing, groaning, sighing, begging.
Urgency.
Ramming, squeezing, slapping, surging. Together.
Yelps; cacophonous squeals and grunts. Howls.
I explode, my cock spewing hot sauce all over her bed as she pummels me one last time and collapses weightily on me, with Purple Passion, Jr. still up to its hilt in my ass. Her giant puffs in my ear harmonize with my panting. She eases her two-header out of me, runs her hand through my wet hair and exhales in “thank yous,” which slowly lengthen in duration.
“I want you to be my man forever,” she intones.
I back myself against her soft breasts and warm belly to allow her fragrant arm to tighten around me.
Newly reamed, I beam, “I’m yours.”
Originally published December 2008