Roberta & Patrick's Bet Ch. 03Posted on : 2012-01-27 22:15:17.441225
This story is presented in five parts. The story is finished and all chapters have been submitted, so hopefully you should be able to get into the story and enjoy a chapter every day. As always, your comments and observations are welcome.
Patrick, as the winner of the previous game, dealt first. I would have to win two games in a row to pull this out; to have the opportunity to try on the role of female dominant.
This game was also fairly close. We played hand after hand, our pegs creeping along, always near each other. We finally came to a hand in which we were both approaching that skunk line at 90. We played out our cards against each other, and I did well: I ended at 97 and Patrick was at 90, just one step from crossing the skunk line. Patrick had dealt that hand, so I got to count the points in my hand first. He was waiting impatiently to count his points so he could get passed the skunk line; and, since he had the crib as well, likely pass me.
I'll explain this for the cribbage players reading this. In my hand I had a 7, 7, 8, 9, and the cut card atop the deck was an 8.
"Let's see," I said. "four runs of three is twelve, four fifteens is eight to make twenty, and two pairs for four more. That makes twenty-four. I moved my peg the twenty-four points, dragging the bottom of the peg over the holes I was bypassing on the board. This action always makes a unique sound, like the sound a baseball card makes in bicycle tire spokes, only much softer and more subtle. To a cribbage player its one of the world's more splendid sounds, especially if it continues for a while as you fly past many holes. My peg came to rest in the victory hole with no points to spare. "Now, that's a skunk, isn't it, Sweetie?" I asked Patrick.
The two points I earned by skunking him concluded our game.
"Shit," Patrick commented.
I stood and put my slip and dress back on.
"I was happy with you the way you were," Patrick said.
"Oh? Well I wasn't," I said, a note of superiority in my voice, quite intentional. "I think you have too many clothes on for someone who just lost." I said. "Strip." The sound of that word coming from my mouth was pure sweetness.
He sighed, stood, and did what he had to. He pulled off his socks and threw them on the couch. His slacks came down and off next. Then he took his sweater over his head and off. He stripped his tee shirt over his head. It joined the growing pile of clothes on the couch.
Then he sighed again and put his hands to the waistband of his boxers. After seven years of marriage, during which I've seen him nude hundreds or thousands of times, he actually hesitated twice, once as his hands traveled to the waistband and again when they were on it, before stripping them down and off and holding them in his hand.
His dick was getting near parallel to the floor, obviously partly engorged.
"Mister Happy seems to be enjoying this," I observed, and I got a pair of boxers tossed in my face for my trouble.
But this was an interesting experience, sitting there on the couch with all my clothes on, smiling, watching a man (and an awfully good looking one, too) take his clothes off. As when I had contemplated winning my bet with the boys years ago, I found I enjoyed the role reversal, especially in the 'no choice' context of paying off a bet.
I stood and put my hand tightly around Mr. Selwyn's Mr. Happy and in a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners manner lead him to the bedroom.
Once there I seated myself with some pomp, deliberately and regally, in the bedroom chair. I crossed my right leg over my left at the knee and bounced my right foot slightly up and down. I looked at Patrick's face, raised my eyebrows, and gave him look of expectation. His face was actually flushed, with arousal or embarrassment I don't know.
Later when we talked about the experience he said it was almost all embarrassment. The arousal part was tough for him, not because he didn't want to cum or satisfy our bet, but because he was thinking of that old song about how 'the foot bone's connected to the shin bone, the shin bone's connected to the thigh bone.' Except he was thinking about how arousal leads to erection and erection leads to excitement and excitement leads to orgasm and orgasm (at least in this case) leads to eating cum. For him not a tremendous motivator.
He went to the night table drawer and took out a tube of gel and returned to stand in front of me.
"No," I said. "I want you in your cock ring."
Patrick looked at me for a moment, perhaps trying to figure out just what he had gotten himself into. 'Good,' I thought.
He returned to the night table and took his leather cock ring out, turned his back and began to put it on.
"No," I said again. "Come over here and stand in front of me. I want to watch you put it on."
He did as he was told. He spread his knees and thighs, reaching the cock ring underneath and behind his balls, then bringing the two ends together in front, snapping them in place. When done he put his hands to his sides.
"No," I said again. There were three ways to snap the cock ring closed. He had used the loosest. "Too loose. Put it on at the tightest setting."
He unsnapped the device. When he used the cock ring he always used the loosest or the medium tightness. Now I watched as he struggled to get the band around his cock and balls and snap it shut at the tightest of the settings. He had to pull on it, trying to bring the two ends together at the right setting, then trying again and again.
While he did this I said no words, but made little sounds of impatience and bounced my right foot up and down.
After several moments of struggle he succeeded.
"Come here," I said. He came close to me, our knees almost touching. I had been sitting forward in my chair, but now I sat back in relaxation, at ease. I had been looking at his face, but now my eyes dropped to his dick. It stood out prominently from his body, his balls looking big and fat under his penis as they do when a man is in a cock ring. His penis was standing out rigid and deep red, almost purple.
"Oh, my," I said, and let out a laugh. "Hands behind your back." Patrick complied and I reached out a hand and tickled with my fingers under his balls.
I began to cup his scrotum, then put my hand around it. It made a nice handful. I slowly began to squeeze and watched his face as my grip became slowly tighter.
He closed his eyes, then took a few deep breaths. He let out a bit of a whimper as my hand closed still tighter. When he drew in his breath sharply and his knees began to bend I stopped increasing the pressure, but didn't lessen it either.
I don't think I was squeezing his balls much tighter than I sometimes do when giving him a blow job, but of course the context here was, for me, deliciously different. And for him the context took the sensations from the realm of pleasure to that of exposure and discomfort.
"We had a little bet, didn't we," I asked.
"Yes," he said, the word coming through slightly clenched teeth.
"Oh, I don't think I like at all how you're addressing me, Loser." I said.
He got the idea immediately, wanting to please me in any way that would remove the pressure from his balls, take away the feeling of panicky vulnerability he was now feeling.
"Yes, Ma'am," he corrected.
"And you lost our little bet, poor thing, didn't you?" I asked, making my voice sound sorrowful, a little pitying.
"Yes, Ma'am," he answered again.
"You're going to give me some good jerk off shows tonight, aren't you?" I asked, 'no' not an option for the answer.
"Yes, Ma'am," he answered again.
"Good," I said. "Look at me."
He had been looking anywhere but at me. Now he moved his eyes to my face, maybe looking at my nose.
"No," I said. "Look in my eyes."
His glance shifted slightly and our eyes were locked.
"I risked my ass tonight," I said. "I risked getting my ass fucked all night. But I won. You're going to pay off this little bet of ours, and I'm going to be enjoying every second of it. Now jerk off."
"Yes, Ma'am," he said.
I increased the pressure on his balls by just a slight bit. He gave out a moan, his knees again bending. Then I released his balls, and he actually gave out a little giggle of relief.
After just a moment he got the tube of lubricant off the bed behind him.
He squirted a generous amount of gel into his hand and then wrapped it around his dick, which swelled even more as he grasped it.
He started stroking his dick, keeping his eyes anywhere but on my face. But I looked at nothing but his eyes, so that every time his gaze wandered unwillingly to my eyes we made contact. I wasn't interested in watching his hand on his dick; well, not too much. I saw that only in my peripheral vision. I was interested in watching his face, looking for signs of embarrassment, trying to decipher the outward signs of what was going on in his mind.
After a few minutes of this I said, "So, Patrick, I was just noticing how your dick is in your fist, and not up my ass." He didn't answer, closed his eyes, and his face reddened noticeably.
Shortly after that he stopped to put more gel in his hand, and I saw his dick was as rigid as I have ever seen it, pointing straight to the ceiling, parallel with his abdomen.
I considered this scene and imagined another way in which this could go.
At any time during our marriage I could have asked Patrick if he would let me watch him jerk off. He would have said yes, and we would both get naked and cuddle on our bed. He would lube his dick, begin stroking it. I would have my hands together on his near shoulder, my eyes on what he was doing to his dick. I might wonder where his mind was while doing this, but some things should remain private or be revealed only voluntarily. I would make little noises of satisfaction to encourage him and place kisses on his cheek and neck and shoulder, as he brought himself to orgasm.
That was not what was happening this night. Patrick was putting on the show I was watching because he had lost a bet; because I had won a bet, I mean. I had risked a night of activities that for me would fall on the spectrum somewhere between distasteful and undesirable. But that hadn't been my fate this night. Instead I had won our little match, and the power had fallen to me to control Patrick, make him do my bidding.
I'm sure I had made an impression earlier. I was sure he was aware that losing his bet was going to lead to an evening like we had never experienced before. But I decided to try on my newly won power.
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