lost bet

I moved my legs to the sides, my thighs and calves on the arms at either side making Vs. As I started the wand vibrating and brought it to my pussy I realized this was a great way to let my bet expire. I moved the wand up my pussy to just below my clit and found the sensations very pleasurable, unlike most of the sensations I’d experienced that night. I realized I could enjoy those sensations right up until just before 7:00. That’s what I did.



I ran the wand on and around my clit and soon found myself getting turned on, caught up in the pleasing sensations. My audience largely retreated from my awareness, and I began moving my hips against the wand, unselfconscious of the situation I was in: nude, thighs spread, and performing on myself the most personal act I knew while five men watched.



I became aware that they all had taken their cocks from their pants and were stroking. Adam, Jason, and Derrick had looks on their faces that suggested this was a guilty pleasure but one they simply couldn’t resist. Mentally I put myself in neutral, just enjoyed the pleasure from my sex, but I didn’t try to progress any further toward orgasm. I watched the men stroke.



Patrick seemed to come first, although only a couple of drops of cum emerged from his cock. He put it away. Derrick was next, leaning over me, his cum no longer spurting but just oozing out, dropping onto my chest. Then Jason moaned and leaned over, just oozing, his cum landing on my right areola. Steve came next. Good old predictable Steve. He leaned toward my face, of course, and shot a spurt of cum that he aimed for my mouth, but which didn’t make more than half the distance to the goal. The rest of his cum dribbled over his fingers. Adam was the only one left and he moved his hand fast and finally groaned. Quick, small spurts landed on my chest, the rest oozing over his fist and dropping off onto my body.



I looked down at the collection of cum on my breasts. Earlier this evening it all together would not have amounted to one ejaculation. I noticed the cum was almost entirely clear seminal fluid, with only a few white knots and eddies of sperm.



Somehow that turned me on. I’d lost my bet. I’d spent the night being fucked by five men, at their beck and call. I’d been embarrassed and humiliated. But I’d drained five men dry. It wasn’t exactly the sense of accomplishment I had felt when I’d walked across the stage to collect my Master’s Degree, but I supposed it counted for something.



I pressed the wand tighter, real desire now rising from my sex. I was dimly aware of the clock. It was about 6:50, and I knew it was time. I kept the wand near my clit but also used my finger to begin moving my button in little circles. The orgasm hit me hard and fast and I opened my mouth and screamed, bucking my hips and groaning in satisfaction. The orgasm just went on and on.



Finally, I came to my senses again, opened my eyes, my vision blurry, breathing hard.



Roberta, who’d also watched me pleasure myself, held out a hand and helped me from the recliner. “OK, Boys,” she said, “show’s over. Bet’s paid. She’s done.” She helped me to the bathroom again, went in with me and began cleaning me off.



I let her minister to me, and when all the cum was off I realized I would have to get moving. My morning presentation began in less than two hours. I told Roberta. She nodded her head and said my clothes were in her and Patrick’s bedroom. I went through the bathroom’s other door and found my clothes lying neatly on the bed.



I dressed: climbed back into my ‘smart casual’ outfit. It felt good to have cloth covering my nakedness again. When I was dressed I started to move toward the door. That picture of the more youthful Roberta, Emily, and Danielle caught my eye again. I paused for a moment, looking into the fresh young faces of the two girls. Again the image of the older girl tugged at my memory. I briefly thought, ‘No. How could that be? There are a million girls named Emily.’ Then another, more topical reflection passed through my mind, inspired by those immaculate, youthful countenances, ‘Oh, if they knew the games grownups play, what would they think?’



Then I dismissed all those notions in favor of more pressing and present concerns. I was on the move again and back in the living room. I said goodbye, one by one, to most of the cast of characters in my little overnight escapade: romantic Adam, sweet and enthusiastic Jason, silent and kind Derrick. I ignored sadistic and disturbed Steve. I shook hands with mature Patrick, knowing I would likely see him that afternoon in one of my teaching sessions.



Then Roberta, my godsend, was in front of me. Tears started in both our eyes, and we kissed each other on the cheek — really kissed each other, not air smooches. We embraced tightly. I knew I would see her again also, Tuesday evening at a dinner concluding my on-site work with the company.



I stepped through the front door into the streaming sunlight of a just-breaking dawn. The strong light was a bit of a surprise. I was emerging from what had come to seem like an unending night of darkness. I squinted my eyes against the blazing proof that every night has an end. Still, my spirit couldn’t soar too high. I yet had to consider the matter of the unprecedented events of the night just past. How would I come to reconcile — could I ever come to reconcile? — the acts I’d committed with my body last night with the person I believe I am? I felt the first wrenching weight of guilt tug at my soul. I knew I had to set this mental exploration aside for now, but I also knew the feelings would not rest quietly.



The streets were already busy as I drove my renter to the hotel. Everywhere I needed to go on this trip – hotel, office complex, Roberta’s house – were all close, and ten minutes later I parked my car in the hotel’s garage.



The trip was not so short that I didn’t pass a few billboards that drew my eye. ‘Hell Is Real!’ read the first, along with the name of a local church. “Know Your Sins! Repent! Atone! Be Saved!’ read a second. ‘Do You Know Your Sins? God Does!’ a third assured me. I tried to laugh them off with a, ‘Boy, churches sure like exclamation marks,’ but the effort was futile. I could indeed name all my recent sins, and I could describe them in intimate detail. But had I sinned against God? Or David? My girls? All of them?



In my room I stripped and got in the shower, keeping the water as cool as I could abide. I knew if I took a hot shower I would collapse on the bed afterward. I scrubbed my body and hair, then I scrubbed everything again, working gingerly around my aching pussy and ass, filling my mouth with water and spitting it out again and again. Feeling the ache and tenderness of my body, I began to reflect again on the night’s activities, on my egregious sins. I stopped myself though. This was not the time.



Out of the shower I dried my body and blow dried my hair. My doo is not much of a chore: straight to my shoulder blades with no real styling except my bangs.



I picked out a business suit with a mid-calf length skirt, to cover my red and raw knees, and dressed. I quickly applied the minimum of makeup. I took the elevator down, grabbed a croissant and a tea from the hotel’s free breakfast bar and was back in my car in forty minutes. I ate my pastry and sipped my drink on the short drive to the office, keeping my eyes firmly focused on the pavement before me.



I arrived at my client’s offices just short of 8:30. The morning’s session was for a large audience and I gathered my materials, put them on a pushcart, and went to get ready. I’d been right while Adam was fucking me last night: I went through my powerpoints and they were indeed all in order and ready to go. For just a second I stopped to consider the words that had just passed through my mind, ‘while Adam was fucking me last night.’ I shook my head. Holy God!



Unexpectedly, I had energy I would never have imagined possible after the night I’d endured. I was alert, awake, and at my best all morning and through a working lunch.



I only began to flag during a smaller session in mid-afternoon. Patrick and about twenty other managers and planners were in attendance, and I made an embarrassing gaffe.



The presentation was about a proprietary process the company was licensing from us. In my slides the process is presented as a one hour event, to more clearly demonstrate what happens and when. It’s like a clock face you might see representing the entire history of the Earth, the Pleistocene represented by one block of minutes, the Cretaceous Period by another block, and then a little inset at the top to show that the interval since humans descended from the trees is represented by just three seconds. You get the idea. My presentation was peppered with slides that showed what was going on in the process at ‘minute seventeen’ and ‘minute thirty-one’ and ‘minute forty-seven.’ I came to one of these, weariness catching up with me, and said loudly, as I was taught so my voice would reach every corner of the room, “Now you can see here just exactly where I am on the cock, er, that is, um, of course I meant ‘where I am on the clock.’”



These were too experienced people to let a giggle slip, or even to react much, but there were looks exchanged, and I saw Patrick wince. I was sure the giggles would come later in groups of three or four. My face reddened but I pushed on, my little embarrassing slip giving me a jolt of adrenaline that helped propel me through the rest of the afternoon.



As soon as the day’s presentations and meetings were through I drove back to the hotel, arriving there before 5:00. I didn’t bother with dinner, craving sleep much more than I cared for food. I placed a call to home. David wasn’t there. Maybe he’d taken the girls out for a treat. So I left a message reminding him of my flight information for the next evening. I told him I love him and would see him soon, my voice with just an ever so slight hitch in it.



I put in my wakeup call for the morning, stripped and went to bed naked, which I never do except when I fall asleep immediately after sex. I slept the sleep of the dead for twelve hours. The next morning I dimly remembered waking at some point, the room dark, the air circulator humming, and my hand was between my legs. I’d been annoyed, the desire to sleep competing with the desire to come, both urges insistent. Staying clear of my sore vagina I began to rub my clit, pushing it to one side then to the other and then making it move in those little circles. I came quickly and hard, and kept coming for longer than I could ever recall experiencing. Finally, I settled down and drifted off to sleep again. I woke refreshed, my sleep deficit at least partly repaid.



Tuesday, my last day with the firm, was relatively short: two training sessions in the morning, a working lunch, and then a last, short session that ended at 2:00.



After the last meeting I was collecting and packing my materials in the small office the company had assigned to me. Patrick came by escorting the senior vice president for human resources. She had some questions about the personnel needs for one of the processes they were licensing. I answered her questions, and when we were done she, Patrick, and I drifted toward the door making chit-chat.



We came to the door and stood there still talking. I’d drifted out into the hall a couple feet, Patrick also in the hall and facing me, the vice president a couple feet inside the open doorway. As we conversed I saw Patrick look over my shoulder. An expression of annoyance crossed his face. I glanced back and saw Steve coming down the hall taking slow, exaggerated, comical steps, looking around himself, making sure the hallway was empty of others.



I turned my head back to Patrick who had the vice president engaged. I took an unobtrusive step backward, out of the view of the vice president. I stuck out my ass and waggled it back and forth, back and forth. Then I stepped forward again where the vice president could see me, and I seamlessly rejoined the conversation. Steve took the bait. A few seconds later he grabbed my hips, pulled them back, and I felt his crotch push against my ass.



Steve kept his voice low and growled, “Oh yeah! I would just love to fuck this ass right now.”



I made my eyes bug out, and I let go a sharp screech I thought conveyed both surprise and outrage. I thought I did it quite convincingly.



Later Patrick told me Steve’s face actually turned white when the vice president stepped out into the hall from where she had been hidden just inside my office.



Steve’s hands were off me in an instant and he put a few feet of distance between us. Then the Senior Vice President for Human Resources began to speak. She looked at the employee security tag clipped to Steve’s shirt. “Mr. Stephen Martine,” she said, hot, bristling. “I could explain the identity of the guest you just sexually harassed. No. No, actually I think Legal would advise that the act you just committed is called ‘sexual battery.’ I’m not sure if it’s a misdemeanor or a felony. I could ask you just who the hell you think you are and what you think you’re doing. But why bother? You’re fired.” She reached out and yanked the employee tag from his shirt.



Just then, in what can only be described as divine timing, a security person came around the corner on some errand. The vice president attracted her attention and said, “Would you please escort Mr. Martine here to his cubicle so that he can collect his personal belongings? Then escort him to his vehicle. Please make sure a security vehicle follows him until he is through the gate and off company property.”



I watched as the young woman from security turned Steve around, her hand grasping his arm just above the elbow. Before Steve turned his head and we broke eye contact I couldn’t resist giving him a little smile and a wink, and pursing my lips into a little kissy-face look. Holding my hand in front of my chest to block the view of the vice president I wiggled my fingers at him in good-bye. The security officer walked Steve down the hall in the direction from which he’d come. He shook her hand off his elbow, but she immediately re-established the grip, only more firmly. She spoke into her walkie-talkie, apparently asking for more security officers to assist her.



The vice president offered abject and profuse apologies. She apologized on behalf of the company, herself, the CEO, the directors, the chairman. I don’t recall if she included the groundskeepers and the guy who changes the light bulbs. I played the offended victim a little, just because it was expected, but in the end shrugged it off and told her no actual harm had been done, and that I was entirely satisfied by Mr. Martine’s dismissal.



The vice president was relieved, and hoping to mollify me further said, “I can promise you, Ms. Ryan, I will prepare a full description of this incident and place it in Mr. Martine’s termination file. If we hear from another firm seeking information or references on Mr. Martine, his dates of service and that description is all they will get from this company. I will flag the matter for my personal attention.”



And that’s how I was reassured there is a God. She may not be a football fan, but She sure knows how to balance Her scales. I smiled inwardly at the little joke I’d made. Then I immediately sobered. I didn’t have to be reminded about God. She and I still had a lot of business to transact, and that part about balancing Her scales didn’t sound like good news to me.



Anyway, it was a good thing Steve still had his thousand dollars. He was going to need it.



After the vice president had left to return to her office and pulverize Steve’s future, Patrick took me back in my office.



“Sorry,” I said, “I hope losing Steve won’t cause any problems.”



“Are you kidding me?” Patrick asked. “You just did me a favor.” I looked quizzically at him and he continued. “You learn things about people outside the workplace that apply to what they’ll do inside the workplace. I’m at the head of Steve’s supervisory chain, and after what I saw the other night he would have no future here. Putting him in any sort of responsible position would be just asking for a world of trouble. I suppose after he’d been passed over a few times he would’ve gotten the message, put his resume together and moved on, but that would have taken a while. No, in this economy by this time next week I’ll have the resumes of dozens of well-qualified people to choose from. Thanks.”



“Well, don’t mention it,” I said.



“Hey, Ellen,” he continued, “I wanted to offer my apologies for the other night.”



I stopped him by placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t,” I said. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m a big girl. I made a bet. I lost a bet. I paid off a bet. Anything that happened to me was no one’s fault but my own. If I’d won you can be sure I’d be going back to Chicago tonight with five thousand dollars in my purse.” I felt my face flush in embarrassment, but continued with, “I assume you were satisfied with your winnings.”



“Oh, God,” Patrick said, “you have no idea. I was…..”



I cut him off by putting the fingers of one hand over his mouth. “Actually, Patrick, I’m glad you were happy, but I don’t really need to hear exactly how happy.”



Patrick smiled a little and looked down, bashful. He looked back up and said, “You know, Ellen, that’s exactly the way I feel about Sunday night, but you know Roberta. She told me I should say something or I should expect to lose a testicle.”



I drove back to the hotel, took off my outer clothing and napped for two hours. The dinner was downstairs in the hotel restaurant, and after waking I dressed, straightened my hair, fixed my make-up and was at the restaurant entrance just as Patrick and Roberta arrived.



Patrick asked for the reservation and we were seated. While we waited at the table for the others in our party to arrive Roberta asked, “Did Patrick…”



“Yes, he did. This afternoon,” I answered her. I went on to explain what I’d told Patrick: there was no one to blame. A bet was made. Someone won, someone lost, and the bet was paid. End of story. Then Patrick told her about Steve. Roberta looked like she’d hit the powerball lottery and filled the restaurant with peals of laughter.



The others began arriving, company people closely involved with my visit and their spouses or partners. There were eleven of us in all. We had an early and enjoyable dinner, and then it was done. I said my goodbyes again to Roberta and Patrick, Roberta and I promising to stay in touch. And we have. We e-mail each other every week or two. It’s an odd relationship. We don’t stay in touch because we’re old sorority sisters, or because of a shared interest in gardening or crochet or the Chicago White Sox. We’re joined by my night of sexual servitude, and her essential efforts to help me through it, although we’ve never mentioned that night in our letters.



I drove my renter to the airport, checked my bag, got my boarding pass, went through security. Shortly after, they called first class to board.



I settled into the leather of my seat, looked out the window, then closed my eyes and drifted into a light doze. I was aware of my seatmate’s arrival, opened my eyes and exchanged greetings. I really wanted to sleep on the flight but made a little polite, obligatory conversation.



My seatmate said he was also down from Chicago, had arrived on Saturday for some meetings yesterday and today at his company’s office here. He said he’d thought he would have to watch the Superbowl at the hotel bar, but the manager of the local office had called and invited him to watch the game at the manager’s home with some others. He said it was a nice time and better than he expected.



“But, you know,” he said, “being from Chicago I was rooting for the Colts, and everyone else was for the Saints. I opened my mouth and made a bet with everyone, and I ended up losing five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars!”

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