Anticipation and Satisfaction

"It's what yuppies do, isn't it?" Caroline thought wryly. "Get promotions." And hadn't they been just the quintessential yuppy couple of dinks—double income, no kids? The fact was, though, that she, a voluptuous, thirty-seven-year-old, brunette, wasn't happy being new in town. Actually—and this was something she admitted only to herself—she resented being uprooted—torn from the metropolis. Her husband, Neil, had accepted a plum promotion and transfer—Regional Executive Officer, setting up the newest branch facility. And that's exactly what this whole promotion thing felt like—being ripped out of her comfortable existence and set adrift!

She'd agreed to the move for Neil's sake, but even she was shocked at the heavy burden of extra work the two to three-month run-up to the move had produced. During that pre-move time, she wound up her own job as well as she could, sharing out files and contracts among her colleagues to ensure continuity.

Yet, Caroline just hadn't realized the profound truth in his ebullient warning once they had actually moved and he had commenced work in the new position. "Prepare for eight months of hell," he'd said. "There will be a lot of travel involved; and meetings coming out the whazzoo—planning meetings, supply meetings, implementation meetings, leadership meetings. I'll be at the office at least six days a week, when I'm not on the road, plus the days I am here, I'll be pretty much stuck, incommunicado in the home office." He shrugged in a what-can-you-do sort of way. "Long, long days. Ships passing in the night." She hadn't recognized the weight of the prophesy. Hence, for that couple months before the move, and now, more than a month into it, she had tried not to acknowledge her resentment; indeed, she had tried her very best to support her husband's journey up the corporate ladder and hide her true feelings from him.

Caroline was a smart cookie. She was—or at least had been until very recently—a senior analyst in an investment firm. So, she wasn't willing to take just any job, and there didn't seem to be any acceptable positions out there. Frustrated, she was no longer looking very hard. "Anyway," she rationalized, "now Neil, with his new job, and obscene salary, can easily support us." With that in mind, she figured there was no rush in her securing suitable employment. So, she might as well just take a bit of time off. Truth was, she had already given up on the job market; she was really no longer looking at all—just drifting—an upper-middle-class bored housewife, bored to tears!

It was a sad fact, she realized, that her sex-life—which, incidentally, was, to that point, exclusively shared with her husband—was just drifting, too. It had been steadily dwindling over the past few years, giving way to the pressures of both of their careers. While their lovemaking was still pretty damn good at times, it had become rather infrequent. Not surprisingly, Neil's promotion and the subsequent move had done little to change that.

A consequence of that was that, some months ago, Caroline had gotten herself a classic, silver, hard plastic vibrator; which she had enjoyed once or twice a week—maybe more, but had discarded prior to moving, to save the embarrassment of the movers finding it. She smiled to herself in a sort of shocked amusement at how quickly after arriving she'd Googled the location of the nearest sex-toy shop and replaced it, with something very similar.

To combat the stifling boredom, Caroline soon found herself using her new vibrator every second day or so—maybe three or four times—even five times that first week or so. She didn't figure her husband even knew about it, and, while she didn't actually hide the fact, she didn't advertise it, either. Also, during those very early weeks after the move, Caroline found and joined a gym, and also looked into programs at the library. She began to feel confident, again, that could keep herself occupied, for at least a little while. So, on the strength of that recovering confidence, she set out to explore the nearby downtown area of her new home. She discovered, on her forays, a commercial zone, a region of light industry, and what was obviously the seedy area—all the really interesting parts of a city—and all within walking distance of the city centre, where the library and the rec-centre gym were.

She also noticed, on one of her walks, a horseracing track. Curious, she investigated, having never been to one before. She paid her admission cover, and wandered in for a closer inspection—watching. Then, for a lark, she placed a bet. "Lordy! Lordy!" she exclaimed, in a hushed whisper to herself. "Looks like I won!" It was only a little win—bet a little, win a little—but it was a win! Oddly, she felt that the whole betting process was accompanied by a strange and intriguing thrill.

She couldn't exactly put her finger on it, but it certainly appealed to her love of numbers. Also, it seemed, to her, to be very much like a logic puzzle, therefore, she mused, there must be a viable system. She didn't even consider that thousands of people before her had already looked for a winning system and not found one that worked consistently.

Initially, Caroline considered the betting a simple financial challenge, and she wouldn't admit to the odd tingling feelings it generated deep inside her. It felt strangely good, sort of in the same way she remembered riding horses felt when she was just into adolescence—kind of obliquely erotic.

A corner of her mind was puzzled by the fact that she had subconsciously—or maybe consciously—decided to keep her track activity to herself; but she did just that. Most nights, when her husband got home—generally very late—and not-so-infrequently when he didn't actually get home, he was pretty much a zombie. On the odd occasion he asked about her day she replied, "Went to the gym," or "Volunteered at the library." Later on, she'd added volunteering at the Downtown Mission. She didn't ever mention the track, "...because," she told herself, "he doesn't need anything else on his plate right now, so why bother him with it?"

Still, Caroline became familiar with the schedule, and began to frequent the track on race days—a couple times a week, to start—instead of going to the gym or the library like she was deliberately leading Neil to believe; that is, whenever she saw him. Inevitably, she began to bet and lose increasingly. "S'okay. We can afford it," she easily convinced herself. Of course, to start with, she was just using her own spending money. No big deal. However, as that was depleted, she began to dip into her household allowance.

Invariably, and increasingly, Caroline got a real buzz out of the betting. In fact, she had begun fantasizing about it mornings when she played with herself. Running her vibrator up and down her pussy lips, she visualized races—horses thundering around the track. Legs trembling, she gently pushed the vibrating dildo into her dripping vagina, splitting her glistening labia. And, as she pictured her horse—sweat glinting off the sculpted muscles—coming from behind and winning the race, she'd climax, twitching and quivering against the plastic phallus, her orgasm leaving her limp, but the visions offering encouragement.

Any given afternoon at the track, it seemed the thrill of anticipation was dependent on both the size of the bet and the length of time leading up to the race. Notwithstanding, even that thrill wasn't quite enough—it felt, somehow, incomplete. Caroline began to feel, very gradually, almost imperceptibly, an addictive 'need' for resolution. For example, one particular day, she missed the close of the first race: "Damn!" she lamented, "and I had a good feeling about that one!" Curiously, regardless of the result, the resolution rapidly became a self-perpetuating gratification: If she won, she felt compelled to try to extend her streak of luck; and if she lost, she felt the same compulsion to try to recoup her losses.

Unbeknownst to her, Dwayne had been watching Caroline closely, as she became a regular at the track. He was a people watcher. Always on the lookout for evidence of some weakness he could exploit. And he saw Caroline—the 'new kid on the block'—as a fish out of water, someone trying to get comfortable in a totally alien environment; hence, he considered her an opportunity. He chatted her up, quickly becoming a familiar face, and subtly guided her through the intricacies of odds-making—reading records, filing forms.

Caroline welcomed Dwayne's advice and hints, and tried to incorporate many of them into the horse-racing system she remained determined to develop.

"You know," he began, one afternoon, "you really don't even need to come to the track to place a bet."

"No?" she queried.

"Nope," he said, dropping in tone rather conspiratorially. "I got a bit of a side business, downtown—a little booking office, where you can place a bet on pretty much any horse race around. Actually, you can make a wager on pretty much any game in any sport you like." He chuckled to himself, when he saw the interest light in her eyes. "But I can fill you in on that later." Dwayne went on to describe the booking office, attached to the pub of a small, seedy hotel. He neglected to say that he owned and ran the whole enterprise. Looking around, he added, "Seeing as how they're pretty well wrapping up here, come on downtown with me, and I'll show you the place."

Her curiosity piqued, Caroline said, diplomatically, "How about I follow you in my own car?" So, Caroline followed as Dwayne led her deep into the heart of city's urban decay, and, once they got there, she was rather shocked at the shabby, almost desolate atmosphere of area and the establishment. Leading her through the pub to the little office in the back corner, Dwayne explained that there were any number of sports and game results one could wager on. Caroline was surprised to hear herself say, "Thanks, but I think I'll just stick to the horses for the time being." She was not sure if she was actually choosing to focus on horse-racing as her single vice, or just looking at possibly limiting her financial exposure.

"Ya know," Dwayne cheerfully pointed out, "You can also bet on races at other tracks, as well." Ignoring the tinge of dread burbling somewhere in the back of her gut, Caroline took in the activity like a kid in a candy shop.

Right away, Caroline began, almost gleefully, frequenting the pub and bookie office—that turned out to be just a few blocks from her sadly neglected gym. Though she wouldn't ever allow herself to entertain the idea, inexorably, though almost imperceptibly slowly she became addicted to the gambling.

She so enjoyed determining which races were of interest, and planning the wager—the delight of anticipation. A sort of satisfaction came with the placement of a well-thought-out bet; however, interestingly there was no big deal in it actually paying out, for that was just the planned outcome. And losing just provided a smooth segue into the anticipation of the next round. While she lost more than she won, each and every win, bolstered her belief that she was on the right track with her developing system. Nonetheless, frighteningly quickly, she found herself needing to dip into her—their—savings. She worried about Neil finding out—and questioning her; nevertheless, she continued to lose money at an alarming rate.

Ever observing, Dwayne detected a kind of wild abandon that glittered just out of sight behind Caroline's eyes—a precursor, he knew, to the glassy gaze of addiction. When he learned of her unsustainable funding—the dwindling family savings account—he picked his moment and swooped in.

"A run of bad luck, eh?' he commiserated, "I know what it's like." He paused a beat to be sure he had her attention, before setting the snare. "But, hey, I can spot you the cash until your luck comes back. Keep it confidential-like—you know—so Hubby doesn't find out."

"At what rate?" Caroline queried, in a dull whisper. She wasn't so far gone as not to expect usury.

"Credit card rate—19.9% per annum. Just until you're back in the black."

Caroline knew that accepting a loan from Dwayne, a bookie—and, as it turned out, loan-shark—was a terrible idea, but she let herself believe him when he assured her she would be back on the winning end of things very soon. Rationally, she knew, as soon as she'd signed the contract, she'd fucked up, but irrationally she kept on betting—betting larger and larger amounts—expecting to eventually win it all back.

So, things carried on as usual, "...in these most," Caroline would occasionally think, "unusual circumstances." And Dwayne just bided his time—waiting to drop the other shoe. It didn't take long; she was well into the loan, ripe for picking.

"Uh, Caroline," he called her over as she entered the office. "Uh, listen... I hate to spring this on you, but, hey! I've had a spell of bad luck lately." Caroline gave him a puzzled look, as she waited for the point. "Sorry but...," and he paused, looking genuinely regretful, "I've just got to have my money back."

"But I thought...," she sputtered, "The contract said..."

"I know. I know. I three months, blah-de-blah. But there is a notwithstanding clause." Dwayne pulled up the contract, highlighting the 'fine print' on the monitor: '...or at the discretion of the lender.' It was there, plainly, in black and white.

"But I can't... I haven't got the money right now. How can I...?"

He shrugged. "Five thousand dollars plus interest; that is, to be precise, five thousand one hundred sixty-seven dollars and sixty-seven cents." Dwayne paused, before adding, "and I need it now."

"I can't... I can't..." How the hell, she wondered, had she gotten into this predicament? Flustered and confused, she didn't know what to do. So, she asked, of all people, Dwayne, for advice. "What do I do?"

"Well, you could borrow the money from elsewhere."

"But where?"

"I dunno," he muttered. "Not my problem." They stared at one another, Caroline wide-eyed with fear, Dwayne with a moment of slit-eyed challenge. "Of course, that would make it rather difficult to maintain confidentiality." Caroline tried not to believe it was a rather low-key threat.

Still she pondered on how this had happened? She was an investment analyst for Christ's sake! The implied threat of exposure to hubby and friends and family and colleagues was too much. "There has to be another way!"

Allowing his features to soften slightly Dwayne suggested that, maybe, she could work off the debt.

Unwilling to embrace the possibility of relief just yet, she replied tentatively, "Okay, I can do that. I'm actually pretty good with numbers." Then added embarrassedly, "in spite of this current mess." Warily she pointed out, "I used to work before we moved here." Flustered, it didn't occur to her to question Dwayne. Logically, if he really needed the money right now, how was her working it off going to resolve that situation? Dwayne counted on her being too discombobulated to ask that question.

"Yeah, clicking away at a keyboard without breaking a nail. I'm talking about working, girl. On your back. Legs in the air!"

Caroline didn't immediately understand. Wouldn't let herself understand, initially. "You can't possibly mean that—in this day and age—in this city—ME!?!" She required patient explanation, but she finally got it. Shocked, she could see no way out. Her shoulders slumped as she silently nodded her assent.

Dwayne smiled at her acceptance. Her reluctance seemed to have vanished. "All right, then," he chirped, "Let's get started." He positioned her in front of his desk as he happily went on. "I claim first dibs—for one hundred dollars right off the top." Pushing her down over the desk, he pulled her pants down in one smooth motion. Next, he grabbed the waistband of her underpants and ripped them off, leaving them shredded and dangling on one knee, laughing and smacking her bare ass. As he, then, leaned over and ripped her blouse open, popping the buttons all over the place, Dwayne sensed he could now proceed with impunity.

"Close your eyes and think of England," he chortled. Caroline felt as if her will to resist had been torn away and left in tatters along with her panties. She was mortified; paralyzed, not so much with fear as with resignation. She felt Dwayne's moistened hand slap her pud, spreading spit over her sex, his middle finger splitting her lips. Then, without missing a beat, his bulbous cockhead pushed into her cunt, its stiff shaft flexing slightly to accommodate the entry. The stabbing intruder pulled at her inner tissue, tugging on her vagina, bringing more tears to her eyes. Nonetheless, by the second stroke, her natural lubrication, triggered by discomfort rather than arousal, had eased the process somewhat.

She felt violated—helpless; yet, some small part of her observed that she hadn't had a relentless doggy-style pounding like that since university. And even then, if her recollections were accurate, rarely with a cock so incredibly long and hard.

She fought to control her tears—tears of rage, tears of frustration, tears of humiliation.

As Caroline felt him cum—juddering and jerking—felt his warm liquid injection deep in her quim, it occurred to her that her birth control pills were finally being of some use. Dwayne'd paused for a moment, catching his breath, then, as he pulled out, he commanded, "Stay there!" giving her buttocks a sharp smack.

And, for some reason she didn't fully understand, she did. She stayed there, bare-bottomed, toes on the floor, lying over the desk, trousers at her ankles, panties in shreds, pussy leaking. While she waited, it occurred to her, through a curtain of dismay, that that was only the second cock she'd had in the past decade—during her entire marriage. "Under different circumstances...," she mused.

Dwayne sauntered over to his door and called for someone. He introduced her to one of his lieutenants. "This—," she turned to look. "Don't get up!—is Marshall..." The newcomer stepped up behind her, and, holding her down firmly against the desk, thrust himself fully into her. Luckily, he was smaller than Dwayne—and her channel was very well lubricated by that time. He fucked her hard and fast, trying to 'break her in'. Meanwhile, Dwayne continued, while she was actively being screwed, to explain the situation. "Marshall will be your - er - manager."

"Pimp, you mean," an objective corner of her mind thought to itself, "I'm not that naïve." She almost said it out loud, but thought better of it

Dwayne went on, "So, he has to be familiar with his stock, eh? You understand."

Caroline stifled a sob as Dwayne explained how Marshall's role as pimp worked. He'd set her up with Johns, and collect payment from them and, when she was done for the day, tips from her. After taking their administrative cut, the net take, less a small allowance, would be applied to her loan. "The more money you make, the faster you can retire your loan."

As Marshall and Dwayne advised her on what to wear, what to say, how to act, etc., they casually demanded that she further service her debt, by further servicing them—that is, by giving each of them a blowjob. She knew she had no choice. She sucked them both as they lectured, and was ordered to swallow; which she did. Caroline was glad that her husband had always told her she gave great head. It was, apparently, acceptable.

During the felatio, she was instructed to wear short skirts and tight tops with elastic support. "Lose the bras. You don't need one anyway. In fact, you've got great tits!" She was, however irrationally, pleased with the compliment.

As evening approached, Caroline was sent home, and told to "report for duty—snicker, snicker—by eleven tomorrow morning. And don't even think about not showing!"