If We Lose, You Choose

(c) 2022 by SirRender - email me if you really like my stories or have future suggestions

Standing in the dusty dirt lot in front of an old stonework diner which had evidently become a biker bar, given the number of choppers and hogs presently lined up out front, Oscar Weber sighed. His wife of six years, Violet O'Connell-Weber, knew how he felt.

The Webers had been driving over a mountain pass on their way to his younger sister's wedding when their car got a flat tire. There was an undersized spare concealed in a compartment beneath the floor of the trunk however there were a few problems with them changing their own tire. First was that neither of them had ever changed a tire, and while they normally might have enjoyed the challenge, Oscar's left arm was locked in a full cast following a foolish accident tripping over their youngest son's toys at the top of the stairs in their suburban home two weeks earlier and Violet was dolled up to be the Maid of Honor at his sister's--her own best friend's--wedding. Crouching in the dirt and playing with wrenches was not going to happen on this day. Just the walk up the road to find a place where they might use a phone had left her shoes and the bottom hem of her peach colored gown looking dingy, she wasn't about to add axle grease and road tar to the mix.

Violet had left her own cellular phone at home, having no pockets on her bridesmaid gown and not wishing to lug a purse during the wedding and reception. Speaking of reception, Oscar's phone was getting no signal bars up in these hills on this back road.

They had trudged over a mile from where they had left the car, with Violet's formal heels providing no comfort, and this grungy biker dive bar was the first place they had found. It was a relief to have found a place at all, but it looked rundown and seedy, which was a concern. There were wires running from the poles along the road overhead to the building, so they knew the diner had phone service, so this was their best bet to call for help. However there was one other problem--they had no change if it was a pay phone.

The change in light level from the clear skies of mid-day to the gloomy, smoky interior of the bar took some time for their eyes to adjust. When they could see enough to move about safely, they found six patrons and two staff. The staff--one middle-aged man with five o'clock shadow at only eleven in the morning and wearing a ball cap preparing something on the flat top in the open kitchen area behind the bar and an older woman probably in her late fifties or early sixties in a classic sort of button-down diner waitress frock and a pointy cap set atop her curled, graying hair--were the most presentable looking people in the joint.

Other than the staff, two big burly guys and a woman sat at the bar swigging beers. Both men had scraggly, thinning dark hair, wide bottoms and bulging bellies and they were kitted up in blue jeans--one very faded, the other less so--and jean vests, one of which had patches sewn onto the back of the logos of various beer and motorcycle brands. The woman with them was thinner, younger and had very long, very dark hair hanging loose past the seat of her bar stool. She appeared to be wearing leather pants and a black leather jacket covered in rivet holes and studs in all the areas where the material was stitched together. The Webers could also see, as she raised her mug, that she seemed to be wearing about half a dozen rings in various sizes and shapes. All three of them wore heavy leather boots.

In a side area separated by a low wall around three feet high, two other bikers were shooting pool while a third looked on from a spot leaning his butt against the half wall. The two shooting pool were also middle-aged, with wild gray beards. One wore a deep red bandanna wrapped around his forehead. He was both taller and fatter than the other, who was in fact quite slender and was smoking a cigarette while lining up his next shot. The observer was quite muscular but had the definite beginnings of a beer belly going. He seemed to be the youngest person in the place save for the Webers and had medium brown hair and a thick brown mustache but no beard.

Oscar, for his part, stood five foot eleven and kept physically fit. He sported rusty red hair and blue eyes, and the aforementioned arm in a cast. His wife, Violet, was a tiny five foot two, skinny dirty blonde with gray eyes and a knockout figure sporting C cup breasts. The only thing pierced on her were her earlobes, a fact proven by her lack of a bra beneath her rather tight bridesmaid gown. She had tried every single bra which she owned but every one of them showed through the dress in one way or another. Either the band or the shoulder straps, or the underwire or seams of the cups, showed through, therefore she had been required--against her own better judgment at maintaining her figure for as long as possible--to go braless on this occasion.

Oscar caught the waitress' attention and asked if they could use a phone. Her voice was raspy like that of a lifelong smoker as she replied with little trace of enthusiasm or concern, "Sure honey, around the corner, to the left, at the back near the restroom."

"Anybody got a quarter?" Oscar called to everyone in general. A few patrons turned and looked at the couple but none spoke to them. "We need to make a call but," he laughed, "we aren't carrying any change." Still no one spoke to them. As they shuffled past the pool game observer, Oscar faced the man and said, "Say friend, could you lend us some change to make a very important call?"

The man raised his almost empty mug to his mouth and swallowed the last of his beer, then lowered the empty glass and gave a satisfied, "Ahh!" After a few seconds he said, "Guessing you folks ain't from around here."

Violet spoke up. "No. No we're not. We're on our way to a wedding and..."

"Oh, you're gettin' married?" replied the pool player with the red bandanna, standing upright and pushing a hand into one of his jeans pockets.

Oscar said, "No, we're already married," and put his good arm around his wife's shoulders. "We're headed to my sister's wedding."

Red bandanna man gruffly said, "Oh," then leaned over his table to line his next shot.

Violet said with a chipper tone, "We got a flat tire, see, and we won't make it to the wedding on time if we can't get it fixed. We need to call ahead to let them know."

Oscar added, "And to call for a tow to the next town to replace the tire."

"So now you need change for two calls?" said the pool game observer.

"Well, yes, I suppose we do. Could we borrow some from you?"

"Borrow implies repayment," said the man. He stood fully, rising to about six foot two, then turned to wave his empty mug at the waitress who was back behind the counter and started to fill another, which she then brought to him.

"Oh please," Violet implored, placing both hands tenderly on one of his arms, "it would mean the world to me."

Oscar snorted, "Either that or you could help us to change our tire and then we'll be out of your hair."

"You got a spare?" asked the man.

Oscar replied, "Yes, but..." while gently waving his plaster locked left arm.

The man pushed a hand into his jeans pocket and brought out sixty-five cents as two quarters, a nickle and a dime, which he handed to Violet. "Oh thank you, sir," she said with a beaming smile. Then the couple shuffled across the ragged and worn carpet to the sole door at the back of the room, which bore a carved wooden sign reading RESTROOM, and beside it a pay phone hanging on the wall.

"Babe, can you help?" Oscar asked, lifting the receiver to his ear but not able to then take the coins from her. She put in the dime first. "It's gonna cost more than that. Put in a quarter." She did, then he put his right index finger to the button panel and paused. "Do you have the number to the venue?"

"Not on me."

They spent a minute juggling the pay phone receiver and getting into his pocket for his cell phone to locate the number which had been emailed to him a few days before. Then he began to dial. After dialing, an automated voice came on the line saying that an additional fifteen cents was needed to connect the call. Oscar thought about it for a moment then said, "Aw shit, should have started with a quarter. What have you got left?"

"A quarter and a nickel. You need the quarter?"

"Yeah."

Violet inserted the quarter and the call began to ring through. It rang and it rang but there was no answer. After six rings an answering machine picked up, gave the name of the venue and the date--which was four days behind--then told him to leave a message for the staff who would call them back. At that point their fifty cents was lost because the call had connected, and although he had little hope that someone would actually check the machine, Oscar left a message that they were delayed and to inform the bride's family to hold off until they arrived. After hanging up, Oscar noticed the phone did not give any refund for the extra dime. He tapped the hangup switch a few times and felt inside the coin return slot with his finger to no avail.

"Well crap," he said at last, "not enough money to call for a tow truck."

Violet, oh sweet, naive Violet, remained chipper as she said, "I'll see if I can get more," and hurried away. Oscar hung his head for a moment, then turned to follow her.

Presently there was the sound of rushing water behind him and the restroom door opened. Yet another leather and denim clad biker strode out. He was maybe in his late twenties, about the same as Oscar and Violet, and he was extremely tall and lanky. He, too, was smoking a cigarette and a veritable cloud of smoke billowed out through the rapidly closing door behind him.

Violet used all her upbeat charm to try to get more change from the guy who was watching the game of pool but he told her, "Sorry darlin', that was all the change I had."

Oscar began going person to person asking for change and then Violet called across the room that she was going to use the sink in the restroom to try to wash off some of the dust from her dress. In all Oscar came up with forty-seven cents, not enough to initiate a call. He heard his wife's startled yelp through the restroom door and hurried through the diner to find what was the matter. He knocked twice, heard her call his name, and pushed open the door. The cloud of smoke from the previous occupant's cigarette still hung in the air.

Violet was bent about a third of the way forward clutching brown paper towels--the cheap and rough kind--while blotting water from the front of her gown. She explained that the sink threw water everywhere and it splashed all up onto her. He tried to help with reaching in, past her, to the stack of paper towels sitting on a little metal shelf against the wall on the opposite side of the sink to pass them to her, but maneuvering in the narrow room with his immobile left arm partially outstretched soon became an obstacle, and she shooed him out while she finished blotting herself dry. A couple of minutes later when she emerged from the restroom, parts of the front of her peach colored gown were a little more... clingy? see through? Her left nipple was also a little bit erect and poked through the partly translucent, dry clean only, fabric. Oscar did not appreciate the manner in which a few of the guys in the bar kept their gaze upon her after their initial glance up to confirm she was alright.

Oscar stood by the pool table, being sure not to bump it nor to directly get in the way of the players, held out the forty seven cents in his right palm and asked again if anyone could help them to make the call to the auto club or to help them change their tire so they could get back on the road.

Violet, seeing her husband standing beside the table recalled that during college Oscar had been a bit of a pool shark and usually got them both free drinks all night long at the bars near the university on other peoples' money by running the tables, stood forth and made a challenge.

"Hey, tell you what, let's make a bet. You change our tire if my husband can beat your best pool player. Whaddya say?"

Oscar again waved his cast, this time at his wife, and told her this was not a great idea. Then he thought about it for a moment. His right hand was his dominant and he only truly needed his left hand to hold up the end of the cue stick while shooting. This might actually work, though he hadn't played for a few years at that point. He gave in and said, "Sure, what the hell? I haven't got much to lose for trying."

Red bandanna man asked the obvious question which was probably on all their minds, "What about when I win? What do I get? Half a dollar or less?"

Violet wrinkled up her nose. She knew that Oscar could beat any of them and hadn't given any thought to what they could offer if he lost. Then, knowing as even she did that they were all still eyeing her body and the way her still damp gown clung to her braless breasts, she gave red bandanna man a sideways glance and said, "If we lose, you choose." She gave him a crooked little smile and a wink.

Even though their game was not yet over, he and the other biker he had been playing cleared the table and retrieved both the white cue ball and the black 8 ball, which were placed at an equal point along the table. A cue stick was given to Oscar.

Red bandanna man asked Oscar, "You familiar with lagging to break?"

"Yeah, I've got the gist of it," Oscar admitted. In spite of his obvious handicap, he didn't want to overdo it by pretending to be a complete novice. He might win that way but he might also get the shit beaten out of him for hustling the bikers.

He and red bandanna man lined up behind their balls and on a count of three from the tall, slender brown haired, chain smoking biker, they made their shot to see whose ball returned the closest to the near end of the table after bouncing off the far cushion. The bar was quiet as virtually everybody in the place came to watch and the balls rolled slowly to their final resting places.

Oscar had lost the breaking shot by about an inch and stood back while all the balls were racked and his opponent took the first shot of the game.

No balls were pocketed during the first five shots back and forth as both men vied for positions on the table. Then red bandanna man pocketed a solid and began to score points. He pocketed a second and came very close, but just missed, a third on that same shot. However from where the cue ball had stopped, there was no clear line to pocket that ball so the biker tried for another shot which also just missed its pocket.

Oscar saw that he had a decent shot if he banked off one side cushion, but walked fully around the table to make sure where that would leave the cue ball for his next shot. Bending over the table and using the area between his thumb and pointer finger of his left hand--just beyond the end of his cast--to steady his stick, he took the ball in a totally different direction while applying backspin to it. He just barely pocketed his first stripe but it left him in a better position to sink a second, and then a third.

As he walked around the table, because he could not take his next shot from the angle he would have preferred owing to not being able to shoot with his left hand, Oscar noticed that three of the male bikers were standing very close beside and behind his wife. Violet seemed unaware of their focus on her; her focus was on the game and he saw that she had crossed the fingers on both of her hands for good luck.

Oscar failed to pocket his next ball, putting a bit too much force behind it which caused it to pop back from the side pocket. His opponent took his next turn and pocketed three more balls before returning control of the table to Oscar.

While Oscar examined the table to plan his next several shots--which could win him the game--the guys at Violet's sides began speaking to her in hushed tones, their mouths mere centimeters from her ears. Oscar couldn't be absolutely certain but what inflections his ears did catch and by reading their lips they seemed to be explaining to Violet what they were going to do with her when her husband lost the game. He for sure made out "suck"--although it might have been "fuck"--and was the next word "tits" or "dick"? He wasn't certain but he didn't like it either way.

Oscar tried to block out the scene long enough to win the game. He sank his fourth striped ball, then his fifth. By now the table was clear enough of obstructions that Oscar rather easily pocketed his sixth stripe but then he scratched and ended his turn by accidentally pocketing the cue ball when his wife yelped sharply behind him. He was bent over the table and lowered his head to glance backward under his arm.

He noted that the hem of Violet's full length gown was above her knees and as he glanced down he saw that she was standing bolt upright on the tiptoes of her dress shoes, which told him that at least one of the men most likely had a hand on her butt. Both of her hands were down at her sides discretely tugging down on her hem, trying to keep the men from raising it any higher without drawing attention to the situation.

One of the bikers seemed to be firmly massaging her left shoulder with his right hand while gently sliding his left palm up and down over the swell of her left breast through the fabric. The third man, standing just to her right, was very clearly caressing her outer thigh through her pantyhose while his left hand was helping to lift the back of her gown.

Oscar stood and spun on his heel. He intended to shake his pool cue at them and boom, "Hey hey! Hands off. The game isn't over," but instead the dingy, worn carpet bunched up under his hard soled shoe and his right leg collapsed under him. He released his grip on the stick and was only just able to use his good hand to stop his fall and keep from landing on his butt. Rising, he knew that he had lost any credibility in standing up to them and he silently knelt to retrieve his stick, giving them a dirty scowl.

He returned his attention to the game, determined to finish this in victory, collect on their bet and never see this filthy biker bar or any of its patrons again. He found that red bandanna man was finishing pocketing his last solid color ball so had just the eight ball remaining, however he was ever so slightly off aim and the ball rattled around the opening to the corner pocket and rolled back out a couple of inches. Oscar had this in the bag. Yes, he had been nervous for a couple of seconds when defeat seemed so near, but now he had the run of the table and fairly easy shots to sink his final two stripes, and then the eight ball was just sitting there begging to be put in its place.

Stripe number six was sunk into the corner pocket opposite to where the eight ball was resting. Then the seventh and final stripe went down in the side pocket. Oscar strode around to the far side of the table to take his final shot and end this game. The shot was clean; if he gave it just the right amount of force it would fall in nicely. He was now facing at an angle where he could see his wife and the three bikers in his peripheral vision.

The three bikers pressing themselves firmly against Violet had her penned in. The hem of her gown was now fully above her waist and the waistband of her sheer tan pantyhose was visible. The man behind was nuzzling her left earlobe while more or less mauling her left breast through her gown with his left hand. His right was actually down the front of her pantyhose stroking the outer edges of her labia! The guy on Violet's left was reaching across her belly, below his buddy's arm, and up to squeeze her right breast through the fabric and his right hand was behind her holding up the hem of her gown. The guy on her right side was also palming her right breast, kissing her neck and holding up her hem from his side.