Lucky at Cards

From a Jack to a King, but if he's the Knave
she must be the Queen of cocks...

'She never wears panties y'know' says Dean. 'She likes to make it easy for straying hands. Shall I demonstrate?'

His hand goes teasingly to my lap. Dave smiles as Dean begins to inch the hemline slowly up. I tense a little, surely he's not going any further? Not here in the Bar alcove with the mock-Tudor décor and the low pulse of ambient music? But I was wrong, Dean is lucky at cards - and with Dean, the game doesn't stop till he's collected the winnings in FULL! He smiles at me, daring me to object, although he knows I won't, my eyes fall in a show of modesty as false at the décor, and he gradually eases the hemline up over the stocking flesh-line in the shade of the table. Dave stares, swallows hard, 'very nice' he breathes, his voice suddenly husky. Dean incy-wincy spiders his cool index finger around the top of my leg, hooking the material of the mini-dress out to reveal the wispy haze of dark pubence beneath.

'I'll tell you this in confidence, Dave' he says. 'She's horny as they come. I can't keep up with her to be honest. Listen, we were driving down here today and she begins to come on strong, y'know...?' I was biting my lower lip, certain I was blushing despite myself. It's a game we've played before - Dean and I. One we'll play again. I know the rules as well as he does, yet it never fails to stimulate new nerve-ends and erogenous zones I didn't previously know existed. '...And she begins brushing my leg cosy and intimate like, so I pull into a lay-by and she's into my trousers faster'n you can say blow-job. She's got my knob out and down her throat and she's going 'glob-glob-glob slurp-slurp-slurp' like she's not eaten for a month and needs the protein. That's right - isn't it Maxine?' I can feel his insistent index finger brush my pubes on the slippery slope down to my vaginal lips. 'Isn't it, Max?'

I look up at Dave, giving him the full hand-tinted baby-blues as Dean's finger parts flesh, then begins its moist penetration. I nod, 'sure it's true Dave, every word.' I grip the stem of my martini glass so tight I'm scared it'll shatter, concentrating my entire nervous system on that probing finger-edge that's now worming first-joint deep into me. It's all I can do to stop myself squirming, while Dave - travel-rep with some anonymous stationery company - is going bug-eyed, can't believe what he's seeing. His expression is so delicious - pearls of sweat standing out on his forehead, full attention transfixed on the finger that's now slip-slithering up and down, sawing in and out my salivating pussy - that I'd be laughing if it weren't for the more urgent sensations burning their way up from my thighs. My legs part involuntarily to admit a second finger, and they're tunnelling so deep and Dean's pumping furiously now, while at the next table people are talking and drinking, and Dave - a guy we've hardly known twenty minutes, is watching like his life depends on it.

There are orgasms, and there are ORGASMS - this one comes on like a jolt of lightning, a cum so powerful I've got to grit my teeth to keep from crying out... and, at the same time, I notice the retro jukebox is playing Hot Chocolate's "You Sexy Thing"!

Dean glances across to where Dave's sat like he's shell-shocked. 'And I know I can tell you this in confidence, Dave. As we came into the Bar tonight and saw you there sitting alone, Maxine said to me - didn't you Max? she said she fancied you something strong. She said she was powerfully attracted to you.' All the while he's un-cunting his fingers with agonising slowness. 'We're travelling to London tomorrow, me and Maxine, but we've got a Hotel room here just for tonight. Perhaps you'd care to come back with us for a - uh, nightcap? That is - unless you've something better to do?' I close my eyes and lick my lip-glossed lips, the very thought making my mouth water with anticipation. I sense the evening's erotic entertainments are just beginning...

-- 0 --

I've never been what you'd call a 'good girl'. I'm attracted to 'dangerous' men, to the element of risk. I've had fingers (and other parts of my anatomy!) burned in sexual encounters before I met Dean, but he's in a DIFFERENT LEAGUE. An incredible turn-on, tall, good-looking in a dark swarthy way, a voice vibrantly deep and strong. All of it tuned into a kind of outlaw mystique that snares me from the start. He's a Gambler - a compulsive game-player fuelled by the permanent nervous energy of a man living on the edge, driven by obsession, one step ahead of debtors, one step ahead of disaster - or one step from a triumph that's more real, more ecstatic than any orgasm I can ever give him.

We first met just nine-and-a-half weeks ago in a Club I work as a hostess, the chic kind of place where you wear your cleavage down to the pussy, with a hemline high enough to meet it. Outfits designed sheer enough to advertise your nipples. Not that THAT bothers me. I dress to thrill, black seams, the sharp outline of scanty briefs showing through the cling-film-tight material, heavy eye-shadow - all kohl and corruption, and long black hair as lush as a shampoo commercial. I've a class figure, good boobs - white and flawless as two giant scoops from some Heavenly Freezer. I know how to tease - AND how to deliver. I make my own choices, live my life according to my own rules. But I like to play games too. I enjoy being looked at, enjoy the furtive way men 'accidentally' brush up against me. But once I saw Dean I had eyes for no-one else, I was the perfect Nastassia Kinski to his ragged Steve McQueen. I melt to him, knew we'd be exchanging tongues before the night was done. But he was off-hand, too into a winning jag to notice ANYTHING, so I had to make the running.

I stand close, moulding myself against him as he concentrates on his game, kissing him all come-on when he turns a good hand - and that night he wins it ALL! When he leaves, I go with him, determined to get him to myself by fair means or foul. As soon as we are in the taxi to were-ever I was into his pants. And he was EVERYTHING I could've hoped for, his cock a magnificent beast long and thick in my fist, cleanly circumcised, and he's high on winning, on an adrenalin fix even as I go down on him in wet engulfment. I shimmy that shiny lilac glans as far down my throat as I can, and suck it contentedly through half the West End and into Mayfair, rewarded with a copious mouthful of my favourite cream (after Crème de Menthe!) somewhere around Kensington Gardens.

We wind up together in a Hotel, and afterwards I move in on a more regular basis - to share his successes, and provide consolation during the manic depressions that follow bad losses. I still work the Clubs, often providing his stake for the evening's gaming. And we live nocturnally, emerging at dusk - a life of sophisticated Clubs, speeding neon, exotic drinks, fast cars, spiked by the artificial energies of risk. There's something about risk that makes me horny, that makes me want to get it on. The constant stimulus of vicarious thrills acts like powerful aphrodisiac. When we're winning it's ultra-sex, we fuck with an energy and animal enthusiasm that lasts for hours, until we're both sated and exhausted. Other times, when he loses, I rouse him and do all the work, but that makes the reward of his erection that much more satisfying.

Gambling and risk inevitably laps over into our sex life. We play cards endlessly in all kinds of hotel rooms as he practices technique and dexterity. He begins by making 'special tokens' out of photo porn-cards, so if I win I might get an IOU for cunnilingus, if he wins, a wrist-job or a penalty token that means I go without underwear all day, or lipstick my nipples a shade of savage pink for him to lick clean. Sometimes we keep the cards we win, hoarding them. It's a tremendous kick to play for such stakes, and a cruelly erotic sense of power to suddenly produce a card and demand instant payment in full. The games, dares and risk-taking get crazier. He once presents a blow-job card in a hotel lift and I have to crouch down and gobble him between floors, then I had him eat me in the car-park of some Motorway Services halfway to Manchester, headlights arcing and slicing through the luminous dark as he goes into me tongue-first, then again, in a Disco I smuggle myself into the Gents to deliver... but it was always just me and Dean. Until that night when everything got turned upside down.

During a bad spell Dean organises a card school in a Highgate flat we share, a few punters come around and they play till the early hours. I serve drinks, play hostess. Dean was in deep trouble, dodging heavily connected creditors - the kind who break your legs if you default, and he's banking on tonight to recoup, but hits an immediate run of bummers and is soon fighting to keep head above water. He's sweating visibly, a tension standing out so real you can feel it. I go out to refresh their drinks, and come back to find some of the pressure has eased off, but they're playing with a new sense of urgency. In a bizarre sensation of unreality I see they're now gaming for 'token' cards that Dean has put up to compensate for his mounting debts. My skin crawls with perverse fascination, willing him to WIN, as the cards (and by implication - ME!) pass back and forth, moving from player to player, to Dean, then to some card-sharp he'd met in a Bar. But as the game progresses it increasingly seems that in an odd sort of way it was flattering, a compliment to my powers of attraction. Like in some medieval joust or chivalrous duel, I was the prize they ALL desire, they compete to win my hand (although considerably more than my hand is at stake!). The very idea is as sensual as the most exotic stimulant.

For a while it seems Dean is onto a good thing, he makes a run of wins but can't quit, it goes badly, and as dawn breaks he's wiped out. The school folds, people leave with mumbled apologies, some richer, mostly poorer. Then there's just me, Dean, and two men watching me, leering - but nervous. I know them slightly from the Club circuit, a suave handsome Jamaican called Anton, and Robbie, a likeable Northerner whose well-tailored suits exactly contradict his earthy Geordie humour. They spread their cards face-up on the coffee table - Robbie's card depicts fellatio, Anton's a graphic photo of a lusty stud taking a crouching girl from behind. I don't know how I'm supposed to react. The joker's REALLY wild this time. How far will Dean want to take it? Surely not ALL the way? I'll take my cue from him. I think of those heavy creditors - the kind with leg-breaking tendencies. Dean is depending on me. Before things turn violent.

They sit on the sofa in soft lighting, Dean slumped smirking beside the music centre to see fair play, and yes - I understand, it's MY choice. I can walk out here and now, but I know I won't. Like a good little bad girl I'll do it for Dean, I'll bail him out. That's the way it has to be. But it's got to be here, now, before I've time to reconsider. Suddenly amused and aroused by it all I shuck my dress down kind of slinky, in one movement. I never wear a bra, don't need one, my large firm breasts quiver free for their eager appraisal. I'm wearing pearls, and leave them on - a kinky touch of sophistication like a debutante doing pin-up spreads, my long black hair cascading forward over my shoulder as if to veil what I'm so sexily uncovering. Then I'm stooping to skin my tiny briefs down, face burning with whoreish excitement as I raise one bare leg to shake them off.

I'm squatting nude between Robbie's parted knees, drawing his zip down and delving within. The air of perverse eroticism acting on me, I'm fiercely turned on despite myself, my nipples jiggling up against the razor-sharp crease of his trouser-knees as I manoeuvre. His cock is thick, and although he's not yet stiff he's obviously very well-hung. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, sensing his tension as my fingers slither over his flesh, smelling the warm musk of his body, my tongue outlining the soft wedge of his glans, the delicate dance of my hair shimmering over his thighs as my lips stretch moistly around the heart-shaped dome. He's stiffening, as if the hot slide inwards is skinning his nerves. Arching his back as my tongue circles, glissading silkily over the sex-heated skin, my mouth engulfs more slowly now, breathing heavily. It's deep in my mouth, and I begin sucking until it grows hard, its taste - a salty tang, invades me. I'm slobbering on his fat sinewy knob, becoming more adventurous as I surrender to the inevitability of it all.

Now Robbie's watching my head bob up, down, round and around in his lap like he can scarce believe his luck, now he's glancing across at Dean, gloating. They're all watching me, they all want me. I feel the way a pretty girl in a Hard-Core Blue Movie must feel, aware of the pent-up desire I'm deliberately provoking, the intensity of their gaze burning into me. I can hear the quick sharp intake of their breathing and it sounds so good. I begin to make it more visual for them, holding the sex-meat tightly erect in both hands, squeezing it lasciviously, my lips glued around its shiny bell-end, then gorging myself on the shaft, taking as much as I possibly can, sucking hard, force-feeding on the best part of eight inches of stiff cock.

Now Anton's shrugging his jeans off, ostentatiously wanking a length that's thick and long as heavy-duty black cable. And he's climbing in behind me, moving me around, repositioning me to his requirements, smoothing the curve of my bottom, parting my legs, fingering down to roughly insert a finger that makes me squirm voluptuously, steeling myself in exquisite expectation of what's to follow. Hoping he's targeting the correct orifice. I can feel the blood-pumping heat and then the solid pressure of his cock-head up against the mouth of my quim, forcing the narrow sex-tight passage open more and more until I feel he's going to rip me wide open, then - with a lunge, the glans is inside me. I groan audibly (as best I can) as he feeds deeper, more easily now, and I feel s-o-o-o-o strange to be penetrated so completely. I'm wriggling and writhing, spitted on hot maleness, moaning and gasping somewhere between desire and agonising pleasure, pussy on fire, nipples swaying tender and distended, hard and erect. I'm keeping Robbie trapped in my mouth by force of sheer suction while tonguing it, feeling it pulse up firm against my palette as he bucks, hairy balls squashed up against my chin as I'm fucked from the rear, establishing a balance, a rhythm.

They talk over me, 'cunt's smooth as silk, what's she gam like?' 'Great, she's (grunt) loving every inch of it.' Me crouching on all-fours, impaled totally, whole body wracked in sensation, an orgasm hits me uncontrollably, excruciatingly. I try telling myself I'm doing this for Dean - just for him, like jazz musician's women whore themselves on Harlem street corners to raise drug-money for their men, I'm giving myself for Dean, to save him from the wrath of brutal creditors. All he has to do is say the word and I'll stop, but by now I'm hoping that word never comes. I'm doing it for ME, because I'm greedy for experience, because the game amuses and intrigues me - the risk, the daring. And Dean just sits there, watching, enjoying it as he ensures my safety, probably with an angry hard-on that's threatening serious damage to his y-fronts (but there's plenty of time for me to relieve him of THAT tension later!).

'Open your throat, Maxine, so's I can cream your tonsils.' My lips slither around the gooey shaft, sucking it ferociously as I concentrate on lifting my thighs and pushing back, fucking myself on Anton's cock so I'm doing the work brazenly, no longer faking, my body alive with passions so intense I feel I'll explode, proud of the way I'm exciting both of them, nakedly charged with animal sensuality, doing my best to suck that sinewy length in my mouth and squeeze and work the cock up my pussy. Then Robbie's holding me gently by the hair, easing my head down so far I feel I'm immersing in public hair, suffocating, a muffled gasp as it throbs expectantly, the entire length swelling and pulsing, expanding, spurting a thick jet of spunk that fills my mouth, oozing over my teeth, slobbering tiny clear globlets of spermatozoa from my lips. Even as I draw back, gasping for breath, it's all happening all over again, my aching cunt filled to capacity and I'm well into my own second orgasm...

Once it's done we dress in an air of dreamy shyness (although I leave my panties off, to make it easy later for Dean's straying hands). And Dean meets my eyes with relief, thanks, and a promise of sex to come. He seems even more exciting to me now. Some instinct tells me this will be the first of many such wild scenes we'll have together. I'm grateful for the times we've had - and eager for what's to come. I don't regret ANYTHING.

To the victor go the spoils, you CAN be lucky in cards - and love!

by

TRISTAN TROTSKY