Pool Party: A Bad Bet

//AUTHOR'S NOTE: I shouldn't have to say this, but this is a fictive story and should not be taken as an endorsement of these actions in the real world. Enjoy your kinks. But if you think that the actions in this story are okay... seek help. Also, this is my first time publishing to this site. If you catch any errors in the story or have suggestions on the formatting, feel free to reach out.

Pool Party: A Bad Bet

"Tonight is the night," I thought as I inspected myself in the mirror. I was looking over my outfit in preparation to meet my husband at the airport. It was a white sundress with a red rose floral pattern that hugged my chest nicely without being too revealing. A good look.

At twenty-six, I was in some of the best shape of my life. Maybe I didn't have the youthful glow I did at eighteen, but my breasts were still full and pert, while my stomach was flat and toned, and I had brushed my long blonde hair until it shone, the end of the mane falling just above the small of my back.

A glint from my hand reminded me that I was no longer Samantha Schroeder, but Samantha Evans, and the thought gave me a thrill as always. Six months ago, in a stunningly white dress that I regretted I would never be able to wear again, I had married Ryan Evans, my former best-friend's older brother. Yeah, it had cost me my relationship with Linnea, but it was worth it. He was everything to me. Tall, clever, hardworking, and endlessly supportive. The only downside was that he hadn't managed to get me pregnant yet, but as I glanced at the bottle of fertility pills on the dresser and considered the current time in my cycle, I knew we could fix that!

He'd been gone for two weeks on a business trip to Winnipeg (cheap hotels, bad food, and his dimwitted boss), so tonight I was going to grab him from the airport, drag him to his favorite bar where he would fleece some fools at pool, and then he was going to take me home and fuck me senseless.

Tonight was the night!

I shook my head to clear it and grabbed my strappy white sandals, putting them on and heading out the door. The pills I had been taking should do their job, but they were making me... easily distracted as well. But that was okay. Once we got back from the bar, I was expecting to spend the rest of the night on my back, and I was thoroughly looking forward to it.

The ride to the airport was quick, my little red Mini weaving through traffic with ease. No sooner had I pulled up to the arrivals turn-around than I saw Ryan hurrying towards me.

"Sam!" he shouted, and then we were pressed together, locked at the lips. Maybe the kiss was a little indecent for a public setting, but hey, it had been a while! Finally we separated, both panting slightly, and I was dimly aware of the heat of a blush in my cheeks. I pressed my forehead to his (having to stand on the tips of my toes to do so -- I'm only 4' 11" -- and whispered to him, "I missed you."

"I missed you too. I love you." came the whispered reply, and just then I wanted to skip dinner and go right to dessert. Later, I would wish I had. But then Ryan's stomach rumbled and we pulled apart laughing, and the moment was gone.

We made a quick retreat from the airport to a dingy little bar called the 8-Ball, which Ryan had been going to since his early college days thanks to their good burgers, cheap beers (not to mention that before he was twenty-one they had been a little lax in checking ID's), and the two pool tables nestled in a back corner. By the ravenous look on Ryan's face and the short glances back to the pool tables, I could tell he had missed his favorite haunt almost as much as he had missed me.

Only two of the usual pool-playing contingent were there tonight: John, a poor player fighting (and rapidly losing) a battle with his gut and middle age, and Peter, a decent -- if slightly below average -- player who Ryan had once won $600 off of in a single game after a couple rounds of double-or-nothing. Not that I was worried about his finances. Peter wasn't a bad guy, but definitely loud and ostentatious, including his car, which Ryan and Peter had spent hours talking about. Ryan had told me it was a 1970 Mustang Mach 1, which clearly meant something to him, but to me it was an old muscle car. Given that he is roughly the same age as us, Peter was probably doing pretty well in life if he could afford both that and to risk hundreds at pool for fun.

John gave a grunt and a wave as we walked in, but Peter hardly looked up, and it was easy to see why: he was winning the game he was playing against John and wanted to close it out. Knowing that Ryan would get sucked in over there eventually, I pulled him over to the bar where we ordered, and then started to devour a couple of greasy but fantastic burgers. I could never admit it to anyone, but I loved the taste of these too, even if I couldn't get away with eating them very often. I had a figure to look after.

I was still working on the remains of my burger and Ryan was polishing off his second pint when Peter wandered over, looking smug. "I made out pretty well against Ol' Johnny over there," he proclaimed (John scowled in the background, both due to the unwanted nickname and the loss of what looked like a not-insignificant amount of cash). "Care to throw your hat in the ring? Or are you afraid that after such a long absence you'll have lost your touch?" Peter jabbed at Ryan.

Ryan countered right away, "I dunno, I got a decent bonus for the work trip, I suppose I could go a few rounds. Shall we start at $75 for a game?"

This was an obvious shot at Peter, as the infamous $600 game had started out at $75, then grown to $150, then $300, and finally to the record single game total at the 8-Ball, of which Ryan was the holder. In fairness, Peter frowned slightly before recovering and accepting the offer. I stayed at the bar to nurse my drink, but Ryan happily strutted over to the pool tables, clearly thinking he was going to do well tonight. Of course, if he took me home he was getting lucky regardless, but he liked the pool, and it had been a long trip. And therein lied one of my mistakes that night: I should have dragged him home (and to bed) after the first game.

I watched them play from a distance, not really keeping track of the games, knowing I would get the full rundown, shot for shot, later tonight. Instead, I enjoyed watching the still present scowl on John's face, which looked as though he had unexpectedly bitten into a sour apple. I had never liked him, and seeing him loose out of it early in the evening and then have to watch as others played what he could no longer afford to was somewhat of a malicious guilty pleasure. Ryan looked like he was frowning too, but I knew he was a better player than Peter, so I brushed it off and got up to go to the bathroom.

When I got back from the bathroom, however, the evening took a horrific turn. Ryan looked stricken, Peter was smug again, and John simply looked amazed. I went over to see what had happened, and soon I realized the scope of the problem.

Ryan had lost. And lost again, and again, and so on and so forth. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was exhaustion from the plane, maybe it was just plain overconfidence, but whatever the reason, he had lost $1200, $200 more than the bonus he had been paid for the travel. If this stood, he would be the laughingstock of the group of pool buddies he played with, and his record $600 win would be relegated to history. And we didn't have the money with us to double up Peter again.

And Peter knew it.

Ultimately, though, it wasn't Peter who truly sent the evening off the rails, but John. It was a filthy, misogynistic thing to say, but once Ryan admitted he didn't have the money to raise the stakes again, John spoke up:

"Maybe, but money isn't all you have with you to bet."

And then he leered at me. I had dressed up for myself and my husband, but I was suddenly regretting it. I felt exposed, like a bug under a magnifying glass. There was something else there too, like a heat deep in my stomach, a feeling I had been dealing with all night, but then I heard the other two men start to speak up.

Peter began, "John, I don't think that's approp-", before being cut off by my indignant husband.

"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" He yelled. John looked like he was regretting that comment, but Ryan didn't stop there, and I loved him for it.

"Sam isn't some possession that I can roll out when I want, she's a person, damnit! The only way she would wind up as a bet is if SHE offered it, and I haven't heard any interest in that from her!"

John seemed to realize that he was out of his depth, so he stammered and grumbled something before stalking over to the bar. I think part of the reason he was unhappy was because there wasn't a chance of getting a show if Peter won, but I kept that rather uncharitable thought to myself. Instead, I pulled myself over to Ryan, hugged him close, and whispered in his ear.

"Did you mean what you said about if I offered it?"

Ryan looked at me askance before replying in a low voice, "Why?"

"Look, you're better than Peter, I know you can win. And this is a lot of money. But most of all, if you win, this whole evening becomes a wash, and you don't have to spend the rest of your life being teased by your buddies about how you lost over a grand to a sub-par player." I didn't mention that the idea of being played for was really turning me on, but the thought rattled around in my head. Having sex with Peter was not something I was interested in, but when Ryan won, it would make tonight even better.

Later on, I realized that I would have never said or felt any of that if I hadn't been on the damn fertility pills making me horny. But in the moment, I was inexorably pulled to upping the stakes.

Finally, I whispered to my husband, "I don't want to sleep with him, so be sure you win."

Ryan was obviously conflicted and almost half a minute went by (as Peter watched, clearly expecting my husband to pull out his wallet) until his face resolved itself -- he had clearly made a decision.

"One game. I win, you pay me $2400. You win, you get my wife's body. All other debts ended. Take it or leave it."

It was Peter's turn to look conflicted. Meanwhile, I was thinking that we should have put some other conditions on the bet. My current fertility was supposed to be a surprise for my husband; he didn't know about the pills! But before I could speak up, Peter reached out his hand and shook with Ryan.

"Deal"

Hot exhilaration and icy fear coursed through my veins. I kissed my husband for luck before collapsing into a nearby chair. I could only thank my lucky stars that the bar was loud and John had left, so no one knew what (or who) had been bet. I was on the table, as well as over two grand! Talk about high stakes!

And so the game of our lives began. Ryan broke, and potted a few easy shots before missing a longer one across the table. It was a reasonably tough shot, but what alarmed me was the extent to which his hands were shaking. Was this too much pressure for him?

Peter had a reasonable go (made two), but was still losing as my husband bent over the table again. His first shot was messy and bounced around the table before sinking into a corner pocket out of pure luck. It was a good thing we weren't playing on strict rules. He took a deep breath, then lined up his second shot. A tremor when through his arm.

Peter still looked damnably smug.

The shot missed.

Peter only potted one ball on his turn, but despite still being behind, he was calm and unworried. How was he able to do that?

Ryan now had a lot of the table to work with. Plenty of open shooting lanes. Normally on a night like this in the 8-Ball, he would be in his element and about to bring home the cash.

This was not a normal night.

As he prepared to take his shot, the tremor in his arm from before flared up, and he shanked the shot, the cue ball spinning wildly away from the intended target.

Towards the black ball.

The soft thump of the eight ball landing in the center pocket on the right side sent a jolt of frozen terror through my heart. But then the cue ball kept going and softly sunk into the far corner pocket, landing with an echo that may have been entirely within my mind. It was insult to injury; we had already lost when the eight ball went in, so a scratch was as meaningless as it was cruel.

No one spoke for almost a minute. Ryan was rapidly paling, growing ashen faced in horror. There was a brief spark behind Peter's eyes, then he tamped it down and waited to see how we would react. As nothing was forthcoming, he finally spoke.

"So, right here, or back to my place?"

I couldn't meet Ryan's eyes. Or maybe he couldn't meet mine. But I think we both knew we had made our bed, and now had to sleep in it. Literally, in my case.

My throat was dry and scratchy, but I managed to choke out a response. "Yours." One word. One word that sealed my fate.

Peter put his arm around me and moved as if to lead me out of the bar, but I shook him off, barely able to mutter, "Not here."

Ryan still hadn't said anything.

John's eyes, curious, followed the three of us out of the bar, but luckily he didn't get up to follow. Outside, I handed the keys to my Mini to my husband, and then managed to look him in the eyes for the last time that night.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. This was clearly hurting him as much as it was me.

Peter's Mustang was nearby, and he had started the engine, a low, menacing rumble that I could feel in my bones. My limbs felt like they were underwater as a walked around the hood and opened the passenger door. As I sat down, he leaned out to window and spoke to my husband. The sound of him saying that he would drop me back off at the bar sometime tomorrow morning reached me as if from a great distance. I was still in too much shock to understand it.

Neither of us spoke as he drove away, carrying me away from my husband, who was still standing motionless next to my car.

At a red light, his hand moved from the gearstick to my upper thigh, sliding under the fabric of my dress. For the second time that night, I regretted how I was dressed. Thankfully, before he could go much farther, the light turned green and the hand was needed elsewhere. Thank god for manual gearboxes.

The reprieve granted by the light didn't last long, however, because before long we were pulling into the driveway of a nice little rambler with nice gardens and a two-car garage. It rather surprised me -- I had assumed a perpetual bachelor like Peter wouldn't have bothered to keep such a nice house. But I was in for a lot of surprises tonight. Before long the car was parked and we were inside. I was standing in another man's mudroom, shrinking in on myself and trying to look as small as possible.

It wasn't working.

In a flash Peter was against me, pushing my back into the wall and his hands into my breasts. Men and boobs -- I swear! But when my husband gropes me, I kinda like it. This time, however, I was scared. Why the hell had I agreed to that bet? In an attempt to slow things down, I started to beg, "Wait, wait, wait!"

To my surprise, Peter backed off. He cocked his head to the side and asked, "What? Isn't this exactly what you agreed to?"

"It was," I replied, "but I was hoping that I could... make a couple requests?"

"I mean, your husband was pretty specific. 'Your Body,' is what he said. That doesn't sound very limiting!"

Peter's reply worried me, but I pressed on, "Just two rules. That's all I ask."

He paused, before saying, "I'll listen. But you're rather late to negotiate this."

It was a start. I took a deep breath, and then hoped he would be willing to work with me.

"First," I said, trying to steady my nerves, "Can we not do any butt stuff? I've only tried it once, and rather than being fun it was just really painful."

I'm not a fan of anal, but I was willing to lose on this point if it meant I could convince him to respect my second rule. And even though he was clearly a boob guy (I'd caught him staring dozens of times during previous trips to the bar), he'd been interested in my ass a couple of times too. So if he was big into this, maybe I could avoid the worst...

To my surprise, though, his reply wasn't to argue with me.

"I've never been big into anal myself, actually. So I can work with that."

The unexpected cooperation gave me hope that maybe I could escape without getting pregnant. Bolstered, I made my second request.

"Also," I paused, trying to find the right words, "It really isn't a good time of the month a man to cum in me, if you know what I mean... I mean, Ryan was supposed to tonight, but... could you not? And maybe wear a condom?"

Peter looked conflicted at this. The paused stretched. One beat. Then two. Finally he answered.

"If I'm honest... I'm sorry, but I won't agree to that. I mean, if you look at the wording of the bet, I would even say that if I do get you pregnant, you should have to keep i - "

"ASSHOLE!" I was shouting at him, suddenly furious, when he pushed me back against the wall again, a hand over my mouth, cutting me off.

"Look," he growled, "I've been patient and fair with this. I didn't propose the bet -- John did. I didn't ask for it, you accepted it, and here we are. I even agreed to your first rule. So here's how this works. Either you and I drive back to the 8-Ball, your husband pays me a fuck ton of money, and I tell the whole bar how he backed out of a bet that would have let me knock up his pretty little wife, or you get your shit together and honor your end of the deal!"

In that moment, I'll admit I was terrified. The force of his body against mine, the hard wall behind me, and his low voice in my ear, it all had an impact on my nerves. But that heat, deep in my belly, that had flared when the bet was first proposed was back. Something in the back of my mind seemed to like being overpowered like that. A part of myself that I hated. But it was a part of me.

"So, are you gonna let me fuck you?"

And the heat in my body led me to, with his hand trailing away from my mouth (and back to my tits), against my own better judgement, mutely nod yes.

Suddenly the sundress came up and over my head, and I was standing in the entryway to another man's house in my flimsy, sexy lingerie that I had picked out for the seduction of my husband tonight. I felt a hand on my flat lower stomach, and I knew that I was in trouble. In a blur, I was suddenly guided down to the basement, where I saw a nice carpeted lounge, with a pool table in the center. Suddenly Peter took off my bra, dropping it to the floor, and he smirked at me. "I've been practicing. Guess it paid off!"

I was still standing there in shock as he groped my now exposed breasts until I felt his tongue try to force its way into my mouth. Instinctively, I pulled away, only for a hand to move around my back and up my neck, holding the back of my head in place as he aggressively kissed me again. This time I had nowhere to go, so I went along, standing nearly naked in Peter's basement, making out with him as my husband spent the night alone.

Deep in my gut, I almost liked it. Almost.

Before long, though, Peter sunk down into a chair off to the side (leather, very comfortable looking) and implied that it was time for me to get to work. My hands shook as I knelt in front of him and began to unbutton the top of his pants. I almost felt to be watching from the side as my hands, seemingly of their own volition, pulled out his cock. It was above average size, though not of completely ridiculous porn proportions, uncircumcised, and had a slight bend to it. In the back of my head, and intrusive thought popped up, and I couldn't help but notice that he had my husband beat in both length and girth.