When Taken at the Flood Pt. 02B

Note: This is a nonconsent story, and "harsher" than some readers will likely prefer. Though not intended to be sadistic, it emphasizes themes of dominance and humiliation, and shies away from the common pattern of all participants secretly or unwillingly enjoying it. That is just how my fantasy life runs sometimes. Therefore, if it is not your cup of tea, I apologize and encourage you to find something more to your liking.

It is, of course, a tale of sheer fantasy in all respects, intended only for the purposes of erotic entertainment. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

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Recap: Following a heated argument, longtime frenemy couples, John and Grace Wilson, and Mark and Sheila Schwetzer, held a strip-tennis match to see which pair could assert their dominance and get the opposing woman naked. Aided by the secret bias of umpire Prakesh Singh, the Wilsons defeated the more athletic Schwetzers. Even stripped bare, however, Sheila remained undaunted, and soon reignited and escalated the argument. The end-result was mutual agreement to play for new and disturbing stakes: the winning husband would fuck the losing wife.

At that pivotal moment, events diverged within two parallel universes. This one, Universe B, happens to be cruel to Grace and John. (In Universe A, on the other hand, they meet a kinder fate.)

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CHAPTER 4

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Sheila had insisted that the floor be wiped carefully before play resumed. While that was going on, Prakesh Singh sidled over to me. When he addressed me, his voice was low and stiff. "Mr. Wilson, I find this new game you have all agreed to very disturbing. I do hope that that fortune will continue to smile on you and Mrs. Wilson. However, I think it only fair to caution you that that with such stakes involved, honor will not allow me to show any further partiality in my rulings."

Then, before I'd even had a chance to process Pra's ominous remark, it was time to begin. The butterflies in my stomach had multiplied. I thanked God that it was not my serve, at least. It was Sheila's however, and she was darn good. This was the hardest-fought and closest game of the day. Which I guess makes sense, given what was at stake. Sheila mostly stayed on the baseline; and, with the surface conditions improved, she was able to avoid any slips and tumbles, and usually get to where she needed to be. Her every movement tended to expose another pleasant perspective on her oh-so-bare pussy—so much so, that I expected it would throw her off. However, she seemed to have tamped down her self-consciousness in that regard, and brought herself under strict control. Mark handled the net, and appeared to have regained his cool competence. Grace was still executing at her flawless best, finding seams and dumping it in the corners. I felt helplessly outclassed, and yet managed to hold up my end of things, avoiding any major missteps.

So we matched each other, point for point. We reached deuce, and then deuce again, and then again. First we, and then the Schwetzers, would get an advantage, and yet neither couple was able to convert.

Fatigue was starting to be a factor. Mark was a strong, virile guy, but not in especially good condition, and he was beginning to show it. His normally pristine head of jet-black hair was a tangled, sweaty mop now, moisture was beading and dripping down his ruddy face, and he was breathing raspily through his mouth. I knew Sheila's extravagant rack must be in pain from the bouncing it was taking, although she took care not to reveal it. Even so, she still would not have looked out of place on a Paris runway (that is, if she'd had couture on, instead of nothing). Grace, I have to say, did not seem to have lost a step, though her hair, too, clumped into damp locks now, her bra was soaked, and her mostly-bare skin glowed and shimmered with a sheen of perspiration. As for me, I feared I was about spent. If I'd been in NBA shorts, instead of tennis tighties, I'd have been grabbing the hem, let's put it that way.

It was yet another deuce, and Sheila cued up her serve. Just as I had done for the last 12 or so, I admired the way her entire body was extended and opened by the maneuver—the way her tits rose as she stretched her racket arm back and up to strike the ball, the way her ample areolae and hard, bumpy nipples tilted skyward, and the way the delicate folds of pink visible at her crotch swayed and ruffled when she split her legs to stride forward...

Grace returned the serve cleanly, and we began another volley. After shots back and forth, Mark had an opening; but his tired muscles were a fraction of a second off, and he left the ball where Grace had an easy return. She countered with a soft drop-shot to the right, which wrong-footed Mark and looked to fall in just over the net. I raced forward, anticipating Mark might still have a play on it and preparing to respond, but he only waved disgustedly at the yellow blur as it started its descent, and then bent over his knees, huffing. I came screeching to a halt, directly before the net, and watched as the ball fell and landed... two inches outside the lines. Damn! It had been such a pretty shot!

Mr. Singh was even closer to the ball when it dropped than I was. In fact, it was practically at the foot of his chair. Prakesh hesitated for a fraction of a second, apparently torn between conflicting imperatives. At last he made the call, a note of fatalism audible in his voice. "Out! Advantage Schwetzers!" Fuck!

Sheila was too tired to celebrate. Mark knew he'd really been beaten on the play and only gotten lucky, so he wasn't gloating either. As for Grace, she didn't seem to let it phase her—she gave one sideways shake of disappointment with her head, and then set her jaw again and walked steadily back to her mark.

The thing filling my mind, as it had every time the Schwetzers had gained the advantage, was that Grace's body was now on the line. If we made just one mistake, then my lovely Gracie would get fucked by this brute. If Grace was having similar thoughts, however, she gave no sign of it. Just as she had for the entire match, she gave every indication that she was keeping her emotions under control and channeling them into trying to win. Moreover, we'd been at this stage several times already by now, and I think we are all starting to believe that this game would just go on forever. At any rate, Grace didn't return my gaze, and we didn't share any words or special glances. She just set her feet shoulder-width apart, flexed her knees, took a quick breath, and set herself for Sheila's serve.

The serve was assertive, but not one I couldn't handle, and I flicked it back down the line. The drive got past Mark, but Sheila was there, and she thwacked a two-handed backhand in my direction. I know she had intended to force me deep to the baseline, but she left it too short, too high, and too much in front of me. Although she had been working hard not to show it, it seems that all this exertion must finally have begun to expose mistakes in her game, too. I saw my chance instantly. I leaped forward, eyes wide, reached far back with my racket, and then windmilled it over my head for a smash shot.

I knew the moment the ball struck the racket that I'd been over-eager, hitting it just a little too hard, and just a little too much on the down-stroke. I cringed mentally, fearing immediately that through an unforced error, through my own incompetence, I had handed Grace over to be violated by these monsters. In that fleeting instant, time seemed to slow, and I prayed that by some miracle the ball would find a way over. And it almost did. It ticked hard on the top of the net, in fact, and teetered for a moment, before falling back, with a plop, onto our side. There was silence on the court for a long minute. Finally, unwillingly, Prakesh gave voice to what had just happened. "I regret to say... Mr. and Mrs. Wilson... that the Schwetzers have won the game."

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Sheila and Mark let out whoops of joy, high-fived, chest-bumped (which, under other circumstances, would have been pretty captivating, given Sheila's huge, free-ranging rack). "Oh Gracie!," Sheila called out across the court, "you're going to be so very sorry you crossed us!" Then she went over to the chairs and put her sports-bra on, shimmying her chest to get her tits jammed back into the cups. Without bothering to retrieve her panties, she pulled her tennis-dress over her head and pushed her arms through the short sleeves.

While she was dressing, I moved over next to Grace. My wife just stood there stolidly, feet set apart, head slightly bent, hair in her eyes, sports bra drenched with sweat, still breathing heavily. "Grace," I said, "we don't have to go through with this. They can't make you do something like this if you don't want to."

She turned and glanced up at me with her deep blue eyes. She spoke slowly, musingly, her earlier fury and determination washed away in an instant by the crushing reality of defeat. "Of course I don't want to, John, I hope you know that. But... I think I have to go through with it. I made the bet—I thought we'd win. It was stupid, I was angry, but I did it. And now that we've lost, who would I be if I ran out on it? Wouldn't that be the clinching proof that Shelia and Mark are right about us?... I only hope you can understand what I'm saying—the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you."

I didn't agree. I would have gladly welched on the bet and slunk away, accepting whatever scorn and contempt we earned in the process. But there was a backbone of steel in my wife, a fundamental integrity, that compelled her to accept the consequences of her wager. I was powerless to deflect her from the fate that lay in store. And, in the end, I could only admire her for it.

"Grace!," Sheila called out again, waving one arm in a gesture of authority. "Take off those clothes, now. We've all" (here she gestured to the throng of gawkers at the windows) "been enjoying the view of your cunt, but it's time to show us your tits."

Slowly, Grace untied and kicked off her tennis shoes. Then she popped her tits out of her bra, and pulled it over her head. I'd always thought her breasts were the perfect size—hefty enough to give you something to grab onto, but small enough to stay rounded and perky. Her areolae were moderately-sized, a very pale pink. Normally they were puffy, but the combination of activity and charged emotion had made them hard, so that her nipples poked out prominently. "Oh honey, your teats are a bit scrawny, aren't they," Sheila catcalled. "I'd recommend a doctor who could fix those for you, but, oh yes, you two are broke! Well, we work with the material we have. Come over here, now, Gracie."

Grace began walking to the other side of the net, and I followed in her wake. I couldn't comprehend how we had all found ourselves on this runaway train, but I was still seeking desperately for some way to divert it, before it reached its fiendish destination. "Look," I called out, "she got naked for you... Sheila, Mark—you won! Let's call it off. Forget about the car. You don't want to do this!"

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, Johnny boy," Sheila leered. "Grace thought she could put one over on us, and now she's going to take her medicine. That is to say, I so very much do want to see my Markie jam himself up that hairy cunt of hers."

A reluctant Mr. Singh seemed to feel the need to back her up. "John," he said, gently, resignedly, "this is a wicked game, and I am sorry now that I took any part in it. However, you and Mrs. Wilson did consent to its terms before we began, in full knowledge of what that would entail. Now, I believe, we must let fate take its course."

Between Sheila's intransigence and cruelty, and Prakesh's fatalism, it suddenly hit home that this actually could happen—actually was happening—my wife was about to get fucked in front of me by another man. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, panic clutching at my guts, and a pressure in my chest that made it hard to breathe. How could this be? "C'mon Mark!," I begged, my voice quavering. "You can't do this to Gracie. You've known us forever. You know we wouldn't actually have gone through with it if the positions were reversed."

He didn't return my gaze, but Grace, who was standing near the Schwetzers by now, did respond to what I had said. She spoke quietly, her stony stare fixed on the other woman, entirely unwilling to beg. "No, he's wrong about that Sheila—we damn well would have fucked you... Someday your luck is going to run out."

"Someday, Gracie dear, someday," Sheila breezed, "but my motto is 'live for today'; and the thing that's happening today is Mark's dick inside you." Grace flinched slightly. "Now, cow, get on your hands and knees so we can see your udders dangle."

I felt helpless as I watched my wife, naked, kneel down and get on all fours. "Ah, there's our little bitch in heat," Sheila gloated, "ready to mate with the alpha-dog." In this posture, as I knew from past experience, Grace's breasts did sway alluringly. Even so, Grace was not going to give up any more of her body than she had to; and despite the fact that her ass did not have a huge amount of padding, she had still managed to conceal most of what was between her legs—thighs close together, pussy tucked between them, and lips sealed up. Sheila would not let that stand, of course. "Oh Gracie, wasn't it only a half an hour ago that you were showing off your cunt to everyone, trying to put Markie off his game? Why so shy now? The deal was that you would open yourself to Mark. You don't look very open to me. Come on now, bitch, flex that back, ass up. Spread for us."

Mouth set in a firm line, head up, eyes straight forward, Grace complied. She tilted her pelvis so that her ass raised up higher and spread slightly, and her vulva pivoted into view. As she did so, I saw Mark move around behind my wife, so he could enjoy the sight as well. "Well honey, that's a start," Sheila purred. "At least we can all see your best side now. But you're still so closed up." It was true: although Grace's full, caramel-colored pussy lips could be made out beneath a sparse cover of dark pubic hair, they were still shut tight. "How can Markie drill your cunt if we can't even see the entrance?," Sheila continued, "Time to spread those knees, now, Gracie. Open 'em wide for us, just like you do for all the boys."

Without speaking, Grace shifted uncomfortably, separating her knees until they were further than shoulder width apart, with her lower legs straight out behind and back still flexed. As she parted her thighs, her ass cheeks spread apart, showing her pink pucker of an asshole. Her pussy lips splayed too, opening a narrow gash of hot pink flesh that contrasted vividly with the dark hair and bronze-colored skin that surrounded it. Mark couldn't take his eyes off my wife's crotch, his pupils widening, his chest rising, his mouth slack. Even though Grace's pussy had cracked open, however, the gap remained narrow, and the soft folds within compressed, so that her clitoris and vaginal opening were still not visible.

"Better Gracie, but not good enough." Sheila admonished, "Honestly, I thought a slut like you, who lets so many men into her cunt, would be more loose down there. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised if you choke under pressure. Still, I don't see how my Markie is going to be able to find your cunt-hole under all that hair. Hmm... your eensie-weensie little asshole is all laid out for us, though, Gracie. How cute. Maybe Mark should take that instead."

"That was not the deal, Sheila," Grace spat back, tensely.

"Well then, dear, you've got to find some way to open up wider..."

There was an impasse for a minute. The arena was silent, I could hear my heart beating, wondering what was going to happen. At last I head a faint sigh of resignation from Grace. She lowered her head and chest to the floor, until her face lay sideways on the cold court surface, haloed by her dusky-blonde hair. Then she reached her arms back, moved both hands behind her ass cheeks, and pulled herself open. Her gash split wide, teasing apart her bright pink ridges and folds, and as the flesh yielded, it exposed her dainty, hooded clit, and her vaginal opening.

Pulling off my tennis shirt and folding it, I moved around to lift Grace's head, and place the shirt under her face, to cushion it. "Oh very gallant, Johnnie," Sheila sneered, "or maybe just whipped. I don't think Mark would be working so hard to make me comfortable, if I was holding myself open for some other guy to fuck me."

As this had been going on, Mark had unzipped his shorts and popped his cock out of his underwear. His penis was a dark reddish-brown; and although there was still a slight bend to it, he was well on his way to hard. I could see Mark was uncircumcised, but he was erect enough by now that the foreskin was already retracted. The head of his cock was large and springy, and I could see it pulsing as his shaft filled and expanded. He spat onto his hands and began rubbing himself rhythmically, massaging his glans, encouraging his cock to take on its full length.

As he did so, I was gratified to discover that Mark's package was not terribly impressive. I'm pretty well-hung, and yet had assumed that this big, blustering, bully would exceed me there, as he had in so many other things. Expecting he'd be sporting a monster cock, I had feared what it might do to Grace's body. Now, however, I saw this was far from the case. What's that the statisticians tell us: that the average dick is five inches? Well, suffice to say that Mark was struggling to get a passing grade in this department, and his girth was proportional. Still, he seemed unselfconscious about it—ready to stick everything God had given him inside my wife—and I knew that five inches of unwelcome dick was still far too much.

"Now, that's more like it Grace," Shelia beamed, staring at my wife's wide-stretched pussy. "You do know how to open your cunt to strange men after all. You were just being a tease before...Ooh, I've got to get this on film..." and she ran over to grab her iPhone. Starting the video recorder, Sheila zoomed it in on Grace's far-flung twat and gaping cunt-hole. "That's what whores like you call the 'money shot,' right?" Then she turned to her husband... OK, hon, we're all set. The cow obviously wants to be bred, so let's give her a good fucking."

Mark knelt behind my wife's ass, between her legs, while she continued to stretch her pussy wide for him. He spat on his cock again, then placed it at the exposed entrance to her vagina, and began to press. "Unngh," he grunted, grabbing Grace's hips and driving himself into her, hard. Her hands flinched as if to release her pussy lips when he began to enter, but she resisted the impulse and left them where they were. Grace's eyes were open, staring at nothing, her mouth slightly parted, teeth gritted. I found it hard to take my eyes off the spot, between my wife's ass cheeks, where Mark's shaft was entering her body. The tightness had not left my chest—I was panting, and though I was not the one being violated (physically at least), I felt hot and sick.

Mark drove into her with short, brutal thrusts—once, twice, thrice, each time exhaling in a quick, guttural rasp. Moisture gathered around Grace's eyelids, and she let out a low, unwilling groan. This was too much, even for him. Mark was a brute, but not an entirely unfeeling one. Having only made it in an inch or so, he pulled out and stood back. "She's too dry, Sheil. Can't do it."