ManyToon
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One Too Many free porn video
Several couples in the neighborhood meet periodically to play cards and socialize. The host venue rotates from house to house. The men usually disappear to the host’s man cave to play poker while the women gossip about who’s sleeping with whom or isn’t, as the case may be. It’s really a fun time, very casual and easy-going.
Margaritas were the host’s drink theme of choice for the evening. I prefer wine because cocktails can be a slippery slope. One too many and I’m regretting something the next morning.
The men emerged from their hole, smelling like liquor and cigars, to resupply their snack stashes. One of wives, now precariously teetering on the edge of “one too many,” started complaining that the men always played cards and left the women out of the fun and games. She was challenging the status quo. All she needed was an ally and the avalanche of solidarity would soon follow.
So it came. Now we were downstairs in the man cave, fresh Margs before us. I was enjoying my alcohol buzz and I really didn’t care if we played cards or not but since the women had united and breached the sanctuary of the man cave, we had to play at least few hands of some card game. Of course, poker it was.
Our host kept refilling the pitcher of Margs that kept circling the table. The mood was boisterous and loud, laughter became contagious and uncontrollable as the group downed pitcher after pitcher.
“One too many” was low on chips and it was her to turn to bet so she offered her shirt to call. The room froze. If accepted, this single bet would change our group forever.
I scanned each husband’s face for a tell; I was certain there would be lively drunken debate, but that in the end, the consensus opinion would defer to decency and she would be asked to keep her shirt on.
Abruptly she stood up, ending the debate. In one continuous movement, she peeled off her t-shirt; then bending at the waist, she dangled her ante from her index finger and slowly lowering her t-shirt onto the pot; she squeezed her breasts together with her biceps as she grinded her hips downward to her chair; she sat there smugly wearing her bra.
The men went crazy howling cat-calls, slapping high-fives and pumping their fists into the air. The mood was shifting to the carnal. It was intense. The room began to heat up. It was my bet.
I had a winning hand but I was low on chips too. With my eyes, I requested a chip loan from my husband. He responded with a cool stare and a smirk; I had my answer. Battle lines had been drawn. It was wives versus husbands, not until nude do we rejoin. I raised my eyebrows as if to confirm his commitment to playing this out.
Without a word spoken between us, he slowly closed his eyes and lowered his head in affirmation. Game on.
I looked around the table at each face and debated with myself how much this gamble was worth to me. Surely, this group would never be the same if we played this hand to its inevitable outcome. We would be the talk of the neighborhood without a doubt. Reputations would be besmirched; rumors and gossip would run amok.
My delay was chastized in chorus. Was I gonna play or not?
I peeled off my blouse and tossed it into the pot. The room gasped. All eyes were on me. The men looked at each other, waiting for someone else to break the silence.
I wasn’t wearing a bra. I came to play, bitches.
Margaritas were the host’s drink theme of choice for the evening. I prefer wine because cocktails can be a slippery slope. One too many and I’m regretting something the next morning.
The men emerged from their hole, smelling like liquor and cigars, to resupply their snack stashes. One of wives, now precariously teetering on the edge of “one too many,” started complaining that the men always played cards and left the women out of the fun and games. She was challenging the status quo. All she needed was an ally and the avalanche of solidarity would soon follow.
So it came. Now we were downstairs in the man cave, fresh Margs before us. I was enjoying my alcohol buzz and I really didn’t care if we played cards or not but since the women had united and breached the sanctuary of the man cave, we had to play at least few hands of some card game. Of course, poker it was.
Our host kept refilling the pitcher of Margs that kept circling the table. The mood was boisterous and loud, laughter became contagious and uncontrollable as the group downed pitcher after pitcher.
“One too many” was low on chips and it was her to turn to bet so she offered her shirt to call. The room froze. If accepted, this single bet would change our group forever.
I scanned each husband’s face for a tell; I was certain there would be lively drunken debate, but that in the end, the consensus opinion would defer to decency and she would be asked to keep her shirt on.
Abruptly she stood up, ending the debate. In one continuous movement, she peeled off her t-shirt; then bending at the waist, she dangled her ante from her index finger and slowly lowering her t-shirt onto the pot; she squeezed her breasts together with her biceps as she grinded her hips downward to her chair; she sat there smugly wearing her bra.
The men went crazy howling cat-calls, slapping high-fives and pumping their fists into the air. The mood was shifting to the carnal. It was intense. The room began to heat up. It was my bet.
I had a winning hand but I was low on chips too. With my eyes, I requested a chip loan from my husband. He responded with a cool stare and a smirk; I had my answer. Battle lines had been drawn. It was wives versus husbands, not until nude do we rejoin. I raised my eyebrows as if to confirm his commitment to playing this out.
Without a word spoken between us, he slowly closed his eyes and lowered his head in affirmation. Game on.
I looked around the table at each face and debated with myself how much this gamble was worth to me. Surely, this group would never be the same if we played this hand to its inevitable outcome. We would be the talk of the neighborhood without a doubt. Reputations would be besmirched; rumors and gossip would run amok.
My delay was chastized in chorus. Was I gonna play or not?
I peeled off my blouse and tossed it into the pot. The room gasped. All eyes were on me. The men looked at each other, waiting for someone else to break the silence.
I wasn’t wearing a bra. I came to play, bitches.
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