Roberta and Patricks Next Bet The Ending
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Roberta And Patrick's Next Bet - The Beginning free porn video
“Okay. Seven Card No-Peak. How does that go again?” I asked.
“I thought you’d remember, Roberta,” said Patrick. “We’ve played this before.”
“I know, but it’s been such a long while. Indulge me. Please. If I’m betting my ass on a game I’d really like to be reminded how to play it.”
“Well, if you insist,” Patrick said with a little smile. “You get seven cards, all face down, and you can’t look at them. We turn over the top card on what’s left of the deck, and then the first player turns their cards over one at a time until they beat the up card.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, beginning to recall. “Like, if the top card is a jack you turn over cards one at a time until you’ve beaten the jack. If you turn a queen or higher with the first card you’re done. But you might have to turn more cards before you’ve beaten the jack.”
“You’ve got it,” Patrick said. “We’re starting off betting a piece of clothing on each hand. But when the first player beats the up card they have the option to up the bet by however many pieces they want. But only if they want to do that. The second player must agree to that or fold. If they agree then the bet on the hand is whatever the first player proposed. If they refuse the raise then they are folding and lose either half of whatever they’ve got on or the number of pieces they’re refusing, whichever is more.”
“And then the other player turns cards until they beat what the first player had,” I said.
“Right. When the second player takes the lead, if they do, they have the option if they want to up the bet. Again, they don’t have to. The hand is over when all of both players’ cards have been exposed, and the winner is the player with the highest five card hand. The loser then has to remove however many pieces that the bet has accumulated to. Then you play the next hand. The game is over when Roberta is naked.”
I snorted at his presumption. “Don’t count on it, Sweet Thing.”
We were sitting on the living room carpet next to the coffee table. It was Saturday night. A fire was burning in the hearth, two glasses of wine near at hand. I sat cross-legged and Patrick had his bent legs out to the side, leaning into the table, his left arm resting on the table’s surface.
For this bet we had decided to put eight pieces between us and defeat: top and bottom underwear for both of us, top and bottom on the outside, and counting each shoe and each piece of hosiery separately. We never anticipated the game would be over with one hand.
“Deal the cards,” I said. “No, on second thought I’ll deal.” I picked up the deck and shuffled a few times and dealt. When we each had seven Patrick let his sit on the carpet as they had fallen. I arranged mine into a neat little stack.
I turned the top card on the deck to reveal a 7.
“Okay,” I said to Patrick, “beat a seven.”
He selected one of the cards that were helter-skelter before him and turned it. A 4. He turned another to reveal a 6. His next turn produced a 5. He cleared his throat, sounding nervous.
“Oh, my,” I said, giggling, “having trouble beating a little ol’ seven?”
He selected another card and turned it. A 7. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. Technically, his 7-6 beat the 7 alone, but by about as little as it could.
I put my fingers to my mouth, more than a giggle escaping this time. “Oh, goodness. Four cards to beat a teensy little seven. I think I like where this is going.”
“Maybe you’re laughing a little too much to notice, but from where I’m sitting that looks the start of a nice straight.”
“So, I guess you want to add some more pieces of clothing to the bet?”
“Um…..maybe I’ll take a pass this time.”
I let a wide, satisfied, superior smile show. “That may be the smartest thing you’ve done all week. Now, let’s see how quick I can beat that 7.”
I reached for the top card on my tidy little pile. As I did so, I reflected on why we were sitting here.
A few months ago, on Patrick’s birthday in February, I had lured him into a cribbage match, offering him my ass to fuck all night if he won, but a night of his subservience to me if he lost. Let’s just say I discovered a few things about myself that night as I gave orders and Patrick obeyed.
What I discovered I liked very much. Years ago, as a graduate student, I had suffered humiliation, sexual subservience, and public nudity at the hands of two horny sophomores because of a lost bet. But in February with Patrick I had finally had the chance to turn the tables. Patrick was my little boy toy all night and into the next morning, and I found myself experiencing emotions I never had before.
This wasn’t something I wanted us to be at all the time. But, yes, I found I could from time to time enjoy very much being in the driver’s seat, the dominant female with a male to use for her amusement and pleasure.
Patrick liked it, too. Well, all right, let’s not say ‘liked.’ But he said he was fine with the premise: that he had risked the little humiliations and degradations I had subjected him to in the hope of winning something he very much wanted. He had simply lost and had to pay-off. And he did so honorably. It was not the night he would have chosen, but he was all right with honoring his bet and accepting his role.
When we had discussed the experience afterward he said he, of course, would have preferred to win, but that the little exercises I had put him through were entirely bearable, and that he would risk them again for the right to put me in a position to be compelled to honor a disagreeable, but hardly impossible, lost bet.
In the intervening few months we'd pursued our customary sex life. Somehow though, every time we did it, whatever way we did it, the encounter was heightened by the recollection, just bubbling under the surface, of the out-of-the-ordinary experience we'd shared and the trust we'd shared. My climaxes over those months seemed to come higher, longer, and more easily. When I mentioned that to Patrick, he said he was finding the same to be true for him.
I could have pursued the activity again right away, make another bet that would resolve into submission on one side, dominance on the other. I thought, though, that I’d wait for Patrick to do the suggesting, were he really interested. A few days ago he did. He suggested this game and, even though we were alone in our bedroom at the time, he whispered into my ear the forfeits he wanted me to perform if I lost. That proposition elicited from me an involuntary shiver of dread at the thought of losing.
He suggested this Saturday evening as our play date. The kids were off to grandma’s. They had not been there for a weekend sleepover for more than a month, so it was a treat for which they were more than ready. And Patrick suggested I should think of what I wanted should he lose. I did and this morning, the two of us alone again, I whispered into his ear his fate were he to end up the vanquished.
We talked for a few minutes, bringing our two suggestions into closer conformity with each other. The loser of our card game would have three forfeits to perform, and they would be similar for both of us. A successful marriage is all about compromise. Right? The look on Patrick’s face indicated to me that he found the consequence for losing every bit as undesirable as I did. I hoped I had the better poker face.
So now here we were, a few months after our first go at this, ready to risk our asses again.
I turned my first card. A queen.
“Well, now. Ahead with one card,” I observed. “I think that’s worth raising the stake. Let’s make the hand worth four pieces. Don’t you think, Sugar?”
“Four?” Patrick looked down at his cards: nothing higher than a 7 and only three unturned cards left. “Shit, you’re really putting the hammer down, don’t you think.”
I enjoyed a good laugh: the kind that lets the other know you’re firmly in the driver’s seat. “Might as well take it, Patrick. You refuse the raise and you lose half your pieces. That’s four. So you can lose four right now or at the end of the hand if you lose. But at least accepting the raise you still have a chance of winning the hand.”
“Impeccable logic, Spock,” Patrick said in a voice that indicated he was far from happy about his prospects. “Okay, the bet is four pieces.”
Patrick turned his attention to his cards, selected one, and turned it. A 6. Now it was his turn to smile. “A pair of sixes beats a queen high, now doesn’t it?”
“So, you raising the bet?”
He looked at his two remaining cards and my six cards. “Ahhhh…..I think maybe I’ll pass again.”
“I thought so,” I said. I turned my next card to find an ace. A nice card, but it didn’t beat Patrick’s pair. Then I turned an 8, and then a jack. Now it was me futilely turning my very limited number of cards, looking for a winner, beginning to sweat. But with the fifth card I finally hit pay dirt: a second ace.
Now Patrick and I had both spent five of our cards. I was ahead with a pair of aces to his pair of 6s.
“I’d say a pair of aces is worth upping the stake to six pieces. Got the cojones for it?”
“Oh, I’ve got them. After we played last time I remember you having mine in your hand in a very uncomfortable way. But that was then and this is now. I think I’ve got a couple of sweet cards yet to turn. So, yeah, six pieces it is.”
I looked over the five cards we each had exposed.
For Patrick a 4, 6, 5, 7, 6.
For me a queen, ace, 8, jack, ace.
I noted that with the suits the cards were in there was no possibility that either of us could make a flush with our two remaining cards. I’m sure Patrick noticed the same thing.
Patrick selected one of his two remaining cards, turned it. A 4.
Patrick smiled wide. “Oh, yes, girl. Looks like time for a little payback. Two pair beats a pair of aces last time I checked. But let’s leave it at six pieces. That way you can fold right now and at least keep your panties and bra and survive to another hand.”
“No way, bub,” I returned and immediately turned my next card. Ace. I laughed out loud, not sure if it was from amusement or relief. “Sorry, Buster, three bullets beats two pair.”
“So, you’re upping the bet?”
Now it was my turn to feel my feet get cold. Three aces was great, but I looked at Patrick’s remaining card. There were still two 4s and two 6s unaccounted for, and either would give him the full house that would beat my three aces. Would my last remaining card beat that?
“Uh…..I think I’ll let it ride for now.”
Now it was Patrick’s turn to smile. “It’s called the better part of valor.”
I looked over the six exposed cards we each had.
Patrick with a 4, 6, 5, 7, 6, 4.
Me with a Queen, Ace, 8, Jack, Ace, Ace.
Without further ado Patrick picked up his last card and held it so only he could see the face.
“Must be my reward for clean living,” he said as he put down the 8 he’d turned. “I’d been thinking full house, but an 8-high straight gets me where I need to go just fine. And I think it’s time to end this. The bet is everything. You fold you lose.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a bit as if I had some stuffing missing.
I work in the sciences, plenty of math classes under my belt. So, In my head I coldly assessed my chances of winning. The fourth ace was one possibility, but that was quite unlikely: a one in thirty-eight chance. Just a little better than two and a half percent. The only other possibility for victory involved a second queen, eight, or jack to complete a full house. Three queens, three jacks, and two 8s were still unaccounted for. Eight cards out of thirty-eight unseen. Eight chances out of thirty-eight. The chance of winning that way was just a smidgen over twenty-one percent. Between the two possibilities I had only about a twenty-three-point-seven percent chance of getting out of this on the right side. Between one in four and one in five. Yikes! But, as Patrick pointed out: I'd gotten myself into a predicament in which folding meant losing.
It did not look likely that Roberta, The FemDomme Bitch, was likely to make another appearance, at least not tonight.
“Well?” Patrick egged me on.
A satisfied smile played on his lips and amusement was in his eyes as he gazed at me. He might not have been able to do the math in his head as exactly as I could, but he knew my chance of winning was slim, and he was enjoying himself.
I took a deep breath and noted that my hand had just a hint of wobble to it as I reached for the last card. I hoped Patrick hadn’t noticed the outward sign of my inward tension. This bet, either way, would be a challenge to pay off. I didn’t want to have to be the one to have to face that trial. I would much prefer to watch as Patrick paid.
Should I pick up the card so only I could see before revealing it? Get the bad or good news privately first? Or just turn the card? Immediately make the information community property?
I opted for the second choice. I placed my fingers on the card and briefly slid them back and forth over its surface. Then I just did it. I turned the card and we saw…..
# # # END # # #
Note: The rest of this story is finished, and I will submit the next installment as soon as this one is posted.
“I thought you’d remember, Roberta,” said Patrick. “We’ve played this before.”
“I know, but it’s been such a long while. Indulge me. Please. If I’m betting my ass on a game I’d really like to be reminded how to play it.”
“Well, if you insist,” Patrick said with a little smile. “You get seven cards, all face down, and you can’t look at them. We turn over the top card on what’s left of the deck, and then the first player turns their cards over one at a time until they beat the up card.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, beginning to recall. “Like, if the top card is a jack you turn over cards one at a time until you’ve beaten the jack. If you turn a queen or higher with the first card you’re done. But you might have to turn more cards before you’ve beaten the jack.”
“You’ve got it,” Patrick said. “We’re starting off betting a piece of clothing on each hand. But when the first player beats the up card they have the option to up the bet by however many pieces they want. But only if they want to do that. The second player must agree to that or fold. If they agree then the bet on the hand is whatever the first player proposed. If they refuse the raise then they are folding and lose either half of whatever they’ve got on or the number of pieces they’re refusing, whichever is more.”
“And then the other player turns cards until they beat what the first player had,” I said.
“Right. When the second player takes the lead, if they do, they have the option if they want to up the bet. Again, they don’t have to. The hand is over when all of both players’ cards have been exposed, and the winner is the player with the highest five card hand. The loser then has to remove however many pieces that the bet has accumulated to. Then you play the next hand. The game is over when Roberta is naked.”
I snorted at his presumption. “Don’t count on it, Sweet Thing.”
We were sitting on the living room carpet next to the coffee table. It was Saturday night. A fire was burning in the hearth, two glasses of wine near at hand. I sat cross-legged and Patrick had his bent legs out to the side, leaning into the table, his left arm resting on the table’s surface.
For this bet we had decided to put eight pieces between us and defeat: top and bottom underwear for both of us, top and bottom on the outside, and counting each shoe and each piece of hosiery separately. We never anticipated the game would be over with one hand.
“Deal the cards,” I said. “No, on second thought I’ll deal.” I picked up the deck and shuffled a few times and dealt. When we each had seven Patrick let his sit on the carpet as they had fallen. I arranged mine into a neat little stack.
I turned the top card on the deck to reveal a 7.
“Okay,” I said to Patrick, “beat a seven.”
He selected one of the cards that were helter-skelter before him and turned it. A 4. He turned another to reveal a 6. His next turn produced a 5. He cleared his throat, sounding nervous.
“Oh, my,” I said, giggling, “having trouble beating a little ol’ seven?”
He selected another card and turned it. A 7. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. Technically, his 7-6 beat the 7 alone, but by about as little as it could.
I put my fingers to my mouth, more than a giggle escaping this time. “Oh, goodness. Four cards to beat a teensy little seven. I think I like where this is going.”
“Maybe you’re laughing a little too much to notice, but from where I’m sitting that looks the start of a nice straight.”
“So, I guess you want to add some more pieces of clothing to the bet?”
“Um…..maybe I’ll take a pass this time.”
I let a wide, satisfied, superior smile show. “That may be the smartest thing you’ve done all week. Now, let’s see how quick I can beat that 7.”
I reached for the top card on my tidy little pile. As I did so, I reflected on why we were sitting here.
A few months ago, on Patrick’s birthday in February, I had lured him into a cribbage match, offering him my ass to fuck all night if he won, but a night of his subservience to me if he lost. Let’s just say I discovered a few things about myself that night as I gave orders and Patrick obeyed.
What I discovered I liked very much. Years ago, as a graduate student, I had suffered humiliation, sexual subservience, and public nudity at the hands of two horny sophomores because of a lost bet. But in February with Patrick I had finally had the chance to turn the tables. Patrick was my little boy toy all night and into the next morning, and I found myself experiencing emotions I never had before.
This wasn’t something I wanted us to be at all the time. But, yes, I found I could from time to time enjoy very much being in the driver’s seat, the dominant female with a male to use for her amusement and pleasure.
Patrick liked it, too. Well, all right, let’s not say ‘liked.’ But he said he was fine with the premise: that he had risked the little humiliations and degradations I had subjected him to in the hope of winning something he very much wanted. He had simply lost and had to pay-off. And he did so honorably. It was not the night he would have chosen, but he was all right with honoring his bet and accepting his role.
When we had discussed the experience afterward he said he, of course, would have preferred to win, but that the little exercises I had put him through were entirely bearable, and that he would risk them again for the right to put me in a position to be compelled to honor a disagreeable, but hardly impossible, lost bet.
In the intervening few months we'd pursued our customary sex life. Somehow though, every time we did it, whatever way we did it, the encounter was heightened by the recollection, just bubbling under the surface, of the out-of-the-ordinary experience we'd shared and the trust we'd shared. My climaxes over those months seemed to come higher, longer, and more easily. When I mentioned that to Patrick, he said he was finding the same to be true for him.
I could have pursued the activity again right away, make another bet that would resolve into submission on one side, dominance on the other. I thought, though, that I’d wait for Patrick to do the suggesting, were he really interested. A few days ago he did. He suggested this game and, even though we were alone in our bedroom at the time, he whispered into my ear the forfeits he wanted me to perform if I lost. That proposition elicited from me an involuntary shiver of dread at the thought of losing.
He suggested this Saturday evening as our play date. The kids were off to grandma’s. They had not been there for a weekend sleepover for more than a month, so it was a treat for which they were more than ready. And Patrick suggested I should think of what I wanted should he lose. I did and this morning, the two of us alone again, I whispered into his ear his fate were he to end up the vanquished.
We talked for a few minutes, bringing our two suggestions into closer conformity with each other. The loser of our card game would have three forfeits to perform, and they would be similar for both of us. A successful marriage is all about compromise. Right? The look on Patrick’s face indicated to me that he found the consequence for losing every bit as undesirable as I did. I hoped I had the better poker face.
So now here we were, a few months after our first go at this, ready to risk our asses again.
I turned my first card. A queen.
“Well, now. Ahead with one card,” I observed. “I think that’s worth raising the stake. Let’s make the hand worth four pieces. Don’t you think, Sugar?”
“Four?” Patrick looked down at his cards: nothing higher than a 7 and only three unturned cards left. “Shit, you’re really putting the hammer down, don’t you think.”
I enjoyed a good laugh: the kind that lets the other know you’re firmly in the driver’s seat. “Might as well take it, Patrick. You refuse the raise and you lose half your pieces. That’s four. So you can lose four right now or at the end of the hand if you lose. But at least accepting the raise you still have a chance of winning the hand.”
“Impeccable logic, Spock,” Patrick said in a voice that indicated he was far from happy about his prospects. “Okay, the bet is four pieces.”
Patrick turned his attention to his cards, selected one, and turned it. A 6. Now it was his turn to smile. “A pair of sixes beats a queen high, now doesn’t it?”
“So, you raising the bet?”
He looked at his two remaining cards and my six cards. “Ahhhh…..I think maybe I’ll pass again.”
“I thought so,” I said. I turned my next card to find an ace. A nice card, but it didn’t beat Patrick’s pair. Then I turned an 8, and then a jack. Now it was me futilely turning my very limited number of cards, looking for a winner, beginning to sweat. But with the fifth card I finally hit pay dirt: a second ace.
Now Patrick and I had both spent five of our cards. I was ahead with a pair of aces to his pair of 6s.
“I’d say a pair of aces is worth upping the stake to six pieces. Got the cojones for it?”
“Oh, I’ve got them. After we played last time I remember you having mine in your hand in a very uncomfortable way. But that was then and this is now. I think I’ve got a couple of sweet cards yet to turn. So, yeah, six pieces it is.”
I looked over the five cards we each had exposed.
For Patrick a 4, 6, 5, 7, 6.
For me a queen, ace, 8, jack, ace.
I noted that with the suits the cards were in there was no possibility that either of us could make a flush with our two remaining cards. I’m sure Patrick noticed the same thing.
Patrick selected one of his two remaining cards, turned it. A 4.
Patrick smiled wide. “Oh, yes, girl. Looks like time for a little payback. Two pair beats a pair of aces last time I checked. But let’s leave it at six pieces. That way you can fold right now and at least keep your panties and bra and survive to another hand.”
“No way, bub,” I returned and immediately turned my next card. Ace. I laughed out loud, not sure if it was from amusement or relief. “Sorry, Buster, three bullets beats two pair.”
“So, you’re upping the bet?”
Now it was my turn to feel my feet get cold. Three aces was great, but I looked at Patrick’s remaining card. There were still two 4s and two 6s unaccounted for, and either would give him the full house that would beat my three aces. Would my last remaining card beat that?
“Uh…..I think I’ll let it ride for now.”
Now it was Patrick’s turn to smile. “It’s called the better part of valor.”
I looked over the six exposed cards we each had.
Patrick with a 4, 6, 5, 7, 6, 4.
Me with a Queen, Ace, 8, Jack, Ace, Ace.
Without further ado Patrick picked up his last card and held it so only he could see the face.
“Must be my reward for clean living,” he said as he put down the 8 he’d turned. “I’d been thinking full house, but an 8-high straight gets me where I need to go just fine. And I think it’s time to end this. The bet is everything. You fold you lose.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a bit as if I had some stuffing missing.
I work in the sciences, plenty of math classes under my belt. So, In my head I coldly assessed my chances of winning. The fourth ace was one possibility, but that was quite unlikely: a one in thirty-eight chance. Just a little better than two and a half percent. The only other possibility for victory involved a second queen, eight, or jack to complete a full house. Three queens, three jacks, and two 8s were still unaccounted for. Eight cards out of thirty-eight unseen. Eight chances out of thirty-eight. The chance of winning that way was just a smidgen over twenty-one percent. Between the two possibilities I had only about a twenty-three-point-seven percent chance of getting out of this on the right side. Between one in four and one in five. Yikes! But, as Patrick pointed out: I'd gotten myself into a predicament in which folding meant losing.
It did not look likely that Roberta, The FemDomme Bitch, was likely to make another appearance, at least not tonight.
“Well?” Patrick egged me on.
A satisfied smile played on his lips and amusement was in his eyes as he gazed at me. He might not have been able to do the math in his head as exactly as I could, but he knew my chance of winning was slim, and he was enjoying himself.
I took a deep breath and noted that my hand had just a hint of wobble to it as I reached for the last card. I hoped Patrick hadn’t noticed the outward sign of my inward tension. This bet, either way, would be a challenge to pay off. I didn’t want to have to be the one to have to face that trial. I would much prefer to watch as Patrick paid.
Should I pick up the card so only I could see before revealing it? Get the bad or good news privately first? Or just turn the card? Immediately make the information community property?
I opted for the second choice. I placed my fingers on the card and briefly slid them back and forth over its surface. Then I just did it. I turned the card and we saw…..
# # # END # # #
Note: The rest of this story is finished, and I will submit the next installment as soon as this one is posted.
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