Just a little light fluff tonight, to start the weekend off . . . . Cheers!
-- Emma

William’s Tell

Wasn’t life grand? The sky was blue, the maples were in full autumnal reds, oranges and yellows, the air was crisp, and no-one in my apartment liked pumpkin spice anything. What’s more, my last class of the day was over and I had no classes on Friday, so it was officially le weekend. Best of all, Thursday night was poker night.

My roommates and I had instituted Thursday poker nights last year. The three of us – Josh, Cara and I – were the core group. Typically we would need to pull in two or three more, but they were a rotating cast of characters. There were even times when we had eight or nine people, but that left you with boring games like Texas Hold ‘em which required fewer cards per player. Our preference was to allow the dealer to call the game.

Tonight only two people were joining us. Ariadne was a friend of mine from my art history class; she was bringing Rachel, a friend of hers whom I hadn’t met. I was glad that she had found someone; poker is better when there are at least five players to start.

I say “to start,” because our house rules were simple. $50 buy-in from everyone upfront. Everyone got the same 100 chips, and we played until one person had all of them. No limits on the betting except one: you couldn’t buy a pot by the simple expedient of betting more than anyone else who was still in had in front of them. Our core group were good players, so games tended to last for quite a few enjoyable hours.

I stopped by the store on the way back from campus to pick up some supplies for the evening. Nothing fancy – just some beer, some chips and a bit of onion dip. People usually came over after dinner. Simpler that way. I expected that Josh and Cara would already have our dinner underway when I got back; neither of them had any afternoon classes on Thursday.

In the event, I was disappointed. I walked up the two outside flights of stairs, fumbled for my keys and got the door open. No-one was in the common area and clearly no dinner was underway. “Dammit,” I muttered.

I flipped on the lights, put the beer and dip in the fridge and pulled the kielbasa from the meat drawer. I didn’t want Ariadne and Rachel to show up before Josh, Cara and I had eaten, or worse, while we were still eating. The former would make for a hungry evening, while the latter would be flat-out rude. Ariadne was the kind of person who might take offense, but wouldn’t tell you she had. She tended to notice things.

Ari and I were good friends studying for the same degree who started at about the same time. She was around 5’8” with a spare build, medium-length blond hair and a pair of glasses that made her look even more studious than she was. She’d been over for poker night lots of times; not quite enough to be a regular. Her tell was a tendency to tug her ear when she thought she had a good hand. As a friend, I suppose I should have told her, but you have to learn these things yourself, in poker. Kind of an unwritten rule.

I cut the kielbasa into bite-sized chunks and got them going in a frying pan with a bit of olive oil. Then I washed some broccoli and got that cut up as well. Got some butter noodles going. Around 5:30, just when everything was about done, Josh came out of the bedroom he shared with Cara, looking a bit sheepish. “Ah . . . sorry dude. Kinda lost track of the time there,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Get the table set, would you? And let Cara know dinner’s just about ready?” He gave me a thumb’s up and popped back into the bedroom, emerging a moment later to put pasta bowls, forks and knives on the table. And water. Poker nights tended to be lubricated by alcohol, so it was important to at least start the evening hydrated.

Cara came out a few minutes later. Cara was petite in every dimension with baby-blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair; she looked about as adorable as a kitten and ruthlessly took advantage of everyone who judged her by her looks. When we filled out the poker table with guys, you might as well have handed her sheep shearing equipment.

At the moment Cara was looking more like a fully-grown cat who’s found a stash of cream. I thought better of commenting on it. I liked Josh and Cara, and they liked me, but sharing an apartment with a couple requires a certain delicacy on everyone’s part. A certain willingness to look the other way from time to time, to pretend not to have seen or heard things, and to use the mental “edit” function before opening the mouth. This was one of those times.

We ate without any preliminaries. Well, Cara did say “Hi, Willie.” But otherwise we ate quickly; Then Cara washed and I dried while Josh tidied up and got the table ready for poker. With five, we could leave it in its small, circular configuration without adding any extenders, and that was always better. You didn’t have to toss cards down the table, and everyone was equidistant from the pot.

We were ready just in time. The doorbell rang promptly at 6:00 and I opened the door to admit Ari and her friend. Ari was wearing a flared tea-length cotton skirt and a white peasant blouse that had a ruffled elastic neckline that flattered her spare frame. In a breezy voice, she said, “Willie, Rachel; Rachel, this is Willie, the tigershark by the table – don’t let the fluffy hair fool you – is Cara, and the big guy is Josh.”

Rachel smiled – a slow, somehow sensual, smile, and said, “so pleased to meet you all.” Her voice was a low, smoky contralto. It suited her, too. She was a bit shorter than Ari and considerably more curvaceous. And I do mean, considerably. Her wide hips and narrow waist were emphasized by a simple black skirt, just above knee high, in a stretchy Rayon-poly blend; she wore a purple top in some silky fabric that had very short sleeves and an extremely complicated series of folds at the neck and chest. She wore her wavy, raven-black hair loose just below her shoulders.

I must have been gaping, or at least not doing a very good job of hiding the fact that I felt like I’d been pole-axed. “Stick your tongue back in your head and do something useful, Willie,” Ari admonished. “Like maybe pour some drinks?”

I moved to comply. “What would you like? Beer? Wine?” That pretty much exhausted our communal offerings, but our guests had other ideas.

“For poker,” Rachel said, “I thought whiskey might be more . . . appropriate. Ariadne told me she hadn’t remembered seeing any here, so I brought some.” I can’t say I know bourbon well – I try to keep moderately sober during poker nights by sticking to beer – but Blanton’s Original looked like the real deal. And I didn’t want to look like some kind of a lightweight by turning down what Rachel had brought. So I got appropriate glasses, dropped in some ice cubes and poured. By the time I was done, Josh had hung up our guests’ coats and the three girls were chatting about something. Just breaking the ice.

I handed out the drinks and we all went to the table to sit down. It was oak, heavy, and had seen enough use that we didn’t bother with things like coasters. A few more stains would just add a bit more character. Josh explained the house rules to Rachel while I got out the chips and disbursed them, collecting in exchange everyone’s $50. A $250 pot tonight – plenty enough to be interesting, to a group of college kids.

Josh started us off easy – simple draw poker, one chip ante. Josh has big hands – well, really, Josh is big all over, like Cara is small – but he shuffles cards with a kind of grace and fluidity that makes you think of Yo Yo Ma playing the cello. He passed the cards to Rachel, sitting immediately to his right, to cut. She simply tapped the deck with a single, perfectly tapered and immaculately polished fingernail. He smiled and dealt, the cards sailing around the table as if they had launched themselves. I wish I knew how to do that!

Cara was sitting to Josh’s left and she tossed a chip into the pot to get the first round of betting going. I looked at my hand; a pair of fours was not particularly auspicious, but I decided to play it a bit longer just to see how the early hands went. I tossed in a chip. Ariadne put her cards down with a firm, “nope,” passing the bet to Rachel. “See your one and raise you two,” Rachel said, pushing three chips into the pot. Ah, I thought. An aggressive player!

Josh put in three and called; Cara took the bet as well. I decided I’d seen enough and folded. Cara took three cards. Rachel said, “I’ll play these.” The dealer took two. The next round of betting made me glad that I had gotten out; Josh folded rather than meet Rachel’s raise on Cara’s bet; then Cara and Rachel had two more rounds of raising before Cara called. Rachel had been dealt a flush in clubs, but Cara had been luckier still with her draw, and ended up with a full house, nines over queens. Cara’s smile was predatory. Rachel’s, however, suggested that she was delighted. “This will be fun,” she said.

Cara kept the same game. Josh – knowing his woman – cut the cards. I had a much better hand this time, but my two pair lost to Rachel’s three tens and it was my deal. Time to mix it up. “Seven card stud,” I said. After Cara cut, I dealt three cards to each player; two down and one up. As I dealt the up cards, I added the commentary. “Sweets to the sweet, and a queen for Ariadne,” I said, followed by, “a seven for our lovely guest, a ten for the big guy; the tigershark gets an ace and the dealer gets a five. Ace high bets, darlin’.” Cara tossed two chips into the pot. I called, feeling pretty good since one of my down cards was a king and the other was a pair for the five of diamonds I was showing. Ari and Rachel called without comment and Josh folded.

“A seven for the queen; no help there; eight for Rachel, also in spades; oops – a pair of aces there,” I said, tossing Cara her prize, “and the dealer – ah, sweet, has a pair of fives. But the pair of aces still bets.” With a pair of aces showing, Cara was going to make us all pay to see more cards, and she did. Actually, betting five was a little light under the circumstances, but she was probably going easy to keep more of us in. I knew I was sitting on three fives, though, so I took the bet. Too early for a raise. Ariadne called, but Rachel folded with a small smile. “Not this hand,” she said. With her sultry voice, even those short words sounded sexy as hell. She saw me looking at her and turned on her smile like a slow burn.

In the next round, Ariadne picked up another seven, Cara got a four and I got no help with an eight. I now had the low hand showing, but three fives is still three fives. I stayed in. Ari’s final up card was another queen, giving her two pair showing. Cara got no help again, getting the queen of clubs. The two that I pulled gave me no help either. But Ariadne kept the bet light, only putting in two chips on two pair. Her low bet did the trick – Cara and I both stayed in for another round, and I hit the home run, getting a second king as my final down card.

This time Ari pushed ten chips into the pot and smiled. Cara thought for a moment, then called the bet. I had a full house, so I had good reason to stay in. Both Cara and Ari could have one too, but the odds were against it. Cara would need both another ace AND a pair. Ari just needed either a queen or a seven to be one of her three down cards, but Rachel’s first up card had been a seven, and Cara had a queen showing. Ari was watching me, just smiling, daring me to pony up; the ruffled top of her peasant blouse had slipped off one shoulder, in the process showing off a nylon bra strap in the same pretty pale blue as her skirt. I tried not to gawk. But she was also, poor girl, playing with her left earlobe. I folded.

Cara is an exceptional player and she would certainly know Ariadne’s tell as well as I did; she probably spotted it first. But Ari hadn’t started playing with her earlobe until after Cara had called her bet. And sure enough, she took the sizeable pot with a full house, sevens over queens. Cara’s three aces – an entirely respectable hand in seven-card stud – came up short.

So the evening progressed, hand after hand. I was enjoying the Blanton’s – a much better bourbon than I would normally spring for. Rachel was, indeed, an aggressive player, but she tended to get out early on hands that showed little promise, even when the early betting was low. That tended to be my style as well. Josh – and, for that matter, Ariadne – were more likely to take risks and bet on hunches that later cards would bail them out.

As a dealer, Rachel tended to favor games with more betting rounds, especially those that involved rolling your cards one at a time, with a betting round following each roll. She completely smoked all of us on a hand of five-card draw with a roll. By the time all but the last of her cards were showing, she had a possible straight while Josh was showing two pair (for a possible full house), Cara had four diamonds and Ariadne had thee tens – also a possible full house. Everyone stayed in, but only Rachel’s hand panned out. Her slow smile returned.

Ariadne was the first of us to go out; her downfall was a game of “pass the trash,” and I was the one to call it. I dealt everyone seven cards. I had a pair of sevens, a jack, a king, a two, a three and a five. I passed the jack, the king and the five to Ariadne and received a seven, a ten and a four from Cara. Three of a kind, but not very impressive for this game. I passed the ten and the four to Ariadne and got a two and a queen from Cara. A full house – but a low full house. In pass the trash, full houses are pretty common. For the last pass, I sent Ari my three of hearts. Incredibly, I got a fourth seven from Cara.

I arranged my cards for the flip: seven, seven, seven, two, seven. I discarded the remaining two cards and we did the first flip. By the time we got the fourth flip, the pot was very large and Ariadne was almost out of chips. Only Rachel and I were still in; Cara and Josh had folded. Ariadne was showing two jacks and two threes. A full house at best, which would not beat my four of a kind. Rachel, on the other hand, was showing a possible straight flush, which would.

My three sevens were the high hand showing, so I started the bet. Out of kindness, I only bet three. It was all that Ariadne had left. She called. But Rachel did not let her off, raising the bet and knocking Cara out.

I thought about it. We played a pretty cut-throat game. Betting more than one of the remaining players in the hand could match was perfectly permissible, so long as one of the other players still in could match the bet. But it wasn’t the friendliest of moves. Dickish might be too strong a word, but then again, it might not. Ari had said Rachel was her friend. I knew it wouldn’t matter, since Ariadne’s best possible hand couldn’t beat my four of a kind. Perhaps Rachel knew the same thing, though, which strongly suggested that she was not bluffing. Her eyes held mine, challenging me. I decided I would pay to see her cards, but rather than raise the bet, I would simply call.

Rachel hadn’t been bluffing. I gave her a salute with her excellent whiskey.

Ariadne stayed at the table to watch a few more hands, but eventually retreated to the coach, curling her legs under her and nursing a Corona. Play continued. With four players, pass the trash was no longer a good game to choose, but there were plenty of others that worked just as well. Josh was the next player to go out, trying to run a bluff on a middling pair in straight draw poker, but losing out to my lucky three threes. Cara fought the good fight for another half hour, but it was not her night for the cards. The back half of the evening, she wasn’t even getting anything she could bluff with. She got up, stretched, and smiled. “You guys keep at it,” she said, “Josh and I have a makeup class at 10, so we’ll crash a bit early.”

Rachel and I kept at it and we were well matched. She said little and focused on her play, managing nonetheless to display a kind of sardonic humor at the whole thing. I was uncharacteristically a bit fuzzy headed. It had been a long evening, even for our group, and I was not used to drinking anything more potent than beer. But if my skill was maybe less than normal, my luck was better. By 12:30 in the morning, I had almost all of the chips, and Rachel was fighting a rear-guard action. On the couch, Ariadne slept, still curled up; her bra strap was flirting again.

We were playing five-card stud with a roll; I was showing a pair of fives, but my downcard was a king and one of my upcards was as well. Rachel was showing a pair of jacks, a ten and a five that I would have loved to have had in my own hand. It was her bet, and she put three of her four remaining chips into the pot. This wasn’t a hard call. If she had two pair, it would be a lower set than mine; she could only beat me if she had another jack. But those are long odds in poker. I saw her three and raised her one – the maximum allowed, since I couldn’t bet more than she had. All she could do was call.

She was giving me a measuring look, her dark eyes carefully appraising. I wasn’t sure why; there was only one move for her to make. She seemed to come to a decision and set her whiskey glass down carefully. “I see your one and raise you,” she said.

“You raise me with what?” I asked, puzzled. Without taking her dark eyes off me, she reached down with both hands and pulled the silky purple top she was wearing over her head, held it loosely for a moment in one hand, then allowed it to slide through her fingers like water, pooling beside the pot. Her sultry smile challenged me.

“I raise you,” she repeated.

Now in my defense, my brain was fuzzy. I wanted to look around to see if Ari was still sleeping, but I couldn’t. Rachel’s large and perfect breasts, nestled in a lacy, dark red underwire bra, were proudly displayed. A small golden heart pendant dangled on a thin golden chain right over her deep cleavage. Her eyes dared me. Challenged me. Until, one by one, I loosened the buttons on my flannel shirt. I pulled it clear of my jeans and laid it over her top. Then I pulled my white tank t-shirt over my head and, laying it down next, said, “see you and raise you.”

Her smile grew wider. She reached one hand lazily over her shoulder, and brought the other up under her arm, in the process thrusting her chest forward. She unhooked her bra and laid it over her top. Her breasts were flawless; her areola dark and wide. “Call,” she said. Not once had her eyes left mine. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was far too dry.

I flipped my down card. “Two pair, kings over fives.” She flipped her own downcard; without either saying anything or looking at it, she pulled the pot over to her side of the table. I glanced down. Sure enough; a third jack.

Rather than putting her clothes back on, Rachel slipped my tank top over her head, then put on my flannel shirt without buttoning it up. She slid her bra into the middle of the table and said, “ante up.”

What was going on? Was Ari STILL asleep? I wanted to turn around, but I wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t give Rachel the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. I removed my slippers – all I wear on my feet, indoors – and put them in the center. The game, clearly, had gone beyond chips.

“Five card draw; jacks or better to open, trips to win,” she said, taking care to enunciate each word. She gave me my cards. A pair of eights and garbage. “Do you have openers?” she asked. I shook my head. Apparently she didn’t either. She pushed her top back into the center of the table, and now I was in trouble. With great reluctance, I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them off, setting them beside my slippers.

She shuffled, dealt and again asked, “Do you have openers?” But this time I did; a pair of kings. I nodded. She smiled her slow smile and said, “then it’s your bet.”

Given that I was only wearing my watch and my boxer shorts, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “Check,” I said.

She shook her head sadly, “Willie, Willie. I thought better of you than that! If you are afraid to bet, you will surely lose. Because I’m not afraid.” She reached down again, and with an easy tug pulled her stretchy black skirt off and set it beside her bra and her top. Given the table, I could not see her in her panties, but my mind had no trouble imagining it. My palms were sweaty and I dried them against my bare legs.

Then I took a breath and muttered, “in for a dime, in for a dollar.” I pulled off my boxers and found myself suddenly grateful for the solid oak table that shielded my private parts from her dark eyes. Talk about solid oak! “Call,” I managed to husk out.

“What would you like?” she asked, just like it was a normal question. Which, double entendre or no, it was. I held up three fingers and was embarrassed to see that my hand was trembling. She tossed me the three cards I had requested and took two herself. I looked down at what I had gotten – a six, a jack and . . . oh thank God, another king. I had trips; I COULD win the pot. It was possible. “Still your bet,” she said.

All I had left was my watch. I took it off and laid it in the pot. She smiled, reached down, and a moment later put a pair of matching panties next to her lacy red bra. “Call,” she said evenly.

My three kings beat her three nines, and I sighed with relief. I moved to pick up my boxers. “No, no,” she chided softly. “You have to wear your trophies, Willie. Proudly. Just like I did. You won them, fair and square.”

I looked at her, incredulous. She simply picked up her whiskey and leaned back in her chair. My tank top did little to contain her full, round breasts, and she wore my flannel shirt in such a way that it only framed them. My mind was trying to catch up with what was going on. Was she really suggesting . . . .?

The hand that was not holding her whiskey glass snaked down, snagged her panties, and tossed them at me. Yes, that was exactly what she was suggesting.

I should protest. I knew that I ought to. But those dark eyes, so full of dark humor, seemed to hold me silent, to pierce my heart. I knew that I should protest, or even better, should laugh it off.

But I also knew that I didn’t want to.

It was like Rachel knew. Knew my deepest, darkest secret. The one I never told anyone. Not family, not friends. No one. I lived so deep in the closet I could see Cair Paravel; there was no way she knew.

Even when I was a little kid, I would steal my sister’s cast-offs and play make-believe. Had a stash of my favorite things. I had loved pretending to be a girl. But I had told myself that I was done with all that. That I had to play the cards I had been dealt, and stop mooning over the truly beautiful cards others got to play. So my stash had found its way into a give-away bin in a deserted parking lot, and I hadn’t dressed since going off to college. Maybe, I told myself, I had outgrown that longing.

I knew, in that moment, that I hadn’t. That it was still something that I wanted. Those lacy panties were so silky, so sexy . . . I wanted to feel them stretch as I pulled them up my legs; wanted to feel their caress as I slid them up over my ass, as I tucked my rock-hard penis inside. But what would Rachel think of me then? What would Ari think? Was Ari still sleeping?

Rachel saw my internal struggle and said in a low, coaxing voice, “Come on, Willie. What’s the big deal? Just a bit of pretty fabric.” She paused, a half-smile rounding her full lips. “You want to, don’t you?”

I could barely speak, overcome by longing. But I heard myself whisper, “yes.”

My hands reached out, slowly, and picked up the panties from where she had tossed them to me, still warm from the heat of her body. I bent down and inserted one foot, then the other, then I eased myself far enough off the seat to pull them up and set them in place. They felt indescribably wonderful. My face must have been as red as the panties themselves.

Rachel just kept smiling. She took another sip of her whiskey, then tossed me her bra. I picked it up, my hands once again trembling. I put one arm, then the other, through the narrow straps, then repeated her maneuver in reverse. Despite the liquor in my bloodstream, despite the trembling, I managed to get the right hooks into the right eyes with my hands behind my back. Because I had done it before. Many, many times. It was muscle memory.

The smile on her lips was very knowing, now. Without saying anything, she picked up her purse, reached into it, and pulled out a tube. She stretched across the table, once again showing her cleavage to great effect, and put the tube into my hands. Lipstick. I knew what to do with that as well, and somehow, she knew that I knew.

I took the top off the tube, brought my lips together, and applied the color, assuming that it was the same dark red that she was wearing herself. I moved my lips to spread the coating evenly. LIke I had done it before.

She stood up, slowly, in the process rotating her shoulders and losing my flannel shirt. The poker game was forgotten. She began to walk around the table towards me, slowly, her naked hips rolling to the steps her three-inch heels compelled. I was frozen in place, watching her, my eyes drawn to the jet black pubic hair just below the bottom of my tank-top t-shirt. She kept walking, slowly, gracefully, until she left my sight and went behind me.

It was so quiet you could have heard a cat stalk a mouse. My hands were positively shaking now and I felt that my heart beat was as loud as a grandfather clock. I sat, unmoving.

“My, my, my,” she murmured, just behind my ear. “What have we here?” I felt silky smooth hands on my shoulders, caressing me. I could feel her breath, smell her scent. My heart beat louder still. Her lips pressed a kiss just below my ear. “You look good enough to nibble on,” she said. Her hands slipped down, following the line of her lingerie straps until they rested over the side panels of the bra. “So pretty . . . .”

I was blushing furiously. I had wanted to impress this woman, but she knew exactly what I was. Saw through everything. Her hands withdrew from my torso, but she continued to nibble on my neck and murmur endearments in my ear.

I felt metal against my chest and looked down to see a pendant on a fine, fine gold chain. The one she had worn earlier. Her hands did something behind my neck, then they were back on my chest, caressing me. The pendant stayed in place. “It goes so well with your new bra, don’t you think,” she crooned at me.

My senses were on complete overload. I was wearing lipstick and sexy lingerie and a gorgeous woman was fondling me. I whimpered as her hands came up and pulled my unresisting head back against her breasts. She must have removed my T-shirt, because my head was most definitely pillowed on her amazing flesh. Her right hand played with the lobe of my ear, just like I was Ariandne, signaling a good hand.

“Your body says you want me. Does your mind say that too?” she asked. I nodded, shakily. Oh, I certainly did. I had from the moment she walked in the door. “But, I only like women,” she said. “So what are you, hmm? A boy in a woman’s lingerie, or a woman in a boy’s body?”

“I . . . I . . . .” I stammered, caught between a lifetime of hiding and a possibility, however distant, of something more. Finally, I blurted it out. “I don’t know what I am. I love wearing your clothes. But I do wish I was a girl.” There. I had said it. Confessed. I waited for the mocking laughter, the scorn. My face burned, and a tear slid down one cheek. The silence stretched, painfully, as she continued to play with my body.

After the pause had gone on long enough to crush me, she said, “In that case, perhaps we can do a little experiment, you and I.” She snaked a long leg over my legs, then sat in my lap, straddling me. Her bare vulva, warm and moist, touched the end of my penis where it emerged from the waistband of the panties. I gasped. She framed my face with her hands, then kissed me, forcefully. I felt the unusual sensation of lipstick against lipstick and thought, stupidly, that at least it was the same shade. She thrust her tongue into my mouth aggressively; my own danced meekly to her tune.

She pulled her head back without releasing the hands holding my head in place, and said, “Let’s see if you can make love to me like a girl. Not with your silly prick, but with your hands, with those pretty lips of yours. With your tongue. Do you think you are woman enough to manage that?” She rose off my lap, still straddling my chair, until her breasts were in front of my lips.

I answered her as best I could, with my body. I began kissing her breasts, licking them, caressing them with both hands. She allowed this for a while, then she plopped her bottom on the top edge of the table and put one high-heel clad foot on either side of my thighs. I brought my head down lower. I stroked her smooth thighs, then leaned forward and buried my face in her soft, smooth belly. I began to give it kisses, then I bent lower, kissing her mound. She leaned back on the table and spread her legs, and I went lower still. “That’s it,” she said huskily. “You know your business, girl.” And I went to her like a bee to nectar.

I don’t know how long I pleasured her with my lips and tongue. She bucked and her hands on my shoulders grew tight, pulling me close against her. But I was becoming desperate for my own release, and however much I might wish I was female, my body was built the way it was built. “Please,” I begged, “Please!”

She gave a low chuckle. “Not really my thing,” she said. “That’s more in your friend’s line than mine. What do you say, Ari, love? Got a mercy fuck in you?”

Behind me, I heard Ariadne say, “After watching the two of you go at it, I could use a little something to scratch my itch. Nothing wrong with her equipment.”

I was mortified, but I was also over the top aroused. When I felt a new hand touch me, resting lightly over the clasp of the beautiful bra I was wearing, I didn't even flinch. And when Ariadne said, “alright girl, on your back if you want relief,” I dropped like a rock and rolled like a dog.

Ariadne had not gotten undressed. She straddled me, her loose cotton skirt covering us both. I reached up, but Ari swatted my hands down. “No, Willie,” she said, “You just lie there like a good girl and I’ll ride you like the filly you really are.” She reached down, freed my penis from Rachel’s panties, and impaled herself on it. “Ahhhhh!” she said.

Rachel came and stood behind Ariadne, watching me squirm and playing with Ari’s hair as she pumped me up and down. I just lay there and allowed myself to be swept away by the sensations of the moment. Allowed her complete mastery. I was whimpering, crying out, for once – really, for the first time ever – completely uninhibited. Finally, I couldn’t hold back any more, and I exploded inside of Ariadne.

Ari looked down at me fondly, touched the pendant at my breast with one finger, then patted me on the cheek. “Nice job, sweets,” she said. "And about time. In case you’re wondering, you practically drool when a girl so much as flashes a bra strap, even when you aren’t attracted to her, and you should see your face when you walk by a women’s shoe store. It’s quite the tell.”

The End

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.