Betcha Won't

Really, the only difference between Mike Vasuco and most any other a middle aged male divorcee was that he had just won a huge lottery. Suddenly he was so much richer than he had ever, in his wildest dreams, ever considered.

And he didn't tell anyone, to start. Of course, he would share with his family and kids, and probably even with the ex, but that would be later – that would be when he returned to reality – some new sort of reality.

Recalling a fantasy from years earlier, Mike figured this was fantasy money – what else could you call it – so he decided to try to realize one or two of his long time fantasies. Later he'd buy himself a Porsche Carerra 4 convertible, but now he was in Las Vegas to really blow some cash having fun. Before getting there, he had arranged for an easily accessible bank account, and had put a couple hundred thou in it.

He had this wild, wild plan that he'd hatched way, way back, so before he'd come, he'd visited a 'spy' shop back home, and bought a mini-surveillance system. Now, after several hours fiddling in his posh suite, it was all set up – totally inconspicuous – wired into his laptop.

"Time to motor," he'd hummed to himself, finishing off the iced glass of JD. "Let's go fishing!" While Mike was not really a loner, he had, through the years following his divorce, got to be very comfortable with himself. He had a lot of friends and was active in several groups, but he could manage very well on his own, when he needed to – and now, was one of those times. Tucking in his $150 shirt and straightening his collar, he flipped the room key-card into his pocket and headed for the gaming floor.

Mike knew sort of who he was looking for, but was surprised to locate a subject so quickly. Less than an hour after he'd begun cruising the room, he saw her. Meg was clearly a woman in trouble.

She was sitting on a stool, back to the slot machine, eyes wide, the lights of the casino flickering in her deer-in-the-headlights stare, motionless amidst the auditory barrage of chirps and trills, dinging and ringing that was gambling hall.

She was frozen in indecision; didn't know what to do; couldn't know what to do. It had all been so new to her – so exciting, that she had been mesmerized. And it had only been, what, three days?

She was on a special get-away trip awarded to herself and several of her mates from work The girls she'd come with were out watching some shows. They said they were already bored with the gambling! But she'd been seduced by the freedom of being alone – for the first time without hubby – and the thrill of winning.

She'd started at the slots, but, when they were not making her rich, she moved to the tables, and soon found that she could spend – lose – her money much too quickly at Blackjack or Roulette; even poker was less lucrative than she had naively expected – or at least hoped. Eventually she returned to the slots, into which, she proceeded to pour most her cash over the following couple days.

She had sat there, until just before Mike had come upon her, desperately pumping the very last of her cash, everything available through her debit card, slapping the 'Play Again' button like automaton. Continuing to delude herself with the erroneous, wishful-thinking idea that, odds were, she'd eventually win back her mounting losses. She had lost the very last of her funds. And, she realized, she couldn't get any more without her husband finding out. "But," she pointed out to herself, "he just can't find out!"

And so it was, her sitting frozen in despair, that Mike found her and began to chat her up. He commiserated – softly, sympathetically, like he knew exactly what was wrong, as he did, having surmised correctly. She was initially distracted – reluctant, even – subdued almost to the point of being catatonic. As Mike gently inched the conversation along, she was barely able to admit that she had royally fucked up, indeed, was still unwilling to completely acknowledge her dire straits. Mike just continued offering comforting words – quiet, calming, encouraging; listening attentively when she spoke, like the trained therapist he had been prior to his lottery win.

After a while, he took her over to the nearby bar and got her a drink. Slowly, by degrees, he calmed her down. "Could be worse," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow in emphasis. "By the way," he said, after a moment, in a light, casual tone, "I'm Mike."

"Meg," she replied – a bit of life flowing back into her voice. "Actually, Mary Margaret, but I go by Meg," she added, getting flustered by her own unnecessary explanation. Mike noted, despite all the agro, that she had a delightful accent.

He learned that she was a thirty-something married woman from the Liverpool area, who had won the trip at work, and was there with colleagues, but without her husband.

Meg had dressed in a somewhat risqué fashion, figuring, originally, if her gambling was just a little bit naughty – as she felt it was; she'd told her husband that she wasn't going to gamble – she'd may as well dress the part.

Mike thought she looked really good in her tight mini-skirt; slinky top, over a low-cut bra, revealing an inviting décolletage; heels; big glittery earrings and necklace; and heavier than usual make-up. He thought she was probably trying for young trendy, and it may even have worked in back home Liverpool, but, there, in Las Vegas, what she'd achieved was more of a-little-over-the-top skanky – a little more tarty than chic.

Still, he appreciated that her outfit accentuated her soft curves, showing off her voluptuous figure and impressive bosom to full advantage, her heels highlighting her shapely legs.

Sipping her drink, eying him over the rim of the glass, Meg felt herself beginning to relax. Although she couldn't understand what compelled her to confide in a total stranger, she began to speak – softly, confidentially. As the details of her unfortunate situation emerged, Mike shook his head gravely, "Geez, that's rough."

"I'm not usually this stupid," she sighed, "but sitting in the hubbub, it was like I'd fallen under a spell."

"That happens," Mike agreed, "probably more often than you think." His concern and sympathy were genuine – he really was a kind, thoughtful guy – but he had fantasized about something like this far too often, for far too long, not to seize this golden opportunity.

So, sitting in a cocktail lounge at the side of the gambling floor, he offered her a way out by way of some personal betting. Meg looked at him curiously, waiting for an explanation, a twinkle of hope glinting in her eye.

"I'll bet you ten bucks I can make you smile," he said impishly. She just cocked her head and looked puzzled. After only a brief pause, he said matter-of-factly, "That's definitely not a smile. Good thing we didn't shake on it, or I'd be out a ten-spot."

"Okay," he pushed on, without waiting for her response. "I'll bet you a hundred bucks that you won't come up to my room to have a drink with me." This time he waited while she figured out what he'd just said.

"Let me get this straight: you're betting I won't come to your room?"

"Yes. That's right. My hundred says you won't come to my room." Mike pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and held it up to examine it, then, crumpling it in his hand, he paused again, beaming at her. After a moment, he went on, "So, if we make this bet, and you do come up to my room for a drink, you'll have proved me wrong – I lose the bet and you get the hundred. See? Of course, if we make the bet and you decide not to come up to my room, then you owe me a hundred bucks. Simple, eh?" Then he stuck out his hand. "So do we have a bet?"

She waited several long moments, looking into his eyes; trying to read his face. Slowly she stood, reached out, and shook his hand. "Okay," she whispered tentatively, almost to herself.

"Great," Mike announced, placing a hand at the small of her back and guiding her gently towards the elevators. "Easy, eh? And I didn't even ask you to ante up."

They rode up to the seventeenth floor in silence, walking softly over the plush carpet to the door at the end of the hall. "Welcome," Mike said, as he opened the door to suite 1701, and stepped aside to let his guest enter. Closing the door behind them, Mike said, "Here we are," waving the hundred with a flourish, "and here you are." He crushed the bill into her hand as he swept past her toward the suite's large bar, where he surreptitiously switched on the remote for the surveillance cameras. "What can I get you?" he called over his shoulder while his guest sauntered over to the floor to ceiling windows to take in the impressive view – the strip running out below her, downtown beyond that, and, in the distance, the desert – quickly stuffing the bill into her purse.

"G 'n T, if you've got it," she replied, not moving her eyes from the laid-out vista. After giving her her drink, Mike settled onto the couch, sipping his, and waiting for her to relax. Eventually, she let herself sink down into a large leather easy chair and met his gaze. "Cheers," she offered uncertainly, and raised her glass.

"Cheers," Mike replied. "Like I said, I'm Mike."

Nodding, she slowly took another sip – watching him suspiciously over the rim. "Yeah – Meg," she submitted softly.

"Come on," Mike cajoled, "that wasn't so hard, was it?" Meg subtly shook her head. "I mean, here you are in my room having a drink, and I, foolishly, bet you wouldn't accept." He took sip and smiled. "An simple bet, I'd say; and now you're a hundred bucks up." Mike raised his eyebrows in emphasis. "Easy money, wouldn't you say?" Meg's nod was barely perceptible. "Of course," He proceeded with an almost forced nonchalance. "A mere hundred won't get you far in this town, eh?" He sat back and sipped his own drink.

Meg's body tensed slightly. She thought about her devastating losing streak, how quickly she had lost her footing on that slippery slope into problem gambling – and, if she was truthful with herself, gambling addiction. Now, she realized, she was in too deep – way, way too deep!

She involuntarily leaned forward, emphasizing her considerable cleavage, wondering, perhaps guessing, what Mike had in mind. She watched silently, for the moment, trying to figure out what, exactly, he was up to.

Mike smiled benignly. Heaving a breath, he asked, casually ignoring the prickly tension developing, "How about this? I bet you another hundred you won't give me a kiss." Meg barely hesitated before leaning over and giving him a peck on the cheek.

"Well," laughed Mike. "Wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but you got me." Handing her another hundred-dollar bill, he went on. "I got yet another hundred says you won't give me a real kiss – a smooch, on the lips.

"And we really should shake on these wagers, to make them legit, eh?" Putting out his hand, he asked, "Do we have a deal?"

Catching his eyes with hers, she nodded, shook his hand, then leaned in to kiss him full on the lips. The intensity of it surprised him and he reached behind her head to hold the lip-lock. She offered no resistance as he reveled in her complicity.

When they stopped, Mike noted Meg's look of mild consternation as he went to the bar to refresh their drinks. "There you go," he buzzed, handing her another drink, with a hundred spot held against the glass. "Three hundred up. Not bad in under an hour's gambling, wouldn't you say?" Meg nodded ever so slightly as she sipped her drink, her cheeks glowing pink.

"Okay, then," he announced, having put down his drink. "This time I'll bet you a hundred fifty that you won't let me grope your boobs while we're kissing." Extending his hand, he added, "Whaddya say?"

Meg's eyes went wide once again – having only just begun to relax. She sputtered in protest, "But..., that's not..." He raises his eyebrow, fluttering a handful of cash and nodding to the money she had already 'won'.

"Up to you."

Eyeing the bills, she shrugged her shoulders and reached to shake his hand, "Oh, okay! What the fuck!"

The next bet, though, took a little more convincing. "Show us yer tits!" he said, in his best redneck accent, before laying out the bet. "Bet you you won't expose your breasts – that is, open your top and pull down your bra – and let me have a bare flesh feel."

Taking a second to compose herself, Meg squared her shoulders and asked, "What do you think I am, a slut?" A hint of hurt and disgust tinged her voice.

"Not a slut," Mike replied softly, extending his hand once more. "A gambler."

They shook; then watching his face, Meg silently exposed her sweater puppies, her nipples proud and erect at their tips. Bringing his hands up to gently cup them, he found they were as luscious and soft as he had imagined. Mike resisted the rather strong urge to lean forward and take a bud into his mouth. "Not yet," he chided himself. "That's not part of the deal – of this deal. Got to play by the rules." So he stuck to caressing and mauling her succulent tits, luxuriating in their pliable firmness.

Meg closed her eyes and remained still as he did; but her chest betrayed a growing excitement within her, beginning to rise and fall more noticeably as the lurid activity continued. Mike got the notion that she was almost enjoying herself, in spite of the circumstances – or, perhaps, because of the circumstances – wondering, perhaps, just how long she would allow this whole game to go on.

She – they both – realized this was no longer about gambling. Somewhere along the way they had transcended the simple win/lose scenario of the casino, where, just like Pavlov's dog, the sporadic delight of success kept the subject going. For Meg and Mike, it seemed as if the thrill of winning was being subtly supplanted by the excitement of pushing at boundaries – personal, social, moral. The adventure had become the crossing of new frontiers – How much further could she go? How far would he take her? And at each new challenge she savoured the rush of adrenaline, like a hit of ecstasy.

Slowly sitting up, Mike let his hands fall, if somewhat reluctantly, from Meg's chest. Without dropping her gaze, Meg absently gathered, ineffectively at the front of her blouse, and waited.

"Okay, so how 'bout I give you some really good odds," Mike suggested magnanimously. "I'll bet you a cool thousand, at 1000 to 1, you won't come over here, take my cock out" – here he patted his crotch – "and put it in your mouth."

Even given what she'd already agreed to, that took her by surprise. She protested that, despite what she had just submitted to already, she was not a whore. Mike acted aghast. "I wouldn't even make such a bet if you were! But you are obviously someone who pushes the envelope, takes chances – a player of the odds, eh?" After a brief pause he continued, "So, the question is: how far are you willing to go?" Meg listened intently. "Just consider this particular wager. Weigh the odds."

Meg's look was part confusion, part determination. "I'm not saying I will," she whispered, "but why would you pay me, a middle-aged housewife, a thousand bucks just to suck your dick?"

"You don't even have to suck. Just put it in your mouth and keep it there for – say – a minute."

Her puzzled look gave him pause. He thought that maybe he should try to explain the situation – his fantasy, such as it were – but he couldn't do that. He didn't even fully understand it himself. He considered the "sex for the sake of sex" aspect of it, but that seemed so sordid, even here and now. For a long moment he mused, silently to himself, then, suddenly, he leaned forward. Staring at her with penetrating eyes, he asked, "Do we have a bet?" She gazed back blankly, so he added, "Do you have a dollar you're willing to make this bet with?" She looked puzzled, then nodded. "Show me!" he said, pulling out a wad of bills from his wallet and counting off ten hundreds. "See, I have my wager," he, laid the wad of bills on the coffee table. Furtively scooping the pile of bills she had already 'won', Meg fumbled in the bottom of her purse numbly, pulling out four quarters, and holding them out in her hand. "Good!" he cried rising towards her, holding out his hand. "Then let's shake on it." She offered her hand tentatively, and Mike shook it vigorously, repeating the bet – "I'm betting, at a thousand to one in your favour, that you won't come over here, take my cock out, and put it in your mouth." Settling back onto the couch, he prompted, "Right?" She nodded once more, very unsure of what she is getting herself into. Standing once more he asked, "Can I freshen your drink, first?" Meg nodded, looking more than a little bewildered.

Taking her glass and moving smoothly to the bar, Mike began with a nonchalance that belied his inner giddiness, "Let's set out just a few ground rules, shall we?" and he casually proceeded to lay them out, as if they were memorized from a rule book, not at all like he was making them up as he spoke – which he was! "It has to be all of him," gesturing to his crotch, "flaccid, or half of him erect, depending on his response; you don't have to move but you must close your lips, and he needs to remain fully engulfed at least forty-five seconds."

Meg slowly, carefully got off the bed, gave his extended hand a perfunctory shake, and dropped to her knees on the carpet between his. Finally, she dropped her gaze and focused on his fly. Undoing his pants, she folded the front down, out of the way, and pulled his briefs down to expose his already semi-turgid schlong. Leaning forward, tugging it free, she extended her tongue to touch his helmeted head, and dab the drop of pre-cum out of its eye. Pausing, contemplating for a moment, she licked her lips, then taking hold of the fleshy tube, like a banana, she lowered her circled lips over it.

Mike couldn't believe how far down she pushed right away. Neither could he believe how marvelously wonderful it felt. Meg held him deep for a long time before easing back, caressing his shaft with her lips, until she just had his glans in her mouth. She pushed back down, further, this time, until he was fully ensconced; then she was still, the only movement in the entire room was a slight, in/out sucking of her cheeks against his shaft. Mike felt as if he might just cum!

And before she could begin to withdraw, after substantially more than the prescribed forty-five seconds, Mike upped the ante. "$250 more says you won't continue for another minute." He looked down at the top of her head. "Just nod if our handshake is understood." Meg nodded without backing off the root, held deep in her throat. Gradually, she began to stroke his prick – backing off slightly before plunging to reseat him deep in her throat. Mike was having control difficulties, but he knew cumming would end it, so he gritted his teeth and went on.

He offered her a bet of $500 that she wouldn't take off her top completely while she worked on him. A bet which she took, pulling her blouse and her bra off her shoulders and arms, without releasing his cock. Mike was getting desperately close, so he wagered a further $1000 that she wouldn't continue blowing him for another five minutes, "or until I cum, whichever comes... occurs first." Meg accepted with a slight nod, not breaking her established, accelerating rhythm.

Mike was surprised at how quickly Meg had capitulated – accepted each rise in the stakes. It is almost like, he mused, what Bertrand Russell – or was it George Bernard Shaw? – said. Urban legend or not, one of them is reputed to have asked a young lady if she'd bed him for a million pounds. After a short bout of soul-searching she said she probably would. Then he asked if she'd sleep with him for ten pounds. "Of course not," she replied, indignantly, "What kind of girl do you think I am."

"We've already established that," he replied. "Now we're just haggling over price."