The Thursday night poker game was held in the windowless back room of the local men's apparel store. The room was better appointed than it might seem being behind a downtown business. There was a full sized leather sofa, two matching side chairs, a well stocked wet bar with a small refrigerator and a poker table with an overhead light.
The poker table was unusual. Instead of a standard, round or eight sided table, this table was kidney shaped with seats for six players and a place for the dealer on the concave side of the table. We had been playing the game for over seven years with the same table and, mostly, the same six players.
My name is Annabelle and I'm the dealer. My father owns the clothing store and I give him a small retainer every Thursday night to allow the game and look the other way. The kicker is, I get ten percent of every pot to cover the cost of the retainer and the booze with some left over for me.
For over a year, the same six players, in the same seats have been playing. Going around the table from my left are: Dale, Quinn, Mitch, Mike, Leo and Josh. All of them are married with white collar jobs. I've met their wives when they come into dad's store to buy work clothes and none of them have a reason to wander outside their wedding vows.
There's never been a hint of impropriety from the men. They get together every Thursday night to play poker and nothing else. They're all in their middle to late thirties and I'm at least ten years younger than them. I've never felt any desire to be anything more to them than the dealer of the Thursday night poker game.
That is until four weeks ago.
Four weeks ago the game started at eight pm, the usual starting time. We agreed, as usual, to play until ten o'clock or until someone tapped out. The stakes weren't high but it wasn't a nickel, dime, quarter either. Most pots consisted of some coins, dollar bills and an occasional five. That night the game was Texas Hold'em. The evening was nearing our agreed upon ending time and we decided to play one more hand.
In a highly unusual event, all six players were still in the game after the river card and the final betting was complete. I looked around the table trying to read the mood of the players. They all seemed confident of their chances.
I looked at Dale. "Whatcha have?" I asked.
Dale didn't move to turn over his cards. "Five inches," he said.
His response brought quiet giggles from the other five players and a shot to my libido. I didn't know if he was joking or serious but I decided to play along. It wasn't a difficult decision. I had broken up with my boyfriend and roommate of three years the past weekend and not having sex for seven days was starting to bother me.
"I get ten percent," I responded.
The giggling stopped and there was suddenly a serious atmosphere in the room.
"That would be a half inch," calculated Dale.
I turned to Quinn. "Are you bidding in this game?"
"Six inches," he said.
"Hummm," I said. "That would be six tenths of an inch. I'll tell you what. I'll just round up to the nearest inch. That's a total of two inches so far."
I polled the remaining players in turn. They all stated their bid without comment from the others. Except for Leo. Leo's bid of seven inches brought an outburst from Mitch. "Bull shit," he yelled.
I had six total inches bid. "Okay," I told the group. "The winner of this hand gets the pot, less ten percent, and his inch."
Before I could begin to call the hands, Dale interjected another option. "Why don't we play all or nothing?"
"How would that work?" I asked suspecting what he was thinking.
"The winner of this hand gets the pot and all six inches," he suggested.
The other five players immediately agreed. I didn't offer my opinion but, internally, I was in favor. So much so that I was beginning to get wet thinking about the possibilities.
When all the hands were turned over, Mike's full house had won. He raked in the pot, counted it and pushed ten percent in my direction. All of them counted their chips, cashed them in, stood up and started to leave.
"Whoa, Mike," I said.
"What?" he asked.
"You still have to collect your six inches," I stated.
That stopped traffic. "I thought we were just joking around," Mike said.
"One person's joke is another person's wet dream," I responded.
Mike smiled. The others fist bumped him on the way out.
When I heard the outside door close and latch, I looked at Mike. He looked lost, unable to fully comprehend what might happen. I prompted him.
"How do you want to do this?" I asked.
That didn't help him. If anything, he looked even more nervous. I realized that I had to take the lead. I took his hand, led him to the sofa and sat him down. I stood in front of him and began to play with the buttons on my shirt.
That got his attention. I watched his mood change from skepticism to certainty. When he adjusted himself in his jeans, I knew how this would end and I was more than ready. Slowly, but deliberately, I removed my shirt and draped it over the arm of the sofa.
Mike watched intently, his manhood increasing his discomfort. I waited and when his expression turned to one of uncertainty, I pointed to him. "Your turn," I mouthed silently.
He responded immediately. Seconds later, his shirt was lying on top of mine. He wasn't wearing an undershirt. I eyed his reasonably developed chest with a modest amount of hair. He was holding his breath, expanding his chest for my approval.
"Breathe," I said.
My turn. Smiling, I reached behind my back, unclasped my bra and let it drop to the floor in front of me.
Mike had forgotten how to breathe. "Oh my God," he croaked.
I'm not naïve. My breasts are not world class but they are nice. They're a full "C" cup and sag slightly from their size. My nipples are flush with the surface of my areola except when they're excited. That night they were excited, standing almost a quarter inch high.
To emphasize my breasts, I hefted them, one in each hand, and bounced them gently. Mike choked, probably on the excess saliva accumulating in his mouth.
His turn. I calculated that, except for foot wear, Mike would reach full exposure before me. He kicked off his shoes. I gave him a look that said, "That's it?" He smiled and took off his socks as well.
I kicked off my sandals. Even again and his turn.
If he had any doubts, he didn't show it. I guessed his reasoning was something like, what does it matter who gets naked first. We're both going to be naked. He stood and within seconds his jeans were on the arm of the sofa with the rest of our clothing.
