The Card Game 6

To the Reader: This story could alternatively have been placed in Group Sex. Perhaps it should have been, I don't know. But in any event please be forewarned, and if you are grossed out by gangbangs, this story might not be for you. Thanks.

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It was unusual to hear from Kathy. It had been a long time, and now she wanted to meet for drinks. I've always liked her, and we always had lots of fun with girl talk. Our telephone calls used to run into the hours. I think our record telephone call was six hours long. It ended when my phone's battery died.

So, I went to meet her at a bar in the East Village. It was one that we both like. It's one of the rare bars in New York that is still quiet enough so that two girls can hear each other talk. I got there on time and quickly found Kathy, sitting there with half a glass of white wine already gone.

The bar is dark, but not too dark. On Second Avenue, below 14th Street, it's one of the many bars you could walk right by and not notice. The furniture is lousy, the place looks dirty, and frankly it is simply not appealing at all. It's a dive. But the bartender and the waitresses are charming, and are simply the best in New York. People like Kathy and me have come to realize that, and so it has a devoted clientele. Count us as two of them.

"I have some catching up to do, I see," I said as I flagged the waitress.

"You surely do, Gail. I've been here a while and this is my third glass."

"We said seven o'clock, didn't we?" I asked.

"Yes, I simply came early," Kathy had an edge to her voice.

"What's wrong, Kathy? Something is up. Spill." I ordered a glass of wine.

"Let's have fun talking first - you know, like old times?" Kathy countered.

And we did. God, it was fun to chat with her again. A lot has happened since we last caught up. After a while she said, "But enough about me! What is going on with you?"

"Not much," I said. "I'm still gainfully employed and barely able to pay my astronomical rent, and I still have enough left for instant ramen, so I don't starve, except of course near the end of the month. And as for men, and I know that's what you're interested in, I guess you could say I'm between marriages."

"Are you engaged then? Someone new?" she asked.

"No. That was an attempt at humor. I have nobody. Nada. Niente. I'm all alone, sniff. But I like it. For now at least, I'm off men. I find that a vibrator, a dildo, and booze make good substitutes, and they come without all the melodrama," I said. "Not to mention all those messy fluids men bring to the table."

We had been gabbing for around 45 minutes at this point, and Kathy had not yet told me the favor she was to ask of me. She had told me she had a favor to ask when she asked to meet me at "our" East Village bar. It must be a doozy if she needed three glasses of wine for courage.

I usually let things proceed at Kathy's pace, but I was getting anxious about the purported "favor." What could possibly need three glasses of wine for liquid courage? So I asked, "Kathy, you said you had a favor to ask?"

"Yes, yes I do," she said. "Let me explain." Then she stopped talking.

I waited. Nothing happened. Finally, I started it up by saying, "Yes, Kathy, please do explain. Take your time," and I flagged a waitress to order another round of wine. I was getting tipsy, so I ordered some munchies to soak up some of the wine sloshing around in my tummy.

"Well it's like this. I have a weird kind of job hosting a poker game of six men. I play waitress and I bring them drinks and munchies while they play. I am well paid for the work," Kathy blushed as she spoke.

"That sounds simple enough. But there's a catch, isn't there? I can tell by your body language," I said.

"Well, yes, yes there is. You see, it's late at night, and I am one woman and they are six men. Some leering and politically incorrect comments are standard. You know how men behave in such situations," Kathy said, blushing furiously.

"Kathy, are you selling yourself?" I asked, rather bluntly.

"Good heavens, no! It's not like that. Not at all. Well, maybe a little, depending on how you look at it. Maybe I am in fact, now that you mention it. I am so ashamed. The men's ages range from around 25 to 35, and as you know I'm 24. They tip me, and naturally enough they tip me better if I dress in a sexy manner, you know? You worked as a cocktail waitress once, you know how the world works, right?"

"That I do, that I do. As a cocktail waitress, I find that the customers are the cocks, and I'm the piece of tail," I said. "Cleavage and long, bare legs really helps in the waitress trade, at least in cocktail bars like the one I worked in. I feel as if I have been leered at from here to Kansas and back, you know?"

"Did you adjust your attire with tips in mind?" Kathy asked.

"Of course. All the girls did. Super short skirts and low cut blouses. Some of the men would run their hands along my legs while I stood there taking their orders. They looked down my blouse when I would lean in to put their food and drinks down. You give them something to look at, and you develop a thick skin," I said.

"You've never been shy about your body, if I remember right," Kathy said delicately. She knew damn well I have exhibitionist tendencies.

"I'll cut to the chase. You want me to spell you with the card game, and you figure because I'm an exhibitionist, if I show some skin I'll get some good tips, am I right?" I said. I'm not usually direct, but Kathy was having so much trouble speaking her mind, I felt the need to help her.

"Yes, exactly. Thank you for helping me to get it out, Gail. You're a doll. Could you do it for me?" Kathy said. She still looked troubled, though.

"Sure. I could use the money," I said. "Boy, could I use the money! I can already smell my steak dinner I'll buy myself once I have the money in hand. When and where?"

Kathy told me, but she still looked ill at ease. "There's something else you are struggling to tell me, isn't there?" I said.

Kathy began to cry. "Oh Gail, you need to be strong. Those men turned me into a slut. It's my fault. I'm so weak. But you're not. You're strong. I've always admired your strength," Gail said, trying to suppress her tears.

"What happened?" I asked, in all simplicity.

"I got addicted to the money they paid me, I guess. The more provocative my attire, the more money I received. Towards the end I was wearing very little. They began to take liberties, too. It began small with pats on my ass, and then it gradually progressed to hands on my legs. Next the hands moved up my legs. Eventually they convinced me to go topless."

"Last time I ended up serving them wearing just my panties," Kathy continued. She put her head in her hands.

"Let me guess," I said. My tone of voice was kind. "At some point late in the evening the panties were gone too, and you were serving them naked."

Kathy nodded, but I sensed something. "There's even more, isn't there?" I asked.

Kathy nodded. "Blowjobs?" I asked. Kathy nodded. "Something else, too?" I asked. Kathy nodded again. Her face was completely hidden in her hands. "How many of them fucked you, Kathy? One?" She nodded. "Two?" She nodded again. "Three?" Again she nodded. "All six of them?"

"Oh my God, Gail, yes," she said. "And the biggest horror is that I enjoyed it. Each and every time," and now she was sobbing loudly. The waitress came over and asked if she could help. I think she thought we were lesbians and that I was dumping Kathy right there in the bar. But who knows what she thought?

That's what I would have thought when I was waitressing. But that was in the West Village. Now we were in the East Village. Anyway, usually, it's right.

"Maybe some Kleenex would be nice?" I said. The waitress shot me a disapproving look and left, returning quickly with Kleenex. I whispered to the waitress, "It's a case of gangbang regret," and the waitress looked horrified and left our table quickly.

When Kathy had calmed down somewhat, she spoke again, and she said, "You can see why I can't go back there. Last time they paid me $6,000, but that was because they were paying me for sexual services rendered. Gail, they turned me, a sweet girl trying to get by, into a goddamn whore. I can't go back there. I can't!"

"What's the problem?" I asked Kathy. "Don't go back. Nobody can force you to work. Especially not at a job like that!"

"One of the men is my boyfriend Neil. They're counting on me. I don't know what to do! I am hoping you can go in my place this one time. I need to think," Kathy said. She was crying again.

I wanted to tell her to get a new boyfriend. But that is one of the things that is useless for one girl to tell another.

"You're strong, Gail, and you'll just be starting. Please can you do this for me just this one time? And you'll make some money, too. If you dress sexy, my guess is with your looks and your body you could clear $500 for just a few hours of work. And it's easy work, too, if you do not mind the occasional fresh hand or two," Kathy was close to begging now.

I stayed with Kathy for another two hours at the bar. We ordered dinner. She treated, already dipping into her $6,000 earned on her back, I imagine. I agreed to spell her this one time.

I did not tell Kathy this, but I was intrigued. I am an exhibitionist, but as Kathy kept saying, I have a strong will, and nobody was going to abuse me the way they did poor Kathy.

I did have a serious weakness, however. I am a submissive as well as an exhibitionist, and I had to hope none of the men could dominate me. That could be a disaster. The submissive angle was my secret, as well as my Achilles heel.

Kathy did not suspect it; nobody suspected it. My ex-husband Mike Phelps was the only one who knew. He knew I was a submissive even before I myself knew. He was uncanny that way. But as long as nobody at the card game could ferret it out the way Mike had, I would be safe.

That is why I actually had to leave Mike. It's why I divorced him. He not only wanted to show off my body to every man he could, he also wanted to watch me get laid by them, too. He turned me into a flaming slut, and that was not my dream as to how I would turn out when married to the man I loved. I had to leave Mike in order to save myself. He had led me down the rabbit hole, and I barely escaped before I was hopelessly hooked.

Men like Mike were rare. I was not too worried about the card game. My work as a waitress at a cocktail bar in a hotel had hardened me. I knew how to handle sexual predators. I knew how to shut them down. I was confident.

When the day came for the card game, Kathy came over to help me to choose what to wear. "You want layers," she said, "In case you want to remove something to goose the tips, it's good to have some redundant layers."

We ended up with a V neck sweater worn over a diaphanous see-through blouse with a lace bra, and a very tight soft leather skirt. Under the skirt I did not wear a thong, but rather traditional skimpy lace panties. The panties matched my bra. I am a strong believer in matching underwear.

For jewelry, I wore large dangle silver earrings, and a large silver cross that fell in between my boobs; if ever my sweater and then my blouse came off, the cross would look stunning in between my bra encased boobs. For perfume, we chose Opium by Yves St Laurent. No man on earth can resist Opium, the ultimate seductive scent.

I also wore thigh high stockings and my 'come fuck me' stiletto high heels, in red patent leather. Even though they were bright red, they meshed well with my supple black leather very tight skirt.

I stepped back to look at myself in my full-length mirror once the entire outfit was on. Kathy let out a low whistle. "Gail, you are dynamite," she said. "If I were a lesbian I would not let you out of this apartment; I would take you right now."

"Weren't you a lesbian in college?" I asked, remembering well those days. She and I had even gotten it on once, when I was drunk and into sexual experimentation. It did not stick with me, but it sure did with Kathy. At least it stuck for a while, that is.

As for me, it remains one of my most erotic memories, even if I have no desire to repeat it.

"Yeah," she said. "But now I'm into men. I'm a hasbian."

Kathy walked me over to the brownstone in the East Village. It was in the far east village, in alphabet city, not too far from Tompkins Square. The card game was on the top floor of a walkup brownstone. We said goodbye, and she wished me luck. I promised to call her to let her know how it turned out.

I rang the buzzer and someone buzzed me in. Kathy had coached me on the names of the men: Neil (her boyfriend), Steve, Bill, Byron, Craig, and Mike. Byron was the leader, and he was the one who had the apartment. Even though he lived a simple life, renting one floor of a brownstone, Byron was a banker and was as rich as Croesus. I climbed the three flights up to the top floor, and the door to the apartment was open.

The men were already playing cards, but they stopped their game to welcome me. They introduced themselves, and their comportment was one of perfect gentlemen. One of the men was missing, the one named Mike. He was delayed, and would come later, I was told. There was also a sexy little blonde there, pouting on the couch. She was Melissa. She looked to be only around 19 or 20 years old. Maybe she was 21, at the outside.

Kathy had told me I was to be the only woman, but I welcomed the presence of another. I felt it made things less risky. Neil got up and went over to Melissa. He said, "Kathy came through with a substitute, so Melissa you can go home now." He handed her a $100 bill. "Thanks for coming, however."

Melissa took the money and then gave Neil a kiss. It was not a casual kiss. It was the type of kiss a girl gives a man she has already known carnally. Neil was Kathy's boyfriend, and he helped to manipulate her into getting gangbanged, and now I inferred that he was cheating on her with this little tart Melissa. He was a piece of work. I took an instant dislike to Neil.

Probably all five of the men there were jerks. My Sunday school training kicked in: Judge not, lest I be judged. Fuck that. Neil was a pig. Byron stood and said, "Gail, make yourself comfortable. When you're ready, I think some of us have drinks that need refreshing."

The apartment was overheated, so I removed my sweater, dramatically revealing my diaphanous blouse, and my lacy bra that one could clearly see underneath it. Byron smiled broadly. "That's the spirit," he said.

I went to the table and took their orders. I was in my element from my previous life as a cocktail waitress. At times, I had subbed as a bartender, too, so both I did not need notes and also I was not fazed when men ordered cocktails with esoteric names like The Logan 5.

I found the kitchen. It was not hard; the apartment had only three rooms and a bathroom. In the kitchen, I was taken aback: There was a full-page color print of Kathy, naked and on all fours, giving Craig a blowjob while at the same time Byron was fucking her from behind.

The photo must have been taken the previous week. Poor girl; I'm sure she had no idea such a photo had even been taken, let alone subsequently so prominently displayed in Byron's apartment. I instantly took a dislike to Byron, adding to my dislike of Kathy's boyfriend Neil, who was cheating on her with Melissa.

That left Bill, Craig, and Steve, for whom the jury was still out. Barely. And oh yes, the mysterious missing man Mike who had not arrived yet. I did not have high hopes for any of them. But I try never to pre-judge people, nor damn people via guilt by association. I kept an open mind.

The kitchen was well equipped. It had a good supply of vegetables for cocktails (celery, fresh mint, carrots, tomato juice, Worcestershire, etc.). Byron had a blender, a few whisks of varying sizes, and a shaker. He had elegant crystal glasses, and beer mugs chilling in the freezer. The man was prepared. In a corner, there were two things that did not fit: I looked over askance at a cockroach trap, and quite a large stack of high-end condoms.

There was a silver tray. It came from the high-end French store Christofle. I was impressed. (I have a wedding gift from a rich aunt that came from Christofle. I'm divorced from my ex-husband Mike now, but I still have the gift.) I put the drinks on the tray and walked out to the table. The men paid me no mind as I placed the drinks in front of them. So far so good.

Craig said, "Darling, I am having a bad luck streak. Come stand next to me. Maybe you'll bring me luck."

"My name is Gail," I said as I moved over to stand near Craig.

"That's great, darling. I'm Craig. Nice to meet you." I stood next to him. He won the next hand. "Hey thanks, Babe. You're good," he said.

"My name is Gail," I said again.

"Good to know, darling. Hey, don't leave. You're bringing me luck," Craig said as I began to walk away. I went back and stood next to him. Craig was on one side of me, and Bill was on the other. Bill's hand went to my thigh as I stood there. I gently touched his hand to move it off my thigh, but Bill was stubborn and used his strength to keep it there.

Even though my legs were together and my knees were touching, Bill wormed his hand in between them, and I had little choice but to widen my stand, When I moved my legs apart, Bill tapped my ass. Apparently, this was his Neanderthal way of saying thanks. I shrugged and smiled at him. It was too early to make a scene.

I knew I'd have to stand there until Craig started losing. He was having an extraordinary streak of good luck. Craig's hand went to my other thigh, the one near to him. Both hands gradually moved up my legs as I stood there, and before long they were under my skirt, heading to my panties. They had already found the bare skin above my thigh highs.

Byron saved me. "Hey Gail, can I tear you away from Craig long enough to get me a mojito?" I was grateful. Also, I make a dynamite mojito. It's all about the fresh mint, and how you crush it to release the oils and with them the flavor. Byron added, "Feel free to make yourself a drink, too. It's hot in here." I nodded a thank you.

New York apartments are usually hot in the winter. Landlords supply the heat, and the cost is built into the rent. Typically, it's steam heat with radiators, and that kind of heat is notoriously hard to fine tune. Apartments are either hot, or freezing. If they're too hot, you can always open a window. If they're freezing, all you can do is complain about your landlord. I opened a window in the kitchen. Nobody was going in there but me, anyway.

I made myself a Brandy Alexander, using Byron's top shelf brandy. I returned with my mojito and the Brandy Alexander on my tray. A Brandy Alexander is considered a 'woman's drink' and no self-respecting macho mam would ever order one in a bar. More's the pity for the men, because they're delicious.

Perhaps Steve did not know it's a woman's drink, because when he saw it on the tray, he asked if he could have it. I gave it to him. After that, I amused myself by making all sorts of cocktails on speculation, and every single time one of the men asked for it. So I had nothing to drink, but I was fine with that.

Well, truth be told, I tasted every cocktail before bringing it out, and after a while I had a nice buzz going. The men kept wanting me to stand near them to bring them luck, or that's what they said. The other theory is that they wanted to feel me up. I did seem to bring them luck, and they had quite a bit of success at feeling me up, too.

At first I stood with my legs together. M y knees became the best of friends. But each and every time, the men would gently push my legs apart, going for the expensive real estate of my inner thighs, above my thigh highs and close to my love box. I always let them do this. I got nice tips for my behavior, and that was my goal.