My Wife's Big Mouth

I stood there unmoved, shooting Rocco a blank stare. I know he wanted me to ask him what the fuck a "Forty-Way Parlay" is, but I wasn't going to do it. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction, the officious little prick. Besides, I knew he would explain it whether I asked or not. He had no choice. Bridget told him to... and she was holding his leash. That put a thin smile on my face. I guess you can be a bitch even if you got bitches.

But even leashed, collared and licking Bridget's cunt, Rocco was no tame little pet, I reminded myself. He was still all man. The course black hair that blanketed his back, shoulders, chest and balls. The motley gray beard. The lines in his face. The gaudy jewelry on his neck, wrists and pinky finger. The mysterious danger he projected, like a coiled snake, appearing relaxed but ready to strike. Rocco's masculine aura filled the room as he gave me that lopsided grin. The hair on my neck stood on end.

Then I felt something hit me in the arm. Bridget had flung it at me. I reached down and picked up what looked like a playing card from a casino, only it was slightly larger and made from stiffer stock. The back of the card was covered in black velvet and embossed with the "MasterBettors" insignia, written in an elegant silver script.

"That's a challenge card," Rocco said as I flipped it over in my hand. I had seen something similar once at a bachelor party. We had these cards with bawdy "dares" printed on them that we had to complete throughout the night. Stupid shit like "Snog a woman for 30 seconds," "Get a sexy selfie from a chick at the bar" or "Take a photo of the groom squeezing a pair of tits."

The front side of the card featured the same silver script as the back. Without thinking, I began reading it out loud. "Make the bitch bar--," I said, before realizing my mistake and stopping short. The fresh humiliation left my face feeling sunburned.

Rocco sucked his teeth then continued. "If I get Chesty to do 40 challenge cards on video between now and the Pee Wee Classic, then Bridget will --"

After an unsparing tug on the leash, Rocco corrected himself. "-- then Mistress Bridget will wipe out my debts. That's the Forty-Way Parlay. You can keep the card in your hand, Mike," he added, his eyes crinkling and the hint of a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. "I already made your wife do that one. It was easy," he said. As if that throw-away line wasn't humiliating enough, he punctuated it with a loud, undignified impression of a bitch moaning in heat.

My face was on fire.

"Don't worry, darling," Bridget drawled, one hand resting lazily on Rocco's head. "Your Mistress has no intention of making this easy... for any of you," she added, making sure both Bob and I saw the resolve in her eyes. Bob immediately looked down at his feet -- or maybe he was looking at his caged dick, I sniggered to myself. I didn't flinch. I locked eyes with Bridget.

That's when she flicked another challenge card at me, hitting me in the chest. As I bent down to pick it up, she pelted me with what must have been a fistful, all of which ended up scattered across the floor. I ignored her provocation and went about calmly picking them up one by one. I made a show of tucking the cards into a pile without reading them, although I did catch a glimpse of what was written on one card that landed face up. "Slap the bitch before she eats cunt," it read, the finely-crafted calligraphy lending an air of dignity to the crude content.

Rocco did that to Cindy last night, too, I realized. I could still hear the fat thwack! of his greasy palm hitting her cheek -- followed by lascivious slurps from my wife's tongue on Bridget's sex. That's another challenge under his belt. Fuck! The Forty-Way Parlay was down to 38. A vein at my temple began to throb. I quickly counted the cards in my hand. Ten. I know that Rocco has succeeded with at least two of them, probably more. I bet one of these cards says, "Fuck the bitch while dunking her head underwater." But even if every card that I'm holding is already completed right down to the last letter, that would still mean that this unreconstructed man-ape intends to satisfy 30 more sexual challenges with my wife in the next few weeks -- whatever filth the depraved mind of Mistress Bridget can dream up -- and all of it will be on video. I felt a freezing cold, stabbing pain at the crown of my skull as the weight of the situation sank in. Bridget had maneuvered my precious wife into a misogynist's crosshairs.

"So what is the 'one thing' that I can do?" I asked, unable to hide my desperation. I needed to get the fuck out of this house. It felt like the walls were closing in on me. All I could think about was how to get my wife away from these despicable creatures. Nothing else mattered. But the more I thought about my next move, the faster the room shrank around me. There has to be a revealing pun in there somewhere -- maybe something like, "I need to see a shrink because everything I see is shrinking?" -- but my mind was too troubled to find it. I wasn't in the mood.

Bridget didn't answer right away. Evidently she wanted to savor my submission. Little did she realize that I had no intention of submitting. In that moment, I knew fate had gifted me a second chance to decide whether I was going to fight for my wife's honor, like a man, or emasculate myself again by hiding in the shadows, dick in hand, while Cindy gets pounded out by Rocco in 30 different ways. My jaw clenched and I felt my own resolve harden. This time, I was determined to protect my wife's virtue with every cell in my body. Cindy tells her young patients that, "Lessons in life will be repeated until they are learned." I was going to learn this fucking lesson or die trying.

Bridget snapped her fingers, which sent Rocco scurrying, the leash dragging comically behind him. He came back in a moment with a stack of papers, which he unceremoniously shoved at me. I didn't bother looking at them.

"The 'one thing' you can do," Bridget said slowly, making no effort to conceal her contempt, "is whatever I say, whenever I say it. If you don't want that hot tub video to transform your wife from a respected doctor into Chesty Rosen, the most notorious cock hound on the planet, then you're going to sign those papers and do whatever the fuck you're told."

Steeling my nerves, I fired back at Bridget with an intensity that caught her off guard.

"Do whatever I'm told?" I asked acidly. "You're on camera raping my wife -- both of you!" I gestured toward Rocco. "Cindy was wasted when you fucked in the hot tub, so she couldn't consent. That video is proof of the crime! And putting it on your stupid fucking website will be another crime. Cindy never signed a consent form. That plus the rape will ruin both of you -- if you aren't in prison."

Bridget swallowed hard and stopped stroking Rocco's head. She looked ashen. Soon she was fidgeting with her stack of challenge cards. Most of them, like the ones I was now holding, were black, but as she shuffled the deck between her hands, I saw that two cards were red and one was gold. I expected to hear some push back from Bridget or Rocco, but they were momentarily stunned into silence, so I just kept right on lambasting them until I was in high dudgeon.

"Cindy will testify to it being rape, too," I said confidently, "because her choice is that or being a divorced porn star who doesn't get to see our son. You?" I squinted my eyes and stared Bridget down. Looking her in the face, I could feel her sensual allure. I wouldn't say Bridget is beautiful like my wife, but she is hot. She exudes sex. I had to ignore that heavy-lidded fuck-me look in her eyes in order to stay focused on scaring her senseless. "Eventually, after the full impact of the legal stuff hits, you'll be stricken with remorse, and commit suicide. I'll make sure of it. Rocco?" I turned to the contemptible chode wearing the chunky black dog collar. "You'll become somebody's prison bitch. I'll pay to make sure that happens. Your sons? Both of them will probably end up in foster care, embittered towards their parents. They'll hate you so much they'll change their last names. Who knows...." My voice trailed off as I struggled with intrusive thoughts of Cindy wearing Ricky's jersey in the hot tub, the name "Sarducci" splashed across her back. "...maybe Cindy and I will adopt your boys," I continued, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "They can grow up as Jack and Ricky Rosen."

I saw the muscles in Rocco's neck twitch and his eyes cloud with anger. He looked like he might lunge off the couch at me, but Bridget held firm to his leash, keeping him at bay. Bob stood in the corner saying nothing. That clamp around his dick might as well have been on his tongue.

It was Bridget who finally responded, speaking softy, making me strain to hear her. "Interesting that raising Rocco's son is on your mind," she said darkly. "I wonder what that says about you?" Her words came out like poison ivy leaves, oily with toxin. "And I wonder what you will say when my lawyer asks where you were and what you were doing while your wife was getting 'raped,' as you put it?"

I was about to defend myself, but she silenced me with a wave of her hand. "It doesn't matter," Bridget said dismissively, her voice growing louder. "The sex was consensual and so was the video. Chesty was happy to sign a release before she left. But of course she used her government name -- her first day in the industry and the woman is already a pro. See for yourself."

I glanced down at the pile of papers that Rocco had pushed in front of me. It appeared to be a contract. I skimmed through it, but I couldn't understand much of the legalese -- the text was full of opaque terms like "name, image and likeness," "personal services" and "specific performance." When I reached the last page, however, my heart seized. I immediately recognized my wife's signature.

"Chesty may have had a few drinks, but you'll never prove that she was so impaired as to be incapable of giving consent," Bridget droned on, but I was only half-listening as I continued staring at my wife's signature in disbelief. It looked legitimate. Cindy had even added the initials "M.D." after her name, although the illegible handwriting was proof enough that she had completed medical school. There is no way that Cindy understood that arcane contract any more than I did, especially in her inebriated condition, but she could have signed it without reading. She probably doesn't remember. She gets impulsive when she drinks. She agreed to a wager with Rocco before even asking the terms, after all. I felt my testicles retracting into my abdomen.

"I want your signature next to your wife's, Mr. Rosen," Bridget said, her voice small and quiet again. "And I can get it, one way or another. But I'm willing to be a sport about this. Let's make a bet. I say that your wife used those big cans of hers to convince the coaches to let Sam skip try-outs." Bridget glowered at Bob before finishing. "You say that never happened. Let's pull the security footage from the ice rink on the day of try-outs. That's when she came in to ask for an exemption, right? If the footage shows nothing, then I'll rip up this contract, delete the video from last night and...," Bridget stalled for time as she tried to think of something to sweeten the pot, then smiled, "...and hand you my bitch's leash for a day."

That piqued my interest. A scowl deformed Rocco's gravelly face. Apparently the idea of letting an effete liberal cuckboy such as myself lead him around like a labradoodle was more than the man could stand. I had my own misgivings about this bet. I knew I shouldn't let Bridget bait me into this, but what choice did I really have? Ever since my wife opened her big mouth to bet with Rocco, fortune's needles had been busy knitting me into a perfect trap. This bet with Bridget might let me unravel it all... and get a measure of revenge. Or it might be the final stitch in my fate, binding me forever to the life of a cuckold. "And what if the footage proves you right?" I asked, an eddy stirring in my gut.

"Well, I'm sure this is all just my mistake, and Cindy really is the perfect little wife," Bridget began. She clearly did not believe that, but her tone was flat, with no obvious trace of sarcasm. "But let's let the tape decide. 'Trust but verify,' right? What do you say, Mr. Rosen? Do we have an understanding?"

Bridget gave me a strange look, almost like she was trying to seduce me. Her eyes were wide and dewey and she was gently biting her lower lip in anticipation.

I paused to consider everything she said. No one spoke. The silence was pregnant.

Bridget broke it. While I pondered, she snapped at Rocco, ordering him off the couch like he was a dog with dirty paws. Watching him obediently take a place down by Bridget's feet on the floor, I found myself bewitched by this lithe young woman who could make that unruly animal come to heel. She was undeniably sexy. But if she thought we had an understanding, when she never answered my question, then once again she was mistaken. "And what if the footage proves you right?" I repeated.

Bridget shrugged, still looking at me lustily. "Isn't this a sure thing for you, Mr. Rosen? You're betting on your wife's virtue... surely you're not worried about losing."

"I'm not worried," I lied. "I just want to make an informed decision."

"In that case, Mr. Rosen, here is some more information for you to consider," Bridget said in a studious manner, folding her hands in her lap. "When MasterBettors was still in the pre-seed funding stage, we hired a research team for a project on female sexuality. One of their key findings was that women who are looking for a mate dress to attract -- they display a lot of flesh. Women who want to be noticed wear skimpy tops, low cut to emphasize their tits, their skirts are short to showcase their shapely thighs and full asses and they wear high heels to accentuate their curves. The research team also found that once women were successfully paired with a compatible male, one they felt could give them what they wanted, they would then dress to cover up all of their flesh. It effectively meant they were off the market."

"What's your point?" I asked curtly. "If you want to give fashion advice, maybe start with your husband. What the fuck is he dressed to attract?" I nodded toward the corner of the room, where Bob stood red-assed, wearing nothing but a golden cock cage. Despite my question, I knew Bridget's point. She was reminding me that my wife never dresses like she is trying to attract male attention. She habitually covers up like a happily married woman whose sexy body is for her husband's eyes only. Cindy has the most zaftig set of breasts a man could hope to bury his face in, but she buttons every blouse all the way to the top. So why am I scared to take this bet?

Bridget ignored the barbs I tossed at Bob and extended her hand in my direction. "Do we have a bet, Mr. Rosen?"

I knew there was no way out. I could feel my airway tighten. I might as well be the one wearing the dog collar -- Bridget had me by the throat. She had my wife on video getting rawdogged by Rocco and she even had my wife's signature on a contract. But one thing bothered me. "If you have my wife's signature, then why do you need mine?" Blurting my suspicion out loud was not the most artful approach, I admit, but it was direct.

Bridget smiled, but her bared teeth betrayed a hint of the hostility that she had otherwise managed to hide. "I don't need your signature," she asserted with a convincing indifference. "I already have your wife's. This isn't 1855." Rocco gave a little snort, but Bridget kept talking. "Would I like to have both signatures, out of an abundance of caution? Sure. It doesn't hurt to be extra safe. You know, 'belt and suspenders.'"

Those three little words hit me like a wind tunnel. I wasn't just hearing them. I could actually feel what Bridget was saying. But I couldn't let her distract me from my mission. If I was going to protect my wife, I needed to keep my wits about me. "And what if the footage proves you right?" I managed to ask again, my voice shaky, like it might blow away along with the rest of me.

This time, she finally answered the damn question. "If the security footage shows your wife exploiting the coaches' childlike fixation on boobies," Bridget began, affecting the speech pattern of a dim-witted child, "then I want you to sign the contract next to your wife's name. That's it for the heavy lifting. The only other thing I'll need is some light cooperation."

I raised an eyebrow. "What is that exactly?"

"Mostly it's staying out of Rocco's way. When he is with Cindy, you will let her do what she wants. You will not interfere. In fact, you will confide to Cindy that it turns you on to see her with Rocco."

"How the fuck will you know what I confide to my wife?" I exploded, still smarting from the suggestion that Cindy is some calculating bimbo who uses her big boobs to bend men to her will.

"Because you're going to be wearing a body cam," Bridget answered calmly.

"Wired up like Big Pussy, the fookin' rat!" Rocco said, adding flavor text with his hand gestures.

Bridget appeared amused by the comparison. "Yes, like Big Pussy," she chuckled. "I will need to confirm that you aren't trying to cock block this big ol' bull over here. That's where the body cam comes in. Like I said, trust but verify."

I couldn't believe this was real. Just a moment ago, I felt powerful enough to threaten the lot of them with bankruptcy, prison and worse. Now I was very nearly reduced to accepting Bridget's bargain. My heart was heavy.

As I rocked on waves of shame and anger, Bridget gave me a gimlet eye. I worried that she was losing patience, but when she spoke, it was not to rebuke me, but to feed the kitty. "I'll make three more concessions to you, Mr. Rosen, but then the bet is final. Take it or don't."

I nodded my head, tacitly agreeing that negotiations were over.

"First," she said, with an air of noblesse oblige, "no coercion. As long as you give Rocco a fair chance to complete his challenges, he won't force Cindy to do anything. And your body camera will ensure his compliance as well as your own."

I nodded again.

"Second, let's make this a true Forty-Way Parlay. All or nothing. If Rocco falls short by even one challenge, I'll take the loss and delete every single video."

I nodded again. more vigorously this time.

"And third," Bridget said sweetly, "pick your poison." She fanned out the cards in her hand with the gold card directly in the middle, flanked by a red card on either side. The gold card stood the tallest, extending upward like a raised middle finger. "If you accept the bet, pick Rocco's next challenge card," she said cloyingly, pouring syrup on every syllable.

I tried to remain stoic, but my body betrayed me in a hundred ways and I was suddenly aware, all at once, of every one of them. I couldn't even reach for a card without my hand shaking like a leaf. I avoided the gold and reds, browsing the row of black cards with my finger.

"Wait," said Bridget, "before you pick, remember your body camera." She kicked Rocco, who labored to his feet to fetch the device. It turned out to be a small necklace with a round reflective black bulb on the end, vaguely resembling a fish eye. I reached my hand out for it, but Bridget insisted that Rocco fasten it around my neck. "The clasp is delicate," she explained. I felt like his fucking prom date.

"At least it's inconspicuous," I said, trying to ease the tension. "As necklaces go, I've seen worse." Evidently that shot wasn't as subliminal as I had hoped because Rocco responded in kind.

"If you like that, you'll love the pearl necklace I hang on your wife," he said through grit teeth.