2

This story is presented in a total of five parts. There is this second part of this chapter 2A, and there is a two part chapter 2B. I think the story hangs together fine on its own, but I think having read the stories

Roberta & Patrick's Bet

and

Roberta's Bet

will increase your enjoyment of this story. The story is complete and all installments have been submitted so hopefully you should be able to begin reading the story and have an installment to read each day to the story's conclusion. As always your comments and observations are very welcome.

Roberta & Patrick's Next Bet – Chapter 2A – Part 2

Roberta turned as she went. "I'm going to take a nice bath, and you can come with me to the bathroom. You have another little task that needs doing to pay off your bet, don't you?" She was smiling and laughing again as she turned and walked toward the bathroom.

I followed her and as she turned on the water to fill the tub I reached into the chest above the sink and took out some small scissors and a razor. With Roberta smiling at me I sat on the toilet and began using the scissors to cut away my pubic hair.

I had not been engaged in this activity for more than a few seconds when Roberta said, "Let me have that razor. You know what the advice columnists all say: set some boundaries."

And she proceeded to use the razor to shave away a razor's-width of hair across my thighs about half way to my knees. She then shaved the hair from another strip that had its upper edge at my navel, all the way across my body.

"There," she said. "You can just get rid of all the hair inside those borders."

"Why so much?" I asked, an obviously absurd question.

"Because that's what I want," she said; an obvious answer. "You bet your pubes on this game, and that's how I want them shaved. Now get to work before I decide you're shaving to your ankles and your armpits."

I don't suppose this was strictly within the terms of the bet, but, really, why make an issue of it?

There was really no arguing so I continued to chop with the scissors through the densest of my pubes, finally leaving nothing but stubble. Then I slathered on some shaving cream, wet the razor, and began shaving the stubble off to leave only bare skin. This really did not take more than a few minutes. Although I think it took a bit longer than it really had to because I had a raging boner to work around, and I couldn't help but indulge myself: while Roberta's eyes were closed I stroked my shaft a bit every now and then, giving myself little jolts of pleasure.

When I had finished I was shocked at how stark and defenseless my genitals looked. All the hair was gone from the front of my body from my navel to mid-thigh on both sides.

"OK?," I asked Roberta.

She had reclined in the tub, her eyes closed, relaxing. She opened her eyes. They focused on me standing a few feet away. Her eyes got wide and she burst out laughing.

"Oh my good heavens!" she exclaimed through her laughter. "Oh my God! I knew this would be an entertaining sight, but I had no idea." And she began into another loud round of laughter.

I turned to look in the mirror, and was more shocked at the full-length sight than I had been just looking down while seated on the john. My skin for more than a foot was white and smooth, a huge patch of clear cut in the middle of my forest of body hair. My dick, still as hard as ever, was totally hairless and jutting out. It looked defenseless and, even I thought a bit ridiculous totally bald. I had never seen myself naked of pubes since before puberty. Task two was complete.

I calculated that I might just as well go to bed. That would allow me to deprive Roberta, at least for now, of her entertainment. And I could try to get unconscious so I didn't have to think about my unremitting boner and the desire to cum that Roberta had sparked in me.

This night had brought two firsts for me. Tomorrow would also be a new experience. But at least my bet would then be paid in full.

When we had negotiated the terms of our bet we had determined that the last task to pay off the bet would be to cum in public. But the details were left to the winner.

Sunday afternoon we sat in the local high school's auditorium. One of the local dramatic companies rents the facility for their productions and this afternoon was a matinee performance of Ira Levin's

Deathtrap

, playing to a full house. It is wonderful entertainment: no especially deep meanings or symbolism to decipher; just suspense, humor, very entertaining characters, and a nicely constructed plot.

But I hadn't been quite as involved and entertained as I might otherwise have been, anticipating with dread paying off the last part of the bet I had lost.

Finally, Clifford back from the dead and Myra dead of a heart attack (talk about reversals!), the curtain came down and the lights up signaling the end of Act One and intermission.

I felt the tip of Roberta's forefinger under my chin, turning my head and attention from the stage to her eyes.

"Well?" was all she said.

I stood and headed for the men's room, patting the outside right pocket of my sports jacket to make sure the items I required were still there.

The high school's auditorium is located near the main entrance. Because of that location it is large, boasting about ten stalls. Of course, this being the men's room, many of the stalls were empty. Most of the male drama enthusiasts in attendance just needed to piss. However, all four of the stalls that were occupied were at the farthest end, had likely filled from farthest to nearest. So I had to take a stall about in the middle of the row. I would have paid hard cash for that last stall at the end.

I did not have the luxury of waiting for that last stall. My task had to be completed, and I back in my seat, before the curtain went up for Act Two.

I hung my sports jacket on the hook on the door, dropped my trousers and boxers, and sat on the toilet. I could see a little bit of the shoe of the man in the stall to my right. Then the door of the stall on my left opened, and I was soon looking at another piece of shoe. I was surrounded. Other men continuously went by outside the door on their way to and from the urinals.

Precious moments ticking by, I stood halfway up and reached into the pocket of my sports jacket, removing a bottle of liquid lube. I sat back down and squirted a bit on my right hand. I didn't want too much because I wanted to avoid any juicy noises as I did this, wanted just enough to allow my hand to slide over my dick. I held onto the bottle in my left hand in case I needed more.

I looked down at my little hairless poodle. It was limp and slightly shriveled: didn't seem interested in a compulsory jerk-off in a stall of a busy men's room during intermission. But I began stroking it. What else could I do?

To my surprise, Admiral Winky began to rise to the task almost immediately, growing at a very encouraging pace. This looked like it might be easier than I had thought. But then the name Larry Craig flashed into my brain.

Senator Larry Craig, that is.

Republican Senator from Idaho.

The Minneapolis-St.Paul International Airport men's room.

Playing footsy with the undercover vice cop in the next stall.

Mug shots.

Fingerprints.

Plea bargains.

In a Minneapolis minute my dick was doing a convincing imitation of overcooked pasta.

'Damn,' I thought. 'Clear your mind. Associate. Make a connection. Something hot.'

House. Our house. A room. Living room. Coffee Table. Ellen. A bra coming off. E cup tits. Tits doing a fetching little sway. Nipples erect.

Oh, Mister Chubby liked this. He was again finding his footing in a very bold way indeed.

"Oh, my gosh! Would you look at that!"

The voice was right outside the door of my stall. Loud.

Peter the Great deflated like one of those really long balloons they make the balloon animals out of after the fingers pinching it shut are loosed. I expected to hear air spluttering from my dick and see it going flying in great looping circles right out of the stall.

"Isn't that just the cutest picture you've ever seen?" the voice observed. "Three weeks old? This is your second grandkid or your third?"

I tried to reassure myself by remembering that the incidence of heart attack in thirty-eight year old men is not that great. But the knowledge didn't help slow my racing heart.

Damn it. Why couldn't some of all that blood racing through my body make a detour again into my dick?

I closed my eyes; tried to associate again.

Ellen. Up.

Naked. Up.

Coffee table. Up.

Right where I had been last evening with Roberta fucking my ass with a dildo. Down.

Shit.

Start over.

Ellen. Up.

Tied to the guest room bed. Up.

E cup tits. Up.

E cup tits cradling and encircling my dick. Up. Up.

The head of my hard dick poking in and out at the top of Ellen's amazing cleavage. Up. Up.

That first spurt of cum shooting from my crotch cannon onto Ellen's face. Oh, man! Up! Up! And away!

I stood halfway up again; reached into my sports jacket pocket and found the little flat packet.

The lights in the lavatory dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened: the traditional signal for 'The performance is about to resume, so pinch it off and get in here.'

Not giving up the grip I had on Pink Floyd, keeping the stimulation going, my cum boiling and ready to burst out in seconds, I brought the packet to my mouth with my left hand. I ripped the packet open with my teeth and pulled the rubber out, letting the foil wrapper fall into the boxers around my ankles. Quickly I rolled the rubber down my shaft. I was just in time. In seconds cum was spurting, filling the reservoir and leaking down the sides. I squeezed the bottom tight against the shaft of my erection to prevent any of the cum, now swelling the crimped condom slightly, from leaking out.

I kept my mouth and throat wide open, the better to let my breath in and out without engaging my tongue or vocal cords in the process.

But I knew. Somehow I just knew.

I could see the piece of shoe on the other side of the divider in the stall to my right. It was the third shoe to present itself there since I had sat down. And somehow I knew that whoever was wearing that shoe had twigged to what was going on over here.

The toilet over there flushed, the occupant now on his feet. The door of that stall opened and the occupant emerged into the bathroom at large. For just the shortest time his progress slowed as he passed the little gap between my stall's door and the door frame. But by then I was sitting with my forearms over my thighs, an expression of boredom on my face, my shrinking, condom-covered hardon concealed behind my arms.

He proceeded to the sinks and I heard water running, then paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. There were only a few men left in the room at this point, and I knew which footsteps were his, heard them recede toward the door and out.

I pulled the condom from my dick, twisting the end. Again I reached into my sports jacket pocket and pulled from it the tiny plastic food storage container there. I dropped the condom into it and pressed on the air-tight lid. Good, now my cum was less likely to grow mold and would be fresh for weeks and weeks, and freezer-safe too, at least if the Tupperwear advertisements are to be believed.

I was on my feet in a second, pulling my boxers and trousers up, zipping, buttoning; flushed the toilet just for effect. I left the stall and made a perfunctory pass of my hands under the faucet of one of the sinks; I dried my hands on the way to the door and tossed the paper towel and the condom wrapper in the trash as I exited.

As I walked quickly toward the auditorium I sensed something. There were less than half a dozen people still not inside the auditorium yet. Had I noticed with my peripheral vision a man standing off to the side, motionless, his eyes on the portal to the men's room? Fuck him.

I was soon down the wide aisle, the lights inside the auditorium already dimmed. Then I was excusing myself down the row of seats in which we were seated. My ass hit the seat just as the curtain went up, and I handed Roberta the little plastic container. She stowed it in her purse.

She directed a whisper at me, but a loud one, audible for at least a couple rows. "Isn't this just the most fun we've had in a long while?" she asked.

"What? Do you think I stood at the sink and squirted liquid soap from the dispenser into a condom in the middle of a crowded men's room?" I asked.

"Well, I suppose you're right," Roberta said. We were home again and she was holding the condom up to the light, holding it by the opening, swinging it back and forth, the weight of its contents turning it into a little pendulum.

"OK, Sweety. Bet paid. I'm sure it's cum," she said.

"Yeah, and there's more where that came from," I said. I took the condom from her, tossed it in the trash, and pulled her by the hand toward the bedroom.

Our little romp in the bedroom was fun, but I found myself distracted by a thought I hoped would not grow into too much of an obsession: when was I going to manage to win one of these bets?