Solving a Gambling Debt
Loving Wives Story

Solving a Gambling Debt

by Author_ate_granger 17 min read 4.0 (23,400 views)
cucold husband wife sex erotic erotica cheating hotwife
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"You'll gamble everything we have, sweetheart."

"I need to win big just once, then I'll get everything back, Chloe."

"You won't win because the odds are stacked against you, but I can't talk you out of this, so I'll wait at the bar."

If I stayed, my husband and I would quarrel in front of others, and I didn't want that. As I turned to walk away, my heart sank, shoulders slumped, and anxiety choked me. My head buzzed, filled with fearful thoughts of debt collectors visiting our home and a neverending spiral of bad credit score issues plaguing our lives.

Lance was eternally convinced the next hand would be his route back to riches, but every week, when our local casino was shut to regular punters and my husband joined the high rollers for a private game, the same thing happened.

My husband always lost big. Every time, someone gave him more credit, and he lost that, too.

Lance's gambling disaster ran our lives for nearly a year, and now, we had practically nothing left. I couldn't stop him even though most of our income came from my job as an executive in a specialized beverage import/export conglomerate.

Every time we quarreled, Lance issued me an ultimatum of divorce or support him. I'd been steadfastly behind him so far, but frankly, I was wavering these days. Our marriage was important, and his proposed abandonment of it was a manifestation of his gambling addiction. I couldn't give up on my husband without a fight, but I felt jaded.

We married young. I was twenty-four, Lance was two years older, and, honestly, even though many people said it wouldn't last, everything was great in the beginning. Now, with six years invested in each other, we were both tired, clinging to love, and flat-broke.

I reached the bar, sliding my fingers along the solid mahogany slab while hauling myself into a luxurious leather stool. My figure-hugging, ankle-length, black satin dress fell aside at the leg split, but nobody saw since it was a private evening.

I stared at the highly polished bar counter, which came from a tree over a hundred years old, and pleaded for some wisdom to be imparted to me. When the barman, a friend, slipped a coaster in front of me, I looked up, feeling weary, and he smiled sympathetically.

"Would you like a drink, Chloe? It's on the house."

"Yeah, I'll take a mineral water, please, Harry. Ice and a slice."

"I see Lance is in the red again."

"Yup. He won't be done until we lose everything."

"Why do you put up with it?"

"Sometimes the only way out of a car crash is to start your escape after the vehicle stops rolling, Harry."

A round of applause rippled through the players and a few guests observing them. My heart soared because it signified a big win, and I glanced across the room hopefully. My husband remained slumped in his chair, looking every inch the sad, lonely loser he appeared to have become.

I glanced back at Harry, who looked sad for me. He turned away, leaving me alone in my misery. I sighed, rolled my eyes, and readied to collect my husband, ease his pain, and count our losses.

"Just before you leave, Chloe, may I say something?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You need to leave, Lance. I hate saying it, but I've seen these guys habitually lose so many times that they never rise again. They don't stop gambling until their life's curtain comes down, and in his case, you'll get dragged along."

"Thanks, Harry. It's fair advice, and I appreciate it. I'll be seeing you around, probably here, next week and thanks for the drink."

I collected Lance from the gaming table, holding his trembling hand tightly. I prayed he could restrain the tears already welling in his eyes just long enough for me to get him through the front door.

A familiar voice shouted my name as we walked through the casino foyer.

"Hey, Chloe, can I have a word, please?"

I whirled around with my husband, who followed me in a slower orbit, turning like an oceangoing tanker. My old school friend Simon smiled when he approached with an arm outstretched.

For a moment, my shame and anxiety dissolved through the comfort of seeing an old friend. For a fleeting moment, I wasn't broke and steering my distraught husband out of the place.

"Hi Simon, it's lovely to see you. What's up?"

He didn't offer a hand to shake. Instead, Simon kept walking, gripped my elbow, and ushered me behind the reception desk toward a door.

"Come with me, please, Chloe. It's a private matter."

"Private to you and me or private, including Lance, too?"

"Both of you, please."

The smile was suddenly gone, and Simon sounded and looked intense. I knew something was awry, but I kept my calm because I couldn't imagine his concern might be about me.

Simon and I grew up together and had been friends for years. We dated in high school but never got past first base. We lost touch during college years, then met again when I began working as a buyer of expensive whisky while he worked at the casino.

When Simon appeared disinterested in catching up, I had a couple of romances, primarily through work. Then I met Lance, and well, the rest is history. He hurriedly led us down an office corridor, and my anxiety returned.

"Where are we going, Simon?"

"To my office. It's just around the next corner."

When we arrived, I was agog. Simon's office was luxurious, and it became clear that he had fared well. A brass plate on a wood sign at the front edge of his desk announced his position as the managing director. Framed photographs on the wall identified him and the other three part owners of the casino.

With two thousand slot machines and three hundred tables, the casino was a big deal, and its owner/manager had an office suite fit for a king. While Simon organized himself, I strolled around the room, taking in framed photos of him with visiting celebrities and charities to whom the casino donated.

The sofas were plush, baby blue Italian leather and the carpets were brilliant white, to the extent that I felt guilty wearing shoes. Simon's wooden furniture, including his desk and a conference table, was all matched, probably cut from the same giant mahogany tree in the rainforest.

"Wow, Simon. This is the most gorgeous office I've ever seen."

"Sit down, please, both of you. Would you like coffee or anything else to drink?"

"No, thanks."

I noticed he didn't pursue my husband for a response, but I sat down to hear my old friend out despite a rising irritation that I was being controlled. Lance browsed collectible sports memorabilia on display in a well-lit, fancy wood and glass cabinet.

My old friend stared at me as though he didn't know where to start, which prompted my palpitations. I grinned, frowned, and clasped my hands together.

"You're scaring me, Simon."

"Lance owes a hundred thousand dollars, Chloe."

"Oh fuck. I thought it was ten grand."

"Nope, ask him if you need confirmation."

My husband hadn't batted an eyelid, admiring a tatty baseball in a presentation box on a table. My heart pounded against an aching rib cage as the room swirled. I felt deceived and clinging to love by a thread.

"Lance?"

"Lance?"

"Lance?"

On the third time of asking, he spun around with a profoundly apologetic expression. He heard the first time, but my husband chose to ignore me.

"Sorry, babe. I didn't hear. These trophies are so awesome and must be worth a fortune."

"We have a problem to deal with."

"What's up, Chloe?"

"Did you hear what Simon said?"

"Yeah. Kind of."

"How will you pay the debt off?"

"Umm, well. It's, umm. Why don't you ask Simon?"

I turned from my stupidly nonchalant husband towards Simon. By now, both men had angered me, and I was sure my old friend knew. My husband had turned away again, but something about his answer gnawed at me.

"What does he mean, Simon?"

"Your husband has offered you in exchange for canceling the debt, Chloe."

It felt like someone had opened my skull and squeezed lime onto my brain. My face contorted in pain and anguish as I tried and failed several times to process and comprehend what Simon had just said. I sat straight, closed my legs tightly, and glanced from one man to another.

"Fucking, come again?"

"Lance has offered you in repayment of the debt."

"In what way has my husband offered me?"

Oh, come on, Chloe. You know what the bastard did.

My head snapped from one guy to the other as though I were spectating a tennis final. My stomach churned, and I felt lightheaded as the ramifications of Simon's words coalesced into a meaning that terrified me.

"Lance has offered you in a sexual way to cancel out his debt."

Each word was a hammer blow to my soul, smashing another massive dent in my marriage. I felt like a common whore, traded by a brothel owner for anyone with enough money to fuck me. Tears welled in my eyes, and I tore tissues from a box Simon handed me, soaking up the pain that rolled down my cheeks.

"To whom did my husband offer me?"

"Lance agreed to hand you over to a wealthy man holding his debt."

"And this man wants to fuck me?"

"It's not my place to say, Chloe."

"I need a fucking name, Simon. Who is it?"

"Peter Ingram."

"I've never heard of him."

I combed my near, mid, and long-term memory, recalling six Peter's in my life, none of them wealthy or with the surname Ingram. This situation wasn't born of an unrequited love of anyone I knew, so I imagined his desire to fuck me was about revenge over my husband or a simple kinky fixation.

"He's a local gangster, Chloe."

"Fucking hell. I won't do it. This is on Lance. He's a stupid wanker and needs to sort his debt out. I'm not fucking anyone for money like some cheap whore."

"One hundred thousand dollars isn't cheap."

"Fuck off, Simon. You know what I meant."

Simon stood up, came around his desk, and sat beside me on a leather sofa. I shook with anger and fear about Lance's deceit. I saw he was upset, too, but not for the same reasons as I was. When my husband knelt before me, tears rolled down his face.

"Peter will kill me if you don't do this, Chloe."

"Why, Lance? Why the fuck would you do this to us, to me?"

He bowed in shame, and tears rolled down his cheeks, falling onto Simon's beautiful white carpet.

"I never thought it would come to this. I honestly believed my luck would change."

I let go of my husband's hands, unable to contain myself in the face of his awful betrayal of me and our marriage. I stared at Simon, praying he had another solution, but his expression was blank.

"Is there any other way?"

"Can you or Lance access one hundred thousand dollars?"

"Fuck no!"

"Then this seems to be your only option, Chloe."

"How many times must I sleep with this guy, Peter, is it?"

"Peter wants one night with you upstairs in the penthouse tonight, and everything is prepared."

I recoiled in horror, pushing my husband away in disgust as though doing so might solve the problem.

"Did you know about this, Lance? Is that why I'm here tonight? As payment for your bad debt in case you lost?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Chloe. Can we get through this, please?"

"It's too fucking late to say I'm sorry, you disgusting bastard. You have offered your woman, who has only made love to you since we met, to another man. How fucked up is that?"

I wagged my finger in his face, began hyperventilating, and collapsed back on the sofa, sobbing. Simon sprung up, ran to his desk, and rummaged in a drawer. I grabbed the paper bag he opened and breathed deeply into it until my heart and lungs settled, avoiding a collapse.

I looked at the bag, which was perfect for the purpose, then stared at Simon.

"Who keeps a paper bag in their office desk drawer?"

"Someone who needs it frequently as you do, Chloe."

Simon's expression was soft and kind, which was little consolation for a married woman about to be defiled by a stranger to pay off her husband's debt. I melted into the sofa and stared at the flawless white ceiling, praying for an epiphany that would lead our marriage away from infidelity.

When I studied my husband, I saw a gambling addict desperate to relinquish a debt regardless of the consequences. There was no point in quarreling, interrogating, or trying to comprehend Lance.

I had to choose. Either walk away or stay and save my husband's life.

"If I agree, what happens, Simon?"

"Security will take Lance upstairs first to get him settled, then Peter will arrive at the hotel, and my team will take you up to meet him."

"Why's Lance going to be there?"

"Peter wants to teach him a lesson."

"So do I. It's not a bad idea, but having my husband watch me being fucked by a stranger is pretty extreme."

"It might work for all three of you. Lance watching Peter make love to you may be the tonic that cures his addiction."

"Will Peter physically hurt my husband?"

"No. That's not his way. He wants to make love to you."

"Why me?"

"You'll have to ask him."

I sighed deeply. Lance had picked himself up off the floor and looked like a desperate, pathetic worm sitting on a wing-back chair opposite me. The thoughts that someone would pay a hundred grand to fuck me echoed in my head. Even the most expensive quasi-celebrity hookers and Instagram whores only cost up to ten grand.

I suddenly felt lifted, albeit in a very sleazy fashion. I stood up, strolled over to my husband, and cupped his chin in my palm, eyeballing him.

"Do you realize this man will want to cum inside me?"

"You could ask Peter to wear a condom, Chloe."

"I hate condoms. It seems to me you should have thought about that before agreeing to a stranger planting his seed in my womb."

"You're taking birth control."

"Is nothing sacred to you, Lance? Nobody else has been inside me since we met."

"Sorry, Chloe."

"Yeah, you said that, but it doesn't mean much right now."

I turned to face Simon, who still had sympathy writ large all over his face. I tried to be pragmatic. There was no other way to quickly sidestep Lance's debt because we had nothing left to sell.

"So I'm to lose my dignity at the hands of a sordid pervert?"

"I don't think Peter is anything like that, Chloe, and fair exchange is no robbery."

"One hundred grand for one night with my pussy. I should be honored I fetched such a high price."

I shook my head in exasperation, and Simon offered me his brown paper bag again. I nodded politely, and gently declined by waving a hand, appreciating my friend was the messenger and that I shouldn't shoot him.

"What does Peter want from me? I mean, specific details?"

"No holds barred lovemaking."

"Hold on, Simon, that could be fucking dangerous for me. I don't do anal, and there are limits to what any girl can cram down her throat."

"Not really, because you can back out of this deal at any time."

"Ah, okay... I'm guessing that Peter then withdraws his offer to cancel my husband's debt?"

"No. Once you step into the penthouse, payment of Lance's debt is guaranteed."

I mulled it over, feeling calmer. Peter Ingram was giving me some element of control in this deal, and actually, the decision to fuck him was mine. He distanced me from my husband's debt absolution by a few voluntary steps across a Penthouse floor.

I kept glancing at Lance, feeling little except hate for my poor treatment at his hands.

"Honey, look at me."

"Yes, Chloe?"

"Is this the only way to clear your debt?"

"I'm afraid so, yes."

I glanced sideways at Simon, and his nodding head confirmed it.

"Okay. Let's do it."

Simon's security team took five minutes to arrive and collect my husband. I was surprised and slightly annoyed when they handcuffed him before leading a seemingly contrite Lance out of the office.

"He'll be restrained throughout this transaction, Chloe."

"Fucking hell, that's a bit scary, Simon."

"Peter doesn't want this cuckolding to be disrupted."

"Cuckolding?"

"We should probably call it what it is, right?"

I shook the idea from my head because my body tingled just thinking about how taboo our behavior was. My panties felt warm, and somewhere deep inside my womb, the tiniest tickling had begun.

"Can you tell me more about this guy, please? Am I to be disgusted with myself for having fucked the devil for the rest of my life?"

"Peter is not a devil. I rather like him. Maybe you will, too."

"I doubt that."

"Do you want a drink? Something to calm your nerves."

"Okay. Yes, please."

Simon strolled over to a small bar at one end of his office and fixed me a drink. I was surprised when I sniffed it and instantly recognized the amber nectar.

"That's at least a forty-year-old malt. If I weren't so terrified and with my nerves torn apart, I'd say it was Fettercairn."

"Your nose has never let you down before, Chloe. You nailed it."

I rested back on the sofa, enjoying a generous shot of a seven thousand dollar, forty-something-year-old Scottish Highlands Malt. It calmed my nerves, taking the edge off a very anxious frame of mind.

The amber nectar surged through my body, invigorating me. It also made it into my pussy lips, engorging them, embarrassing me.

"You're blushing, Claire."

"It's the whisky. May I have another one, please?"

"Take the whole bottle, sweetheart. I'm sorry this happened to you."

"Are you sure? This is a fucking excellent and expensive malt."

"You're worth that and much more, Chloe. Collect it before you leave. I'll also have a car waiting outside to whisk you home when you're done. Anything I can do to make this easier for you is my pleasure."

"You could sign a cheque for a hundred grand?"

"I wish it were so simple."

"At least make my husband walk home."

We both chuckled, and I poured another shot of the most expensive whisky I'd ever drunk. My backpacking years after university took me to France and Scotland, where I had jobs working in vineyards and distilleries.

I had the nose and palette. Two years later, upon returning stateside, I was employed by a multinational as an expert in sourcing expensive whisky, brandy, and wines, and eighteen months after that, I returned to Europe six times a year as the group executive buyer.

As I eased further into the bottle, my attention turned to the past and Simon.

"Why weren't you interested in me after college?"

"I can't answer that, Chloe."

A polite knock at the door disengaged me from our conversation, and I turned to see that the security team had returned. I downed my whisky in one hit and glanced at Simon.

"No handcuffs for me, okay?"

"Of course not."

Our journey to the penthouse was brief. I was ushered into a luxurious VIP elevator with Ella Fitzgerald's beautiful voice wafting gently through. I felt taken by the moment, licking my lips while enjoying the afterflavor of an excellent malt. My panties were warm and damp to the extent that a tiny, tawdry bead of my shame dribbled out of a drenched gusset, zig-zagging its way down my thigh.

The security guards and I exchanged no words, and I didn't look at them, terrified their olfactory senses would pick up on my arousal. One guy's nose twitched, but he never connected that to my wet pussy, brushing with his finger as though admonishing an itch.

When I stepped off the elevator alone into a darkened room, I was surprised the door quickly shut behind me. Simon's security team disappeared behind rapidly closing steel doors, and I was suddenly alone.

I stepped forward, feeling like a small girl in the forest after dark when wolves were about. The room was completely silent, except for my tapping my heels on solid wood.

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

I heard a muffled, choking cry from somewhere in the darkness, so I looked around for a light switch. Before I could press it, a dim, red architectural light turned the room into a deep, hellish hue.

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