Thou Shall Not Gamble

Author's note:

please don't rate/comment negatively because you hate the idea of a cheating wife. Only rate and comment negatively simply because you found the plot rubbish or whatever. Cheers :)

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October 5, 2008. 11:00AM.

Warm morning. West-End Street.

Man in red coat arguing with woman in blue dress on the sidewalk.

Dog kept on leash barking at cat, some feet away from woman in dress.

Ahead of her car, truck the size of a house looms.

Nowhere to turn.

Nowhere to run to.

No way to avoid the inevitable.

Helen remembered every nicety of October 5 like the back of her hand. And why shouldn't she? It was the day she had come face-to-face with Death. Stared him in the eyes – bleak, obsidian eyes ... and walked away with her life. Barely.

She had never been that scared before – white, chilling terror seizing her bones and rendering her body useless. No different from a ragdoll, strapped and made to participate in one of those crash tests she'd seen on TV.

The ordeal crumbled her confidence behind the wheel and she had to depend on her husband to take her everywhere, or sit in a bus for hours, sweltering in the musky heat.

Anything to keep her from driving.

But Helen grew tired of the fear. It had consumed her life and she hated it. She hated it so much she was ready to face it. No more running away. Time to stand up. Time to be brave.

So that morning she decided to drive her husband's car to the supermarket; first time in two years since she'd touched a steering wheel. From the outset she worried she wouldn't remember how to, but it all came back to her, like riding a bike. Real easy. The hard part was calming her nerves – she accomplished that by stomping on the fear that crept up whenever she glimpsed a truck.

Then she drove back home, incapable of containing her excitement at her success. She couldn't wait to tell Greg she was back behind the wheel. He had been prodding her for months to take a chance. He'd be very impressed.

The moment Helen crossed the threshold, into her home, her excitement extinguished faster than a candlelight doused with a bucket of water, and a new fear reached forth from the depths of her soul to devour her.

No later than five minutes, she was gagged with a duct tape and tied to a chair in her bedroom. She counted five men in total – three were downstairs; the rest were with her and her husband, Greg. Greg sported a gashed lip, some bruises on his cheeks and a swollen eye.

Helen shuddered from her muffled sobs, tears bouncing down her cheeks with wild abandon. Why had they done this to him? What did they want?

'You know why we're here?' one of the men – a big white man – asked, leaning forward to address Helen eye-to-eye. He had cropped blonde hair and swimming blue eyes, and he reminded Helen of the truck on October 5 – massive, imposing, and frightening. Thick muscles mangled his frame.

Helen shook her head. Her eyes questioned his motive.

'Your husband owes my boss a lot of money. Gambling money,' he said, and chuckled at the surprise on Helen's face. 'You didn't know Greg gambled, did yah?'

Helen turned to Greg. Greg had his gaze fixed on the carpeted floor. She wanted him to look at her and tell her this mad man was lying. Give her a sign. Something. Anything.

But he didn't. He hid from her, corroborating her captor's claim. Helen sobbed harder.

'Hey, it's ok,' the man said, squatting and lifting her chin. 'We can fix this, ok?'

Helen was shocked. Why the compassion?

He must have read the uncertainty in her eyes, because he added: 'I'm not a bad guy. Not usually.'

He stood, got himself a chair and sat facing Helen.

'It so happens that there is one thing I love more than beating the crap out of people for my father,' he said. 'Yeah, my boss is my father. And I can convince him to forget all about Greg's debt ...'

What do you want?

Helen glared at him.

'You know, Greg never told me he was married to a black woman,' the man said, grinning and leering at her. His eyes went straight for her thighs, most of which were exposed, and she felt self-conscious, wishing she could cover herself up. He shifted closer and whispered: 'It's a fetish, you see – this thing I have for black women.'

His warm breath washed over her neck. She shivered, panicky.

'And your thighs ...,' he murmured, dropping his hand on her right thigh and rubbing a little. 'Fuck.'

Helen had thick, sturdy thighs, wide hips and a fat ass. Not unappealing fat – no. The attractive kind. The kind that pulled men to her whenever she walked in tight jeans or skirts. She hated her thighs and ass. They caused way too much trouble. Drew the wrong attention. Attention she did not desire, especially when she worked in a serious, professional environment like

Jackson & Klein

, one of the leading software companies in the country.

She jerked her legs, grunting incoherent curses at her captor. The message was clear: she did not want him touching her.

'Listen,' he said, tracing a finger on her cheek, 'I'm not gonna rape you or anything. If you want, I'll leave. But my father will send someone back. Someone less ... understanding. Your husband owes a lot of money. Think about it – I can make it all go away. All you gotta do is let me tap that.' He licked his lips.

After he was done with her, what was to stop him from coming back later to demand the money Greg owed? Helen didn't trust him. And even if she did, why would she give herself to him? She hated Greg right now. She hated him for putting her in his horrible position, but she could never surrender her body to any man who wasn't her husband. Certainly not

this

man. She'd have to find the money somehow and pay him.

'Where're you gonna get $600,000 from in one day?' the man said with a smirk.

Helen's eyes widened.

What the –? Six hundred what?

She faced Greg. The fucking idiot! He owed $600,000? But

how?

Where was she to get that kind of money?

Her captor saw the helpless confusion bubbling on her face and took his chance again: 'Think. $600,000 – poof! Gone forever. All you have to do is let me in.' He placed his hands on her thighs.

Helen didn't jerk away. She was angry at him, but she was furious at Greg. How could he be so irresponsible and stupid? How could he ruin their lives like this?

You know what? Fuck him.

'What do you say?'

She nodded, though reluctant.

'Greg, you got yourself a very smart woman. You should thank her when I'm done,' her captor said.

Greg said nothing, but he did look up now.

Good. He should watch, Helen thought, vicious fury curling around her heart. Actions had consequences, and this was one of those consequences. He should watch every minute of it and hate himself.

'D – Donovan,' Greg said. 'Please, man. Come on, that's my wife.'

'You know what, Greg, I don't know how a skinny-ass white boy like you got a black bitch like this, but I do know you ain't handling her properly,' her captor – Donovan – said as he took off his tank-top.

Muscles. Huge, bulging muscles everywhere. Streaming all the way from his biceps to his torso. Helen was starting to rethink her decision.

Donovan got rid of his jeans and boxers, and Helen stared in shock at the

thing

hanging between his thighs. Was that a penis or a python?

Right. She had definitely changed her mind. She shook her head at Donovan. She was livid with her husband, but not livid enough to

actually

want to sleep with another man. Certainly not one who carried a penis the size of a thick hardcover book in his pants. She had nodded to spite Greg. She hadn't really meant it.

Donovan wasn't having any of that. He pointedly ignored her blatant decision to renege on their agreement and approached her. By the time he was close enough his dick was erect and double its previous size.

Since Helen's hands were strapped behind the chair and her mouth sealed with a duct tape, her legs were her only weapon of defence. But before she got around to using them Donovan had them in the air. He pushed her so that her chair titled and leaned against the bed, and then he shuffled the hem of her dress higher, revealing her pussy. Helen normally never wore panties with this particular dress. She wished she had today. Not that it would have stopped Donovan.

She braced herself for impact, gritting her teeth and squinting, the way she did when something painful was about to happen to her.

The head of Donovan's bizarre cock parted her pussy lips and forced its way in. Helen grunted with discomfort.

'Come on, man! This isn't fair! You can't do this!' Greg said.

'Shut the fuck up,' Donovan's buddy growled and punched Greg in the face.

Helen would have felt sorry for Greg if she didn't already feel sorry for herself.

Greg, this is your fault. I'll never forgive you for this.

Donovan pushed forward, letting out a heavy moan, and Helen wailed behind the duct tape, her eyes flying wide open. He was further in and still going.

Oh god! Oh god!

Her legs trembled. She felt so uncomfortable and embarrassed.

Donovan was finally in, and he clutched her hips.

'So fucking tight,' he muttered.

Helen gave him a funny, irritable look:

you're as huge as a horse. What did you expect?

Donovan withdrew his waist a bit and shoved forward. Helen expelled a muffled cry. He did it again, and began a slow and steady rhythm.

'Donovan, man, come on – you can't fucking do this! That's my fucking wife, man! Come on, I'll pay you! I'll get the money tomorrow – I swear. Just, please stop, man!'

Yes, please, stop!

Helen gripped the chair. Her moistened pussy made things rather easy and enjoyable for Donovan, because now his slow rhythm had picked up some pace. Their combined weight and vibrating bodies caused the chair to carry on a creaking sound.

I'm not a slut. I'm not a whore. I'm doing this to save my marriage. I'm doing this to save my husband's life,

Helen thought. Then why was she panting like she was running a marathon? Why did her skin tingle where Donovan's fingers dug into her soft, fat ass? Why did her waist twist and her hips buck each time Donovan drove into her? Why did her pussy overflow with white cream?

That's just normal body reaction! I can't control how my body reacts, can I? I can control my mind, and my mind doesn't want this!

Without warning, Donovan untied Helen's hands and hoisted her up. Surprised and afraid of falling, Helen wrapped her arms around his neck. The next second, she was on the bed, on her back, and he was flinging his waist up and down like mad man, fucking her at a furious pace. Her body reacted accordingly – her legs snapped around his waist, her toes curled and her hands cleaved to his shoulders.

Helen hoped Greg understood that her behaviour had absolutely nothing to do with her wanting this, because she didn't want this. The sooner this ended the better for everyone.

When Helen juddered from her third orgasm Donovan rose to his knees, flipped her over, dragged her ass up in the air, and plunged into her pussy again. Grabbing onto a good, sizable chunk of her butt, he began to pound her, fast and hard.

'You're gonna fucking regret this, Donovan. That's my wife, man. This isn't fair. It's not fair,' Greg wept.

'You're in. No position. To make. Fucking. Threats!' Donovan moaned, bending forward and gripping Helen's shoulders. Pumping. Panting. Pounding. Groaning – 'Fucking sweet, tight pussy!' he growled.

For the first time since all this, Helen was thankful for the duct tape over her mouth. It stifled her guttural moans and cut off words she should not be saying, not when she was being ravaged by another man in the presence of her husband.

Oh god! Oh god – yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!

Helen clutched the pillow below her face. Her back tensed, and she flicked her butt faster. Each powerful thrust from Donovan edged her closer to another world-shattering orgasm.

'Fuck – this is it!' Donovan said. 'This is it – I'm fucking there. I am fucking THERE!

SHIT!

' His waist quaked, out of control.

Helen screamed into the duct tape and pummelled Donovan with her ass, trembling all over.

'Shit. Shit,' Donovan panted, giving five pushes before relenting. He removed his limp cock from Helen and Helen collapsed on the bed. She ripped off the duct tape so she could breathe.

Shame and guilt tiptoed into place, forcing her exhausting gratification into retirement. She hated herself. She had enjoyed what Donovan had done to her and she hated herself for that. But this would never have happened if Greg hadn't gambled away his life and hers. She hated him more.

Donovan smacked her ass and Helen whimpered and jumped. She watched him get off the bed and dress up.

'Come on, Steven. Our work here is done,' Donovan said, buckling his belt. He still sounded out of breath. 'I'll be seeing you soon, Greg.'

'You said you wouldn't come back for the money,' Helen reminded him, her eyes flaring.

'Yes. And I won't,' Donovan said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 'Someone has to tell Greg my father is coming after him anymore, right?'

'Yeah. I suppose,' Helen said, dragging the quilt and covering her body from Donovan's probing eyes.

'Have fun,' Donovan said, and left with Steven.

Hopefully, that was the last time she'd ever see him. She turned to Greg, who lay on the ground, weeping. He had gambled away their finances and possibly their marriage. So the question was where did they go from here?