//AUTHOR'S NOTE: I shouldn't have to say this, but this is a fictive story and should not be taken as an endorsement of these actions in the real world. Enjoy your kinks. But if you think that the actions in this story are okay... seek help. Also, this is my first time publishing to this site. If you catch any errors in the story or have suggestions on the formatting, feel free to reach out.
Pool Party: A Bad Bet
"Tonight is the night," I thought as I inspected myself in the mirror. I was looking over my outfit in preparation to meet my husband at the airport. It was a white sundress with a red rose floral pattern that hugged my chest nicely without being too revealing. A good look.
At twenty-six, I was in some of the best shape of my life. Maybe I didn't have the youthful glow I did at eighteen, but my breasts were still full and pert, while my stomach was flat and toned, and I had brushed my long blonde hair until it shone, the end of the mane falling just above the small of my back.
A glint from my hand reminded me that I was no longer Samantha Schroeder, but Samantha Evans, and the thought gave me a thrill as always. Six months ago, in a stunningly white dress that I regretted I would never be able to wear again, I had married Ryan Evans, my former best-friend's older brother. Yeah, it had cost me my relationship with Linnea, but it was worth it. He was everything to me. Tall, clever, hardworking, and endlessly supportive. The only downside was that he hadn't managed to get me pregnant yet, but as I glanced at the bottle of fertility pills on the dresser and considered the current time in my cycle, I knew we could fix that!
He'd been gone for two weeks on a business trip to Winnipeg (cheap hotels, bad food, and his dimwitted boss), so tonight I was going to grab him from the airport, drag him to his favorite bar where he would fleece some fools at pool, and then he was going to take me home and fuck me senseless.
Tonight was the night!
I shook my head to clear it and grabbed my strappy white sandals, putting them on and heading out the door. The pills I had been taking should do their job, but they were making me... easily distracted as well. But that was okay. Once we got back from the bar, I was expecting to spend the rest of the night on my back, and I was thoroughly looking forward to it.
The ride to the airport was quick, my little red Mini weaving through traffic with ease. No sooner had I pulled up to the arrivals turn-around than I saw Ryan hurrying towards me.
"Sam!" he shouted, and then we were pressed together, locked at the lips. Maybe the kiss was a little indecent for a public setting, but hey, it had been a while! Finally we separated, both panting slightly, and I was dimly aware of the heat of a blush in my cheeks. I pressed my forehead to his (having to stand on the tips of my toes to do so -- I'm only 4' 11" -- and whispered to him, "I missed you."
"I missed you too. I love you." came the whispered reply, and just then I wanted to skip dinner and go right to dessert. Later, I would wish I had. But then Ryan's stomach rumbled and we pulled apart laughing, and the moment was gone.
We made a quick retreat from the airport to a dingy little bar called the 8-Ball, which Ryan had been going to since his early college days thanks to their good burgers, cheap beers (not to mention that before he was twenty-one they had been a little lax in checking ID's), and the two pool tables nestled in a back corner. By the ravenous look on Ryan's face and the short glances back to the pool tables, I could tell he had missed his favorite haunt almost as much as he had missed me.
Only two of the usual pool-playing contingent were there tonight: John, a poor player fighting (and rapidly losing) a battle with his gut and middle age, and Peter, a decent -- if slightly below average -- player who Ryan had once won $600 off of in a single game after a couple rounds of double-or-nothing. Not that I was worried about his finances. Peter wasn't a bad guy, but definitely loud and ostentatious, including his car, which Ryan and Peter had spent hours talking about. Ryan had told me it was a 1970 Mustang Mach 1, which clearly meant something to him, but to me it was an old muscle car. Given that he is roughly the same age as us, Peter was probably doing pretty well in life if he could afford both that and to risk hundreds at pool for fun.
John gave a grunt and a wave as we walked in, but Peter hardly looked up, and it was easy to see why: he was winning the game he was playing against John and wanted to close it out. Knowing that Ryan would get sucked in over there eventually, I pulled him over to the bar where we ordered, and then started to devour a couple of greasy but fantastic burgers. I could never admit it to anyone, but I loved the taste of these too, even if I couldn't get away with eating them very often. I had a figure to look after.
I was still working on the remains of my burger and Ryan was polishing off his second pint when Peter wandered over, looking smug. "I made out pretty well against Ol' Johnny over there," he proclaimed (John scowled in the background, both due to the unwanted nickname and the loss of what looked like a not-insignificant amount of cash). "Care to throw your hat in the ring? Or are you afraid that after such a long absence you'll have lost your touch?" Peter jabbed at Ryan.
Ryan countered right away, "I dunno, I got a decent bonus for the work trip, I suppose I could go a few rounds. Shall we start at $75 for a game?"
This was an obvious shot at Peter, as the infamous $600 game had started out at $75, then grown to $150, then $300, and finally to the record single game total at the 8-Ball, of which Ryan was the holder. In fairness, Peter frowned slightly before recovering and accepting the offer. I stayed at the bar to nurse my drink, but Ryan happily strutted over to the pool tables, clearly thinking he was going to do well tonight. Of course, if he took me home he was getting lucky regardless, but he liked the pool, and it had been a long trip. And therein lied one of my mistakes that night: I should have dragged him home (and to bed) after the first game.
I watched them play from a distance, not really keeping track of the games, knowing I would get the full rundown, shot for shot, later tonight. Instead, I enjoyed watching the still present scowl on John's face, which looked as though he had unexpectedly bitten into a sour apple. I had never liked him, and seeing him loose out of it early in the evening and then have to watch as others played what he could no longer afford to was somewhat of a malicious guilty pleasure. Ryan looked like he was frowning too, but I knew he was a better player than Peter, so I brushed it off and got up to go to the bathroom.
When I got back from the bathroom, however, the evening took a horrific turn. Ryan looked stricken, Peter was smug again, and John simply looked amazed. I went over to see what had happened, and soon I realized the scope of the problem.
Ryan had lost. And lost again, and again, and so on and so forth. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was exhaustion from the plane, maybe it was just plain overconfidence, but whatever the reason, he had lost $1200, $200 more than the bonus he had been paid for the travel. If this stood, he would be the laughingstock of the group of pool buddies he played with, and his record $600 win would be relegated to history. And we didn't have the money with us to double up Peter again.
And Peter knew it.
Ultimately, though, it wasn't Peter who truly sent the evening off the rails, but John. It was a filthy, misogynistic thing to say, but once Ryan admitted he didn't have the money to raise the stakes again, John spoke up:
"Maybe, but money isn't all you have with you to bet."
And then he leered at me. I had dressed up for myself and my husband, but I was suddenly regretting it. I felt exposed, like a bug under a magnifying glass. There was something else there too, like a heat deep in my stomach, a feeling I had been dealing with all night, but then I heard the other two men start to speak up.
Peter began, "John, I don't think that's approp-", before being cut off by my indignant husband.
"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" He yelled. John looked like he was regretting that comment, but Ryan didn't stop there, and I loved him for it.
"Sam isn't some possession that I can roll out when I want, she's a person, damnit! The only way she would wind up as a bet is if SHE offered it, and I haven't heard any interest in that from her!"
John seemed to realize that he was out of his depth, so he stammered and grumbled something before stalking over to the bar. I think part of the reason he was unhappy was because there wasn't a chance of getting a show if Peter won, but I kept that rather uncharitable thought to myself. Instead, I pulled myself over to Ryan, hugged him close, and whispered in his ear.
