Rita And Rhiannons Bet Ch 06

Here is the other version of

Rita's Bet

that I had mentioned I was working on. When I had first though about the premise for

Rita's Bet

I was undecided about where to take the story. There were two possibilities that appealed to me. While writing the first idea (published as

Rita's Bet

) I decided to write the second premise too when I finished, and this is that story.

This story follows the same two main characters as

Rita's Bet

, Rita and Rhiannon, and essentially the same broad plot outline. You will notice the first chapter in this story as mostly identical to the first chapter of

Rita's Bet

. However, near the end of this first chapter this version of the story diverges from the first version. The plot of this version rejoins the plot of the first version near the end of the last chapter.

This story is considerably longer than the first version of

Rita

, and many of the character motivations are different from the first version.

As I mentioned at the foreword to

Rita's Bet

, I love comments and observations about my stories.

However, once again: I don't really have an interest in hearing about how a chapter is submitted in what you feel is the wrong category. And I don't really care to bother with comments from burgeoning junior lawyers who just have to tell me all about the dire potential legal consequences of the action in the story -- just enjoy the story (or don't) for what it is. I also don't have an interest in hearing from unfortunate boys whose woman done him wrong at some point in his life and now he just has to lash out and vent his anger at women in general and find an excuse to call them skanks or whores. And for those who like to post with the hope of influencing the story line -- my stories, including this one, are finished before I start submitting them.

But your comments and observations on the literary aspects of the story (and especially in this case the differences between the two versions of the story), plot, character, mood, foreshadowing, etc, are all welcome and eagerly addressed and responded to, whether posted in the comment section or sent privately

Please enjoy the story. It is presented in eight chapters.

Rita and Rhiannon's Bet -- Another Telling of

Rita's Bet

Chapter Six

We drove a half mile or so to the local Denny's. Had I known that the conversation we had over this breakfast would have so much import I might have somehow better prepared for it.

After we placed our breakfast orders we sipped our coffees, and I saw that Rhiannon's eyes were on me almost constantly. This seemed like a good time to try to straighten up some long ago business: something that had been bothering me since just after I had run into Rhiannon at the convenience store.

"Hey, Rhi," I hesitantly began. She renewed her gaze, her eyebrows rising in expectation. "You know a few years ago? You know, when we were freshmen?"

"You're just consumed with guilt," Rhiannon supplied to my amazement. She let out a little laugh. "What you did really sucked," she continued. "And, you know, it hurt me a lot. But it's water under the bridge, Rita. I was pretty much a mess for the rest of that year, at least in relation to you and me, but I got over it. Really"

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Hey, there are no problems between us, Girlfriend," Rhiannon said. "I'm sort of sorry we had to be separated after that year because if we had seen more of each other sophomore year we would have been back together. I got it behind me by then. I fact, you know, if the situation had been reversed, there is no way I could have resisted taking that place on the squad."

I was surprised and delighted to discover that a subject that had made my stomach do slow turns whenever I thought about it had been resolved so easily. Never would I have imagined a resolution like this.

"Still," I said, "I want to tell you how sorry I am," I said. "I know I hurt you, and I really didn't want to. I've never wanted to be anything but your friend."

"Well, that's exactly the way I feel," Rhiannon said. "Even now," she added.

The thought struck me then that both my last comment and hers seemed a trifle odd given that we had within the previous hour had our faces buried in each other's pussy. Just then the waitperson came with our breakfast plates, one in each hand. The comments hung in the air.

When our waitperson had completed her tasks and freshened out coffees Rhiannon looked up at me and smiled. "Hey, Rita, I'm sort of," she said hesitantly, and then trailed off.

I thought I would try to fill out her thought, as she had completed mine a few moments ago. "You're just not sure we're a couple of lesbo dykes who are gonna be sucking each other's pussies on a regular basis and finding true love together?"

She laughed loud enough that the general conversation around us seemed to fade a little in reaction to the outburst. She looked at me. "I really like you, Rita," she said, "and I hope we can be friends again. I'd really like to get together every now and then like we did this morning. And last night," she added.

"But you're not looking for a relationship," I supplied. Rhi nodded her head with some hesitation. I suppose she wasn't sure if she was disappointing me or dashing my romantic hopes. "Well, that's fine, Rhi, because I feel the same way. I really enjoyed last night and this morning, but after you got done cumming all over my face this morning I realized that, well I don't know how to put it; I guess I feel the same way you do."

Her hesitation was gone and she broadened her smile. She reached out with her hands to cover mine and squeezed them. Then we turned our attention to our breakfasts. I found that between the calories I had expended this morning and the general relief I was feeling that neither of us would be left hurting from our encounter that I had worked up an appetite. I was famished. My breakfast called to me and I ate with abandon, giving the meal all my attention until my plate was mostly empty.

Rhiannon seemingly felt the same way, deeply engrossed in her meal. Finally we both looked up from our plates to find we were gazing at each other.

Rhiannon was masticating some egg, and in between chews she said, "Besides, you know Rita how it would look: we're each co-captains of our cheer squads. I don't think we can be lovers and maintain a healthy rivalry at the same time."

"You're probably right," I said. "The homecoming game is coming up this Thursday, and I don't know if it would be good for a relationship between us when we clean your clocks."

"Oh, I know, I know," Rhiannon said, more than a trace of mocking in her voice. "You guys are going down in a big way, and I just couldn't stand to sit my pussy down on such a disappointed looking face. I don't suppose you'd care to put your ass where your mouth is?"

I understood her meaning immediately. Our initiations. I thought back to the previous summer, and how I had helped initiate the new girls onto our squad. I had felt a little guilt at the pleasure I had taken swatting their asses, but that guilt had been overwhelmed by the rush I had felt. I suppose that's why they call it a 'guilty pleasure', but this was a lot better than chocolate.

The sensation had been one of being on top of the world, a feeling of superiority and dominance. I wielded the paddle, swinging it with abandon, and my poor victim was entirely subordinate, obliged to grit her teeth and shed her tears, to find strategies to keep her body and limbs from moving out of position so as not to accrue additional smacks. The feeling was intoxicating. I had the sense of being in command, exhilarated and elated.

My eyes found Rhiannon's and I understood the look I saw there. I was as certain as I could be that the same thoughts were passing through her mind, that she'd had the same experience when initiating her new girls. I sensed a challenge and a threat: I knew what would come out of this was one of us submitting to the other. I knew that one of us would have the experience of visiting on the other deep humiliation and embarrassment and would enjoy every second of the experience. The other would have to submit to a shaming experience that would deflate her ego and strip her of all her dignity.

Great! What could be more perfect!

The desire to come out of a bet on the homecoming game on top was a deeply and passionately desired goal, a source of erotic energy. And the feeling was intensified exponentially by the dread of defeat: placing myself at risk of being the loser and on the receiving end. How sweet it would be to emerge from our wager the victor.

A smile emerged on my face and my mind began to work and contrive. I thought back to our experiences of the night before and earlier this morning. I thought of how I had used Rhiannon's mouth for my pleasure and how I had paddled her ass with abandon. In both instances I was taking my satisfaction without regard to her feelings. And I knew that I had sensed the same feeling from behind me as Rhiannon had laid the paddle on my ass and as she had pressed herself into my face.

We weren't lovers. We might be friends. We were definitely opponents looking at an opportunity to make fantasies of power and control real, willing to use the other as the object of the dominance and superiority we each craved to win and wield.

"An initiation," I said. Rhiannon looked at me a bit uncertainly. "An initiation. The loser gets the initiation paddle."

A look of understanding and agreement passed over Rhiannon's face. She seemed to know exactly what I was talking about and where I was coming from. "You're on," she said.

The waitperson was back then to refresh our coffees again, and by the time we had drained our cups our bet had taken shape.

We were both on our own for the coming weekend. Rhiannon's family and my parents were off to visit their respective relatives for the long Thanksgiving weekend, we forced to remain behind because of our cheerleading commitments. The loser would walk to the winner's home on the Saturday evening following the game, and would bend over and present their ass for a paddling. And until the end of the game neither of us would know who would be on the receiving end or how much that poor unfortunate would be getting.

We decided we would let the final score determine the loser's payoff: a swat for every point the winner's team scored and three swats for every point the loser's team lost by. The best case situation for the loser would be if her team lost on a safety two to nothing: eight swats, two for the winning team's two points and two times three, or six more, for the two points the loser's team lost by.

When we had settled on this a moment of hesitation fell over me and the fire in my stomach cooled, but the feeling was just transitory. In a minute my zeal was rekindled. I saw Rhiannon - poor unfortunate loser that she would soon be, who had risked too much and now faced paying the price -- sheepishly making her way to my basement.

At the bottom of the stairs she would see scarlet and navy uniforms, both football and cheer. We had decided that the winner would enjoy the experience so much more if the loser were paying off in front of males as well, if the winner got to share the spoils of the victory she'd achieved with her friends and teammates.

But we also decided that all of this might just not be right for some of the younger kids. We were our squads' co-captains, older and aware of some responsibility to our younger charges. We didn't feel quite right exposing them to something like this. Besides, it would reveal to those who'd not been initiated yet just what part of the initiation entailed. The varsity members were sworn to secrecy, had honored that commitment, and we wanted to preserve the suspense and mystery of one of the squad's rites.

So we decided only football team and cheer squad members who had reached the magic age of eighteen would be invited as the loser's audience. That meant four of my squad mates and about a dozen or so football players would attend if Rhiannon lost. The numbers worked out almost identically from Rhiannon's side. And in Rhiannon would walk, a wisp of gold and white. I hoped she would seem nervous, and in my fantasies she was actually shivering, as she perceived for the first time the magnitude of the embarrassment and humiliation she faced because of her misplaced faith in her school's players.

We were about to put our jackets on and leave when out of nowhere a blur of gold and white was sitting next to Rhiannon. I wasn't surprised at the gold and white colors on her jacket, but the girl who shoved Rhiannon to the side with a push of her hip had hair every bit as starkly white as the pale color of her jacket's lettering. The platinum blonde of her tresses, the short style ending around her neck, seemed frigid and brittle.

The girl leaned into Rhiannon and gave her a short smooch on the cheek. "Who's this?" she asked. She didn't look at me, just jerked a thumb in my direction when she asked the question. I was surprised she asked it right off rather than greeting Rhiannon with any words first.

"This is my friend, Rita," Rhiannon said. "We go back a long way."

"First grade," I interjected.

"This is Lena, our other co-captain" Rhiannon continued, completing the introduction. I stuck out my hand toward Lena, and Rhiannon finished her thought. "Rita's a co-captain on the East cheer squad."

Lena's hand, which she had begun to extend to me, shot back and out of reach.

"Rhi!" Lena said, disbelief in her voice. "That's the enemy! How can you be sitting here drinking coffee with her just a few days before the big game?"

"Well," Rhiannon began.

"Forget it!" Lena said, her voice not loud but containing unexpected, and to me unexplainable, vehemence. "I was gonna have a coffee with you, but not with her sitting right there. Later!"

With that Lena was gone, another blur of gold and white.

Rhiannon looked at me and rolled her eyes, as I turned my head to watch Lena stomp her way to the exit and out.

"What was that all about?" I asked, turning again to face Rhiannon, I'm sure a perplexed look gracing my face.

"Lena takes this whole school rivalry thing maybe a step or two too far," Rhiannon offered.

"Ya think?" I asked. Rhiannon's evaluation seemed accurate enough. In a way it was also prophetic. I was to discover just how much so in a few days, but I felt no sense of foreboding sitting in the sun-washed restaurant interior.

Rhiannon gave me a sheepish little embarrassed smile. She put a finger to the side of her head and circled her ear with it and crossed her eyes at the same time.

"Imagine how she'd go off if she found out we were sucking each other's pussies this morning," I observed.

Rhiannon cracked up. She took a look out the window and I followed her gaze. A car, Lena's severe and bleak hairdo near the steering wheel, drove past on its way to the parking lot exit.

"Weird," I said.

After we had given Lena a chance to get a ways down the road we took our bill to the cashier, paid and left.

As we drove back to our neighborhood we decided that we would not get together or phone each other again that week, decided that our next meeting would be when one of us showed up at the other's house to pay off her lost bet the following Saturday night.

Thanksgiving Day was cool but far from cold. Low clouds progressed across the sky in a manner that could not be called stately because they were far too undistinguished. Their pace might be described as sluggish and their look as lugubrious. But as cheerless and mournful as they looked they held in the warmth nicely. When the sun would briefly flash through a thin fissure between cloud masses the gridiron scene took on a wintry look.

The inharmonious nature of the scene entertained me: when the sun flashed out for a momentary appearance I shivered because the tableau of players, goal posts, fans, and bleachers took on the bright-edged look of objects seen on a day in deep winter. Then when the solar spotlight shuffled back behind the intervening canopy of cloud I felt the warmth of the light breeze again.

What can I tell you about the game? Well, this was the last game of the season for both teams, and offense had reigned supreme for both of the squads all season long. Out of eight games that each team had played so far our team had lost four and West had lost three. And the score of all those games had been quite sizable. In none of the games either team had played that season had less than fifty points been scored by both squads, but no game had been won by more than eight points.

As good as our offenses had been, both of our teams featured struggling defenses. So when one of our teams caught a lucky break or two on defense then they would win that game. Both of our teams had averaged over thirty points per game. Rhiannon and I had considered this when negotiating our bet. I had mentioned this to her: that the loser was likely to get quite a butt warming considering how high scoring our games had been that year. She had nodded her head enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up and a smile crossing her face at the possibility of dealing out all those swats.

We had three seniors, our quarterback, a running back, and a wide receiver, all of whom had made the all-state team the previous year and were shoo-ins this year too.

West kicked off to us to open the game. On the first drive our all-state quarterback was sacked. In fact, he was knocked unconscious and had to be taken to the hospital to be checked for a concussion. Two drives later our all-state running back was upended at full speed and had to be helped off the field between two teammates since he could put no weight on his left leg at all. For the rest of the game our all-state wide receiver rambled all over the field, mostly wide open, while the second string quarterback could not place the ball within ten yards of him.

With no running game and no passing game and a defense that spluttered, the events of that afternoon were not pretty to watch. At least not for me and our side. We cheered like we were far ahead, cheered as if the 44 to 0 tally on the scoreboard with thirty seconds left in the game would be a snap to overcome with the right encouragement from the cheer squad.

I'm not at all bad in math so, even while I made a determined effort to put multiplication tables far from my mind, instinctually I was able to work out in some back, unoccupied corner of my brain that forty-four times three is one hundred thirty two, and adding another forty-four to that makes one hundred seventy-six. As I perceived this calculation I was watching the ball slip from the grasp of our quarterback to be picked up by a West defender who raced with the ball to the end zone for one last touchdown. The numbers on the scoreboard changed to display a final score of 50 to 0. The officials didn't even bother to stop the clock or prepare for an extra point and both teams left the field, those in gold and white uniforms receiving the adulation of the partisans in their stands, and those in navy and scarlet walking dejectedly toward the field house.

As I walked along with all the others in that same direction that corner of my mind was busy again. Unbidden, it helpfully calculated for me that fifty times three is one hundred fifty, and that fifty more added to that makes two hundred. Shit.