Shame the Devil

My deepest gratitude to two of the greatest editors helping Literotica writers. The amazing word doctor,

SueDanym

, first whipped this into something readable. Then

Vix_Giovanni

gave it a final polish and, in doing so, pointed out a weakness that resulted in major improvements -- and a new title. As I submit this,

Vix_Giovanni

is in the running for editor of the year. I and the others she's helped will all testify that she richly deserves the honor. Both editors are also authors. Follow the link to

SueDanym

's story page, and you'll find no one makes consensual sadism/masochism as tender, affectionate and orgasmic. If you like incest stories full of honest emotion and heavy atmosphere reminiscent of great novelists, head over to Vix_Giovanni's page.

*

"You bet your ass!"

Although he never does anymore, Brandon used to say that whenever he was sure he was right. Occasionally, he said it to others. I heard it a lot.

"You bet your ass!" he would announce, as if that settled the matter. Usually it did, but nobody's perfect. Sometimes, he was wrong. One thing I love about him is that he has no trouble admitting his mistakes, unlike me.

I'm wrong a lot more than he is, and I hate admitting it. At least that's the way I was then. I'm much better now. I think.

Has something ever happened to you that changed your life forever -- an event so devastating that afterwards nothing would ever be the same?

Then many years later, you realize it was insignificant. When the dust settled, your life went on as if that episode had never occurred. It fades in your memory and shrinks from a mountain into a molehill -- merely an unusual anecdote, even if you don't talk about it.

I don't talk about what happened, and Brandon never mentions it. I wouldn't care if he did. Not in front of the children, of course. They don't need to know how crazy their parents were when we were not much older than they are now.

So why am I writing this? I guess it's because I want to tell someone, yet I can't -- not even my closest friend.

An easier question to answer is, why have I changed our names? It's because I'm toying with the idea of posting this on a sexy stories website.

Someone could still read it and recognize us, but it happened long ago, and we've moved a few times since then. I haven't used Facebook in years, but I checked to make sure there are no connections to anyone from the old days.

Even if someone who knew us reads this and remembers what Brandon used to say, it wouldn't matter. No laws were broken. Only a freaky perv would try to make something of it, and we never had friends like that

A bet was what started it, but it goes back to before the bet. We hadn't been married long, and our sex life was still hot and wild. I've got no complaints now, and I don't think Brandon has either. I'm as much in love with him as ever and still find him desirable. He seems to feel the same way.

But it's not like the early days when we couldn't keep our hands off each other. Even then I had sexual fantasies, which I kept to myself. If Brandon had any, he never told me.

Many couples think sharing sex fantasies is a good idea. It's supposed to deepen your intimacy, whatever that means. Maybe all the cases you've heard or read about where doing this went horribly wrong and destroyed marriages are the exception. I doubt it.

If I told others my fantasies, I'd seriously worry about their perception of me, Brandon included. So I keep them to myself.

On this particular day, we had a difference of opinion and he said, "You bet your ass!"

I dropped the argument, but for some reason, his statement played on in my mind. It spun in different directions. Eventually, I was distracted by more important matters, but the next time I heard "You bet your ass" -- it must have been weeks later -- the ideas from before came back to me, and they led to other thoughts.

After that, each time he said it, I added embellishments. Gradually, they took the shape of a scenario. Brandon and I were the characters in the drama.

One day, after Brandon uttered the phrase, I realized there was a way to play out the story. I decided to go for it. If a certain pre-condition was met, our performance would begin when he said, "You bet your ass!"

While waiting for everything to line up, I polished my scenario until it gleamed and ironed out obstacles that might get in the way. In my mind, I rehearsed everything I would say and do.

I felt confident and prepared, but I was not impatient. The anticipation was tantalizing, and I reveled in it. One night, we watched two guys on TV run around shooting at each other. They'd stop, reload and continue shooting. It occurred to me that my gun was loaded, but it wouldn't fire until Brandon pulled the trigger.

The funny thing is I can't remember the bet. A year later, I carefully asked Brandon if he recalled the bet. He claimed he couldn't remember either. I've racked my brain countless times, but to no avail. I wonder if a hypnotist could help me remember.

It's not worth the trouble to find out. It was something trivial. What I do remember is that I happened to have researched the topic on the Internet a few days earlier. So when Brandon made his proclamation, he fulfilled my pre-condition. I knew for certain he was wrong. Instead of telling him, I held my breath. Sure enough, he pulled the trigger.

"You bet your ass!"

"You're always saying that, but what does it mean?" I asked nonchalantly, as if the thought had just occurred to me.

"It doesn't mean anything. It's just an expression -- like, 'You bet your life.'"

"It must mean something or you wouldn't say it."

"All it means is I'm completely sure."

"What does 'your ass' have to do with it?"

"I don't know. It just sounds stronger."

"I guess you're right," I said. "Nobody would want to bet their ass and lose it. How would somebody lose their ass anyway? Literally, there's no way to do it without dying.

"I think it means anal. When you say, 'You bet your ass' to me, you're saying, 'I guarantee you could safely bet somebody that if I were wrong, you'd let them do your ass because there's no chance you would lose.'"

"I never took it that far," he said. "Interesting logic."

I took a breath.

"What would you say if I wanted to take you up on your guarantee?"

"I don't understand."

"What if I wanted to bet my ass?"

"Are you crazy? Who would take that bet?"

"I can think of lots of guys, but only one I'd bet with."

"You want to bet your ass with me? Why?"

"You have to answer my question first."

"What question?"

I made sure to use the exact words I had rehearsed many times in my head.

"What if I wanted to bet my ass?"

He didn't answer right away. I was ready for that.

"Just think it over. You love my ass. At least that's what you always say."

"I love your breasts, too," he said. "I love your face. I love your hair. And I love your pussy. Is that what this is about? I love all of you, not just your ass. Are you saying all I care about is your ass?"

"No. But before we married, you really wanted my ass. Do you remember that time you tried?"

From the look on his face, I knew he did. Would he admit it? He took his time before he answered.

"Yes, and I remember what you said. Have you changed your mind?"

"No."

I was waiting for the question and shot out my answer before he could finish asking. I wanted him to be certain that my opinion of anal was still strongly negative.

He continued.

"You were quite colorful in expressing how filthy, disgusting and degrading you find the idea. You knew it would be horribly painful because a friend did it with her husband once a month. You said she tried to hide the effects, but everyone could tell when it happened because she walked funny for days afterwards and sometimes grimaced as she sat down or got up. To you, her husband was a fiend, even though she adored him and told you he was wonderful to her and their children. Am I remembering that correctly?"

"You have a good memory, but you haven't answered my question?"

"What if you wanted to bet your ass with me? You're asking if I would take the bet? No, of course not! If I won and did your ass, you would never forgive me. So it's a bet I can't win."

I thought he might say that so my rehearsed answer was quick.

"You're wrong. If I bet my ass and lost, I wouldn't blame you for doing it. It would be my fault."

"That's what you say now."

"I'll put it in writing if you want. I can't say I wouldn't hate it, but I promise you that I'd put it behind me -- ha, ha, ha, ha..."

I wondered if he could tell that my raucous laughter was rehearsed. He began laughing along with me, so I guess it worked.

"That was a good one," I said after we quieted down. "All right. How about the next day? Will that satisfy you?"

"The next day?"

"Yes, if you win the bet and destroy my asshole, I'm allowed to hate you for the rest of the day. But my anger expires at midnight, and I swear to never bring it up again, no matter what happens."

"Are you serious?"

"You don't think I can do that?"

"When you are determined, you can do anything, but I'm still not convinced. So, I'm going to answer your question with a question."

"No fair."

"Let's say you bet your ass and lose. I claim your ass. But what if you win?"

"I claim your ass."

"What?"

I didn't have to fake my laughter much while watching his face go pale. He wasn't laughing along this time, so I stopped.

"I'm only kidding. Anal intercourse is not an obsession for women like it is for men. I'll come up with something else."

Brandon quickly recovered from his shock. His response was jovial.

"Okay then. Do you have something in mind?"

At that moment, I told a bold-faced lie to the love of my life.

"No. I haven't thought about it. Do you have any suggestions?"

Having thought about it for months, I knew exactly what I wanted when I won.

"It has to be painful, and it has to be sexual," he reasoned.

"Wait a minute. Says who? I'm not like you. I wouldn't enjoy watching you squirm and scream as I torture your intestines. I prefer other gratification."

"For example?"

"Hmmm. How about taking me to Paris for a week, or buying me a cute little Miata."

"Wow!"

"Of course, you might have to work overtime and give up green fees for a while to make it happen."

"You never mentioned either of those things before. It sounds like you don't think I'm doing enough for you."

"No, stupid! I just gave you a couple of examples that occurred to me. And if you worked more hours, I'd see you even less than I do now. There's NO way I want that. Let me think for a minute."

I pretended to be carefully pondering additional possibilities before blurting out the line I had changed and perfected over a dozen times.

"How about this? If you lose, you will be my household slave for one whole year."

He looked confused.

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not going to fire our house cleaners, but you have to do things like tidy up after every meal and wash the dishes, including when I have the girls over. Even if you're out late for work meetings. If I wake up in the morning and see even one dirty glass or spoon, it adds another day to your year.

"The same goes if you forget to turn the dishwasher on before you go to bed. And when I wake up, all your stuff needs to be put away or one more day is added. Just your stuff. I won't make you pick up after me like I do for you. Oh, and you have to do all the laundry, fold everything and put it where I show you."

"Have you been thinking about this for a while?"

I didn't answer, preferring to minimize my number of lies.

"I promise to improve my sloppiness," he said a moment later. "Does that satisfy you?"

"You still haven't answered my first question. Now you know the terms. It's no longer hypothetical. Will you take the bet?"

He thought for a while.

"I guess that depends on the subject of the bet."

"We're betting on what you said a while ago. Right before you said, 'You bet your ass.'"

He smiled.

"I remember what I said."

"I think you're wrong," I said, trying to sound unsure, although I absolutely knew he was wrong.

"I know I'm right."

"Do you want to bet on it?"

"It wouldn't be fair," he said. "You don't know the subject as well as I do. I would be taking advantage of you."

"You're right that you know more about it, but we're not betting on who knows more. We're just betting on that one statement. My ass against a year as my household slave."

"Who's going to decide which of us wins?"

"It isn't rocket science. Once I show you you're wrong, you'll admit it at once. I've never known you to deny the truth. Do you think I'd try to weasel out?"

"No."

"So."

"I'm thinking."

"Should I pull down my pants and bend over to give you a good look at my ass before you make up your mind?"

"That won't be necessary. All right. I'll agree."

I screamed, jumped up and began dancing around the room thrusting my arms in the air and chanting "No more dishes! No more dishes!" at the top of my lungs.

I saw him watching me quizzically. It made me even more gleeful. I loved him for being who he was and for falling for my trick. I ran over, grabbed him and gave him a big sloppy kiss. He returned my kiss enthusiastically. He was going to be angry in a few minutes, but I knew he'd be a good sport about the bet.

He waited until I finished celebrating before calmly saying, "All right. Show me the evidence that says I'm wrong."

I grabbed his hand and pulled him to my office. I typed my question into the search engine while he stood behind me

What came up was puzzling. I looked through the first four results but couldn't find what I had seen a few days ago. I re-worded the query and tried again. I tried a third time. He didn't say a thing.

"Leave me alone for a few minutes," I said. "I'll call you when I find it."

It took me fifteen minutes. Finally, I went to my search history, found the page, opened it and read the information. It was exactly as I remembered it. Why hadn't it come up? I looked at the top of the page.

I noticed a typo in my search query. Almost immediately, I realized that I was on a fake page because of my mistake. The article was designed to get you to click on something stupid. It wasn't even written in proper English. The page was probably created in Russia or Nigeria!

As the deception dawned on me, I screamed. Brandon rushed in.

"What's wrong?"

"You won!" I yelled.

I ran to the bedroom, slammed the door behind me, collapsed on the bed and sobbed hysterically. For several minutes, I hyperventilated to the point of feeling lightheaded.

Brandon opened the door slowly and cautiously peered in.

"Are you okay?"

"Get out!" I screamed at him. I buried my head in the pillow and continued carrying on as if it were the end of the world.

************

For the next three weeks, I was a complete bitch.

I brooded when no one was around, and I snapped at anyone unlucky enough to come in contact with me. The smallest thing would set me off. People avoided me like the plague.

When rational, my mind was focused on only one thought: How could I trick Brandon to get out of paying off the bet? Sure, if I asked, he'd immediately let me off the hook. But I couldn't do that. It might not make a difference to him, but not only would I despise myself, the memory would shame me every time we had a disagreement for the rest of our marriage. Since I'm never letting him go, it would be a life sentence.

I started watching anal porn on the Internet. It was sickening. A few of the professionals put on a good show, but even though some of them must have done it hundreds of times, I could tell they still weren't comfortable. The ones who pretended to like it were unconvincing.

The amateurs were a lot scarier. I could see the excruciating pain, fright and self-loathing in their eyes. I watched them moving their arms, legs and bodies trying to cope. They turned their heads every way -- up, down, sideways. They closed their eyes. They puffed and panted. They froze their faces in a smile, or a frown or without any emotion. Nothing hid their agony and desperation as they waited for the man to finish.

The saddest thing was their genuine, heartfelt smiles once their ordeal had ended. They were truly happy. The worst half-hour of their lives was over. Some of them must have done it again, but I never saw any of the amateurs in more than one video.

There was often oral foreplay. One day, I was watching listlessly until the girl did something I hadn't seen before. I sat bolt upright on the couch. Even before my mind processed it, my body knew this was what I had been desperately searching for.

The anal started, but I rewound to study the unusual oral. I worked on words to describe what I was seeing and entered them into the search engine. Websites popped up, each with dozens of videos. All kinds of actresses did it -- old, young, skinny, fat, porn stars, amateurs and camgirls.

I closed the browser and started thinking. I had found the way to settle my debt, but I was hesitant. Tricking Brandon into washing dishes for a year had backfired. I had no doubt this second trick would work, but it would make Brandon furious. He might even hate me for a while.

Poor Brandon! I know him too well. He condemned himself by being such a great guy. He'd get over it. This would not end our marriage.

I would be extra nice afterward. I'd soak up his anger like a sponge. No matter what he called me, I'd take it. When the air cleared, we'd move on.

I began working on the scenario. That night I told Brandon I was going to pay off the debt.

"I'll do it because I said I would. But I never said where, when or under what conditions."

"Forget it," he said.

"I'd like nothing better, but I have to do it."

"I really don't care about the bet."

"Even if you don't, I know that if I don't pay up, it's going to come back and bite me in the ass longer than you'll screw it. I'm doing it for me as much as you. I'm still working out how it's going to happen, but I can tell you one thing for sure. I'm going to be in charge."

"What does that mean?"

"There will be a way for me to stop you if it gets too painful."

"All you have to do is tell me and I'll stop."

"That's not good enough. I'm not taking any chances. In your excitement, you might lose control. I've seen what happens to girls on the Internet. You may not like me being in charge, but that's the way it has to be."

He didn't say anything else, which was good. Now that he had been warned, I didn't want to say more. The element of surprise was important in my scenario.

*******************

It took me another few weeks to work out the details. Brandon probably thought that I forgot about it, because he seemed surprised when I told him on a Thursday morning, just before he left for work, that Saturday was the day. He didn't have time to ask questions, and I knew he had a working dinner with a client that evening. When he walked into the bedroom late that night, I pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, he slept in. I knew he didn't have to be at work until ten. After eating breakfast, I got dressed and woke him before leaving at nine. We had plans to dine with friends, but I figured he had forgotten because I purposely neglected to mention it for the past two weeks. Before I left, I told him we could meet at their house. I asked him to pick up a bottle of wine on the way.