Ten Commandments

This is a true account of actual events.

*****

'It is possible to play a card game while wearing clothes for the duration

'.

That was HER text. Yet, later, fresh home from the office and sliding on to the stool beside mine at the kitchen island – glass of wine in hand, eyes twinkling, she reached down to pop off first her right shoe then her left shoe. She also made very sure to rest her wineglass hand on my thigh for balance throughout the process. And to contact several areas of my inner thigh in the process.

I should get this out there straightaway. I don't have a foot thing but she has extremely sexy bare feet – long, slender, one small discreet tattoo – and they end in absolutely spectacular legs, especially when they're bare – as they were under the shortish skirt. And she was, as you know already, expert at multitasking with malicious intent.

All of which led to a significant bulge in my slacks as we counted off items of clothing.

Turned out I could keep my socks. That was the short version. Long version: she had some quite exotic bra and pants combos – and had clearly been thinking about sex much of day, since the unsolicited text came in at 10:03. And there was a particular twinkle in her eye when she emphasized the just in, "Just bra and panties underneath what you see."

We cut. She won. Jack over 8. So much for my socks and she got first deal. My bare foot of course immediately becoming a magnet for her slim toes.

She truly is gorgeous. And the legs and feet are only part of the package of course. Think Lauren Thompson from the Golf Channel – only with a more natural honey blonde hair shade.

We play straight 5 card stud. No wilds. No draws. Random chance, she called it now. There was a time when she would call it 'Gods Will' – albeit with a hint of irony.

A pair of Jacks, King high.

King high, full stop.

The pair was hers, of course.

Mind you, it was something of a relief-release to be honest – if you know what I mean – when I unbuttoned, unzipped and hefted my rearend enough to push my slacks down. Even the quick use of her foot to see they went all the way off and into a bundle on the floor wasn't overly disturbing. After all, random chance tends to even out.

Shuffling, she dealt again.

Pair of 6s, Ace high.

King high, full stop.

Fact is, I seemed to be stuck on King high.

And once my shirt was off, she was positively radiant. And not in the least reticent to, well, since my engorged tip was half protruding from my well-stretched briefs she treated it as 'public property' and nonchalantly plucked the thick elastic, peeling it down to expose the entire quivering tip and much of my erection.

Then she simply gathered the cards, shuffled and dealt again.

Queen high.

Queen high.

But one of the Queens had a Jack for support.

Now truly treating my erection as public property, because it was, she reached out casually, eyes twinkling, and unerringly dipped her elegant index finger in the pre-cum pooled in the tip of my engorged head. Then she ostentatiously licked that finger – then she helped out by gently holding my erection between that forefinger and her thumb as I once again raised my hips – this time to peel off my briefs and kick them onto the floor. And she didn't let go...not until she'd thrown in a gratuitous slow stroke or two

"I'm due," I said, trying for nonchalance -- but with an unfortunate audible gasp when she slowly stroked me again.

"Already," she quipped, deliberately mis-reading my intent, and cocking her eyebrows at my erection twitch in response.

Still chuckling, she released me, gathering the cards. "Feel free to beg surrender," she started to deal again, "Because from where I sit you're in big trouble."

She was right.

Being raised hardcore Christian, she'd been amused by our developing the initial parameters as Commandments – you know, Thou Shalt Not Seek for Cards of the Wild Sort, etc. They had evolved, over time, into the following:

Rule Number One: no wilds.

Rule Number Two: no draws.

Rule Number Three: first one naked was the loser.

Rule Number Four: the loser could only resign when s/he had won as many hands as the winner.

Suffice it to say, never before had one of us been naked while the other one was still fully dressed.

"Very well," she actually winked, starting to deal, "Rule number five is in effect."

Queen high.

Jack high.

This was beyond improbable. This was impossible. But Rule Number Five gave me 60 seconds to make her a Forfeit offer she'd be willing to accept. While Rule Number Six said she didn't have to accept any Forfeit offer. So I was off the stool and headed out of the room, perspiration tickling as it slid my lower spine and my erection bobbing and jouncing – but I had to let it do what it would, enduring the humiliation of her amusement because she had to have a full view at all times until I was out of the room. Rule Number Seven: the loser had to allow full access (visual and otherwise) at all times.

So I backed into the corner of the doorframe. Kept my hands up and apart. Wincing at the pain between my shoulder blades. While she chuckled and wagged a finger, warning me not to infringe on Rule Number Seven.

Then I was in the bedroom, turning. Fortunately, I had a pretty good idea what she would like so I headed straight for the bin. Which I popped on my head, holding it with my right and keeping my left behind my back while I turned and hastened, erection full in motion now, back into the kitchen.

"What's this?" she lowered her glass an inch or so.

I put the bin on the island, angling it so she could see the contents.

"No briefs." Her smile expanded even further. "How long?"

No briefs meant no pants – because Rule Number Eight (quite logically, given Rule Number Seven) said no garment could cover for a surrendered garment. Normally, the time to serve would be until midnight tomorrow night/Saturday – but with 5 hands, 5 winning hands needed, before I could even resign...

"Midnight Sunday, " I offered, sweetening the pot so to speak, all while trying for some quasi-calm in my voice. And failing.

She glanced at the stopwatch on her cel. Which was down to 10 – 9...

"Monday 9 am," I offered.

She made me wait – probably knowing I was having visions of how I was even going to get to the office, let alone how I was going to work with no briefs, no slacks. At two seconds on the clock, she said, "Monday midnight."

"Done" – ping!

She had the final say. (Rule Number Nine: the loser is subject absolutely to the winner in any area of dispute). She would say draw. After all, I would were the roles were reversed. A draw in time in such an instance went to the winner, of course.

"Count of 20?" My tone sounded very close to begging. To me, at least.

"Ten," she replied promptly. "Go on...9..."

Wiping the sweat from my forehead, back pedalling fast – this time finding the open doorway, I spun, grabbed the bin and raced back.

"3..." she'd taken to holding up the matching number of fingers, folding them down, "...2..."

Oddly, my erection had gone half-flaccid, was literally flapping around. But it grew hard in a flash when she glanced into the angled box and back up at me, her eyes stunning in their intensity.

"So no briefs and no socks."

"Yes," once again I tried for poise, and failed. After all, the offer of barefoot and naked from the waist down – through the entire weekend AND through an entire work day and beyond – had been, well, stupid-stupid-stupid.

Chuckling, she collected her glass and sipped. "I guess you can go in early. And stay very late. And never go the bathroom – or for any reason leave your desk. But only a shirt, for the entire day...?"

I knew it was impossible.

So did she. And she didn't resist twisting the knife. Just because.

And yes, after all, I would've too. Hell, I had – applied every rule in the book and ruthlessly exploited every situation. More than once. As had she. That was the accepted expectation.

To be blunt, however, in the five years we'd been together neither of us had ever been this dominant on the day – not in circumstance, and not in overt display of control.

"But," her eyes were radiant, dancing, "you know I'm going to press for even more time. And you know, in the end, it's going to give a whole new context to the olde expression about losing your shirt, right."

I didn't say anything. Mostly because what could I say?

"Midnight Monday, minimum," stressing the last word, she winked. "One foot wrong..." I snapped my feet apart and checked my hands were still in interlace on the top of my head. She didn't even have to hesitate. "One infraction no matter how minor..." She looked me up and down, thoroughly, then chuckled and turned to collect the cards.

Pair of Queens, pair of 8s.

Pair of 6s.

It was impossible. She had to be cheating. But even if she was I couldn't afford to accuse her.

Instead, awkwardly because my feet were splayed, but quickly believe me, and with my hands still interlaced above my head, I backed out of the room. Found what I wanted. Returned. She loved the erection. She loved even more what I was holding in my upraised hands.

She really enjoyed watching me, as I kept my hands well up over my head – and fastened first the Velcro of the wristlet for my left wrist then the wristlet for my right wrist. "May I?" I indicated bending forward to put on the matching wristlets.

"No. But you can sit on the floor."

Try it. Sit naked on the chill tile floor, while an attractive woman, fully clothed, smiles down at your efforts not to block for even a second her view of your cock and balls. You have to pull your knees as wide as they go and as flat as they go – making your erection and taut balls as fully exposed and vulnerable as they will ever be, at least while you have control over them: or at least that's what you will think, what I thought – and even then...in response to her rising finger and opening mouth I instantly lay right back flat, legs akimbo and reached down underneath, arms clenched to my side.

It was once again a desperate act of submission – and it proved very difficult to put the anklet on with only one hand. Equally difficult to put the other anklet on with the other hand.

I was beyond the time limit. Had to be. I certainly didn't protest when she raised her phone to snap pix. Nor when she began to video. I even took the hint of her upturned hand and hefted my rump, straining and sweating, to hold the position. For the second time in a matter of minutes, I couldn't help but think my cock and balls had never been, or at least had ever felt, more exposed and vulnerable. But I held the pose, believe me - until she signaled she was finished.

At which point, she put aside the phone and collected her wineglass. "I take it I can use anything from that bin."

It wasn't a question. I nodded anyway, breathless from the effort but confirming she could make use of the assorted ties, etc.

Silly, I know, but I recall a flash of savouring with some satisfaction that she still hadn't claimed my shirt. Thinking maybe she'd actually forgotten about it.

She was onto to other things. Putting down her wineglass and collecting the cards.

"Two Aces. Two 9s." She smiled over, and down, at me. "Yours is Queen high. How many lost hands in a row does that make?"

I didn't know. Didn't dare guess. Didn't dare get it wrong.

"Never mind," she chuckled. "Everyone knows when all the blood goes to there," she gestured toward my erection, "the memory is the first casualty."

And my erection yet again betrayed me, moving on its own. Causing me to squirm in humiliation under her amused gaze.

Lowering the wineglass to beneath her chin, she said, "Fetch the crop...now please. Tick tock..."

She was an expert with the crop. Becoming an expert at least. From the moment she'd set aside the phone and accepted the offered handle of the 24 inch weapon, snapping the flattened end emphatically into the upturned palm of her own hand with a loud 'crack' I'd been trembling uncontrollably.

I did hear the words, "I've texted the girls with a hint to watch the website. No direct statement of intent of course and as usual there won't be absolute proof of who you are but we'll all know won't we. Should I choose to post of course.Up."

I did. Trust me. Pushing up out of the one-foot kneeling position, to stand, being very careful to keep her view of cock and balls completely unobstructed. Only to have her simply lay the flattened tip of the crop on the engorged, pre-cum sticky tip of my quivering erection – effectively sucking all the air from the room and wobbling my knees.

Out of the haze I heard her say, "And if you cum without permission, having Haley on this text list is going to be the least of your problems."

At which point, the crop flicked, colliding on the down stroke with the hyper sensitized tip of my erection: turning my entire world blood red.

The words, "Rule Number Ten is now in full effect", were whispered directly into my ear from behind, followed by a quick slash across my butt and a sly chuckle...

****

To be continued: Should interest warrant it.