(I originally wrote this story 5 years ago and had it rejected then, and again more recently, because of depictions of violence. Fair enough -- their site, their rules. Since I'm stubborn, and I felt that the whole point of the story was that the "rape" that we so enjoy in our stroke fantasies is completely different from rape in the real world, which is an act of anger and violence expressed through sex, I refused to change it until now. But I've kept thinking about this story, mainly because I like the most of the characters and felt that they deserved to be introduced to a larger audience. I also value the feedback, which can't be found elsewhere, that I get from this site. So, I've finally decided to re-submit the story with the depictions of the violent acts excised. I have not removed the later descriptions of the effects of those acts, as they are central to making the point of the story. If you feel that they were better left in, you can use your imagination, with which I expect Literotica readers are unusually well-equipped, to fill in the { ---- } excisions.)
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My name is Jasmine Pierce. I'm 36, an attorney, a serious poker player, and I write erotic stories when I have the time and the urge. I have time for these other things because I'm a very smart and successful attorney. I figured out early where the money was and I focused on the more exciting of these alternatives, defense work for major medical malpractice carriers. It's really not all that amazing that people will pay very well to avoid the loss of millions of dollars. I've now got 3 other attorneys into my office to do a lot of the drudge work, which lets me get away a lot more when we're not prepping for or actually in a trial.
I also have time for these things because I haven't cluttered up my life with a husband and kids. Shit, I don't even have a dog, and I can't stand cats. If I'm horny, sometimes I'll ask a guy out; and if I still want to fuck him after drinks and dinner, I'll take him to a skin flick at the local XXX Bijou to warm him up. If he's fun in bed and not serious afterward, I'll add him to my list of guys to call when I feel like a quickie and I don't have time to go through the whole drinks-to-bed routine. If he's not fun or he does try to get serious, I drop him as gently as he'll let me, or as hard as he makes me, whichever it takes to get the job done.
Of course, I'm built like a brick shithouse and have the face of a Raphael Madonna. Yeah, right, in my dreams. Actually, I have the remains of a nice body that has been subjected to over a dozen years of aging largely in front of desks and computers. And, dammit, cellulite happens. Six feet of height, the tensions of trial work, avoiding desserts except on vacation and the realization that I have to live and work in a looks-based society has kept me from going completely to hell. Still, I miss having the body that I occupied when I was a girl's varsity basketball player in high school. The face isn't bad, though. It may be a long way short of the Renaissance ideal, but it's a damn sight nicer than the current Madonna's, in my humble opinion.
I try to block out time every January to go to Tunica for at least a week. Their annual series of tournaments has been a great event ever since they got it going. There are tons of players every year, a lot of them very good; more of them average to awful. So, it's a place where I can blow off a little steam and make a little money. That's a little money; nothing like what I bill per hour. Not even close. But I have been playing on other people's money for years now, so I see it as a kind of therapy where the therapists are paying me for my time. Not a bad deal, if you think about it.
This year between the early tournaments and the side games I was doing okay for my first 3 days, so on day 4 I played in a $2000 buy-in No-Limit Hold-em tournament. There were over 150 players, so first place paid over $75,000. I've never made it to first place, but I don't need to. I'm more than happy if I make it to the final table, which is where you need to be to make decent money. Maybe that accounts for me never making it to first place; I don't know. But the fact is that I'm an attorney who plays poker more for fun and stress relief than to be a pro, so I'm happy not having to obsess about beating everyone in sight in order to feel good.
About half way through this tournament I had the chip lead at my table; probably enough to put me in the top 10 of the remaining players at that point. In this situation, if the poker gods are being nice to me, they'll let me make a button play that is a complete long-shot, but that is likely to bust another player (or two if the gods are really kind) when it works.
A lot of players like to play an Ace with a small card, 5 or lower, especially if it is suited. These are great for taking down hands like AK when the board pairs both the Ace and their baby kicker. They are even better when the board cards fill out the wheel, the A-5 straight, and better still when the board provides the cards for the nut flush. Because they are not particularly strong hands pre-flop, most people will try to see the flop with them as cheaply as possible.
This is ideal for me because the hand that I use for this trap is much weaker than anyone else's, either a 65 of a 64, and when I want to come in on the button with it I want to do so with a raise, not a call. Not a big raise, because the odds are strong that I'll have to dump the hand after the flop. But, still, a raise to make it look much stronger than it is.
Well, long story short, the gods were being nice to me at this point. Not only did they deliver a 64 to me when I was on the button, at the same time they gave a couple of players with chip stacks about half as big as mine cards good enough to call with but not to raise. On top of this, one of those guys was the most obnoxious player that I'd met at this year's tournaments. He was a big, meaty, loud guy who thought not only that he was God's gift to poker, but that women shouldn't play. He had sucked out on me on the first day that we played, taking down my KK with a JT when the board held an AKQ.
As I got up to leave after that beat I gave him the customary "Nice hand." After all, you want dumb-fucks like that to keep playing that way, so you can get the money back later.
His response was way over the line, though. Something along the lines of "Ya shoulda stayed in the kitchen, girlie, instead of coming out here with us real poker players."
He'd been consistently rude and antagonistic whenever he'd seen me since then, which made me especially happy that the fates delivered me not only my favorite trap scenario, but also this rude bastard as a potential victim.
Anyway, the player under the gun called the $600 big blind, and the big rude guy called. Everyone else up to me folded and I made it $1500, which drove out the small blind and got a call from the big blind. The fellow who had limped in first folded, and the dickhead called, and added "I guess you just won't learn, girlie".
The flop came 953, rainbow, which gave me an open-ended straight draw. Both of the players in front of me checked, so I made it $3000 to go, trying to look like an overpair. That got rid of the big blind, leaving only my day-one suck out artist. He thought a minute then called.
The turn card was a deuce, again unsuited, which made my straight and eliminated any possibility of a flush draw. Mr. Rude Bastard spent some time appearing to think about what to do, then checked again. At this point I had the nuts and I didn't put him on a set. I figuring he'd have check-raised me if he'd hit a set on the flop, and he'd have folded a pair of deuces when 3 overcards came on the flop and I acted like I could beat a pair of nines.
Since I felt I was holding the nuts and didn't face a flush or a strong full-house draw, I didn't want to drive him off. I just made another $3000 bet, which should have been enough to take the pot down if he had nothing, and enough to keep him in if he was on a long-odds draw. Grinning from ear to ear, he almost beat me into the pot with the rest of his stack, which was a pretty clear signal to me that he'd been holding the best hand I could have hoped for, an Ace four. I immediately called and the dealer had us turn over our cards. Just as I'd hoped, he was holding the Ace four, which made him a straight to the 5.
"Son of a bitch," Mr. Rude Bastard said when he saw that he was drawing dead to a 6, for a tie. And when the river card turned out to be a Jack, he lost it.
"You fucking cunt," he almost shouted. "What sort of idiot raises on a 64?"
"Sir, watch your language unless you want to be eighty-sixed" the dealer told him.
