The Five

I've always considered Wednesday's to be just another day in the week. Some of the guys I know think of it as "hump day" since it's the middle of the week and after Wednesday it's downhill to the end of the week and the weekend where all the action is.

That's fine for them but not for me. I'm the grocery manager in the local branch of a large, well known supermarket chain. What that means is the end of the week and the weekends are my busiest days. Therefore, my week begins on Wednesday and ends on Sunday. My weekend is Monday and Tuesday.

Don't feel sorry for me. I'm not missing much. I'm not the type of guy that hangs around the local pub on Friday and Saturday nights hoping to make a connection. I'm not very good with the type of conversation that convinces young women that they want me to fuck them and, besides, by the time I get there after the market closes at ten pm, most of the best choices have already made their selections and left for beds elsewhere. A friend of mine discovered that making a late selection often comes with more than a blowjob or getting laid. His experience, discomfort, embarrassment and a week's worth of Doxycycline, convinced him, and me, that the potential gain wasn't worth the risk.

I meet lots of women every day. Most of the shoppers in the market are women. It's surprising how a benign conversation about something they need and can't find can lead to other, more personal, topics. I've learned that people like to talk, especially women, if someone else initiates the conversation. It's also inconceivable how quickly some conversations morph into personal matters.

It's also surprising how many women are unhappy in their marriages or at least discontent with the quality or amount of sex they get at home. It's also amazing how little I have to talk once a woman begins regaling me with her problems at home. Even gratitude over a leaky faucet, that I offered to come over and fix, can lead to finer things including a meal, a drink or other edibles that lead to naked, legs akimbo, sex.

I've learned to appreciate the skills of the older women I meet just by being sympathetic while listening to their issues.

I also have contact with a number of younger women closer to my age. The drawback is that they're all employees of the market. I'm cautious in developing relationships with most of them. I don't want any issues they may have with what they might think of as inappropriate comments, or worse, by one of their supervisors. I like my job and I don't want the problems that might come with pursuing a relationship.

However, I'm not adverse to a relationship if they start the conversation. I've gotten lucky several times. The only criterion I have is that they're over eighteen. Their only criterion seems to be getting laid without entanglements. The issue that arises is that they, and I, still live at home with our parents and other venues are required. I reject the back seat of my car. Something about a woman who would be satisfied in the back seat of my car doesn't appeal to me. Fortunately, a motel at the edge of town rents rooms for cash without questions or ids.

A couple of them had steady squeezes and were looking for something different, probably for comparison purposes. One, who was getting married in a week, was particularly memorable. I never understood her reasoning but I'm damn glad I followed her lead.

I've never had sex in the market unless you count the one time a voluptuous woman cornered me in the men's room explaining that when she was working was the only time her husband ever left her alone.

About two years ago, we had an audit of the market that included a detailed, inventory of the stock. The audit took two days, Monday and Tuesday, and I had to be present. That week I had Wednesday and Thursday off as compensation. That meant that I'd be hanging around the house unexpectedly.

I want to tell you the story of those two days and that probably means I should introduce myself and the other players. My name is Robert Simons. My mother calls me Robbie, a habit I've been unable to get her to break. Unfortunately, a number of her friends have acquired the habit as well.

At the time, I was twenty-two, unmarried and living at home. Neither my mother, Jillian, nor my father, Harold, was concerned about the situation. They were resolved that I should take as much time as I needed to establish myself and I could afford a place of my own.

My mother was forty-four then and in incredible shape. She had long auburn hair that she wore in a high pony tail, eyes that see into your soul and a slender body with perfectly sized, C-cup breasts. My friends describe her as a MILF, a description I don't endorse. She's my mother.

Mom is a professional photographer. She works from home. She has a decent sized studio in the finished basement with lighting, scenery and many still and motion cameras, including a darkroom and a small video processing environment. Most of her work is over the weekend and some evenings, times when regular folks are available for portraits or weddings.

Most of mom's free time is during the day in the middle of the week. Wednesday's are especially relaxing. Wednesday afternoon's are Lady's days. Beginning with lunch, every Wednesday, mom and four of our neighbors get together for a long afternoon of talk, rumors, scandals and whatever women do when they're together without men.

That week, that Wednesday, when I was unexpectedly home, was a problem for mom. The five women who comprised their group rotated the location of their gathering and that Wednesday it was at our house. Mom and her four friends were expecting uninterrupted privacy and my presence was a problem.

Mom explained the problem to me and asked if I could make myself scarce for the afternoon. I had no place to go and gently resisted being asked to leave. I had planned to spend the afternoon watching a movie I wanted to see on television and porn on my laptop.

We reached a compromise. I promised to stay in my room with the door closed, not even bathroom privileges, until her friends left around four pm. Mom promised to keep the noise down so I wouldn't be tempted to investigate what might be happening.

I used the bathroom at about half past eleven in preparation for a prolonged time without facilities. I brought a damp cloth and a towel to my room in case I needed to clean myself after watching porn. Mom brought me a large lunch, bottled water, Gatorade and a large mouth, empty bottle in case I became desperate. When she left, she confirmed my promise, asked me to lock my bedroom door and added a promise not to respond to anyone except her who might knock on my door.

The neighbor women began to arrive shortly later and soon all five of them were gathered in our large kitchen for lunch. Their indistinct voices and laughter invaded the quiet of my room but didn't distract me from the movie I was watching even though I kept the volume low to avoid detection.

A short time later, the group of women moved to the living room. With the change of venue, the sounds of their voices became more distinct through my door at the top of the stairs. I muted the television and sat on the floor with my ear against the door. I couldn't separate the individual voices and I missed an occasional word but I was able to follow the conversation.

An unidentifiable voice said, "Game time, ladies."

Another voice asked, "What's the game today?"

"Poker," declared the first woman.

"Is five card stud, okay?" asked someone.

"Fine by me," agreed the first woman. "Usual stakes?"

"Absolutely," confirmed several voices.

"Okay," said someone. "Settle down. Who's dealing?"

"Jillian," a voice declared. "It's her house."

I was floored to learn that my mother and her friends were playing poker on Wednesday afternoons and amazed at how little I knew about her and her friends.

That's when fate stepped in. I sneezed. Not a gentle, pipsqueak of sneeze than threatens to damage your eardrums because you tried to hold it back, but a gigantic, bone and door rattling sneeze that leaves you breathless with your eyes tearing and your nose running.

"What was that?" a voice asked.

"Someone sneezed," said another voice.

"Jillian," someone else asked, "Is there someone else in the house?"

"Just my son," mom answered.

"That's going to make playing the game impossible," someone else declared.

"He's promised to stay in his room," mom explained.

"And we can trust that?" someone asked.

"He's trustworthy," defended mom.

"I don't think we can take the chance," said another woman. "Unless ..."

"What are you thinking?" still another voice asked.

"Robbie is a fine young man," said the first woman.

"I don't see how that's relevant," stated the second woman.

"Let me finish," said the first woman. "Why don't we ask him to play?"

"You're kidding," said someone in a loud voice. "That changes the whole game."

"The game is already changed," said the first woman. "I think the choice we have is in what direction do we want the game to change?"

"I see," said someone. "Either we don't play at all or we play with increased stakes."

"Exactly," said the first woman.

"I don't think that's a good idea," said mom.

"I understand your concern," said someone. "He's your son and that increases your discomfort by orders of magnitude. But I think you'll be able to overcome your reluctance once the game starts."

"I don't know," said mom.

"Come on, Jillian. I don't see anyone else with a problem. We all want to play with our regular rules including you."

"I still don't know," echoed mom.

"Jillian," a voice spoke up. "For this afternoon, Robbie is just another man. He's not your son. Just another body in the game that happens to be a man."

"I hope I don't regret this," said mom.

"Great. I'll go and get him."

A minute later, someone knocked on my door. I slid back from the door thinking about somewhere to hide. "Robbie," the voice on the other side of the door called. I recognized Mrs. Higgins' voice.

She tried the locked door. "Come on, Robbie," Mrs. Higgins said. "Open the door so we can talk."

"He promised not to open the door for anyone but me," said my mother from the other side of the door.

"Then ask him to open the door," said Mrs. Higgins.

"Robbie," called my mother. "It's okay. You can open the door."

I got up slowly and moved to the door. I unlocked the door and opened it slowly. My mother and Mrs. Higgins were standing in the hall.

"Robbie," my mother said. "We're going to play a game and we wondered if you'd like to play with us."

"What game?" I asked pretending that I hadn't overheard any of the conversation they had.

"Poker," said Mrs. Higgins.

"And you want me to play?" I asked.

"We do," Mrs. Higgins confirmed. "Since you're here and we'll probably make enough noise to make you curious, it seems reasonable that you play with us from the start."

"You're sure?" I asked my mom.

"I am if you are," she replied.

They led me downstairs. The other three women were sitting in a circle on the floor in the living room. I waved and they waved back. They made room for us and we sat in a larger circle on the floor. Going around the circle from my right were Mrs. Higgins, Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Cook, Mrs. Scymczyk and my mother on my left. I looked at all of them, all dressed conservatively and then I looked at myself. I was wearing a t-shirt and exercise shorts without underwear and barefoot.

I realized that Mrs. Cook, sitting opposite from me could see up the leg of my loose shorts and probably notice that I wasn't wearing underwear. I shifted my position to create some modesty.

"What's the game?" I asked.

"Poker. Five card stud," said mom and she handed me the cards. "You can deal the first hand."

I shuffled the cards. Nobody anted. "We don't have any chips," I said. "I'll get them," and I started to get up.

"We don't need chips," said Mrs. Adams.

"How do you bet?" I asked.

"We're not playing for money," Mrs. Adams continued. "And there are no winners, just losers."

"How does that work?" I asked genuinely confused.

Mrs. Adams paused and looked at all the other women before answering. "We play for clothing," she said simply.

"Strip poker?" I asked.

They all nodded, even my mother.

"I don't think I can play," I said.

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Adams.

"Look around," I said. "You're all wearing lots of clothes. At least six or eight items. I'm wearing a total of two. The odds are heavily against me. If I'm going to play, I need to go put on some more clothing."

"It doesn't really matter," said Mrs. Adams, "since we're all going to end up naked anyway."

I looked at my mother. "You're okay with this?" I asked.

"I did have reservations at first," she answered. "However, now I see the logic in your playing with us."

"You're willing to get naked in front of me, your son?" I asked.

"Look at it from my perspective," she said. "If I'm willing to be naked in front of a man, say your father for example, why shouldn't I be willing to be naked in front of another man like my son."

"I'm having problems understanding your perspective," I said. I looked at all the others. "You all feel the same way?" I asked.

"They all nodded and Mrs. Adams said, "We do."

"Okay, I'll play," I agreed but I still need to even the odds."

"I understand your sense of fair play," said Mrs. Adams. "As a compromise, why don't you just deal all the hands and not really play?"

"You're suggesting I just sit here, deal the cards and watch each of you lose your clothing until everyone is naked?" I asked.

"I am," said Mrs. Adams. "Except everyone naked includes you. I suggest since you won't be risking any clothing, that you start naked."

"Whoa," I said.

"It's a reasonable request," said mom.

I looked at her as if she had just lost her mind. She mouthed the words, "Just do it."

"What the hell," I said. "Why not? You're certainly not the first women to see me naked."

I stood up and stripped off my t-shirt and tossed it to Mrs. Adams. "You're sure this is what you want?" I asked of the group.

Nobody moved so I pushed off my shorts and kicked them in the air and caught them in my right hand. Mrs. Adams smiled. Mom put her hand over her mouth. Two of the others said something under their breath and Mrs. Scymczyk applauded. I sat down, picked up the cards and shuffled.

Before I could deal, Mrs. Cook had another suggestion. "Since Robbie is being such a good sport, I suggest that we all communicate with our first names. That's how we relate to each other and I can't see Robbie, the gentleman that he is, continuing to use our surnames."

"An excellent idea," said Mrs. Adams. "I'm Patricia, Pat to my friends."

The rest of the circle became, "Stacey," "Shayna," "Erica, but everyone calls me Sizzle since they can't pronounce my last name," and my mom, "Jillian."

"Is everyone ready to start?" I asked.

"We are," answered Pat for everyone.

"Everyone starting fair?" I asked.

"We all have the same number of articles of clothing," confirmed Pat.

"Coordinated before you came?" I mused. "You've done this before," I guessed.

"Every Wednesday," agreed Pat.

I dealt the first hand, five cards each, clockwise. Jillian got the first card and Pat got the last card. In between were Sizzle, Shayna and Stacey. I looked at each woman as I dealt her a card. Jillian, my mother, was exceptionally attractive and I was beginning to see her as my friends saw her. Erica Szymczyk, Sizzle, had blonde hair and huge tits. She professed to be of Polish heritage and her slightly pear shaped body was intriguing. Shayna Cook was a brown skinned, slender beauty with black hair and average sized tits. She spoke with a lilting island accent that added to her appeal. Stacey Adams was the youngest in the group, a former cheerleader with an athletic build and small, but not tiny, tits. And then there was Patricia Higgins. Pat was the shortest in the group and of Italian heritage. She was slightly plump with very large tits. She was the oldest woman in the game and the only single woman. Her husband had passed away several years ago and she lived alone since then. I suspected that was the reason she had pushed to have me play with them.

Pat also ended up with the first losing hand. She giggled and took off a shoe.

I shuffled and dealt t he second hand starting with Sizzle. She lost and took off one of her shoes. Jillian lost the third hand and another shoe joined the discarded clothing pile.

I did some mental arithmetic. The three hands had taken almost fifteen minutes. I calculated that, all things being equal, we would be playing for more than two and a half hours before anyone exposed their tits and three hours before a pussy smiled at me. I didn't know what the plan was but that didn't leave much time for after game activities before these women had to go home to their domestic duties before their husbands got home.

"Ladies," I said. "Do you have a sense that this is going to be a long afternoon?"

Pat immediately chimed in. "I agree. I think we should speed things up."

"What do you suggest?" asked Jillian.

"I think Robbie should just deal each of us one card. Low card loses," proposed Pat.

"That works for me," said Stacey.

"How about ties?" asked Jillian.

"That's only an issue for losing hands and I think there should be two losers," said Pat.

"That also speeds up the game somewhat," agreed Stacey.

There was no more discussion. "Deal," said Pat. "One card each."

I dealt one card each starting with Shayna and Pat lost another shoe.

Over the next half hour, the game moved along as expected. Sizzle, Shayna and Stacey were currently wearing four or five articles of clothing each. There were two exceptions. Jillian still had only lost her one shoe and Pat was smiling broadly in only a bra and full sized panties. The next hand, or one soon after, held the possibility the she would be the first to expose her breasts.

It took four more hands. At that point, Jillian had lost two shoes, Sizzle had lost her blouse, Shayna still had one sock, Stacey was barefoot and Pat had a decision to make, bra or panties. She fist pumped as if she had won, stood up and removed her bra. Her breasts were magnificent. Large and magnificent. They sagged somewhat on her small, fifty-two year old frame but that didn't detract from my wondering if I was going to get an opportunity get up close to them.

Pat fluffed up her breasts with both hands, causing them to hang naturally after being released from their prison and sat down. "Deal," she said.

The next deal could be momentous. It didn't disappoint. Pat lost again. Without hesitation, she stood, faced me directly, stripped off her panties and tossed them behind her. She stood provocatively, her large, unkempt pubis of dark hair with hints of gray, not two feet from my face. Somehow, I managed to not reach out to touch her.

She sat down again. "What now?" I asked.

"We keep playing," said Sizzle.

"How about Pat," I asked. "She's already lost."

"If she loses again, she gets to perform a challenge," Sizzle explained.

"Oh. Okay," I said as if I understood.

Jillian, Sizzle and Stacey each lost one of the next three hands. That left Jillian with one sock and Sizzle and Stacey in bra and panties.

Things started to happen quickly after that. The next three hands left Sizzle naked and Stacey topless. Then it happened. Sizzle and Pat tied for low and two challenges were possible.

Pat took the floor. "Usually, we let the winner of the hand propose a challenge for the loser that includes herself and the loser but today we don't have a winner. Therefore, I suggest that Robbie has been the loser on every hand since he started naked and Erica and I are the real winners. We should propose the challenges and they should all include Robbie."