Emily & Ellen's Bet Ch. 03

This is a re-write of Emily & Ellen's Bet, originally posted in April of 2011. The effort is part of re-writing the entire continuous story arc of Ellen's Bet > Roberta's Bet > Dani's Bet > Emily's Bet > Ellen & David's Bet > Emily & Ellen's Bet. I re-wrote these stories for two reasons. First, I wanted to clean up some sloppiness in the writing. Second, I wanted to take the six stories, only two of which were planned to any degree at the beginning of Ellen's Bet with the others conceived and added later, and create better internal consistencies, and plot and character consistency, between them. At this point I think a reader could look at these stories as one tale comprising a six-part novel. Emily and Ellen: Emily & Ellen's Bet - Chapter Three Ellen Emily told me about her pool game with Mitch, and how she'd proposed her card game to the four men. How they'd gone to her apartment and started playing. She told me about the forfeits for the guys if they lost and for her if she were the loser, and how and why the prospect of winning was such an entertainment and turn-on for her. As she spoke I finally knew why I'd recently been feeling a kinship to her. Frankly, what she was describing was greatly appealing to me. God, it got me hot. Every word she said about how she relished the risk of nudity and shame, how it lit an illicit, erotic spark deep in her, resonated with me. I knew exactly what she was talking about. I'd discovered that same spark in Baton Rouge. My experience had ended in disaster, but I could see we were not just on the same sheet of music, but could be singing in unison. I considered her forfeit. Would I take the same risk? I thought of the opportunity to watch four embarrassed and nude men in turn pump their cocks, make themselves come before my eyes. The sight would be an entertaining one, and I knew all the sweeter for having risked my mouth and sexual favors for the privilege of watching, and commenting, and gloating, and laughing. Of course in the situation Emily had described it was possible I might see one or two or three put on their show and then still have to open my mouth for some, but my thoughts focused on the either/or. I imagined losing abjectly and completely as Emily had: now nude and obligated to wrap my lips around four hard cocks in turn and use my oral skills to provide them with an orgasm. Although the losing produced a little low level sexual tickle in my stomach, I knew that my real interest lay in the winning, being the victor, and the one who'd risked and was now safe and would receive. Then I remembered my card game with David a month previous and the revelations we'd discovered about each other. I knew we were off on an adventure together. The together part gave me a warm thrill in my core. What path would our journey take? David's interest in bondage and discipline, dominance and submission would be an interesting course. We'd find our interests and our limits. Exploring my interest in wagering: where would that take us? David had expressed interest, and I thought it was sincere: that he too felt the pull and exhilaration of the risk-versus-reward thrill. I considered that Emily's Friday night experience had happened on the same weekend as my whipping on Saturday. We'd both had significant and transformative experiences this last weekend. What about Emily? We had this commonality, but she didn't yet know about it. I'd mused before about whether or not to share my Baton Rouge experience with her. I knew now that I would. I felt very close to Emily. She was taking her trust in our friendship to a new distance by relating her experience. I knew I would reciprocate that trust for the sake of our friendship. Telling her my tale would make her privy to this commonality of which at the moment only I knew. Then she shook her head in amazement as she told me about the crazy losing streak that had befallen her. How hand after hand she'd lost, and piece by piece for the first time had to strip her body naked while others watched. I began to feel some sympathy toward her, but it was nothing compared to what I felt as she related her experience with the pizza: how the boys had seen an opportunity for payback and had grasped it. Her two trips to the lobby. The embarrassment of being seen nude in public by so many people. She told me the worst part had been the fact that most of them knew she was doing what she was because she'd lost a bet: knew she was enduring a humiliating experience because of her own ineptitude or bad luck. I heard every detail of her encounter with Marcy. I tried to picture Emily, nude and in an elevator, on her hands and knees and swiping her tongue across that dominant woman's toes. The image sent a little chill through me, but I didn't know if it was one of dread at being in that humiliating situation, or of excitement at being in that humiliating situation. Emily told me about after her public exposure had ended: the panic attack that had crippled her in her room. Then she told me about finishing off the rest of her bet: blowing Mitch and Kevin. Then she made her voice softer, and it took on a sound of shame, as she described having to get on her knees and blow Anderson: how he'd made her fulfill her obligation in that humiliating and subservient pose; had shamed and mocked her with his words. Then she was through with the bad part of her story. During her tale she'd mentioned Ian often: how he'd withdrawn himself from the activities as much as he could, had expressed his concern for her after her return from her trips to the lobby, how he'd gallantly offered to forgo the prize he'd won in spite of his obvious excitement. For the first time tears sprang into her eyes as she related how she'd insisted on paying off her obligation and the joyous and beautiful coupling the following morning that had been the result. As we finished our meals the darkness was well past, and Emily was deep into an explanation of what she and Ian had shared on Saturday and Sunday, and of their rapidly growing feelings for each other. She finished her story. We declined dessert and paid for our meals. On the walk back to the office talk of bets and bad experiences was forgotten as I expressed my pleasure at Emily's new relationship and we shared observations about the men we love. * * * * The weather forecast for the next day, Tuesday, April 27th indicated a beautiful day in store. So before we parted on Monday I asked Emily to be sure to bring a lunch the next day. The forecast's promise of sunny skies and warm temperatures for Tuesday came to fruition, and when lunch time came I grabbed Emily and we headed out of the building. Today we bypassed Italian Village and walked a few blocks farther to Grant Park's Buckingham Fountain. The fountain was built in the 1920s and is one of the largest in the world. The diameter of its lower pool is almost the length of a football field, and features four sea horse sculptures in bronze representing the four states that border Lake Michigan. It's modeled after Latona Fountain at Versailles, and its style reminds me of a giant, aquatic wedding cake. The fountain had just started operation for the year a week or two ago and would continue into October before shutting down for winter. The fountain's sweet, melodious splashing is an aural treat, so we try to make a part of each visit the twenty minutes, beginning at the top of the hour, when the fountain operates each sixty minutes. We found a bench on a corner of the plaza near South Lake Shore Drive. As we settled down I looked out toward Lake Michigan, its shore just a short distance away. It seems this spring my eye has been drawn to the lake each time we come here. The air was clear as crystal, and I saw the horizon line in sharp relief: the water below, the sky above. This sharp delineation somehow pleased me. I liked its lack of equivocation. When we opened our lunch bags we were amused to find we'd both packed a container of almost identical salad. We often eat our bag lunches with each other, usually salads, but today our meals were identical right down to the chunks of chicken and the small sprinkling of cheddar cheese. The only difference of any significance lay in my small foil packet of vinaigrette dressing and hers of oil and vinegar. Whenever Emily or I had a soda hers was always a Diet Pepsi and mine a Diet Coke. I commented on how Americans seem determined to promote and maintain the fiction that there's some difference between the two beverages. I told her a story I'd heard in a college marketing class that illustrated the point. In the mid '80s the Soviet Union was beginning its slow motion thaw under Mikhail Gorbachev. Many western companies were flocking into the USSR to do business, and one of them was Coca-Cola. The occasion of the opening of Coke's first USSR bottling plant in Tiblisi was such a big deal that President Mikhail Gorbachev's Foreign Secretary, Eduard Shevardnadze, was the guest speaker. He was told that when the time came for him to deliver his remarks that a glass of the Coca-Cola product would be on the podium. He was asked to please take a drink of the product and then begin his remarks. He did so. When the time came he took the podium. Then he took a drink of the product. With all the cameras running and microphones open Mr. Shevardnadze got a very confused look on his face and said, "What is this called again? It tastes exactly like Pepsi!" I'd thought the story hilarious, but on this bright, pleasant day by the fountain Emily thought it less so. As we began to spear chicken chunks and vegetables from our salads I became serious. "Emily, the story you told me yesterday; well, the two stories: you didn't have to share those with me," I said. She nodded , likely wondering what was on my mind. "I feel very close to you. Somehow I always have. Like we share some genetic trait we don't know about. Long lost sisters or something." Emily was nodding her head indicating she felt that commonality too. "That was very brave of you to put yourself forward and tell me about what happened to you Friday night," I said. Emily was looking at me expectantly. "I, um, well, I had something like that happen to me too," I concluded. When my silence lengthened Emily jumped in to try to help me tell my story. "Was this when you were a kid, or in college?" Emily asked. "No," I said. "No, as a matter of fact it was just a few months ago. Do you remember when I went down to Baton Rouge at the beginning of February?" "Yeah, but I didn't really know much about it," Emily said. "I know you did a lot of work to get ready for the trip, but we had that other project, and I had to concentrate pretty exclusively on that. Then I was out for the last few days the week before and didn't get back until the Monday you left." "Yeah, that's right," I said, recalling how little she'd been involved with the Baton Rouge trip. "Well, I was down there for the week before the Superbowl, and then for the Monday and Tuesday after." "It's a nice little town, isn't it?" Emily asked. "You've been there?" I asked in return. "I have an aunt and uncle who live there: my dad's sister and her husband," Emily informed me. "My sister Dani and I spent a good deal of time there when we were growing up." "Oh," I said, not quite sure what to do with the information, but a buried something tugging at my memory. Hesitantly I pressed on with my story. "The guy I was working with, Patrick, invited me to his home to watch the Superbowl. He just wanted me to have a place to watch the game if I wanted to other than alone in my room or at the hotel bar." "That's a coincidence," Emily said. "What's that?" I asked. "Oh, just that my uncle's name is Patrick," Emily said. "I see," I said. "Well, I met Patrick's wife, Roberta, and there were four other guys from..." I trailed off. You hear about things like this in stories, or you might see an actor do the expression in some television show or movie, but Emily's eyes had gotten wide and her jaw had dropped, her mouth hanging open. I was thankful no half chewed salad was visible. "A house with a mostly brick front, and the outside wood painted a light blue with white trim?" Emily asked. "Well, yeah," I said and then understood. "Oh, shit. I don't know if you necessarily wanna hear this story." I realized I was now returning Emily's stunned look right back at her as that buried mental something emerged into the light of day. "I saw you there!" I said, and I could hear the astonishment in my voice. Emily was looking at me as if she were sitting with a woman who'd suddenly gone off the deep end. "Er, well," I continued, "I saw your picture that is. You and your sister with Roberta, but you were a lot younger. I thought your face looked so familiar! I couldn't place in though. You were ten years or more younger than you are now, just a teen, and you know how faces change between being a teen and becoming an adult." "I know exactly the picture you're talking about," Emily said, a smile starting on her face, "and where it hangs." Emily's face took on a look that was half questioning and half snoopy, her eyes squinting slightly. "So, help me understand this, Ellen: if you went over to Patrick and Roberta's to watch a football game how do you know so well the pictures on their bedroom walls?" "Um, well, it's like I was saying, this may be a story you might rather pass on hearing," I said. Emily's smile became a broad grin. "Are you kidding?" she asked. "I think I'm about to hear some real dirt about Uncle Patrick and Aunt Roberta. I wouldn't miss this for the world!" The extreme coincidence unnerved me, but only for a moment. I began, slowly and hesitantly, to tell my story. Soon I shook off the unsettling happenstance and picked up the pace, Emily's bravery in sharing her tale of humiliation from the previous Friday giving me confidence and surety that it was all right to share mine. I told her every detail. I tried to explain what crazy, foolish, reckless impulse had moved me to make my bet. She interrupted me at that point, put a hand on my forearm and gave it a little squeeze. "It was the risk you were reacting to," she said, "and the sexual charge it gave you. I feel it every time. The first time I played I couldn't have stopped myself. Somehow that feeling of going out on a limb, of risking in order to win, is just such an irresistible charge." Her eyes were on mine, and she was nodding her head slightly. I'd considered this during the many, many times I've tried to puzzle out why I'd made my bet. Hearing it from Emily, knowing that someone else had felt the same timid and fearful sense of thrill I had, made the motivation seem likelier to me. I continued with my story. I told her about the pins and needles suspense and the sexual energy I'd felt while watching the game, my fate in the hands of chance. I told about my mixture of shame, humiliation, and excitement when I lost and had to step up onto the coffee table and strip. I told her in detail about every time I'd had to spread my legs or open my mouth or bend over to accommodate a hard cock to honor my absurd and irresponsible bet. I told her what a comforting godsend her Aunt Roberta had been that night, and how I could never have made it through the night without her strength and support and kindness. "That's my Aunt Roberta," Emily said. I smiled, and noticed that Emily's eyes had leaked a few tears. She gripped my shoulder. "I'm sorry that happened to you, Ellen," she said. I shrugged my shoulders. "My own stupid fault," I said. "Um, if I can ask," Emily said, "how have you handled this with David?" "Well, I didn't for the longest time," I said. "I can't tell you the guilt and remorse I felt. Then, well, just this past weekend we got it settled between us." We'd been sitting in the sun for a while, and the warm rays had been beating on my back. My last comment made me aware of how the welts under my suit jacket and blouse were not happy about the warm stimulation. Wearing my bra today was not pleasant, but for a girl like me it's an unavoidable necessity. "Is everything OK?" Emily asked. I smiled wide. The sun's warmth seemed to be a present and immediate symbol of the warmth of David's love. "Oh, yeah, everything's great," I said. "David understands what happened to me. I guess a person can just walk through a marriage unaware sometimes, but I found out this weekend that he loves me unconditionally. It feels really good." Unexpectedly, I found myself in Emily's embrace. "I'm so happy for you," she said. "I hope I'm going to find that with Ian." When she withdrew I saw that her cheeks were wet. We collected and stowed our lunch things. Before we turned back toward the office towers I again looked out across the expanse of the lake's water, gazed for a moment, wanting to reassure myself that the lake's horizon was still razor straight. Then I turned. We passed the fountain as we walked across its wide plaza toward South Michigan Avenue on our way back to the office. The murmur and splash of Buckingham Fountain slowly faded behind us, finally mingling with the traffic noise. We were just walking on the rail overpass, the traffic in the wide lanes of East Congress Parkway gliding past us. Suddenly Emily was racked by uncontrollable laughter. She was doubled over, unable to bring herself under control. I couldn't imagine what could have happened that was so funny that I'd missed completely. After half a minute she managed to straighten up, fits of giggling still coming and going. "What?" I asked. She worked to speak between her diminishing chuckles. "Sorry," she said, "I just never imagined my Uncle Patrick was such a stud." "Oh, shut up," I said. As we continued our walk back to the office I reflected on how this last weekend with David had unloaded my burden. Now that I'd told Emily about this I could almost feel myself on an upper deck of a boat, maybe a ferry of some kind, and gazing toward the stern, watching my remorse and my encumbrance drifting farther and farther away, like the shore of a distant and receding land. Then I turned and faced the bow. I was thrilled to see that the boat was headed straight ahead toward that meticulous horizon. 3061 1.66/512345