Las Vegas is America's adult amusement park. I spend two or three weeks a year there to gamble and enjoy the other festivities. I'm never a big winner or loser unless you consider $20,000 a trip big. At thirty-seven, I was in my fifteenth year of Vegas trips, and over the years, I was actually ahead by more than a hundred thousand.
I always stay at the same place and gamble there most of the time. As a regular, I get the freebies they offer to generate repeat business, such as lunches, drinks, or tickets to the shows. Each trip, I find a nice girl to share my bed a few times, which is part of the Vegas appeal. Not street walkers. Vegas-quality call girls, pretty and clean. My family says one of my deepest personality traits is the inability to make a commitment. I've told them I'll find the right someone some day, although I'm not looking.
On the first night of a two-week stay, I gambled until five in the morning. When I called it a night, I was seventy thousand ahead, which made for sweet dreams someone rudely interrupted by knocking at my door. As I stumbled to answer, the clock read ten thirty. It was Dave Walton, the assistant security chief, whom I had gotten to know over the years. A hard-nosed SOB with some old Mafia ties, he did a fine job for the casino, handling all the tough problems while his pretty boy boss looked good for the Gaming Commission.
"Having a good trip, Chet?" he asked as I let him in.
"So far, Dave. What the hell do you want at this hour?"
"Planning on hiring any females this time?" he replied.
"Like always. Got anybody special in mind?"
"Yeah, I do. You know this is top secret, Chet." That was Dave's code for telling me if I mouthed this off, my legs got broken.
"Well, let me hear."
Dave told me an intriguing story, a story I had heard other times but always believed to be an urban myth. A young couple on their honeymoon got caught up in the gambling and was down a total of $26,000 to three different casinos. Dave was handling the collection for all three. The husband had lost the money and his new bride was mad as hell at him.
"The woman had agreed to work it off, so to speak," Dave continued. I studied his face but found nothing there. The term poker face was invented for Dave and guys like him.
"And?" I said.
"She's a cute little thing. Not my taste really because I like my women with bigger tits, but she's a doll." He shrugged. "I can put her with a service and she can fuck three or four dozen different guys to earn my money, or..." He shrugged again.
The idea stirred me. Why, I don't know. Maybe because it was a faux rape since she was being leveraged into doing it. Or her age and innocence. Maybe it was fucking someone else's bride on their honeymoon, or just fucking another man's wife while he watched. Whatever the reason, I agreed to meet them and went with Dave to his office.
Her name was Denver, which she explained was because she was born there, the love child of hippie parents. She was twenty-one. His name was Toby. They were scared to death since they knew they were in very deep trouble with very bad people. The tension in Dave's office was as oppressive as lava. She had been crying, but now was deathly still and quiet except for a few involuntary, intermittent shakes. Toby was catatonic.
Dave was right. She was a doll with an intrinsic sexual appeal that hit some hot buttons in me.
When I asked to speak to her alone, she followed me to a smaller office Dave gave us. At first, we looked at each other, or, rather, I looked at her and she glanced at me then turned away in embarrassment, only to glance at me again.
"Talk to me," I said. "Tell me if you understand what's going on here."
"I'll be a whore. I..." Her voice cracked and she began to sob-little gasps released under great pressure as she fought to maintain her composure. I put my arms around her to comfort her, but it increased her anxiety. She became rigid, shaking slightly, so I stepped away to give her the space she needed. Eventually, she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. Still, she didn't look at me.
She spoke as if relating a tale of death in her family. "I know what I have to do and I'll do it. I'll be a bride on her honeymoon, being happy about having wild sex, doing anything my man asks of me, except the man won't be my husband."
Her voice would break the heart of a statue, but it was so erotic, I thought I'd be spilt open.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"No pain. They promised me no pain... no real pain, anyway."
"I agree. There won't be any pain," I said. "Well, Denver, do we have a deal?"
There was a long silence. "I can do this," she said very softly as if trying to convince herself rather than communicate to me. I hoped she could do it because the fantasy of her being with me under these circumstances was quickly growing in me. When she reached the point where she looked at me openly, I knew she was ready for the next step.
"Let me see you, Denver."
She turned a scarlet red and shook her head. My immutable stare told her to proceed. A tear came to her eye as she began unbuttoning her blouse.
There is something very erotic about forcing a woman sexually, about taking her to or beyond her limits. She seemed unaware that her hesitation and the slow, rhythmic pace of her undressing increased its erotic impact, as did the begging in her eyes.
My mind flashed to Gina, a wild Italian I had dated before she hooked a doctor. Gina loved sex and was a master at building tension, of making foreplay itself so special and unique. She knew how to make a man force her-how to maneuver him into making her surrender to him, take her against her apparent will. She'd surrender with elan.
The eroticism those dances with her generated fueled dreams for a lifetime. Now Denver was generating that kind of heat, albeit without intent and with consequences, real or imagined, if she didn't comply.
Had she looked away, or looked angry or disgusted, the spell would have been broken. But, her eyes continually transmitted their message of humbling and involuntary submission that the rhythm of her hands reinforced. It was a slow, desperate dance by one building desire in another.
Clad now only in a bra and panties, with her hips turned so her leg blocked my frontal view and her arms covered her breasts modestly, she finally verbalized what her eyes and body had been saying: "Please, don't make me."
I said nothing. I didn't want to "make her." I wanted her to do it without my insistence. More though, I wanted her to continue at her own pace, a pace I found highly erotic. She knew what needed to be done. Somewhere deep in her mind, she found strength. I could see her back straighten as a hand slipped behind her to release her bra. The bra fell loose but not away, trapped against her breasts by her arm. She looked away and closed her eyes. Slowly, with one hand, she began to slip the panties off her hips and down her legs.
She looked like "September Morn," her side to me, body curled to hide her nudity, protecting herself as best she could with only her hands and arms, panties trapped around one trim ankle like a white flag of surrender.
Did she realize how delicious she looked? How helpless, how feminine, with her ass and legs so perfectly posed to arouse the animal in a man? Did she realize she was driving me wild with desire?
I let her work her way through it, giving her time to adjust to being seen naked by a man not her husband. Finally, she looked at me. It was a look I didn't expect-an expression of sexual desire and a pleading for tenderness, not a reflection of humiliation. I spoke as gently as I could.
"It's time, Denver. Move your hands away and let me see you."
She sobbed audibly and quivered. Tears, absent since we first began, rolled silently down her face. Her hands clenched, knuckles white, muscles in her arms corded, as she fought to do what she knew she must. She turned, like a steel bar being slowly torqued to straightness, until she faced me, legs together, arms rigid by her side, eyes clenched shut, her face a grimace.
She was about five seven with a lean, athletic body. Her best feature was an unbelievable, jutting ass, the kind skaters or cyclists have, and shapely, long, rock hard legs. She had small but firm and pretty breasts with prominent nipples and a six pack stomach. She had short strawberry red hair and freckles on a delightful face.
"You're magnificent," I said. My comment was muted, said unintentionally, just an honest acknowledgment slipping out when not expected.
She gave me a shy smile, and there was a passive twinkle in her beautiful eyes. I waited until I saw her relax with her hands falling open by her side and the tension lines in her face disappearing. I slowly walked to her, watching her eyes widen and tension return to her face as she stared unblinking. With the tip of a finger under her chin, I guided her head upwards and held it there as I softly kissed her closed lips.
"Denver, I know that was hard for you."
"Thank you for being understanding, for being... gentle with me."
"You're welcome. You can redress now."
As she redressed, she made no attempt to conceal herself. Rather, the way she moved, held her head and body, sent the clear message she was redressing to appeal to me, not just clothe her nakedness. It gave me hope.
After returning to the group, we struck a deal. I got Denver for the thirteen days remaining in my vacation on a twenty-four hour, no questions asked, all orders happily followed basis. They got the bad guys off their backs. I paid the $26,000.
.... There is more of this story ...