Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Humor, Oral Sex, Petting, Slow,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - He is a poker professional who calculates odds to two decimal places. She is a ditzy blond who believes it takes skill in winning at the slot machine. It has to be a relationship doomed from the start.
I know that I come across as slightly pompous when I say that I'm a poker player, but not a gambler. Gamblers are people who play blackjack, craps, or the lotto. These unfortunate people cannot win in the long term. It is a statistical certainty that they will lose; therefore, they are gambling. Really good poker players only wager on those cards that statistically win over the long term; therefore, since I'm in that group, I am not a gambler.
"OK, smart ass. If you're not a gambler, why were you sitting in front of a quarter-slot machine preparing to throw away your first coin; especially since a slot machine is one of the biggest sucker games of chance in Las Vegas?"
Good question, but I had an excellent answer; I wasn't playing to win money, nor was I bored, and my gambling philosophy had not taken a vacation from me. I was playing the slots for only one, logically consistent reason—to try to pick up the beautiful woman who was playing the slot machine on my right.
My quest had started innocently enough. I was strolling through the casino floor on my way to my office, the poker room, when my thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream that rattled my eardrums. A 300-pound female tourist had just won a fortune on her slot machine—a $10 jackpot. Her husband, who weighed in at 90 pounds, had glanced at her and then quickened his pace as he pushed quarters into his machine.
I thought, "Why can't they have a back door into the card room to keep the poor gamblers separate from the rest of us?"
My eyes almost made it back to my intended path when they locked onto a vision sitting in the middle of a row of slot machines. She was blond and maybe about five-foot five-inches tall. She was wearing one of those halter-tops that left her shoulders bare down to the beginning of her breasts and then showed eight inches or so of skin at her waist—the eight inches of smooth skin at her waist accentuated her sensual, flat stomach. She had a cute pixie nose with a hint of an upturn. Another jackpot went off and she looked in my direction; she had ice-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a gold trinket on a thin chain that highlighted her chest and confirmed my earlier observation that she had the breasts of a goddess.
I was between girlfriends, which was my usual condition. One can only do two things at night; you can make love or play poker. Most—no I have to be honest—all of my past girlfriends had failed to recognize the purity of my quest for statistical perfection as it related to poker playing. They somehow had elevated the "cheap physical stuff" one does with the opposite sex at night to a pedestal much higher than my intellectual investment in poker playing. I suggested many times that we do the "cheap physical stuff" in the morning when I got back from the card room. Their answer was always the same, "It's not romantic to roll around at nine o'clock in the morning versus doing the same physical deed at night."
And sometimes another outrageous and highly unfair accusation was hurled at me, "You just want to get off so you can get to sleep easier!"
I always became highly indignant at that crude character assassination of my sexual intent; that there was, on occasion, a tiny sliver of truth in the comment made me even more offended.
So I was between girlfriends and for the last two months or so my body was arguing with my brain that the cheap physical stuff at night might be, at times, of equal importance to trying to extract money from not-too-bright tourists and tough locals at the card table. I hated to use the word "horny" to describe my physical condition, but sometimes one must acknowledge truth.
I stopped a change lady and gave her a gift of $20 in exchange for an equal value of quarters. After mentally discarding several approaches, I walked up to my goddess, pointed at the slot machine on her left and politely asked, "Are you playing this machine too?"
She looked at me with a wry grin and answered, "I donated five dollars to that little sucker without a single winner. It's yours if you want to waste your money."
I said, "Thanks a lot. I'm always careful when I sit down at a slot machine; I've witnessed some terrible fights on the slot machine floor that rival the last Tyson fight. Last week someone 'stole' a machine that the other person was playing. It was horrible—beer throwing and hair pulling; and that happened even before they really got mad at each other."
She was laughing now and said, "I promise no beer throwing; I'm too smart to waste a valuable commodity."
I continued, "Good luck to you. My name is Paul by the way. I'm a no good, rotten-to-the-core person known as a local. I live in this city of sin and sex."
She answered, "Good luck to you too. My name is Darla and I am one of those not-too-bright people you call a tourist."
I grinned back at her and put in my first quarter. Jackpot—$10!
Darla yelped, "Look at that; I warmed up the machine for you with five dollars and with one quarter, you hit a jackpot. Are you always that good?"
My brain did a somersault with a half twist. You cannot be "good" in playing the slots. Good implies there is a skill element involved, and that you used the skill correctly. In this case my skill element was pushing a button—I was too lazy to pull the handle. Statistically, there is no way to make money in the long term in games of chance. My jackpot was a mere random fluctuation.
I answered Darla with the Machiavellian intent of setting the hook, "Well now you see why I'm so careful when I sit down at a slot machine. When you told me that you had the machine warmed up, I had a strong hunch that I was going to hit it. My hunches are usually pretty good when I play the slots; they are even better at Spin the Wheel.
"I've got an idea that might interest you. The $10 is really half yours since you warmed up the machine for me. I'll donate the $10 into a pot and we could each put in $10 more and play these two machines. We will split any profits.
"Now I have to admit, I'm being a little selfish here. You have warmed up your machine and statistically it is probably ready to pay off just like this one, so I'm taking advantage of you a little."
Darla answered, "But you're putting $20 into the pot and I'm only putting in $10. That's a great deal for me. I'll do it partner."
I grabbed one of those ubiquitous plastic cups that are synonymous with slot machines and put in the 40 quarters I had just won, plus added another 40 quarters. Darla put in her 40 quarters as I thought, "I can't believe I said that garbage with a straight face. Machines are not warmed up, nor are they statistically ready to pay off—it's random chance with no skill. But if that's what it takes to talk to Darla, I'll lower my intellectual principles and say whatever sounds good."
I told Darla, "We'll alternate machines; I just played, so it's your turn."
She put in a quarter, turned to me and confidently said, "I win much more by pulling the handle than by pushing the button."
My brain did a belly flop as I grinned and answered, "I've heard people say that a lot, so there must be something to it."
She turned back to the machine and pulled the handle. She stared at the slot reels turning; I stared at her breasts.
I almost ducked as a piercing scream once again assaulted my eardrums—"JACKPOT—$50!"
It was Darla and she was alternating between hugging me with those splendid breasts pressed against me, and those same breasts sliding up and down my chest as her feet left the floor during her jumps.
I looked at her machine; it really was a $50 winner. "Absolute, blind luck," I thought.
On the other hand there was a certain pleasure in watching 200 quarters clinking down into the coin box at the base of the machine.
Darla had pushed the button to cash out. She told me that a really good slot machine player advised her to never let the credits build up in the machine; always make the machine pay. I thought my brain was doing another belly flop at this latest revelation.
For the next hour we played the slots and talked. Darla had graduated from college a few years earlier and was now a teacher at a junior high in a suburb of Chicago, while earning a masters degree at night. She had been to Las Vegas three or four times with friends, but when her girlfriend backed out at the last minute, Darla had decided to come anyway. Although it was the summer break from her teaching, she could only afford to be here for a week. With adroit questions I found out that she had broken up a few months earlier with her boyfriend of many years. He had a choice to make—marry Darla or marry the boss's daughter. "I came in second," said Darla, "And after thinking what a jerk that guy was, I'm glad I lost."
Darla performed her own inquisition on me and managed to extract information on every ex-girlfriend I'd in the last three years, along with her name, and length of service. Her inquisition was unfair and brutal—she smiled, she giggled, she impulsively touched my arm repeatedly, and she never let her breasts stray too far from my sight.
Finally, she asked a key question, "Are all professional poker players nuts, or do they act nuts to show people that they are professional poker players?"
I defended my poker clique with a question of my own: "What is so nuts about playing cards all night, sleeping all day, and going through girlfriends at a pace of three or four per year?"
My brilliant answer obviously stumped her. She stared at me and then broke into a sidesplitting laugh as she punched my arm. She gasped with tears running down her cheeks, "What a great sense of humor. You said that totally dead serious. I kept looking for you to start grinning at such a nonsensical statement, but you kept your poker face. If only my ex-boyfriend had such a sense of humor."
I took the chicken's way out and said, "Darla, we ran our $30 bankroll to over a $100. Let's go to a quiet bar in the casino and count our quarters and have a drink?"
She readily agreed and I led the way to my favorite bar in the casino—relatively dark, no singers and no tourists.
We counted the quarters. I know; you go to the cashier and she throws your bucket of quarters into a machine and in mille-seconds the machine says how much money you are to be paid. However, tourists like to count their quarters; so we counted, drank, and talked.
I thought, "This is a completely dysfunctional relationship. She believes in luck and I believe luck is the narcotic of a tourist. She talks to slot machines; I hate them. She thinks poker playing all night is idiotic, but that is my vocation. Why am I talking to this female?"
I rationalized, "Because, you idiot, she is the most beautiful female you've met in the last three years, her breasts are not man-made, and you melt when she grins at you.
"You can continue to pretend that skill is part of gambling; that you have a 'feel' for slot machines, and that maybe you could discipline yourself to play cards only half the night, if your reward were this goddess in your bed doing the 'cheap physical stuff' when you came home from the tables."
"That's impossible; you can't lower your standards that much," the right side of my brain screeched.
The left side of my brain, which controlled the lower part of me said, "Don't be so quick to kick this beauty out of your bed... don't be a chump."
The center part of my brain said, "You've got to be shitting me; you're already kicking her out of bed when the most you got so far is some breast contact when she won a jackpot... give me a break."
To say the least, I was confused.
We sipped our drinks and counted our quarters. We had run $30 of quarters into $103. Darla was excited and said, "This is the most I've won in Las Vegas ever! It was really a lot of fun, and you made it happen. How can I thank you Paul?"
"That's easy. We take these quarters to the cashier and turn them into real money. We take the real money to a small, local's restaurant and have the best dinner in Las Vegas that you'll ever experience."
Darla gave me a grin, which I already had named "that look." She said, "Fantastic; I agree."
I paid the bill and we walked with our quarters to the cashier. I was thinking that I had to dispel her idiotic idea that slot machines could be beat. I knew a relationship based on her belief that playing slots was a game of skill was doomed to a very unsatisfactory conclusion.
I spotted my beginning tactic—the progressive slot machine isle was located next to the cashier's cage where our quarters were going to be changed to real money. The flashing sign said that the progressive jackpot was now $212,169. I pointed at the flashing sign and said, "Last week the jackpot was at $8 million plus dollars. A little old lady with a walker and bottle of oxygen put in three dollars and won the jackpot. It's amazing how luck is everything in playing slots."
Darla said, "That's not completely true Paul. You played our two machines like an expert. You knew that they were ready to pay off, and they did! Some people have the feel for that, but most don't. You have a wonderful gift."
I thought, "Fantastic! What a great opportunity to show her how silly this whole skill thing is. Really ham this one up Paul."
I turned to Darla and said, "I rarely get a strong feeling on something like this, but right now I just know the progressive jackpot is going to pay off. Normally it takes months before another winner comes along, but this thing is going to pay off soon.
"We have $103 in our partnership. Let's each donate $1.50 and play the progressive for one pull. We will be partners on this—right down the middle. It's just this strong hunch I have, and of course we probably won't win, but what the heck."
I thought, "What absolute bullshit I am putting out to stay close to this goddess."
Darla looked at me and grinned as she said, "Go for it partner."
I fed the machine three dollars, but just before I pushed the button to get the reels turning, I looked at Darla and said, "You told me it's much more profitable to pull the handle then push the button, so why don't you pull the handle?"
She reached for the handle as I thought, "This is just one small step to show her that there is no skill in playing the slots. Three dollars down the drain is such a cheap lesson."
Now those of you who are afflicted with the slot machine disease know that when you pull the handle, the reels turn. When the first reel stops, the others stop so fast that you see them, but your brain doesn't connect immediately. So when the first reel stopped on the jackpot symbol, the siren noise and the lights flashing hit me before my brain registered that all the reels had stopped on the jackpot symbol. We hit the jackpot!
Darla was screaming and doing that thing with her breasts against my body again. This time she added a kiss that must have shattered a world record somewhere for intensity.
The manager of slot machines quickly walked up to us and introduced himself. He said, "Folks, this is always a bit of a production, so let me explain what is going to happen. The first thing we will do is a physical check of the machine to verify that there really was a jackpot and not a machine malfunction. At the same time we will be looking at the film of you winning the jackpot to make sure everything was on the up and up. Then we get into the paperwork phase—are you two married?"
I answered, "No, just friends."
He asked, "Did one of you win the jackpot or were you partners?
Darla said, "We're partners right down the middle."
She squeezed my hand and then grinned and gave me another kiss. "But close partners," she continued.
The manager said, "Well, that means we'll have two 1092 forms made out for the IRS. I'll need to see picture identification, get your social security numbers, legal address, and full names. Once all that information is completed, we'll cut you a check for eighty percent of the winnings for each of you—twenty percent is withheld for tax purposes. And of course you'll have to report your winnings at the end of your tax year to the Internal Revenue Service.
"Let's see... the jackpot was $212,169, which means each of you won a bit over $106,000, and that means you'll each receive a check for about $85,000 after we withhold Uncle's share.
"Finally, our public relations department will want to take a picture of you for the newspaper. You don't have to agree, but generally most winners don't mind it—we never give your address or home town; we just give an approximate location where you live."
The manager suggested we go back to the quiet bar and he would join us once the machine check, film review, and the IRS forms were completed.
Darla was in absolute ecstasy. She never let go of my hand and every time we looked at each other, she kissed me. She repeatedly said, "I just knew you were an expert on slot machines. It's almost not fair that I have taken advantage of your slot machine skills by being your partner."
I said, "Darla, we are partners, so none of that talk."
I thought, "I just won $85,000 on pure luck in an attempt to teach Darla that there is no skill in playing slots. The money is fantastic, but the guys in the poker room are going to tease the shit out of me—professional poker player wasting money on the slots. And then there is Darla; not only is she beautiful, but also, she hasn't taken her hands off me. If we weren't in a public place, this could have gone to a much higher sexual level."
I continued speaking, "Darla, this has never happened to me before. What a day—from the quarter slots to a progressive jackpot. I'm overwhelmed by it all."
She grinned again and leaned over to give me another kiss.
Just then the slot machine manager came to our table followed by a woman and a man carrying a camera. The manager said, "Congratulations, you are now official winners of the jackpot. As soon as you sign this form, I will give you the checks."
We signed and he gave each of us a check made out for $84,867.60. He said, "I'd like to introduce you to the head of public relations—Rita Wilson—she would like to take a few pictures of you."
Rita grinned at us and said, "The casino would really like to have pictures of you two that we can use for promotional purposes. We won't reveal your address or any other private information.
"Oh, by the way, are you two staying at the casino?"
Darla answered, "I'm staying here for a week, but Paul isn't, since he lives in Las Vegas."
Rita responded, "Traditionally, if a jackpot winner is staying with us, as an added bonus for letting us take their picture for promotional use, we upgrade their room and comp them."
Darla asked, "Comp me? What does that mean?"
Rita answered, "It means we'll move you into one of the smaller suites at no charge to you—you are a guest of the casino for the week."
Darla squealed in excitement as I thought, "I really was going to try to talk Darla out of the picture taking; I'm going to be embarrassed enough in the poker room. I don't need pictures. But that squeal tells me that Darla is going to want the pictures for sure—a suite for free is a hell of an enticement."
Darla squeezed my hand and looked into my eyes as she pleaded, "You don't mind if they take our picture, do you?"
I lost the battle before it started and surrendered without a fight, "Of course not, partner. Why would I mind?"
We went back to the progressive slot machine area and posed for the pictures. First Rita had us facing each other with our hands on each other's waist, kissing while staring into each other's eyes. My hands touched part of Darla's semi-naked hips—they felt wonderful. Next, I stood behind her with my hands on her bare stomach and her hands on top of mine as we both looked at the camera. Her skin was cool to the touch as my hands pressed into her tight stomach. Of course, I had an erection, which Darla had to feel as her butt was touching my pelvis.
Finally, Rita suggested that I put my arms around Darla just below her breasts, her hands on mine as she turned her head to look at me. My arms felt the bottom of her breasts slightly, but then Darla pulled my hands higher so that my arms were lifting her breasts. My erection continued to probe her, and this time I felt her lean into me. As the picture was taken she looked into my eyes and smiled.
Rita said, "You two are really hot. You're both good looking and you can almost feel your relationship in the picture. I have another proposal for you. We have four other properties in town. If you agree for a picture shoot in each of the four casinos showing you trying your luck on our other slot machine floors, the casino will throw in a limo at your call and comp you for dinner each night anywhere on the Strip. What do you say?"
Darla excitedly said, "It's a deal. But there is a problem. Except for a classy dress, I didn't bring too many clothes. I guess I would have to go shopping so that I'm not wearing the same thing in each of your casinos."
I thought, "Is this cute little blonde partner of mine negotiating?"
Rita answered, "Darla, that's not a problem. If you let us take pictures of you and Paul buying your clothes at our casino stores with part of your winnings, the casino will comp you the clothes, too."
Darla was beaming and asked me, "You'll do it, won't you?"
My brain said, "No, no, no." The breasts that I had just felt, trumped my brain as I nodded my head yes.
Darla and I agreed to eat at the best restaurant in the casino that we were in for our first free dinner. Darla went with Rita to the VIP room to coordinate the room change for Darla and set up the free billing. Darla and I agreed to meet at 7:00—I would call her room after I returned wearing something more appropriate for a high-class restaurant.
I returned to the casino at seven and asked the operator to connect me with Darla's room. She answered the phone and I said, "Hi, partner."
She answered, "Paul, you've got to see this room. It's fabulous—by far the nicest hotel room I've ever seen. Come up and let me show you; it's room 3369."
I knocked on the door and she opened it for me. She was smiling and looked beautiful in a simple dress that left her shoulders bare to the beginning of her breasts. She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the room, as she said, "Isn't this amazing?"
It was a very nice suite. The sitting area had two couches and two large chairs with a fancy coffee table. There was a modest granite wet bar in the corner with a refrigerator and icemaker. You stepped up to enter the sleeping area—a giant king-size bed with the headboard being the entire wall of cut-glass mirrors. The side tables, armoire, and other furniture were of the highest quality. Another entire wall of the room was a series of windows that looked over the Strip.
I said, "What a great room; and you got it free. You're a good negotiator."
Darla laughed and said, "I didn't negotiate anything—well, maybe the clothes. This is all because you made me your partner. I think we should kiss to seal the deal again." She stepped into my arms and we kissed. I felt her tongue pushing against my lips and opened my mouth; our tongues probed each other.
When we came up for air I stepped back a little and rested my hands on her hips. Darla looked at me and said, "Just so you know, Paul, I am a touchy type of person, especially when I'm happy, and we only have a week. I'm really happy now after a fabulous day, so please don't get shy on me."
With that she took my hands in hers and raised them to her breasts. I covered her breasts and lightly caressed them. Her eyes closed as my hands explored those wonderful mounds. She opened her eyes and impishly grinned, "Too bad for you, but the reservation was for seven o'clock, and we are late."
I reluctantly released her breasts, gave her a kiss and we left the room holding hands. "The night is young," I thought.
The dinner was excellent, as you would expect from the premier restaurant in one of the most expensive casinos in Las Vegas. It was obvious that the staff knew we were comped, but they didn't know why. They went out of their way to keep us "important people" happy.
Darla was on an upper. She talked about the money she had won the first day in Las Vegas. She wondered how she should invest her money; would it change her life; should she keep gambling. Finally she looked at me and said, "I owe you a lot and you've been wonderful to me. The only way to thank you is to do another selfish thing—I want to go upstairs and have you make love to me. I want you to touch and tease me everywhere, and when I can't stand it another second, I want you in me. Could you do that for me... please?"
I was more than surprised. What Darla was suggesting was my game plan. My theory was that the male is the dominant half and the female, in her normal submissive role, should be persuaded and then succumb to the dominant male's persuasions. Here the female, in this case Darla, was acting as if she were at least a co-equal partner. Before I continued my intellectual interrogative regarding this role reversal enigma, the left side of my brain joined the center of my brain and said, "Smile and look into her eyes, touch her hand lightly and say, 'what a wonderful idea; I wish I would have thought of it first.'"
I signed for the bill and left a very large tip, since the comps never include tipping. As we stood up she reached for my hand and we walked back to her room. I hoped all the people we passed had their eyes only on my goddess, since my pants seemed to have developed a significant bulge in an awkward place.
The room door closed and we were in each other's arms. Her lips pressed into mine; her perfume and body scent assaulted my olfactory senses, and her breasts continued their sexual teasing. Our mouths opened and our tongues explored each other. Finally, the never-ending kiss ended and Darla stepped back. Her face was flush and her eyes stared into mine. She said, "Would you let me take off your clothes first, and then I would like you to strip me?"
I nodded yes—did I have any better alternative?
Darla took my sports coat and hung it around the back of a chair. As she undid the buttons of my shirt her eyes never left mine. She pulled the shirt free of my waist and removed it from my shoulders. Gently, she guided me to sit in the chair as she knelt before me and removed my shoes and socks. She took my hands and pulled me to stand again; we kissed. Her hands went to my belt, which opened easily. The button gave way, the zipper came down and the pants fell to the floor. She had me step out of them and neatly folded them and placed them on the chair. She turned to me again and lifted my undershirt over my head; I bent to help her.
Only my shorts were left. My erection was clearly visible and my pre-cum had created a four-inch diameter circle. She knelt before me and slipped her fingers around the elastic of the waist and pulled the shorts down. My erection caused a minor blockage, but then my cock swung free and the shorts were on the ground. Darla's hands cupped my balls as she stared at my fully-erect penis. She looked up at me and said, "God, it's so beautiful." She took me into her mouth and caressed my balls for seconds, and then, just as my body started to enter stage two of ultimate lust, she stood up and said, "Your turn."
Frustrated, but eager to proceed, I turned her so that I could manipulate the dress off her beautiful body. The button and zipper easily gave way and she stepped out of her dress, which I put on the couch. I proceeded to remove each article of clothing until she stood there in bra and panties.
The bra was a wisp of material that supported her breasts and hid nothing. Her areolae were larger than I expected and her nipples were already hard. We faced each other and then I stepped into her arms; we kissed as my hands unclasped her bra. When I stepped back, I pulled her bra from her and let it fall to the floor.
Her thong panties were made of a sheer material that again hid nothing. Her pubic hair, trimmed in a heart shape, was black. I touched her mound through the material and found her panties were soaked with her moisture. I knelt before her and pulled the thong from her hips, and then down her legs. I reached behind her thighs and as I pulled her in to me, her moist pubic hair touched my face. Her outer lips were already partially open; my fingers widened the opening and my flat tongue swiped her insides from below her vagina to her clitoris.
She moaned for the first time. Her fingers beat some type of love song on my shoulders and my tongue again teased her entire opening. Her legs opened wider for me as I penetrated her gently with my finger, and then with two fingers. She gasped with pleasure and whispered, "Oh yes."
I finally stood up and led her to the bed, which had already been turned down. I laid her on her back; she spread her legs slightly apart. Her eyes were closed as I knelt next to her on the bed and lightly brushed my lips against her eyelids and then her lips. I kissed her shoulders and her neck as my hands were resting on her breasts that I now gave my full attention.
Darla's breasts were beautiful; slightly flattened because of her position, but the nipples were erect and hard. I ignored her nipples as I squeezed and caressed her breasts with my hands—molding them as I applied pressure. I kissed the mounds of her breasts repeatedly and then, wetting my tongue, started to tease her areolae with wet circles of pressure. She moaned again and turned so that my tongue would pleasure her nipples, but I continued to avoid those sensitive beacons of lust. She groaned, "Touch my nipples... please." I ignored her pleas. She tried to put her arms around me; I held her arms on the bed.
Finally, my mouth went to each nipple and slowly sucked each one. Her hips arched up with the first contact and her moans became much louder. I let go of one of her arms and brushed my hand against her pelvis—her moist hair aroused me as my fingers explored her. Again my two fingers penetrated her and explored her vagina exerting pressure against her walls.
By now her groans had become guttural pleadings for me to finish—to give her release. My mouth left her nipples and went to her clitoris, which my tongue gently teased. I knew that she had only moments before she would come. I knelt before her and lifted her hips up as I positioned my thighs so that I could go into her as far as physically possible. I put myself into her quickly and felt her wet vagina encircle me, and then felt a light squeeze as her muscles contracted. Moments later she screamed my name and arched her hips into me, her head moving back and forth as her body lost all control in its effort to take more of me. Her violent spasms had started to slow, but as I emptied myself into her, she came again. Finally, she was done, and so was I.
We lay on our sides looking and touching each other. Darla had started talking again. She wanly smiled at me and said, "I don't know if I love you, or whether you could ever love me, but I know from what you just did to me that we have mutual lust. I wanted you from the moment you came up to me at the slot machine.
"I want to tell you what I think and feel, and I like to touch you. When you finally came into me, it was heaven. I could feel you go all the way in and just before I started to come, you somehow made it bigger and I felt that. We only have six more days. I'm yours if you want me."
I kissed her deeply and pulled her to me. In moments she fell asleep. Twice she woke me during the night; our lovemaking was intense. As I fell asleep for the third time I wondered, "Is it only lust, or could this be love?" I slept; the question went unanswered.
The shower woke me. Minutes later Darla walked out of the bathroom. She was naked and made no attempt to hide herself from my eyes. She grinned at me and said, "Good morning, sleepy. We have things to do—clothes to buy on the house, and pictures to make. First clean up, and then let's get some coffee. Rita said to meet her at the front door at 10:30—we have two casinos to go to today and two more tomorrow."
The picture taking took most of the day. Rita had really gotten into it. We were going to be the perfect Las Vegas couple that enjoys the casino shops, plays the slots, and has a great time in the fantasy world of the Strip. I bit my tongue and said nothing, since I had already agreed to go along with the story.
My fear and question was how bad had my reputation suffered among the locals in the card room? I knew what they would think—I had fallen off the wagon of a pure poker player and had humiliated myself by partaking in the silly world of gambling. Tourists, and Darla was a tourist, could never understand how grievous an offense I had made against the purity of professional card playing.