Chapter 53: The Poker Game
The fridge’s hum was a bass note under the slap of cards on the formica. David dealt, his fingers quick and practiced, the plastic edges whispering. You were on your knees beneath the table, a nest of jean-clad legs and socked feet surrounding you. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the lingering ghost of microwaved burritos.
“Five card draw,” David said, his voice calm above you. “Ante up, shitbirds.”
Chips clattered. Beneath the table, a hand—Mark’s, you thought, by the chunky silver ring—guided your head towards David’s crotch. You heard the rasp of his zipper, felt the denim brush your cheek. Then the heavy, thick heat of him was against your lips. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but he swelled rapidly in the damp dark.
“Open,” Mark muttered, and his fingers pinched your jaw.
You did. David slid himself into your mouth with a low, gratified sigh you felt through the table. The taste of him, salt and skin and faint laundry detergent, flooded your senses. You began to move, the rhythm forced and mechanical, as the game continued above.
“I’ll take two,” Chris said. His voice was quiet, but his foot, beside your thigh, tapped a restless beat on the linoleum.
You heard the rustle of discarded cards. David’s hips gave a slight, involuntary thrust, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes.
“Easy there, dealer,” Mark laughed. “Don’t get distracted. It’s your hand.”
“I’m focused,” David said, but his fingers threaded into your hair, holding you firmly in place. He began to fuck your mouth in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper than the last. The head of his cock bumped your soft palate, a sickening, intimate invasion. Pre-cum leaked onto your tongue, a bitter-slick thread.
Above, the game was a distant echo. The scratch of chips. Jake complaining about his luck. Chris’s monosyllabic calls.
Your world narrowed to the stretch of your lips, the ache in your jaw, the choking fullness, and the sound of David’s breathing growing steadily heavier. His thighs tightened against your ears. You could smell the musk rising from him, a raw, animal scent that mixed with the kitchen’s stale air.
“Call,” David said suddenly, his voice tight.
He thrust deep and held there, his balls pressed against your chin. You struggled to breathe through your nose, nostrils flaring, as a hot, pulsing flood erupted down your throat. You swallowed convulsively, the salty-bitter tang making your stomach clench. He shuddered, grinding against your face, milking the last drops onto your tongue.
Only when he was completely spent did he pull out, with a soft, wet pop. You gasped, drool and semen slick on your chin.
“Fuck,” David exhaled, a smile in his voice. “Alright. Read ‘em and weep, boys. Full house.”
Groans echoed around the table. Chips were pushed his way.
“Lucky shot,” Jake grumbled.
“Skill,” David corrected, tucking himself away. His hand patted the top of your head, a condescending pet. “Dealer’s privilege. Your problem now, Jake. She’s all yours this hand.”
Another hand guided you—rougher, this time—to the left. Jake’s belt buckle was already open. He didn’t make you wait. He just grabbed the back of your neck and shoved his thick, ruddy cock past your lips. He was already fully hard, and he set a punishing pace immediately, using your mouth like a hole he owned.
Which, for this hand, he did.
The fluorescent light flickered overhead, stuttering the scene into jittery snapshots: Mark’s grinning face, Chris studying his cards with unnerving intensity, Jake’s stomach muscles clenching as he fucked your throat. The poker game dissolved into background noise, just the soundtrack to your degradation. Your knees screamed against the hard floor. Your throat was raw.
Jake came with a choked-off curse, his release bitter and copious, and you had no choice but to drink it down, tears cutting clean tracks through the mess on your face.
The deal passed to Chris.
He gathered the cards, his movements smooth and economical. When you were pushed towards him, there was a hesitation. For a second, just a second, his dark eyes met yours in the shadowed space beneath the table. There was no kindness in them, but there was a focus, an assessment, that felt different from the others’ vacant hunger.
Then it was gone. He opened his fly.
He was bigger than the others, thick and long, and he smelled different—like clean sweat and the patchouli from his room. He didn’t yank you or force you. He simply placed a firm hand on your shoulder and guided you forward.
“Suck it,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.
You did. He was silken and hard in your mouth. His rhythm was controlled, athletic, deep but not brutal. Each thrust was measured, as if he was concentrating on the sensation, cataloguing it. His other hand came down, not to grip your hair, but to rest on the crown of your head, his thumb slowly stroking the line of your temple. The contrast—the gentle touch amidst the violent intimacy—was more unsettling than any shove.
Above, he played his hand flawlessly. You could hear the certainty in his voice as he raised the bet. He never missed a beat, never stuttered, even as he pushed himself to the back of your throat and held there, his cock throbbing.
“All in,” Chris said, his tone flat.
A beat of silence. The scrape of a chair.
“Call,” Mark hissed.
Chris’s hips began to piston, faster now, losing a fraction of that perfect control. His breathing hitched. You felt the tension coiling in his thighs, the pre-cum slicking your tongue. He was close.
“Show me,” Chris demanded.
A curse from Mark. The clatter of cards.
“Read it,” Chris said, and his voice was a ragged thing now. He shoved deep, one final time, and erupted. His cum was hotter, flooding your mouth, and he held you there, his body rigid, as he pulsed again and again. A low, shuddering groan escaped him, a private sound that seemed to surprise even him.
He pulled out slowly, wiping the tip of his cock on your lower lip. When you finally sagged back, your mouth ravaged and sore, you looked up.
Chris was stacking a huge pile of chips, his face an impassive mask. But his eyes, when they flicked down to you, held a dark, possessive gleam.
“Looks like I win the pot,” he said, to the room. Then, quieter, just for you, as he zipped his jeans. “And the rest of the week.”