The New Year’s Bet

The New Year’s Bet

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A standing bet of wild sexual proportions has this adventurous couple ringing in the New Year in the most exciting — yet quiet — ways.

The sound of the zipper pulling down wouldn’t have been noticeable to most people, I’m sure. But I heard it. That telltale zzzz as the silver teeth unlocked and the slacks whispered open sounded as loud as a jet engine to me, but nobody else turned to look our way. With my hand tucked under the table, I reached into Steve’s pants and began to fist his hard-on. He was facing the woman on his right, and I was certain that not a person at the table would have guessed that my hand was on his naked dick. Steve didn’t move, he didn’t pause, he didn’t appear to forget what he was saying. My husband is a pro when it comes to playing this dirty game.

While taking a sip from my champagne flute, I imperceptibly started to give Steve a handjob. I gingerly moved my wrist back and forth, squeezing and releasing Steve’s cock in a rhythm of my own creation. My hand ever so slowly moved on his dick, and I could feel his already-hard member becoming harder still. This top-secret action was turning me on immensely, so much so that I had a difficult time doing the simplest movements — lifting a piece of bread to my mouth, nodding to the tuxedo-clad waiter that yes, I was finished with my salad. As Steve’s rod continued to grow in my fist, I could tell he was getting more aroused by the second.

But he didn’t let on. Not even the slightest.

What was Steve saying now? Oh, he was telling the matron on his other side about our recent trip to Italy. I heard him describing the olive groves, the aromas of meat cooking on an open fire, the lazy naps we’d indulged in every afternoon. My hand continued to pump his cock. He didn’t flinch. Yes, he’s that good.

I could feel a drop of pre-come slip from the tip of his cock, and I used this pearl of wetness to lube the ride I was giving his rod. When I started to move my hand faster, working so hard to keep every other part of myself still, Steve let loose an involuntary sigh. Ha! I thought. He quickly covered up the noise by coughing into his napkin, but I smiled to myself. I had gotten a rise out of him, and that pleased me to my core.

Every year, Steve and I have a standing bet. We accept one invitation to a party and we try to make each other come, in public, without anyone else knowing. So far this evening, Steve had gotten me in the makeshift cloakroom — a small chamber off the front hallway — and I’d managed to climax without a sound, muffled in among the furs and the velvet capes. That was no easy feat, because Steve had insisted on going down on me voraciously, shoving my cocktail dress to my hips and eating me out for all he was worth. I’d had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out, and as it was I’d hummed under my breath when the pleasure had grown too much to handle. Miraculously, I’d reached my peak without alerting any other guests, and we’d returned to the party with none the wiser.

To get him back, I’d manhandled him behind the bar, while he’d mixed drinks for the different guests when the hired bartender had been off in search of more bourbon. Playing at being his cocktail wench, I’d gotten in front of him at every opportunity, pressing my sequined backside against his crotch, rubbing my asscheeks insolently into his groin. He had shaken two martinis before he’d needed release.

Steve had followed me to one of the multiple powder rooms in the mansion, bent me over the marble sink and lifted my dress from behind. “This ass is going to get you into trouble,” he’d said, and he’d turned on the faucet to hide the sound of his palm connecting with my rear cheeks. The spanking had been quick, but hot, and Steve had followed up by fucking my twitching pussy with fierce thrusts of his steel-like cock. The bathroom was made of mirrored walls. I’d watched myself come on the tip of his dick. Steve knows his way around my pussy like no other man ever has.

I was proud of myself for making not a squeak during the spanking. However, now that we’d sat for what looked like a multicourse extravaganza I was exacting my revenge. I let go of his dick and surreptitiously licked my palm to provide a bit more lubrication. Then back I went, nonchalantly resuming my discrete handjob.

“Would the lady care for another glass of champagne?” a waiter asked me. I smiled and nodded, squeezing Steve’s dick for emphasis. He coughed again — score another point for Juliette! — and I smiled. I was enjoying myself immensely. The only thing that could possibly have topped this encounter would have been if I could have figured out a way to climb under the table and blow him. But that would have been impossible. There were too many guests in the room, too many waiters walking around.

To my surprise, Steve suddenly extracted himself from my grip, begged the pardon of the lady he’d been chatting with, tucked his cock back into his pants, zipped, and left the table. That wasn’t playing by the rules. He was supposed to let me make him come without anyone being the wiser. I took my champagne and trailed after him. We’d only finished our first courses. Where had he gone?

I heard footsteps on the stairs, and I followed quickly. He was going upstairs. I hurried after him. On the top landing, Steve was waiting for me.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a harsh stage whisper. “I was going to make you come before you’d finished your salad.”

“I need to be inside you again,” Steve explained. I looked around — where did he want to go? Steve grabbed my hand and pulled me after him. “Nobody will notice,” he assured me. “There are too many guests to keep track of.”

He led me down the hall to the master bedroom. I was shocked. The mansion was owned by one of the partners in Steve’s company. What would happen if we got caught? I could imagine the hostess in her high-end beaded monstrosity of a dress, pointing a finger at us in a j’accuse type of gesture.

Steve didn’t even hesitate. He pulled me into the bedroom and shut the door behind us. “I’m going to fuck you on that bed,” he said. I looked over at the massive four-poster bed, and I realized that in spite of my worries of getting caught, I wanted him to do exactly what he’d said.

“Take off your panties.”

I slid them off and down, past my heels. I was wearing garters and stockings underneath, but there was no need for me to take those off. Steve picked me up and set me on the high bed. He started to kiss me, which was surprising. Usually, on betting nights, we forgo foreplay. Or rather — foreplay is the act in itself — the game is the turn-on. But now he was kissing my champagne-flavored lips, kissing down into the plunging cleavage of my sparkly dress, pushing up the hem to my waist and resuming his licking games on my juicy pussy.

“I want to suck you,” I begged, and he undid his slacks and pulled out his cock. We got into a sixty-nine on the mammoth bed, both of us still mostly clothed but obviously in an extremely indelicate position. If someone interrupted us, there would be no doubt as to what we were doing. Steve had his mouth sealed to my pussy. I was sucking him to the root. We couldn’t say we’d mistaken the room for the bathroom. We couldn’t pretend to have dropped a contact lens.

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