David Martin: Loaned wife

As soon as she entered the room, the eyes or three of the four men moved immediately from their cards to follow her. There was a hunger in those eyes, a ravenous want held in bay only by the fact that she was the wife of the fourth man.

The only man whose eyes had stayed on his cards.

She was a beautiful woman, looking far younger than her years. Rich chestnut brown hair flowed down around a warm complected face to cascade over bare, tempting shoulders above a sleeveless, strapless rib-knit top. The top was pale yellow, contrasting to her flesh and highlighting the warmth and satiny sleekness, and her broad, pinkish nipples were clearly visible through the taut fabric.

It had always been her breasts that first caught a man's eyes. Whether the watcher was ass man, tit man or leg man, his gaze zeroed in first on her breasts, for her breasts were gorgeous.

They were firm, swelling, almost perfectly globular masses of soft, resilient flesh, jutting out in front of her, thrusting out strongly into the air. Her tilt disdained bras.

Their eyes flickered from her breasts to her waist, to that sudden, severe narrowing beneath her ribs and above the flaring womanliness of her taut hips. Her waist was slender, streamlined, begging them to test its girth with two hands that might easily close about it.

Their eyes flickered back to her breasts, then on down past the teasing swell of her prominent pubis beneath the too-tight short-shorts to the long, sleek, shapeliness of her legs. It almost seemed that her legs were too long for her – but when she walked, when she moved them, it was obvious that no one else deserved them.

Their eyes flickered back to her breasts, then upward, over the smooth flowing line of her graceful throat to her face. Her features were youthful, almost girlish, but her dark eyes and full, luscious lips gave her just an air of accommodating worldliness to make her knowing, fractionally overlong lingering of eyes cause to wonder if perhaps, she might…

"Any of you, boys like another bottle of beer, or a sandwich?"

"No. Not here. No, thanks," they all murmured in response, eyes still following hers. Did her lips part a shade more? Did the texture of that smile change from politeness to one of invitation?

She walked around the table, hips swaying just enough to be provocative, not enough to be immodest. "And what about you, master of the house?" she cooed softly. She stood beside her husband, slipping one arm about his neck and pressing the underside of one large, marvelous breast against his forehead.

"Huh?" Tom Jamison glanced up from his hand, as if just aware at that moment of his wife's presence in the room. He looked up and found himself staring at the flawless underside of one richly curved breast. "Oh, no thanks honey."

"Well, then, since none of you men are hungry or thirsty, I think I'll excuse myself and turn in. It's nearly one in the morning."

Tom put his cards face down on the table and slipped one arm around that impossibly slim waist, tugging lightly, playfully at his wife so that her tit flesh pressed and bounced off his temple. "Ready to call it a night, eh, mistress?"

It was their private little joke – he was master, she was mistress. When they'd first married, a chronological mismatch that should have teen doomed from the start fourteen years ago, they'd taken delight in shocking people with the literally accurate terms.

"You said it," she answered quietly. "Think you'll be coming to join me soon?" And to emphasize which of the interpretations she meant, she pressed the side of her torso, from gloriously swelling breast to strong, smooth thigh, against him.

"Sure, sure," he said distantly, eyes already straying back to the cards on the table in front of him and the pile of chips in the center of the green felt. "You run on in there and I'll be with you soon."

She knew that tone. Janet Jamison bent down, the upper hem of her top sagging to reveal her gorgeous tits almost to the nipples, and pressed a light kiss on her husband's cheek.

Again, the men's eyes followed her as she strode from the room, this time lighting on her well-filled ass cheeks, tight and full, as they twitched within the unconcealing short-shorts.

Any one of them would have given a year of his life to have had her as his own wife. Every one of them wondered if Tom Jamison had lost his mind – he seemed far more interested in the cards than the beautiful, sexy woman who'd just done everything short of unzipping his fly to coax him into bed.

The three men exchanged glances, understanding glances, knowing glances. Then they each settled back into place for the game.

Tom continued examining his cards. There was sixty bucks in the pot. The betting was at five bucks – to him. He held three eights and jack high.

He was already down seventy for the night. If he could take this pot, he'd be within striking distance of breaking even, maybe even coming out a little ahead for the first time in weeks. He'd been a streak of bad luck like nothing he'd ever seen in his life – almost four grand in losses in over the past six weeks.

He had a feeling deep in his gut that this was the hand, this was the night, this was the week his luck would change. He knew that if he took this hand, he could start winning his debts and paper back, maybe even get ahead. And then he'd quit.

Of course he would. Just like all the times before.

He pushed all the other considerations from his head and played the hunch. "I'll call," he announced cooly, and tossed the chip in.

The three men turned to Sid Koenig, the heavy-set, balding man with the face of a bulldog and the temperament of a kitten with his friends. He'd started and boosted this round of betting.

"Ace high flush in hearts," he smirked, laying the cards out for all to see as if they were the crown jewels of England.

All around the table, the others folded their cards with expressions of friendly envy. Including Tom. It could never be said that Tom wasn't a sport. Even though he was now down ninety dollars for the night.

He could sense that someone was about to suggest calling it a night, and before the words could be spoken, he grabbed the deck and began shuffling. "Seven card stud, deuces wild," he announced.

The other three exchanged knowing glances again, but this time the shared understanding was a different one. For each and every one of them knew Tom and his quirks well.

And each and every one of them knew he was a compulsive gambler.

Janet Jamison stripped her clothing off quickly in the bathroom, eager to rid herself of even those few garments. With practiced expertise, she gave the faucets a few quick turns and the water blitzed out of the shower head at precisely the steamy temperature she preferred.

Quickly, she adjusted the angle of the spray, then tucked the aromatic mass of her luxuriant hair up in a tight bun so it wouldn't be splashed.

She stepped into the enclosure, sliding the heavy tempered glass doors into place and reached for the bar of fragrant, sweet-smelling soap. Its scent was one of pine and herbs, and it reminded her so vividly of her childhood home in the forests of Washington. It was there that Tom had first met her. He'd been just a field man, then, servicing the little gas stations carrying the brand of tires he sold. She was just sixteen, ten years younger than him.

But the first time, they's sew each other had been the start of a frantic intrigue culminating with the two of them sharing a creaky motel bed. She'd lain beneath him, wide open and receptive to every powerful thrust of his virile loins, crying out from time to time in her ecstasy as she'd felt his prick driving deep into her.