Double or Nothing

“Manager, I'm fucking bored,” Sakura mutters, knees drawn up to her chest as she sits on the hotel bed. She's staring out the window with a pout as the rain crashes against the glass fiercely, a brutal reminder of her canceled schedule that you were supposed to take her to.

Your back is towards her, just mindlessly scrolling through your phone as you try to waste the hours away. “And what do you expect me to do about that?” you grumble back as you turn towards her. “ And don't sit with your shoes on the bed. Either take them off or hang your feet off of the bed.”

She grunts, kicks her feet off the bed and lets them hang there, letting the rest of her upper body crash into the mattress and spreading her arms like a starfish.

“You’re a buzzkill.”

“I'm professional.”

“I wish I brought my switch,” she sighs. “Then I could at least play some Silksong right now.”

You tap a deck of cards you fished out of your bag. You always carry a pair. “We could play some cards?”

Her head tilts upwards and her eyes glitter towards you. “Like, poker?”

“Err, no,” you respond curtly. “We'd need chips for that. Something to bet, and this place doesn't seem to offer complimentary peanuts or anything.”

She looks on the verge of complaining again, head dropping back, kicking her feet again. And then kicking her feet slower, and continuing to slow like processing power is diverging from her muscles to her filthy ideas until they fully stop and she shoots upright.

“I know! Strip poker,” she exclaims full of vigor. “Since you wanted me to take my shoes off anyways, you might as well earn–”

“Absolutely not,” you cut her off. “There’s nothing professional about me beating you in strip poker.”

She sighs, dramatically, performatively. “God, you suck.”

You shrug, because if sucking at being entertaining is what it takes to take your job, you'll gladly stay boring forever.

“Wait,” Sakura says as she squints at you. “You really think you would win?”

You nod and grunt. She squints, not convinced.

“Prove it,” she says.

Some silence follows. You consider it, against better judgement. She feels you wavering.

“Nobody will ever find out you had to strip nude for me. Won't leave these walls. My lips are sealed tight.”

“You're barely wearing anything as it stands. I'll clean you out in like 4 or 5 rounds?”

She laughs like that excites her, and maybe it does. “I’d like to see you try. I've got a world class poker face, on account of being a world class idol.”

And that was all the convincing you needed to shuffle the deck and let her cut it.

Her “great poker face” cracked about ten seconds into the first hand. You didn’t even need to look at your cards to see the way her nose scrunched if she had garbage. Predictable. Almost pitiful, like a baby animal that doesn't know it's some predator's meal yet. You won the round easily.

“Alright, take off your shoes,” you smirked, giving a playful roll of your eyes.

“One shoe. And double or nothing,” she refutes with a cheeky grin.

This brat. “You’re kidding.”

“You scared?”

You roll your eyes more annoyed this time but just nod and shuffle the cards again.

Same story this round. Scrunching nose, garbage hand. Yours wasn't amazing either, but you were willing to let her off the hook if she won this one.

She didn't. She played terribly, and grumbled as she kicked her shoes off. The silver lining was that she could now at least pull her knees up to her chest.

The next round started with a clean slate of debt.

“You sure you want to continue this?” you ask out of some misguided sense of chivalry.

“Scared your beginner's luck will run out and you'll get laughed at by me for having a tiny dick?”

She deals the cards this time. Says something about not trusting the way you shuffle them. Ridiculous accusation with how you use a wash shuffle, but if it makes her feel better, so be it.

Hands are dealt, and the flop is laid out. She forgot to burn cards, but you let it slide.

Sakura already looks panicked. Her foot twitching and kicking, she decides to change both cards and suddenly looks alive again.

“Take off that jacket, asshole,” she gloats, before seeing her three of a kind get wiped out by your flush.

You don't bother hiding your smirk, that kind of energy is for during the rounds.

Her grin disappears, grimacing, looking at you like a sorry excuse for a world class poker face, and asks: “Double or nothing?”

“Oh, so that you'll take off both your socks instead of just one?”

“That's right, you fucking feet fetishist. But don't get your hopes up because I'm going to win.”

She doesn’t. Socks join her shoes on the floor.

A next hand is played, and some higher entity must have taken pity on her because your own three of a kind didn’t stand a chance against the straight flush she pulled out of her ass.

She cheers like she just won SOTY, demanding you to remove your suit jacket. The thought of taking off one shoe crosses your mind, but you humor her nonetheless. You tug it off, throw it at her, and she beams like she thinks this is the start of a comeback.

“I told you I'd start winning,” she says, smug and cozy and infuriatingly adorable, before immediately losing the very next hand played. She stays in her pattern, doubling the ante.

It never works. One foul swoop takes care of her sweater and her shorts.

The revelation that she wasn’t wearing a shirt under her sweater was shocking, but not as shocking as how big and beautiful her tits looked in her matching white underwear.

“You’re enjoying this way too much, you perv,” she accuses.

“Would you rather I looked disinterested?” you shoot back.

The right corner of her lip lifts in a mocking expression as she begins to shuffle for a new round.

She's chewing her lip looking at her cards, at the flop, considering the change, or considering the lack of bargaining chips she has left.

Her nose scrunches again.

The board gets run, you lay your hand flat, and you look at her. She groans, dropping her own on the bed like it's a bag filled with bad decisions.

“Fine,” she mutters. “Double or nothing. Bra and panties. Fully fucking naked if you win.”

“Deal,” you respond way too fast, eyebrows shooting up.

“What, you’re not even going to pretend to talk me out of this? Some manager you are.”

“You’re an adult,” you retort. “You can make your own decisions.”

She looks at you like you just gained some kind of fucked up form of respect. She nods, sharp, and you can tell she’s ready for what might come to pass.

The round plays out more sincere, more serious than the previous rounds. She takes every chance she can get to glare at you, like she can intimidate you into losing.

She can’t.

Lady luck smiled upon you as you beat her in this final round.

The bravado starts to seep out of her pores with a sharp exhale as she resigns herself to the consequences of her own actions. She fidgets for a bit, but doesn’t run away from what she brought upon herself.

Her fingers hook into the clasp of her bra, undoes their connection and lets the whole thing fall in front of her. You get a quick glimpse of her rock hard and pink nipples begging to be played with. She doesn't waste time pulling her knees up to her chest to cover herself. But her thumbs do all the work for you, peeling her panties down her thighs, puffy pussy on display in trade for a view of her chest. As the last piece of clothing on her falls to the floor, so do her feet make their way back to the bed and block your line of sight to the gates of heaven.

You get the intent, and strangely, you follow. You lean back, gaze drifting towards the still rain-blurred window, like you’re giving her some privacy. Despite the fact that you won the right to take it from her.

She notices, and coughs to get your attention.

“What, you’re not even going to look?” she asks with an almost accusatory tone.

“Trying my hardest, yeah, cus—”

“Well stop trying,” she cuts you off, cheeks red but eyes piercing through you. “Look. Take it in. Get hard for all I care. You won.”

There's a locked door that just opened in your brain.

Your eyes snap back to her with hunger, and this time they don't leave. Pale skin flushed pink, bare legs tucked tight against her tits that squeeze out from both sides. The little scrunch of her nose as she registers your stare.

And the way your cock is pushing hard to have its existence acknowledged.

The redness on her face deepens, but so does the curl of her mouth. The shame gets transmuted into pride.

“You’re actually hard,” she points out—literally, with finger and all—laughing the words. “I can't believe you want to fuck the girl you should be managing. You're shameless.”

You can’t get the words out to deny it. Not while she's stretching her limbs slowly, arms releasing their grasp on her legs. Legs uncurling in front of her to reveal those perfect handfuls she has, twisting and turning until she’s lounging on the mattress like she’s asking you what position you want her in.

There's no mistaking it. She loves watching you watch her.

You sit tight, somehow managing to withhold the urge to pin her down right there and then. “You’re such a slut,” you grumble.

Her grin widens. “Let's continue our game."

You arch a brow. “How? You’ve already lost. You’ve got no clothes to bet anymore.”

She hums, taps her chin, like she hasn't already prepared an answer. She acts like it just came to her and blurts it out with reckless confidence.

“If I win, I get all my clothes back. No more staring at me naked for you, and you won't complain about me wearing shoes in the bed.”

She's ridiculous. “And if you lose?”

Her cheeks burn hot, but her eyes sparkle with challenge. “Then… I'll get on my knees for you.”

It's intentionally dubious, and she lets it hang to see if you dare ask for what it means or not.

Against better judgement, you begin to ask: “You mean—”

But she cuts you off with a sharp little laugh and a fake act of being to shy to admit it. “Don't make me spell it out manager.”

You can’t let her get away with an insinuation here anymore. “No, I'm going to need to hear you say it.”

“You win, I'll suck your dick. Until you cum in my mouth.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. And I swallow.”

She says it so nonchalantly it feels like a cannonball collided with your skull. Her thighs squirm and you swear her hand keeps inching closer to her cunt every second you're not playing a hand of poker.

All signs point to her not kidding.

You should be doing your job and telling her to get dressed. Instead, you nod and motion at her to shuffle the cards.

It's over before it even started. Her hand was dead long before it hit the table.

She stares at the cards in silence, then at yours, and then pouts at you. One second. Two. Bounces her whole body to make her tits do the same as if pleading for some kind of recount. Then she switches to her last resort.

“...Double or nothing.”

You chuckle incredulously. “How? What's double of a blowjob? You gonna teleport Chaewon in her and make her pay—”

“Double or fucking nothing,” she cuts you off, a fire burning in her eyes. She swallows hard, and lays out her terms. “If I win, I'll stay naked the entire evening. I won’t even complain if you look at me and jerk off.”

You can't help but listen where this goes, eyes urging her to continue.

“But if I lose again, which I won't, it's not just a blowjob. I'll let you be the first ever guy I deepthroat. Fuck it raw. However you want, no need to hold back.”

It's too much to ask of you to think level headed now. All you can hear is the rain splattering against the window with the same rhythm as your pulse pounding in your skull.

You look at her and her nose doesn't scrunch. She means it. Reckless, brash, trembling slightly but above it all; serious.

“Double or nothing,” she repeats, quieter, a final time.

You nod. “Okay. But don't regret it.”

She lets you shuffle first this time, and then shuffles herself after you're done. Intense focus, muscles twitching all over her body.

She takes her hand, sees the flop and tries to get a read on what you got. Tells you to wait before running the rest of the board, and eventually decides to change out one of her cards. You stick with your pair of eights.

The rest of the cards get revealed and she looks hopeful. Reveals her hand, a full house consisting three threes and a pair of eights. Unfortunately for her, that pair of eights joins your hand for a four of a kind.

Her jaw tightens, eyes darting to your lap, your bulge, your rock hard cock. Her hands fold in her lap.

“...Fuck,” she mutters, looking at you like she’s checking to see if it already registered for you. “Guess I… fuck.”

“You made the bet.”

She looks up, gives you a little defiant smirk as she pushes air out of her nose, fast. Shifts off the bed, her bare knees making landfall on the carpet, hair framing her face perfectly as she shifts in front of you, looking up.

It feels illegal, like the last line you cross before your entire destiny shifts. At this point, you'd lean into it.

Miyawaki Sakura, the idol, the legend, the naked slut kneeling between your legs ready to choke on your cock specifically.

“You better enjoy this, because you can’t get used to this. You just got lucky today,” she says, fingers already slithering up your thighs. Her fingers take their time undoing your zipper, but eventually free you from your restraints.

Your cock towers over her, and she glances past it once, cheeks impossibly red as you twitch at the sight, then takes the initiative and presses a hot, wet kiss against your tip before parting her lips all around it.

She's slow at first. Lots of licking, light sucking, using her hands for anything past the tip. But that's not what you bet on. And you weren't about to let her forget it.

You palmed both your hands on the back of her head, and pulled her in. Not hard. Not initially.

Just enough to make her know you haven't forgotten. Enough to make her throat twitch around you. Enough to make her gag as her mouth gets filled up to halfway down your length.

Her eyes snap up wide, panicked, throat straining and resisting.

It's when you let up on the pressure that she pulls back, coughing, strands of saliva still connecting the two of you, wiping spit from her mouth with the back of her hand and breathing ragged.

She recovers enough to talk. “Fuck,” she stutters. “You’re serious about this.”

“Don't bet what you can't afford to lose,” you remind her, right hand sliding back to the back of her head. “I'm taking what you owe me.”

She gags again as you push and try to push deeper, sputtering, tears instantly rolling down at the corners of her eyes leaving black streaks over her red cheeks. She tries to force herself, but eventually resorts to clawing weakly at your thighs, so you let her off again. She gasps for breath, chest heaving like thunder is roaring through her nervous system.

“I can't—” she starts, only to cut herself off with an unexpected cough. She looks up at you, lips plump from force and shiny with spit. “But you don’t care, do you?”

You thumb some saliva from her chin, and insert that same thumb into her mouth.

“I care about making sure my entire cock disappears into your throat. Now relax your jaw. And breathe through your nose.”

She swallows, hard, looks at you worried like she doesn’t think she can, then does the impossible by leaning back in herself, and taking you as far as just past halfway without any help, before gagging again and pulling back.

So you guide her. Slow at first, gentle, rewarding her attempt. But when she stops making progress, you start ignoring her muffled protests until she's choking around you violently.

You pull out again, and she coughs spit, letting it drip onto her chest, covering her own tits.

Her voice is strained when she finally says something. “You're… too fucking big.” You thought she'd have some bite ready, but this is just a compliment wrapped in an excuse, accompanied by the quiver of someone being pushed further than she thought she could go.

“You wanted to go for a double or nothing,” you growl, pushing her back down again. “And now that I've got a taste of what you fucking feel like, I'm not stopping.”

Her eyes roll back as far as they can go as you ruthlessly rut into her throat, drool involuntarily pooling at her chin, mascara cascading down her cheeks in a torrent of black.

Each barrier of resistance you smash past causes her to struggle and gag, and you give her a short break each time, just enough to breathe and gasp and steel herself for worse as you drag her back onto you. It’s merciless, but her body starts to adapt. It has to. Her throat loosens, inches disappear into her gradually as she opens, accepting more of you each time.

Or it might be better to call it relenting, instead of accepting.

The tension in your abdomen builds fast and rapidly, every thrust feeding the inevitable curtain call of her lost bet.

She gags again, spit flying as she tries to adjust, but you don’t slow down. You grip her hair, hold her steady, use her mouth like she bet you could. Like she fucking offered.

She’s a hot mess. Make-up masterfully ruined, face soaked in spit and tears, and when you grab her hair and push harder than before, she finally takes all of you. You can feel it. The telltale sign of her nose against your skin, throat stretch obscenely tight around your shaft as her tongue squirms underneath. Her eyes squeeze shut tightly, body trembling and thighs quivering underneath her—but she fucking holds it. She takes it for as long as her body allows.

“I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum,” you groan and her eyes are begging you to make it happen fast.

And the sight of her, of Sakura, fully impaled on your cock as her tongue spasms against your cock, makes your body snap and break. Heat surges through you from depths you've never felt before, and you unload like it will cost you years of your life.

The first blast floods her throat, and you push her down past the point of needing to swallow. When your hands lose their strength and she breaks free with a cough but her face pointed up to be the perfect canvas, you erupt the rest over her face, across her tits, streaks hitting her stomach and pooling in between her tightly pressed together thighs. More shoots out of you than you thought you could ever produce, like your body knew you just fucked a prime woman and needed to do everything it could to impregnate her.

It just never got the memo that you were fucking the wrong hole for that. It still refused to waste the chance.

She falls back and catches herself with her hands, thighs still pressed together to not let your cum drip onto the carpet, coughing up cum onto her own chest. Fully covered in strands and drizzles of you. She drags her hand through the biggest puddles of cum, lets it drip back down, and looks at you like she’s asking you if this is a normal amount for you. Accompanied, of course, by an occasional (hoarse) laugh.

“Next round,” she rasps hoarsely, voice strained but with a smirk to pull you back in. “I'm winning my clothes back and I'm riding your face.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, shaking your head, leaning back as you take in the sight of her. Naked, tear-streaked, soaked in spit and seed, and still somehow smug and prideful.

“Next round?” you chuckle at her bravado. “What next round? You got more holes you want me to break in?”

She throws a weak punch at your leg, glaring through the tears with what’s left of her pride. “Shut up, manager.”

And yet, she’s smiling, asking you to shuffle for the next round while she quickly goes to rinse herself off.