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Ever Played Strip Poker?


Fiery Jack

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I did. :up: Once. :offline: When I was about 15. This mate of mine's parents went away for the weekend, so we all wrecked his house: a 48 hour or so boozing party into which people drifted in and out at will, some going home to sleep, some crashing out at the party place, that kicked off when school finished on Friday afternoon and went on till Sunday twilight. :drunk: Mostly blokes, but, come Saturday afternoon, some four prime examples of the 'saltier' birds from the sixth form had rolled up (or three, plus one enigma: see below). :applause:

 

One of these gatecrashing geniuses in particular, later expelled from school when caught sucking her boyfriend off one lunchtime in the music room, was this toffee-nosed aristocrat bird (that had ended up at our school after being kicked out of about 3 other, much posher fee-paying joints). She was called Pauline 'Polly' Raleigh (aka 'The Bike', after a) her reputed fondness for shagging any older c*nt with a motor that could ply her with cider and put up with the piffling shite she jibbered for more than about 15 minutes, and B) the Raleigh racing bikes that were in fashion at that time). Polly Bike was the kind of bird that was just non-stop gasping for sex, or so we fondly hoped :hubba: as we masturbated about her twice daily. :relieved: A few of the lads claimed to have shagged her, or at least had their fingers on her fanny; I hadn't, can't remember why. I was hopeless with birds, that might've been it, and I was ugly and not at all charming. :clown:

 

Anyway, she rolled up already well lit, :drunk: with a half-finished litre of vodka and some tins of strong lager and two other marginally less-slutty birds who were also pissed, and one other not-slutty bird, of whom much more to follow, who was indeed a surprise guest. This was Amanda (Mandy) Bemrose, daughter of a vicar, :angel: somewhat acne-smitten but handsome, not bad looking at all, athletic figure, nice tits, and a bang-to-rights virgin, :angel: never been kissed: certainly not the type of bird you'd expect to be hanging around with pisshead Pauline Raleigh. :drunk:

 

As drinks were passed round and spilt and drunk and someone pulled out some draw and more drinks flowed and got knocked back and/or over, and more articles of furniture and porcelain ornaments were smashed accidentally or by design, we somehow got to playing strip poker. :up: Actually, it was just simply being dealt a single card each and the lowest card is the loser, removes an article of clobber: aces high. About eight of us, including all four birds, sitting in a circle. It was probably Polly Bike that suggested it. :rolleyes:

 

Anyway, after about half an hour, a score of hands, the weird thing was that most of us were at worst minus one item of clothing (I was still fully clothed, as I recall :( ), but the anomalous participant, the ironically nicknamed 'Randy' Mandy Bemrose :angel: was down to her bra and knickers, without a peep of complaint, bold as brass, and this lad called Russ 'Abbott' Marber (who was a bit of a dick but got dope for us off his big brother :hippie: ) was sitting there in just his boxer shorts. :susel:

 

So, basically, it was eyes down and, should Russ or Mandy lose just one more time, we were in for some fun :applause: (preferably with Mandy losing first :p ). Next hand dealt, and, lo and behold, and I kid you not. Russ Marber pulls a 3 and Randy Mandy gets a second 3, the two lowest cards dealt. :shocked: Tie breaker, and â?? bingo! â?? Mandy gets the lowest card, a f*cking 2 of hearts, while good old Russ grins like a cheshire cat and shows off the jack of diamonds kind fate has just placed in his hand. Game on. :hubba:

 

All manner of excitement ensues and â?? f*ck me! â?? as our hearts stopped beating and time stopped too and stood still and loads of things suddenly meant different things, Mandy Bemrose slowly and deliberately reached behind and unhooked then took off her schoolgirl bra to reveal a heartbreakingly lovely pert pair of lily white breasts. :chili: Oh, winter and the years so big behind me now, if only I had a photo of that scene. :hug::ghost::spank: :bangit: :worship::yay::spin::hug:

 

Oh, boy. It really was a special moment in my life, and if any male in that room didn't have a groaning erection at that point, then I'm the King of Spain. She sat there, wicked with the defiant grin, tits proud and out, just a pair of white cotton panties on (her bra had been a boring white one too: she was a vicar's daughter). I'll name that wank in one. :wanker:

 

It suddenly became interesting. :content: What next? Oh my sweet lord, what will happen next? I have perhaps never again been so excited. I have never since that afternoon sensed such clenched sexual tension in the air, such a charged erotic atmosphere, a mood of anticipation so pronounced it was frightening. Just what on earth was meant to happen next? I had no idea. And it was my deal. :evil:

 

What was most definitely not meant to happen next, but what, equally definitely, did happen next was that Polly Bike, who had been dishearteningly silent for some minutes and slumped in an armchair minus her left shoe (she lost the very first hand) rose from her seat with the solemn air of one who has a sad but important speech to deliver, and without further ado abruptly and impressively spray-vomited what must have been at least a half gallon of bright orange spew all over the f*cking assembled card-school revellers. :barf::scared::redflag:

 

Jesus. Hot stinky minestrone vomit everywhere you f*cking looked. Uproar and panic and mass exit for the nearest water supply. End of card game. Life never the same again.

 

I carry round that image of Mandy Bemrose unfastening her white bra and revealing her white breasts, everywhere I go. :content: It comforts and steels me. It never ages, though I age: she never ages. I know more of women now than I did then, and I understand some of it, but I still do not know how she thought of those minutes, that time. I know that women are stronger than men. That has been demonstrated to me so many times in my life, too many times for it to be coincidence. Amanda Bemrose allowed me a sneak preview of that power, and I can know it now. :content:

 

I never really spoke to her after that day. She returned to the quiet, less remarkable version of herself she'd always been, the version from which she had diverged for only those magic hours that Saturday afternoon. But we looked at her differently, although she looked the same as before. She had changed, and she had changed the world for us. That winter, her father was taken seriously ill and, when she left school the next spring at 16, she simply remained at home, looked after him until he died some months after. She left our lives, left mine at least, left it all changed. :hmmm:

 

But I met Amanda Bemrose again over twenty five years later, on a rare visit of mine to the old place. It was just before a Christmas. I saw her in the local library. She was a new version, tall and thin and beautiful with lovely tits still and a short spiky haircut, and seemed visibly radiant with a kind of luminous joy. She seemed glad to see me, and I was delighted to see her. We talked for a few moments as if we were old friends. Just hellos and vague shots, but hale and warm. She hugged me; we parted cordially enough. :hug:

 

A few months later, I got a sudden e-mail from her. She'd managed to smoke me out of my lair via a search engine on the internet, and got an address for me. :relieved: She is a painter now, of some renown, nomadic but mainly living in mainland Europe, and happily 'married' to her Dutch lesbian lover. She sent me links to some of her artworks which are dramatic and strong and beautiful, ragingly glorious, shocking with power. I bought one, and it hangs in my home. In her e-mail she wrote of our card-playing afternoon: 'With every hand that was dealt, I was praying for the lowest card. And the low cards came. It was my time, that day, my first day. I had awoken that morning knowing, and for the first time, that I was a certain sort of woman, that I was, yes, a lesbian. So, I had awoken, and things were never the same.'

 

jack :help:

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Mate and I where at the beach one hot summer and convinced this stunning girl a year older, in a bikini to come around under his house and play strip poker.

 

We all arrived in our togs (swimming gear) and nothing else.

 

Given it was under his house, we used the excuse to duck upstairs to get a pack of cards, we left her in the storage room, raced up stairs, got dressed in every article of clothing we could find and came back down.

 

She was in her bikini, a necklace, that's it.

 

We had about 10 articles of clothing each, which we proceeded to loose every farkin round till naked, she giggled at our "boy hoods" and left loosing only her necklace.

 

 

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