Jayne Renault

Musings of a Smut Queen
The Slap Bet

The Slap Bet

Noah shuddered as he rested his hands on either side of my head, encouraging me to stop. I almost didn’t notice his touch until he tugged gently on my hair; I was too busy coating his cock in a generous layer of whiskey-infused saliva.

“Come here,” he said, inviting me then to stand. I reluctantly conceded, sliding my lips away until I released him. Though we weren’t entirely disconnected. Thick threads of spit still held us together well after I pulled away and looked back up at him.

Noah breathed his approval through his open mouth as I rose to my feet and gave me a soft, albeit hungry kiss before guiding me over to the table in the middle of this peculiar old private dining room. I leaned myself front first into the layer of dust covering the tabletop while Noah went around the front to meet me on the other side.

I reached my arms out in front of me and propped up on my forearms. With his jeans bundled around his ankles, Noah shuffled in close until his cock bobbed at the level of my mouth. “Mm, that’s perfect,” I purred.

I heard Rob was fumbling with his jeans somewhere behind me.

Noah leaned down to kiss me for good measure while Rob teased me with the head of his thick cock between my legs.

It was right around then that I let a few little giggles escape.

Rob placed a careful hand on my hip and said, “You good, Jayne?

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…” I sighed at the end of the last laugh. “Erin is going to be so pissed.”

***

This all started because my friend wanted to slap someone in the face.

It had been a particularly slow night at Duke’s Restaurant and Lounge, so the floor manager cut us a lot sooner than we’d expected. It makes for less money at the end of the day, but it also means we get more time for drinking. Work-life balance and all that.

We were a pint and a half and two shots deep when Erin made her confession to me.

“I’ve just never done it before,” was her reasoning. “And I think it would be really satisfying.”

“You can just slap me if you really want.” I’m a pretty generous friend, but especially so after I’ve had a couple drinks.

“I appreciate that but,” Erin scrunched up her face, looking into her glass for the rest of her sentence, “I want it to mean something, y’know?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Please. Elaborate.”

“It can’t just be for nothing,” she said, trying to explain her logic to me. “There needs to be a reason for it, some kind of…”

She rolled the base of her glass around on the bar top at a loss.

“Stakes?” I offered.

“Yes! Exactly.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair while I pondered.

“We could make a bet.”

She sat up a little straighter. I got the impression that Erin was rather competitive, so I figured that would get her attention.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“We make a bet, and the winner gets to slap the loser in the face.”

Erin bit the inside of her lip to stifle her growing smile, waiting to see how much I’d indulge her.

“We can rig the game, of course,” I added. “Make a bet that I’m not likely to win. But then at least you can rest easy knowing that your slap had been justified.”

“You’re the best,” she said relaxing back into her seat.

“I know.”

“But what will it be?” Her question was rhetorical. Erin was better at coming up with absurd things out of thin air like that than I was. She scanned the room, looking for inspiration. “How about… If you can’t hook up with someone from this bar tonight, I get to slap you in the face.”

My stomach dropped.

But we’d already come this far.

“And how are we going to choose my victim?” I asked, very seriously.

“What about…” Her grin was the definition of sinister. “The next person to walk in the door.”

Fuck… I offered my hand to seal it. “Deal.”

***

PART TWO

***

This post was written for Smutathon 2018, a filth-fuelled 12-hour marathon where 8 of us are furiously compiling words and photos on sex and smut to raise money for the Abortion Support Network. Consider donating to the cause here 


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