My Husband Played Poker With His Father

He threw my arse in the pot, and lost

God, my husband is weak! It’s bad enough he never stands up for himself, but he never stands up for me, and that’s pathetic.

I only understood how weak Bill was, and why, when his father got divorced. Pops came to live with us for a while, just until he found his feet. That was three years ago, and he’s still searching.

My father-in-law is a bully. His son is a constant disappointment to him, a failure in every way. Marrying me is one of those ways, and Pops isn’t shy about telling me my faults: I’m not pretty enough, I can’t cook, I’m lazy, I’m a nag, I talk back, I criticise his son too much — me! — and I shouldn’t wear jeans because my arse is too big. That doesn’t stop the dirty old man giving my fat arse a ‘friendly’ pat every chance he gets.

For three years I’ve watched my husband slowly diminish under his father’s constant belittlement. The first thing to diminish was his dick, which won’t stand up for me either.

Pops insists on playing poker every Wednesday night, for real money. It’s not high stakes, but we could have a second holiday on what my husband loses over a year. And it is my husband that loses, not me, because Pops won’t play cards with women. Our brains can’t understand the complexities of poker, apparently, so my role is to supply them with nibbles and drinks, and watch in silence.

Tonight’s game is going as well as they usually do. Bill is short-stacked already, and Pops has gone all in on this hand. He’s bluffing. I know he is. His massive raise is meant to bully my husband into folding.

“For god’s sake, Bill, stand up to him for once! Call his bluff.”

That outburst earns me a glare from Pops, but my husband takes my advice.

“Yeah. Yeah! I call.”

Pops’ poker face is good, but it has cracks. I can see the disappointment in his eyes, the pain of knowing his bluff failed and he’ll lose. That lasts about four seconds, long enough for my useless husband to count his chips.

Pops’ relief is palpable. “You’re ten pounds short, boy! It’s my hand, unless you want to throw your wife in the pot?”

Bill is so weak he actually considers that for a second, before refusing Pop’s ridiculous offer. “It’s a deal.”

Wait! Did he just agree? He bet me? “What the fuck, Bill?”

“Control your wife, boy! She’s got a mouth like a sailor. And an arse like a battleship! Ha!”

Pops is very pleased with that joke, but less happy with my reaction.

“You can kiss my arse, old man! Bill, what are you thinking? You can’t bet me! What would that even mean?”

Pops speaks over his son, of course. “It means you do what I say for the rest of the night.”

His leer tells me he won’t just demand another scotch and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps, but he can’t expect much. The dirty old man probably wants me to flash him the arse he’s been lusting after since he moved in.

I’m almost tempted to say yes, because I know he’s bluffing, and so I wouldn’t actually risk my dignity. Except it would be just like Bill to bet big on nothing, then lose to a weak hand with a busted flush.

I stand behind my husband. “Show me your cards, Bill.”

He flips up the edges.

He’s got a full house! Jacks over kings. That’s fantastic, and I had no idea. My husband must have a better poker face than I thought, or Pops wouldn’t have tried bluffing.

Right, Pops is going down. But I want him to see my face as he’s crushed.

“Move, Bill. If I’m in the pot, I’m playing the hand.”

My husband stares at me, slack-jawed, but Pop just laughs.

“There’s nothing to play, you stupid girl! Neither of us will change hands we’ve bet this big on, and we’ve nothing left to bet with. This is exactly why women shouldn’t play poker.”

“I’m still going to sit here. Move, Bill!”

He moves, and I take his seat opposite my nemesis. I look into Pops’ eyes… and suddenly I’m flooded with doubt. Not that he’s bluffing — I know he’s bluffing — but that losing will have any impact. It won’t. He’s an old man, he’ll never change. Winning will give me a moment’s pleasure and nothing more. It certainly won’t stiffen my husband’s spine.

But losing…?

Maybe losing would be a better lesson for Bill. If he sees his bully humiliate his wife, he’ll find some backbone. He’ll have to stand up for himself, for his honour and mine. He’s weak, so he’d probably stew on it tonight then tell his father to move out in the morning, but he’d be a man about it. And maybe tomorrow night I’d get fucked for the first time in years.

“How many, Pops?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll stand pat. Like I said.”

“Okay,” I pull two kings and a jack out of Bill’s hand, and place them face down on the table, “I’ll take three.”

Bill is a little concerned. “Honey! What are you doing?”

“She’s playing poker like a female, William.”

I draw three cards with trembling hands: my act of surrender shocked me more than my husband. I knew I was going to do it, but I didn’t know it would make my cunt clench, that I’d feel a rush of humiliating wetness. When I threw away a winning hand, I knew I might have to show my arse to my father-in-law — demean myself like some young TikTok slut — but I didn’t know I’d want it.

I drew a ten, a queen… and a five. I was actually relieved when I saw that last card. I was worried I’d drawn a straight and I might still win.

All I can do now is reveal my hand, then avoid Pops’ eyes as he turns his cards over.

I’ve got king high, he’s got twos over aces. He wasn’t even bluffing.

I can hear the sneer in his voice as he says, “Now that is how women play poker. Ready to settle your debt, little lady?”

I can’t speak, I can’t even look at him. All I can do is nod.

“Come here, then.”

My husband says nothing as I walk round the table, but no lines have been crossed yet. He’ll be biding his time, avoiding unnecessary confrontation.

Pops pats my arse. “Take those ugly jeans down, and your knickers, then bend over the table.”

Bent over is a lot more exposed than I expected. There’d be no hiding how aroused I am, if I actually had to go through with this. But Bill will definitely stand up to his father and end this before it gets that far.

I turn my back on Pops to unbutton my jeans. Bill says nothing. Nothing! God, I might have to actually flash my father-in-law before my useless husband finds the balls to stand up to him.

My cunt responds to that prospect with a shameful, clutching hunger.

I unzip, and push my jeans down to my ankles. I stare at my husband, giving him one last chance.

He says nothing.

I take a deep breath then roll my knickers down, horribly aware of how they cling to my sopping cunt.

Bill still says nothing.

I’m going to be totally humiliated. When I tell my husband later how ashamed this made me, he’ll have to do something about Pops. But not until tomorrow. Tonight I’ve made my bed, now I have to lie on it.

I bend over the table, resting on my forearms and glaring at my husband, waiting for him to end my degradation.

He says nothing, but Pops says, “Hands behind your back!”

I suddenly realise he wants more than my embarrassment, much more than simply seeing my arse. He’s going to use me: a rough fuck that I chose, when I chose to lose. I offered myself up to him, and he’s accepted.

I comply, and my father-in-law seizes my wrists in an iron grip. My weak husband says nothing, of course.

My father-in-law is an awful man, grotesque and loathsome. But right now my cunt is so needy I’ll take his cock and thank him for it. And if watching his father pound me can’t motivate my ineffectual husband to stand up for himself, then nothing ever will.

“Pay attention, boy! I’ll demonstrate how to keep a shrew in line.”

I’d braced myself for cock, so when Pops’ hand crashes onto my buttock, I feel nothing for a split-second except shock, then a stinging bloom of warmth.

“Hey! You can’t—”

He can, cutting off my objection with a second smack.

I try to kick him, but my jeans are around my ankles. Still, struggling earns me a third smack, and a sharp command:

“Lie still, woman!”

I do, because my cunt betrays me. Its heat wants a matching fire on my skin, and a fourth smack almost fulfils that desire.

I murmur a simple plea — “Harder!” — and he hears it. I know the bastard heard me, because he tells me to repeat myself, and when I do, he demands, “Louder!”

“Harder! HARDER!”

“Your wife wants discipline, William. As you’re unable to provide it, I shall oblige.”

He’s wrong: I don’t want discipline, I want dick. I’ll take his spanking as an appetizer, but if he chooses to fuck me I’ll welcome it, hoping my husband doesn’t stand up for himself, that he watches me surrender to his father while I scream my pleasure and frustration into his stupid, shocked face.

Pops doesn’t fuck me. The spanking continues, each burst of pain and shame blurring into the last, stoking the flames in a single furnace of need. Throughout, I’m dimly aware I’m mumbling my mantra: harder, harder, harder!

It ends abruptly.

Pops releases my wrists, and marches out, leaving us with a cheery, “Right, I’m off to bed. William, deal with your wife.”

The aching need Pops put in my cunt remains, but my trembling knees give way and I sink to the floor, curling up to finally release my complex emotions in simple, heaving sobs.

I’m barely aware my husband is standing over me, but when he speaks, I recognise cold anger.

“I’m going to bed too. You can sleep on the couch. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss your new role in this household.”

I don’t even have the strength to take my jeans off. I crawl to the couch, lie on my side to spare my smarting skin, and let one hand slip between my legs, where my fingers can tend idly to the heat while I drift off to sleep.

I wake swimming in shame, and not just over how wanton I felt last night. It’s eight-fifteen, which means Bill and Pops wandered through the living room this morning while I was lying there, exposed. Neither of them cared to cover me up.

Bill’s already left for work, but Pops is home, so if I want clean clothes — and I do — I’ll need to put my jeans and knickers back on before I can take them off. I will not bump into Pops half-naked.

When I’m showered, dressed, and feeling almost human, I go shopping.

I’m waiting by the front door when my husband comes home from work.

He marches in, clearly feeling like a changed man and expecting to find a changed woman.

“Fetch me a scotch, wife! You can kneel at my feet and blow me while I drink it. Quick smart, or I’ll put you over my knee.”

He’s about to march into the living room when he notices what his changed woman has changed into. “Why on earth are you wearing that dress? You look ridiculous, like a fifties housewife. Take it off.”

“No. I will wear whatever I choose, William. And you’ll have to get your own drink and suck your own cock, I’m afraid, because I’m going out. I felt bad over losing that hand last night, so I want to learn more about poker. Your father has invited me to a game with some of his oldest friends, and they’ve promised to teach me a lesson.”