Debt

It was hard to imagine even a young Byron doing menial jobs like scraping plates or watching computer screens. I even told him so, making him chuckle slightly and admit he was 'shit at' all of them, but that it was good for him nonetheless.

"Alright. Tables?" he asked, scribbling his signature in a book without even looking then dropping several twenties for a tip into the fold before pushing it to the end of the table.

"Byron..."

"Just try. If you try and aren't into it, we can head out."

I took his hand to help me out of the booth and his squeezed mine a little and, well, I was a goner. "Okay."

"Okay."

See, when you grew up with a gambler for a father, you didn't sit around on weekends and play Don't Wake Daddy or Monopoly; you played blackjack, poker, gin rummy, and spades. So when Byron walked me up to the tables, I didn't need the explanation of how to play or even how to bet. Because when I was too young to understand money, we played for matchsticks, and once I could tell the difference between a dime and a nickle, we played for real money. Byron held out a handful of chips and I cautiously chose the smallest dollar amount and went over to the blackjack table. It was my father's biggest game and, therefore, the one that had the biggest pit of anxiety planting and growing in my belly.

"Breathe," Byron said, moving in beside me and putting a chip down as well. I lost the first round. So did Byron. When I tried to insist we move on, he shook his head and put another coin down for me, raising the stakes and making me feel like I was choking on my discomfort. He moved closer, putting a hand at my hip as my card turned over, giving me nineteen.

And just like that, I won.

And just like that, I understood.

I understood my father's obsession with that feeling, that rush, that want to have it again, even though you knew your chances were slim to none. As if sensing that feeling growing in me, Byron closed his hand around the chips and shook his head. "Moving on," he said and led me to the next table. Then the next. Then the next. I won some. I lost more. But, more importantly, the pit in my stomach shrank and withered away to nothing. And by the time Byron pulled me close and gently, but darkly declared, "I need to fuck you now," I was actually even having a good time.

I barely remembered the ride home or getting into the house.

But by the time we crossed the threshold to his room and he moved into his closet, already unbuttoning his shirt, I was one-hundred percent present.

"Clothes off," he demanded as he came back out, a long instrument in his hand with a leather-wrapped pole handle and an assortment of leather straps. A flogger. I kicked out of my heels and reached behind me to unzip, then peel the impossibly tight material down. "All of them," he clarified when I stood there in my barely-there thong and strapless bra. I shimmied out of my panties and unfastened my bra until I was fully naked before him. "Get over here and suck my cock," he demanded, sending a shock of desire through my system. I had gone down on him twice before. Both had been times that I had initiated, wanting to make him feel as good as he made me feel. He had let me set the pace, the depth, the everything. I had a sneaking suspicion this would not be like that.

I lowered myself down in front of him, looking up at him, waiting for instructions like I knew he wanted. "Get my cock out," he demanded, moving the flogger around toward my back, letting the ends tickle across my back, my ass, the tops of my thighs. "Open," he demanded when I had accomplished the task, pulling out his heavy, straining cock. I opened my mouth, pressing my tongue down and he grabbed his cock and slid it slightly inside, just an inch or so, before releasing the base and grabbing the back of my head. His fingers sank in then, in one rough jerk, he buried his cock deeper than I had ever taken him, the head stabbing against the back of my throat. I gagged hard, almost painfully as he held me there, tears starting to streak down my cheeks from the action. His hold lessened on my neck and his voice was barely more than a growl when he said, "You're going to hold still and I am going to fuck your mouth. Understood?" I made some kind of garbled noise around his cock, making him curse before he started thrusting his cock into my mouth over and over, the pace and depth hard, brutal. My tears flowed and my gag reflex never fully disengaged, his cock buried so deep making it hard to breathe and when I did, fluid went up my nostrils, making me gag all the more.