Bet Schottsie to win at The Downs

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Mysterious anonymous afternoon delight.
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The doorbell rang: that was unexpected on a mid-Saturday morning. Juliet started at the sound, went to the window to look out before opening the door. Her home was a bit isolated, she was always careful anyhow, and today her old lover had gone off to town to do some research at the local university library, leaving her unexpectedly at loose ends. He'd been very apologetic, but quite firm about needing to do so. Said he'd be back about five or six, and would bring something special for dinner. Still, she was moping about, not really up for much of anything.

Outside, standing on the porch, a darkly attractive man, not too far off her own age but surprisingly old for his apparent job as a deliveryman, in tight bicycle-messenger suit, mountain bike with two big baskets leaning against a tree behind him. Big wraparound sunglasses. She thought to herself, appreciatively, that he was awfully fit and good looking. He held a brown-wrapped package under one arm. Others lay in the bicycle's baskets.

She opened the door, he smiled at her, looked at the package, asked "Are you Juliet?"

She nodded, and he handed her the package. Bulky but weighing almost nothing. She was mystified, hadn't ordered anything: she looked at it and asked "Don't I need to sign for it or something?"

He shook his head, continued to stand there, and she realized that he might be expecting a tip, told him "Wait a mo..." and re-entered the house. She sorted through her wallet and found, of all things, a two-dollar bill: she returned to the door, handed it to him.

He grinned, said "Thank you, Ma'am", and touched his forehead in an odd, almost-military three-finger salute, then trotted to his bike. She watched his butt and legs as he disappeared down the drive, then turned to the package.

Plain brown wrapping paper, tied with a string, not even taped shut, just her name and address on it. Curious.

She opened it on the dining table: a manila envelope on top, a wide-rimmed white straw hat with a feather in it, a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, then a pair of almost, non-quite, stiletto high-heels, bright red! She goggled: she hadn't worn such heels for years, and then only for costume purposes. How the devil did people walk in these things in the real world? Beneath them, an absolutely transparent piece of fabric, sheerest something, light blue. She picked it up, shook it out: a blouse. It probably weighed as much as a postage-stamp.

Curiouser and curiouser.

It MUST be a package from her lover, but there was no indication at all of authorship. Whoever else? The final object, a very tightly rolled and folded, very small pair of long white-satin jeans: she examined them. Incredible! First of all, they were FAR too small for her, even if they were mostly lycra... She tugged at the material, and it stretched beautifully. They weren't cheap. Then she noticed the zipper: it was a single piece, brass, exposed, and ran uninterrupted from the belt line in back down through the crotch and up to the snaps in front.

She held them up to her body and giggled at the thought of wearing such a contraption, finally laid them aside and opened the envelope. There were several pieces of paper inside. A map of the grounds of the local horse-racing track, "The Downs". She hadn't been there for years. On the map, a big arrow pointing to a small carefully drawn "x" at the front edge of the upper observation deck, the roof of the track officials' skybox. That, she knew, was the hardest place to gain entry to, the best view in the whole arena. A bright yellow pass that said "ROOFTOP: admit 1", and a parking pass for "EXECUTIVE LOT #1". Both were stamped with today's date.

A sheet of plain computer paper. A second envelope, pinned to it. She unfolded it and read the printed message:

Drive to The Downs, so that you get there by 2 PM. The fifth race is at 3:00. Get to the rooftop at 2:30, the end of the fourth race, so that you can get to the rail at the X, and stay there to keep that spot for the fifth race. There will be a wrapping of white tape on the rail at your place, the X. Don't leave: you'll never get the spot back if you do. Stay there through the fifth. Once the crowd begins to return for that race, no matter what happens, DO NOT TURN AROUND, not for anything. Now, go to the bathroom and shave that pussy of yours completely. Baby-butt smooth. When you go to the track, wear NOTHING except what came in the box. Nothing whatever! Enjoy your afternoon.

Inside the pinned envelope was a brand new $100 bill, with a sticky that read "Bet this on Schottsie in the fifth race, to win."

She eyed the small pile of stuff, then chortled happily to herself. An adventure: just what the day called for.

At noon, she was in the shower: the lather and edgy coldness of the razor against skin and alongside her clit felt good. She was almost drooling wet already, but resisted the temptation to play with herself. Once dried off, she wriggled into the pants: they fit like a glove: a surgeon's rubber glove. It took some doing to get the seams straight and all the creases and wrinkles flattened, but eventually they fit just like a painted-on second skin. She was pleased that there were no muffin-like bulges at her waist: gymnasium and running worked! As she worried the zipper closed, she decided it was a good thing she was perfectly shaved: there were no protective undies in the package, and the fit was such that she'd have had a whole fistful of pussy hair caught in the zipper's teeth otherwise. Once closed, the cool metal of the zip rubbed teasingly on her clit.

She eyed herself in the mirror, put on the blouse. She might as well have had nothing on at all, she thought: her areolas and nipples were quite plainly visible, as was the crack of her pussy, the detailed outline of a pussylip obvious on either side of the long blatant shiny brass pussy-splitter - she'd never in her life showed anyone a camel-toe!

She couldn't go out in public dressed like this, she thought at first, but finally decided that she couldn't possibly back out. Besides, there'd be over a hundred thousand people there, and she was sure to know exactly nobody at all in the crowd. Well, maybe ONE person. A sly grin covered her face as she decided "Why the hell not?"

A bit of practice walking in the heels. She practiced making her legs long and walking with just the right wiggle: it made her ass and tits bounce nicely. She had to admit that the brass pulled deep into her pussy-split and rubbing on her clit as she walked was more than merely interesting. As was the whisper of almost nonexistent fabric across her hardened nipples.

She had to drive barefooted, the high-heeled ridiculosities at her side in the seat. Each movement of her feet on the pedals sent shivers up her spine as the brass worked its magic against her clit and lips.

At the track, her lot was almost full: she pulled up to the valet's station. From behind her glasses she watched the young attendant's ill-hidden goggle-eyed appreciative glances as she maneuvered the shoes back onto her feet, giving him plenty to ogle. And he was young enough to be her son! Out of the car, walking, there were the not-so-subtle -that is, blatant- stares. Her breasts, always small and never, she felt, her strongest point, were certainly getting attention now that they were well and truly on display!

No pockets anywhere in the outfit. With the hundred dollar bill, ticket, and parking receipt in hand, she managed to get across the lot to the elevator marked "ROOF" without incident, other than a couple of men nearly tripping over their own tongues as she passed, leading her to giggle inwardly. At the elevator, a young woman attendant checked her pass, took her up to the top of the building, eyes studiously averted, said not a word.

Juliet was enjoying herself immensely from within this odd anonymity.

She looked about: there, near the back wall, were the betting windows, almost empty because the whole crowd was outside for the running of the fourth race. She was timing things beautifully so far. Up to the window she sauntered, tried to act as if she did this every other day, said to the elderly man behind the bars "One hundred on Schottsie to win in the fifth, please."

Wordlessly he exchanged her C-note for the chit: she had no place to keep it except in her hand. Oh well.

The crowd's roar announced the start of the fourth race, a mile and a quarter, about two minutes of action at a distance. She listened, stood at the door to the rooftop while the crowd quieted through the backstretch, swelled to a climactic crescendo as the leaders pounded through the homestretch. The chorus of boos and cheers subsided and the crowd streamed past her, heading indoors to bet, or claim their winnings, or visit the bar.

She slipped through the last incomers, trotted towards the now-empty railing, looked for the tape. There it was, just where it'd been promised. She sauntered over to it, stood there leaning on the rail, almost alone. Below here, a four-level sea of backs of heads spread out for acres, human wheat-fields, not an eyeball to be seen. Beyond them, the whole mile-plus track was visible, above the pari-mutuel tote-board on the infield. It was hot in the sun: there were no chairs at all up near the rail, where the crowd would congregate for the actual race.

She leaned against the rail, pressing her mound against the hot metal. She could feel the tape of the "X" through the lycra on her thighs. "GOD but I'm horny" was her only coherent thought. She looked about expectantly, saw nobody that looked even vaguely familiar, nothing except a few older men eyeing her openly from yards away. She grinned to herself, turned away from them, found reason to lean down and adjust her shoe, her bottom pointed right in their direction. As she straightened up, one man knocked over his beer as he craned to improve his view.

It felt good to cause such a problem. Powerful. She studied the zipper, placed the brass between clit and rail, felt the glorious heat soak through and caress her clit. Woof! Such a rush.

Now, closer to race time, the crowd was returning, and suddenly, with the bugling announcement that called the horses to the gate, there was a serious rush for the rail. The crowd pinned Juliet in tightly, a jovial, many-deep crush of bettors, a vertical sardine-can of humanity in the sun. She resolutely faced forward, remembering the admonition in the note. To her left, a youngish woman, her thigh pressed hard against Juliet's own, binoculars up and in use. To her right, an older man, trying alternately to be a gentleman and avoid pressing on her, whilst slyly eying her breasts.

The horses were beginning to trickle into the gate when she felt the first pressure behind her, someone quite strong and hot and close, suddenly tight against her buttocks.

She squealed internally, shifted her feet, leaned slightly forward over the railing. Something was going on back there: she feigned great interest in the loading of the gate, felt what absolutely had to be a huge hardon pressing between her buttocks, along the crack of her ass.

One horse was being a problem, dancing back and forth, not wanting to enter the gate. A few seconds' delay was something she could welcome! Between her legs, she was dripping: she knew she was soaking the white jeans. Then, with a strong electric shock, she felt fingertips walk across the small of her back, felt them tug downwards on the zipper, felt the purr of the little brass teeth releasing one another.

She shifted again, managed to spread her legs slightly, just barely, against the press of the utterly preoccupied crowd. The hand slid down her bottom, fingers carrying the zipper slide with them, one fingertip pushing the slide through the incredible wetness of her slit.

Eyes closed, studying the sensations, she thought giddily, "Hey! An anonymous, well-lubed zip pull-down - just what every girl needs now and then."

The recalcitrant horse finally danced into place, the gate shut behind him, and suddenly they were off and running. As the crowd roared for the start, she felt a shifting behind her, and abruptly she was completely filled with an enormous cock. She was so greasily ready that it slipped in absolutely without effort. GOD she was ready!

Her exultant cry was completely lost in the sea of noise around them as one, two, three... the long, hard strokes filled her repeatedly. She grunted to the impact as each bottomed out inside her. Good. Good. Good. Good. Oh, yes, goodgoodgood indeed!

Her eyes were swimming, she was roaring with the crowd but for a very different reason, a much better reason. Her activity seemed to be lost in the general sea of uproar and movement around them.

Five, six, seven, eight. Then she was empty for a moment, and GOD ALMIGHTY that cock was all the way up into her ass instead of her pussy, filling her to the tonsils. "YES!" she thought at the edge of her conscious brain..."YES YES, buttfuck me hard harder hardest even harder than that, right here in public, do it do it do it!!"

Her unseen but thoroughly felt fucker pounded into her as if he could hear every silent word. Then out for a moment, leaving her devastatingly empty, and back in with a superheated rush. As he sank back into her she gave a strangled cry and dropped her face towards the plebeian crowd below.

All backs of heads, a hundred thousand of them. And one face pointed squarely up at her, wide-eyed, smiling, a complete stranger, male, eye-to-eye contact through her sunglasses. In the midst of this glorious fuck, she started, realized that the railing was atop an open iron filigree, that this stranger could obviously see the doings between her legs, the zipper-sides had ridden outwards and her whole pussy was hanging out in the breeze for him to see, and behind it there was this driving, penetrating cock splitting her ass so deliciously, equally fully in his view.

To her amazement, she wasn't the least embarrassed. She WANTED him to see, for there to be at least ONE witness of this indescribably delicious adventure. Wantonly, she raised her sunglasses, stared down at the stranger, watched him nod, lick his lips. Then he blew her a kiss!

Inside her butt, the intensity of fucking increased: the motion was by now pretty obviously not part of the general to-do about her. The woman to her left looked briefly at Juliet, started to say something, looked over Juliet's shoulder at whoever was operating this fucking machine, grinned at Juliet, reddened, and returned to watching the race. Juliet thought the woman pressed against her leg just a little bit more intensely, however, as if to participate by indirection. Juliet didn't mind a bit. Come one, come all!

Then, the leaders swept into full view around the final turn and the crowd went berserk. So did her unseen fucker. Amongst the deep slidings of his cock in her butt, one hand cupped her left breast, the other found her clit. He knew what he was about: she'd never in her life come in less than two minutes, and now she KNEW she was going to, her phantom fucker had her timed exactly right. Leaders were thundering down the homestretch, so was she.

She stared hard right at her stranger, he was saying something, mouthing a word over and over, he was only 100 feet away but it might as well have been twenty miles for the press of the crowd, suddenly she lip-read the word, it was "COME! COME!"

Halfway through the homestretch, she did exactly that, nodding to her watcher, seeing him get the message, felt her fucker bury himself deep in her ass and twitch over and over again, mightily, felt his come streaming deep into her inner recesses, came hard, draped forward over the railing, impaled on the three prongs of fingers and cock and her observer's friendly stare, screaming aloud like never before in her life, screaming into the hundred-thousand-voice human choir accompanying her, came nonstop until the roar from the crowd began to dwindle and the descending calm shut her voice off too.

Then she was painfully empty: her butt crack and pussy were soggy wet, her pussy fully exposed for the world, if it cared to look. And in moments, the whole crowd below would begin to turn, would be able to see her. Did she care at all? Not yet, but in a few seconds, surely, her normal self would re-assert itself.

She tried to turn her head, but her fucker's hands firmly pointed it back straight ahead: she understood. Not allowed!

Suddenly, she was alone with her afterglow and shocks. The crowd sighed, used and useless tickets fluttered to the deck, the pressure loosened around her. The woman on her left took a quick look into Juliet's dazed face, whispered "Lucky woman!", patted her on the arm, and left. Juliet finally realized consciously her exposure, reached down and with difficulty managed to get the pants re-zipped. She was so swollen that they no longer fit as they had earlier: she was right, too... they were sodden the whole length of the zipper!

She looked back down at the crowd below: her watcher was gone, and now she could almost venture that she had imagined him. In her hand, the soggy, crumpled ticket caught her attention as she found herself almost alone on the railing again. She looked at it: Schottsie was #27. She glanced at the pari-mutuel board: so far, she hadn't a clue if Schottsie had even made it to the starting gate! There, on the board, Stood #27 in first place, paying $13.40 to win. Thirteen hundred and forty dollars! And this incredible fuck.

Her lover was a genius. At least, she grinned to herself, it couldn't have been anyone else.

Sunglasses back in place, she trotted through the stares and glances to the window, exchanged her ticket for cash, rolled it into a tube in her fist. The elevator area was jammed with people waiting to get on board, so she wandered over, still breathless, to lean against the wall nearby, to wait out the crush.

Suddenly, there before her, was a smiling familiar face: her WATCHER! She blushed furiously, hid deep within herself behind her sunglasses, watched him warily, a total stranger who, uninvited, had just shared that incredibly intimate-but-public moment.

Or was he uninvited, really? After all, she was the one who'd lifted her sunglasses for him to see her face. But how had he known to turn and look up, just him, in such a crowd, at exactly that moment?

He looked at her, stood well clear of her personal space, not menacing, friendly, grinning, but not lewdly. A very attractive man. Then he was saying something, and she was apologizing, asking him to speak louder.

He did so, saying "I admire you! That was beautifully done, never seen anything like it in my life. If you're not completely spent... that is, if there's room for an encore... well, then, M'am, I'd be happy to offer my own services in the cause... I'm sure we could find another location nearby if we looked!"

She considered briefly, shocked to find that she was actually, seriously contemplating, even for a moment, finding a place in this arena that she could run off to, with a perfect stranger, and fuck again.

Which, of course, assumed that she'd not just been fucked by a perfect stranger in the first place!

That thought reddened her more than any other. Her clit twinged and her insides made it known that if her mind didn't veto the idea, they were more than interested. Finally, she smiled a long, slow smile at him, and said "Sorry... Truly I am... But I think I'm done for the day. Sorry!"

He nodded, took it in good grace and humor, replied "So am I. Sorry, that is, not done for the day. May I escort you to the elevator, at least?" She thought for a moment, then decided "What the hell, anyway!", nodded agreement.

Very gentlemanly, he touched only her elbow, steered her expertly through the crowd, handed her in through the elevator door, saying "My pleasure, Ma'am, but I've got to go get my bet down for the sixth."

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309 Followers
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