Not. Clue. One.

West Coast glares at me with an incredulous expression on his face. He's obviously figuring me to be flat out bluffing! If I actually had a strong hand? He was convincing himself, that I'd either fold or go all in. Cause thats what he would do with such an apparent weak hand.

Why would I play by his rules?

Why would I want to?

I'm suspecting he can't have any better than three of a kind and I had him hooked! All that was left was bait him with a crazy raise, pulling him in deeper and then gaff him!

With a growl he muttered. "I'll see your twenty and raise you twenty."

With a bland voice I replied. "I'll see your raise and twenty more."

I could see it the dawning epiphany on his face as he realized I had played him.

His face tighten as he told himself, it'd be better for his reputation if he went down all guns ablazin'. Than risk the humiliation of folding too an amateur's bluff...

With a clenched jaw to avoid cursing outloud, he pushed in his plaques and snarled a call. The side pot was now one hundred, sixty thousand!

As he turned over a Queen and a seven. I flipped my heart flush beating his three queens. East Coast turns over a pair of kings, giving him a full house.

West Coast groaned and shook his head in obvious self-depreciation at being outfoxed by both of us.

East Coast rakes in the original pot of forty-eight thousand, five hundred dollars. After subtracting his bets, he's cleared about 34,5. So he's leaving with less than half his original stake?

Proof positive that once in a blue moon, a regular flush can beat a full house! We all shared an assortment of bemused disbelief and amazed laughter.

I receive the additional pot of one hundred sixty thousand dollars. Subtracting my original stake, I cleared sixty thou.

To be polite, I did not mention that I was cashing in sixty grand more than I had originally banked. A fifty per cent profit for six hours of adult edutainment.

Report my winnings? Are you fucking stupid? Whats the point of private and discreet if you're dumb enough to make a public record of whatever good fortune you need to endure?

The dealer announced "It is a quarter to midnight. Last hand, gentlemen. "

The regret that flashed through all of us, at having to face one last try at glory or impoverishment. Instantly evaporated our laughter.

We all turned to look at the Old Guy at the end of the table. He and Pasquino had their heads together, quietly talking. Both looked up as the pit Boss nodded agreement to announce.

"Doctor McNeil suggests that this last hand be capped at ten thousand from whoever cares to try their luck one more time. Five card stud, face up, high hand takes the pot."

Checking around, I could see that a couple of the guys looked relieved that they wouldn't be tempted to lose an outrageous sum. East Coast was obviously disappointed. He's still on a winners high from the previous hand. But a glare from the Old Man got a hasty verbal agreement.

The kid had already bailed on us and the two other old guys were trying to weave their way out the door.

Sure, I'll do a flier. Even if I lose ten, I'm still walking out way ahead. Earned from experienced cardsharps.

Yeah, I got bragging rights!

Five of us each put in our ten, thousand dollar plaques. The dealer finished shuffling, On the button, I got to cut. The dealer slapped the deck back together and mucked the top card.

I got an eight of clubs up. East Coast the ace of spades. Venture, a six of spades. The Old Man a jack of diamonds. And West Coast, a king of clubs.

The dealer continued as we each reacted with groans or mumbled curses as we watched each card pitched. I struggled to control my mounting excitement.

An ace of diamonds, followed by an eight of spades and then the ace of clubs gave me two pair on fourth street. By this point, only Venture's two pair of kings and a pair of sixes. Or, the Old Man's four diamonds might still beat me.

As soon as the dealer snapped me the queen of hearts, I felt crushed. At failing to make a full house.

As I stared numbly at my hand, suddenly everyone gathered around me to congratulate my success?

Looking at the other hands, Venture's final card was a eight of hearts and the Old Man caught a spade. It finally dawned on me I was an additional forty grand richer. On top of the sixty grand I earned after deducting my original buy-in.

The Conference had covered all the costs for this this tax deductible seminar on the evils of corporate irresponsibility.

Oh they registered and titled it as a seminar on Corporate Ethics but I'm not such a hypocrite as to hide behind the curtain of sanctimonious corruption.

Corporate charitable funding paid for all the arrangements for the pleasant meeting center. Refreshments, the waitstaff and bartender. The professional security and of course the expert coaching by Mr. Corso and the dealer.

I made sure before I left, that I complimented our host, Pasquino with a liberal handful of c-notes. Bonuses to reward the excellent service provided by himself and his people.

After all, this resort has been such a hoot. I may well return soon to continue my emotional rehabilitation?

**********

A three-hole punch is not just an office tool.

**********

Fredrics, ensconced as the surrogate husband and jailer/caretaker for my slut wife, has been quite happily, privately three-hole punching Valerie and preventing her worst excesses from leaking to the opposition press.

I had figured that Valerie, and her well-abused orifices, shared that happiness and had accepted my stipulation that she was my trophy wife in public and Fredrics' slave slut in private.

***********

The nude, skinny blonde wore padded leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles. A padded leather collar around her neck. A padded eye-mask that reached around her head to also cover her ears. Drooling around a thick plastic bit gag in her mouth.

Kneeling on the seat, facing the high back of the large, overstuffed chair she was perched upon. With a pair of leather leashes from the rings in the collar down the back of the chair and each looped around one of the chairs rear wooden feet. She could only move her head an inch or two in any direction.

Val's arms were stretched forward, around the back of the chair, with a carbineer attaching the two cuffs together. In addition, each wrist cuff had a leash also fastened around the chair feet. So that she could not move her arms more than an inch up and down.

Crouching backwards on the padded seat, pressed her breasts against and her head over the padded back. Her feet stuck out, each with a short leash running from the ankle cuffs to around the chair's front footing, to hold her legs spread wide open.

Valerie's blooming fluidic pudic and lube-dribbling, red-rimmed anus were fully visible. Each with a counter-vibrating intruder ruthlessly shoved in. Behind her, in front of the chair, stood Fredrics, wearing only a pair of cut-off, Button-fly™ blue-jeans.

His head cocked as he heard some moans coming from the woman's gagged mouth as a fresh sheen of nectar ran down her legs. Soaking into the thick beach towel spread over the plastic sheet covering the chair seat.

His eyes sparkled with enjoyment at Val's helplessness. Enjoying the view as her ass quivered while she struggled to reach an orgasm under the mechanical onslaught of the two violators set in clashing rhythms.

Whenever either of the infernal machines threatened to pop out, Fredrics would reach forward and casually pat them back in while groping her wet pubes.

In his left hand he was holding a a thick cloth belt from a terrycloth bathrobe. At regular intervals, he would methodically whip her ass and thighs until they started to pink.

The Boss had ordered him not to leave any marks on their mutual wife, that would be visible after a few hours. Taking it as a challenge, Fredrics came up with this diabolical version of mollycoddled bondage and methodically mellow sadism that would leave the woman with no damage to show and complain about to her family.

In the middle of the latest accumulative whipping, Val's entire body shivered and shook as she screamed out her orgasm thru the gag. Both silicon invaders shot out of her orifices as her internal muscles convulsed.

Dropping the cloth belt, Fredrics stepped up right behind her, yanked the buttons of his jeans apart. As they dropped around his ankles, he unrolled a ready condom onto his erection. Then,without mercy or tenderness, he slammed his swollen cock into her anus.

Just drifting in the backwash of her climax, Valerie screamed louder as his ramrod hard member started to pound her already over-used asshole.

Fredrics blank face cracked what might pass for a smile. His mouth gaped in a broken cackle as he threw his head back in a shout of release when his cock swelled and spurted the orgasm he had been denying himself for hours while he was tormenting our goodwife.

***********

Do you want Law & Order?

...Or...

Do you want Justice?

***********

Unfortunately a crisis blew up in mid 2006. I had to take Fredrics with me to Boston for a couple of weeks to assist me in handling onsite, discreet re-negotiations with my indiscreet financial managers. Who had been skimming from a couple of my secret investment accounts.

The survivors of our negotiating style reimbursed me for my losses plus paying me a substantial financial penalty.

Fast, efficient justice when I didn't have to bother with the tedium of the legal system and appeasing officious regulators.

As I was dealing with this disagreeable microbial-economic chicanery. My slut wife thought she could spend those weeks of freedom catching up on some of the strange she had been missing out on for the last year.

Which brings us back to studmuffin here, inarticulating outrage behind the penile gag that Fredrics had strapped into his mouth.

I sat back in my leather swivel chair and contentedly sipped at my Whistlepig™ rye and soda. Offering a mocking toast as Fredrics dragged the struggling stupid out the side door. He'll take him down into the old, empty coal cellar under the garage and chain him up for later disposal.

My poor, sexually insatiable wifey was practically comatose from the drugs Snowson and then Fredrics had given her. Diapered and strapped down in Fredrics bed. Until we need to slap her to sobriety for the next family function.

Must keep up those popular driven, pseudo- celebrity entertainments with public appearances of rigid conformity that are so important in the Elite High Society of the Social Registry™, mustn't we?

For my last fare-thee-well too all my snooty in-laws. Whom for the present, I must suffer with a pretension of courteous tolerance. I am considering ways to divert some of their own money, to have built a giant monument to Dr. Guillotine™. Hmmm?

Or perhaps, better yet. A monument to Colonel Richard 'Hannibal' Rumbold! Since he was cited in speeches at the original Constitutional Convention. On behalf of all you little people everywhere.

Ninety-nine percent of the votes only counts when they are supported by ninety-nine percent of the military when going up against the onepercent™ who control ninety-nine percent of the global economic markets™.

If you find that statement disagreeable, here is another quotation to give you gas. "What makes a Banker™, rich and powerful, is not the money and assets he owns but rather the total money and assets he controls."

How do you get to be a rich and all powerful banker™? (You know who you are...Stop skulking behind that curtain! Oh Great and Powerful Oz.") Okay, there are two routes of passage.

First, one recklessly sprinting sperm blindly bumps into a careless heiress's egg and about nine months later you are "Born...booted and spurred to ride (humanity)..."

That's how my older Uncle-in-Law, Jonathan Sheffield, inherited his way to success. After all, in her drunken ramblings, Ayn Rand insisted the cream of Superior Man™ will rise to the top.

Yep, like a coagulated mass of sour milk in a bottle.

Doesn't being born rich and well-connected PROVE that he was ordained too greatness by all the Pseudo-Scientific Principles of 19^th Century Eugenic™ Predeterminism™ and Predestination™?

Cause if you believe that load of crap, I got an antique Odyllic™ detector to sell you. Or how about a shiny, Brass Spirit Horn™? Deed to the Brooklyn Bridge™? With Certificates of Genuwhine Authenticity affirmed by Glenn Beck™, the self-proclaimed numismatic expert, for a not-so-modest fee.

Than again:

"When Adam delved

and Eve spanned.

Who then was born

the Nobleman?"

The second route to plutocratic success; starts back in private school. With you kissing the asses of the rich kids in your community, becoming their tirelessly obsequious lackey.

When you go on to higher education, be sure to let the spawn of your Overlords™ know, that you are at their beck and call. They will be wanting some one to handle the drudgery of keeping their fraternal accommodations neat. Their clothes clean and pressed. Shoes and cars brightly shining.

Oh yeah, the trivial detail of doing their school work for them. Not to worry about producing quality work. Their grades and degrees have already been bought and paid for by their family dominated foundations, trusts and bequests.

Blowjobs may be required, it depends on the luck of the draw. Your masters may just expect you to pimp them your girlfriends and your fiance.

I am certain you would never dare to disappoint their expectations of worshipful entitlements? After all, only a tree-hugging gay/vegetarian/feminist/commie/lesbian/atheist/heterosexual/Melanin-afflicted tranny would ever say no to Your superiors in the American™ jungle of life!

Maybe that is NOT a fraternal paddle in his hand while he stands close behind you. As you are bent over the back of a couch, with your pants down around your ankles and your shiny pink assterisk waving up in the air, inviting your suzerain to plunder.

So... They will bring you into their fraternity, as long as you remember your place in that microcosm of the Modern American Corporate-Socialist State™. There's just a couple of details you'll need to endure. Bending over while taking a lot of swats and cocks.

In addition to being able to consume copious quantities of beer and projectile vomit it a good distance. The more impressive your expellations, the better the job offers you will receive when you graduate.

I realize that you refuse to believe me. So, go on. Investigate for yourself. Just be sure stand back a good distance. Even then, in case they have a future GOP™ President among them. (Grand Old Party™ is a euhemerism not an oxymoron. No matter how punny it would be to consider it as such.) I sincerely warn you to wear a macintosh and rubber boots.

Cause those fellows are impressive in their God™ given talent to fire-hose their surroundings with the contents of their digestive system. Hey, if thats what it takes to qualify to run with the big boys, more power to them.

Now you've graduated alongside your betters. Guess what? Sure they receive the instant rank and titles at their family dominated firms and banks. Remember you were doing all their schoolwork? They have not a fucking clue how to accomplish anything productive.

Those 'Chosen Few™' will be shunted aside into meaningless but lucrative titles of authority. While you will be stuck as their underpaid underling grinding out sixteen hour days getting the sweat work done. But that also means you are the only one who knows what the Hell™ is actually going on in the business.

Bored with sitting around, carefully doing nothing, don't want to risk ruining his manicure. Little Lord Fauntleroy™ will drift off to be a coupon-clipping playboy and all around High Society™ wastrel.

Then he'll get appointed to be a puppet Director for other Corporations or for any of the multitude of fraudulent foundations. Maybe as a State or Federal appointed apparatchik regulator or judge or diplomat or some other meaningless post.

Where they can be frequently photographed while accomplishing absolutely nothing of any relevancy towards preventing the immanently eventual extinction of the Human Race.

While you will have become the power executive of the firm or bank. From which position you can safely loot and pillage from the property and trusts of the wealthy drones.

Who, in their narcissist superiority, are certain they can safely entrust your unctuous groveling with the treasures their grandpa-the-pirate had robbed, raped and murdered for.

This was how my younger Uncle-in-Law, Thomas D. Olsen, clawed his way to the top. When he bombasts, he claims to quote the 'Code of Chivalry™'; "Those who aspire to rule must first learn to serve!"

Honestly? Considering his career? He should quote Hobbes "War of All against All". But, who am I to denigrate that asses asspirations to Social-Darwinist™ grandeur?

This 'circle of life' seems to cycle over a century or two. As each generation of degenerate heirs of wealthy ignoramuses are further impoverished by their caretakers.

Then 'O Fortuna™'. The caretakers themselves raise their own snotty spawn to delude themselves that they are the epitome of humanity and the cycle begins anew.

***********

***********

My karma runs over his dogma...

***********

{mid 2006}

Fredrics and I had driven up to the small fishing cabin in North-Western Michigan. For a clandestine rendezvous with a float plane that hauled the both of us to a unused dock on an isolated inlet outside Boston. Two weeks later, another plane and pilot flew us back to the cabin.

We were suppose to be there at the cabin fishing all month but I was getting antsy about leaving Valerie alone for that long. So I decided we'd better head home early.

Here we go again!

The two of us walk in unannounced, to find my wife and her latest studmuffin passed out drunk. Fredrics got our wifeypoo returned to her chains in his rooms. Than he tossed studmuffin into a cold shower.

After the jerkwad Mark Snowson had dressed, he came to my office and we had our confrontation.

***********

Simultaneously, misfortune has struck! Studmuffin Snowson and my slut wife Valerie, had been seen together club hopping by someone who knew both their families.

That busybody ratfink had tipped Duke Wellesley, head of my Father-in-law's personal security detail. And yeah, that's his name. Though funny enough, his first name Duke is not after the General but rather that his own father had been a big John Wayne fan! Go figure...

Pedro works as a groundskeeper for Minh's company, that has the grounds maintenance contract for this tacky-styled pseudo-Plantation McMansion™ my in-laws had stuck us with. Pedro'd been butting heads with his boss, Minh. Frederics had interceded and saved Pedro from getting fired.

Then the peon wound up with all the crappy jobs his boss could inflict on him. Obviously no love lost between those two!

Well, that guy with a grudge, overheard Minh being questioned by a stranger. Assuming it was a reporter or other personae non gratae and not wanting to miss this opportunity to stick it too his hated boss. Pedro smartly went to Frederics with pictures and video on his cellphone of the two men clandestinely talking.

Frederics recognized from the picture of the man Minh was talking to, as one of the Duke's operatives.

Frederics came to warn me that our two chained up lovebirds were being sought by someone not my friend. As few friends as I would recognize. Everyone else is automatically suspected of failing to have my very best interests at heart. And, yeah, I'm keeping a wary eye on you too!