The Bet That Forced Me to Show More Than I Should Have

The last few weeks had been hell, and my best way of getting through it was to let myself be helped. After months without work and a breakup that left me with no desire to get out of bed, not even to slip two fingers in and chase off a sad little orgasm, a lifelong friend decided enough was enough. Without asking permission, he paid for three months at the gym and started picking me up every day at the same time.

—I’m not doing you a favor —he told me that first Monday, dragging me toward the car—. I’m putting you in debt. I’ll collect later.

I laughed for the first time in weeks and got in the car without arguing.

On Sunday, after a month like that, he announced that we were changing the routine. He wanted to add more leg and glute work, that part of my body that had always been my weak spot. He also showed up with grocery bags and put me on a diet: grilled chicken, green smoothies, no bread. I told him I couldn’t handle both things at once, that I’d only been training a short time and had never dieted, that it would throw me off.

—If you want to get hot, suck it up —he said—. Fat and flat-assed aren’t going to get you a job. There’s a reason they don’t call you back after interviews.

It hurt. And that’s saying something, because he’s known me for years and knows that sometimes insulting me is the only way to wake me up. I held his gaze for a second, took a deep breath, and told him I’d try, but not to talk to me like that. Something in my face must have impressed him, because he changed tactics and offered me a bet.

—If you stick to the full routine and the diet for a month without complaining even once, I’ll pay for six more months of the gym and your food for the first month. If you complain even once, you go to that interview on Friday without a bra and with a thong showing through your pants.

—You’re crazy —I told him.

—You in or training’s over.

He got me right in the pride. Not so much because of the gym, but because of the idea that he thought I’d back down. I shook his hand and we set Monday. When I let go of his fingers, I felt the warmth of his palm lingering in mine, and I thought, without wanting to think it, that nobody had touched me in a long time. Not a kiss, not a cock, not a tongue between my legs. Nothing. My cunt had become a sleeping muscle, and he had just reminded me I had it there, between my thighs, screaming for someone to remember it.

It wasn’t going to be that hard. Right?

***

He picked me up on Monday at the usual time. I’d eaten two hours earlier and felt energized, while on the way he listed the exercises: eight moves focused on hamstrings and glutes, plus cardio at the end. Just listening to him made my body ache.

I got through four exercises without opening my mouth. Barbell squats, Romanian deadlifts, hip thrusts, cable kickbacks. On the hip thrust he’d position the bar across my hip bone and his fingers would brush the lower part of my belly, just above the pubis. Every time I lifted, pushing with my ass, I could feel the leggings pulling my cunt into two clearly separated lips. He watched. He watched from above, with that face that looked like he was correcting my form, but he watched. I clenched my butt up high and my cunt went hard, wet, taut, as if every rep were against an imaginary cock. I held my expression without saying a word.

At the fifth, the Bulgarian split squat, everything fell apart. I was soaked with sweat, my legs were trembling, and I was starting to see blurred edges. I finished the last set with difficulty and let myself drop onto the mat.

—Let me breathe —I told him with my eyes closed.

—Remember the bet?

—I’m seeing blur. Seriously.

He looked at me for a moment and softened his tone. It was normal, he said, to get up slowly. But I couldn’t anymore. I told him I couldn’t go on, and I said it in a little-girl voice. He asked if I was conceding the bet and I, without thinking, said yes. I just wanted to lie there and die for a while.

He let me rest for ten minutes. Then he took out two exercises and I finished the remaining six plus the cardio. We left the gym without looking at each other.

In the car, on the way home, he broke the silence.

—I honestly thought you’d try it another way. But the bet is the bet.

—Fine. I’ll go.

—I’ll take you Friday. That way you save on transport and I make sure you follow through.

I wasn’t thrilled, but he was right. We got to my place, I got out without saying much, and went upstairs to shower feeling like a cartoon character that had been run over. In the shower, though, when the hot water hit my tits and ran down my stomach to my cunt, I remembered his fingers brushing my hip and I stayed a while pressed against the tiles, hand between my legs, rubbing my clit slowly, two fingers inside, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan. I came quietly, in three minutes, with the image of him looking at my ass as I pushed the bar. I got out of the shower red-faced and certain the bet was already fucking with my head.

***

On Tuesday I wanted to die. I walked like a newborn Bambi: my legs wouldn’t cooperate and my ass burned with every step. Even so, at the usual time, my friend showed up at the door. He was carrying a brown paper bag and handed it to me without greeting me.

—I brought this for Friday. Put it inside and let’s go.

I went into my bedroom and took a quick look at the contents. Three black thongs, one on top of the other, perfectly folded. I didn’t check anything else because he was at the door tapping his foot impatiently.

On the way to the gym, I asked him why he’d brought me that.

—Because from what I saw, you don’t wear thongs. Just regular panties.

—And what exactly are you looking at?

—I have to watch you do the exercises properly. Don’t get so full of yourself. But I notice it there—the seams of your panties always show. And that’s the bet: your thong has to show. When we get back, we’ll choose which one you wear.

I spent a moment thinking about how to complain to him. The idea of modeling lingerie for him didn’t really sit right with me. But I also thought that on Friday he was going to see me in that same marked thong, so by then it didn’t really matter. I told him fine and went into the gym without arguing.

That day was chest and arms. Everyone with their own weights. We left two hours later and, once in the car, he started asking me what formal clothes I had. I told him about a black blazer, a white blouse I’d only worn once, and a black dress pant that clung too much. I could feel him building a mental map.

—That pant. Perfect —he said, and tapped the steering wheel—. Thin fabric makes even the air under there show through.

***

When we got home, only my mother was there. I told her I’d be in my room with him and we went upstairs. My kids wouldn’t be back for another three hours, so we had time.

I took the three outfits out of the closet and, before he could say anything, we picked the black pants and the short-sleeved ribbed white blouse. What bothered me most wasn’t the pants, it was the blouse. Without a bra, it was going to be obvious that my nipples were showing. Luckily I had the blazer over it, which covered the front and gave me a little room to breathe.

We moved on to the thongs. All three were black, but different. The first, completely string, with a metal chain on the back band. The second, a lace triangle in the back. The third, the one he looked at with some pride, was the strangest: in front, a sort of double-ribbon butterfly that left the lips exposed, and in back a tiny triangle with a little bow at the top.

I locked myself in the bathroom with the pants, blouse, and three thongs. I undressed slowly, looking at myself in the mirror. My tits had gone hard just knowing he was on the other side of the door, waiting to see me. My nipples stood out rigid, pink, pointing upward. I lowered my hand and touched my cunt: I was wet. Not a little, really wet, with swollen lips and a sticky thread between my fingers. I licked the tip of my finger and made myself focus.

I tried on the first one. The chain showed too much. When I put it on, the string went right into my ass crack and pinched my asshole just a little, a tingle that did nothing to calm the arousal. The second left an awkward bulge right in the middle of my ass. The third, though, showed perfectly: the thin line of the bow drew a barely-there mark in the middle of the pants. In front, the butterfly was obscene. Two crossing ribbons left my cunt lips out in the open, barely covering the clit with a tiny scrap of fabric. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long while. It was me, but not quite. It was me with a whore’s face, the kind that needs something shoved inside her right now.

I slid my hand over the pants, finding my cunt through the thin fabric, and rubbed with my open palm until a sigh slipped out of me. On the other side of the door I heard my friend clear his throat. I froze, hand between my legs and my heart in my throat. I pulled the pants up properly, adjusted the thong, put on the blouse without a bra, and came out before I did something stupid.

I walked out into the bedroom and my friend let out a low whistle, the kind that’s more verification than compliment.

—Turn around.

I did as he said. I felt ridiculous and at the same time, I don’t know, different. I felt like a slut, and I was starting to like it. He said the bet had been a gift, that the exercise was starting to show and that those pants didn’t hug my waist like they used to. He took my phone and snapped a picture, just from behind, so I could see why he was insisting on that thong.

When I saw the picture, I got it. The bow line was crystal clear, drawing two triangles in the middle of my ass. I’d never really thought about how underwear showed through clothes. But, against everything I expected, I liked how it looked. I imagined the guy at the interview looking at my ass when I walked out, and felt a wet jolt between my legs.

—Open the blazer.

I opened it. The white blouse gave anyone the exact silhouette of my nipples. They were so hard they lifted the fabric, two sharp points impossible to hide. He didn’t look away. It wasn’t a lecherous look, it was a long look, like he was measuring something. I caught sight of the bulge in his pants without being able to stop myself. A thick bulge, outlined to one side of his thigh, shifting when he moved his weight from one leg to the other. My mouth went dry. I told him to let me change and he went out into the hall.

I came out of the bathroom wearing my gym clothes. The only thing I didn’t take off was the thong: it was faster and by then there was no point fighting the idea of walking around with a cord between my ass cheeks. The string slipped into my crack and pinched my asshole with every step, a constant reminder that I’d put it on for someone else to look at. I saw him out at the door and told him I’d see him the next day.

That night, when the kids were already asleep, I got into bed still wearing the thong and spent a full hour masturbating. I came the first time with two fingers inside, imagining he was cornering me against the bathroom wall and fucking me from behind without taking my pants off, just pulling them down to my knees. I came a second time with the handle of my hairbrush, face down, biting the pillow. I fell asleep with the thong soaked through.

***

The following days passed without anything worth telling. Gym, food without salt, sleeping badly, repeat. On Thursday night I left the outfit hanging on a hanger next to the door. The thong, the white blouse, the black pants, the blazer on top, the shoes on the floor. I stood there staring at all of it for a while as if it were someone else’s uniform. A slut’s uniform that wasn’t me, but was starting to become me.

Friday arrived. The weather had been cool all week, and I took advantage of it to put on a long coat over the outfit before leaving. When I got down and climbed into the car, my friend looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

—That wasn’t the deal.

—It was so I could leave the house without my mother asking me anything.

I opened the coat just enough to show him the thong marked through the pants and the blouse with nothing underneath. He shut his mouth and started the car.

—No bra, seriously?

—I always keep my bets.

I opened the blazer too. My nipples were clearly marked under the blouse, hard as two stones, pointed at the windshield. He let out a nervous laugh, looked ahead, and a second later told me to lower the visor mirror and look at myself. I saw the bulge in his pants again, now thicker, pushing against the fabric. His cock was getting hard looking at me and he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

I did. With the sunlight coming in from the side, the blouse was more see-through than I’d calculated. It wasn’t opaque white: it was a veil. I could see my entire areolas, brown, full, with the nipples standing in the middle like they were asking for a mouth. I snapped the blazer shut.

—I’m not opening the blazer inside, not in a million years.

—Whatever you want.

***

We got to the building. I took off the coat inside the car, left it on the seat, and got out like I was jumping into an ice-cold pool. The second I stepped onto the sidewalk, I felt the stares. Two men smoking at the door turned their heads at the same time. One licked his upper lip without realizing it and nudged the other with his elbow. A delivery guy stopped his bike short and kept staring at my ass until I turned the corner into the lobby. I told myself it was in my head, that nobody was looking at me, but the elevator proved otherwise: in the mirror, even with the blazer closed, my nipples showed through from the cold. The fabric didn’t flatten them all the way. And the fitted pants drew the little bow triangle of the thong in the center of my ass, perfectly clear.

I dried my hands on my pants and breathed. I could feel my cunt throbbing inside the thong, already wet, the fabric stuck to my lips.

I waited in a small room for about ten minutes. Out of the adjacent room came a girl around twenty-four, stunning, short dress, cleavage, everything neat, everything put together. For a moment I thought about turning around and going back to the car. But I was already there. And a bet was a bet.

They called me. I went into a room with two men behind a long table. One was about my age, the other a few years older. I sat down. They started asking the usual questions: studies, experience, how long I’d been out of work, what my expectations were. I answered looking at both of them equally, but the older one never took his eyes off my chest.

I’m not exaggerating. Every time I looked down at my résumé, he lifted his gaze and fixed it right there. Every time I answered something, he let it slide a little and came back. Nerves worked against me: I felt my nipples hardening even more, until they hurt, and that’s when I realized that, blazer or not, they showed. Two marked points impossible to hide. When I shifted in the chair, changing positions, I felt the thong slip even further between the lips of my cunt and rub my clit. I held back a gasp by biting the inside of my cheek.

The older man crossed his legs in a strange way and readjusted. I caught a side glimpse of a hard bulge pushing against the seam of his pants. The marked cock, thick, had been angled to the side so it wouldn’t show so much and wouldn’t press into the zipper. I let my eyes flick there for a second. He crossed his legs again. I clenched my ass against the chair and felt the thong’s bow digging into my skin.

Don’t look at them. Don’t lower your head. Talk. Don’t think about that man’s cock. Don’t think about how I’d have it in my hands right now if he stood up and turned me over the table.

The interview ended. They told me they still had to interview a few more people and that if I made the shortlist, they’d call me next week. Both of them stood to say goodbye. The one who couldn’t take his eyes off me came closer than was reasonable and kissed me on the cheek. I felt his nose against my hair and the hard bulge, accidentally, brushing my hip for a second. As he pulled back, his gaze dropped to my chest again, this time without hiding it, and I saw the tip of his tongue peek between his teeth.

I turned to leave and, before closing the door behind me, I heard an almost inaudible whistle. I have no doubt: it was because he’d seen the thong marked under my pants. I went down to the elevator with my cunt burning, the thong literally soaked, a thread of slick running down the inside of my thigh. I touched just over the pants with two fingers to see if the stain showed. Not yet.

***

I got into the car with my face burning. I felt exposed, ridiculous, and at the same time, I don’t know how to explain it, awake. Like a slut. More like a slut than I’d felt in years. When I got in, my friend asked me how it went.

—Good. I think.

—Then why are your nipples hard?

Before I could answer, the idiot reached over and pinched one through the blouse. He grabbed it hard between his thumb and forefinger and twisted it slightly. A jolt shot straight down to my cunt and made my mouth open without meaning to. A short, rough moan slipped out, one I couldn’t swallow in time. He heard it and smiled. He squeezed it a second time, a little harder, and ran his thumb over it, making the nipple turn against the fabric. My hip moved on its own in the seat.

And then I reacted. My response was automatic: I slapped him so hard it echoed through the car. He laughed. Not at me: reflexively, like someone admitting a sports loss. He brought his hand to his cheek and adjusted the bulge in his pants with the other, with no attempt to hide it.

—I earned that. But don’t tell me you didn’t see it coming. And don’t tell me you didn’t like it, because I heard you.

—Let’s go.

I put on my coat. On the way back we barely talked. I told him a few scattered details, about the man who never looked away, the whistle at the door, the girl in the short dress. I left out that the man had had a hard cock angled to the side and that I’d almost come in my seat during the interview. He was driving with that weird smile people get when they win bets that weren’t entirely theirs, and with the outline of his cock still marked in his pants. Every so often he adjusted himself. Every so often he looked at me sideways.

When he got to my place, I got out of the car, planted myself on the sidewalk, and opened my coat and blazer one last time. The blouse turned translucent in the afternoon light and my nipples stood out like two beacons. I held his gaze while his eyes dropped to my tits, and I ran my tongue over my upper lip, slowly, so he could see exactly what he was missing.

—Bet paid —I told him.

He shut his mouth, nodded, and started the car. I saw his hand go down to the bulge for a second before he put it in gear.

***

That same night, once I’d changed and the kids were having dinner in the kitchen, I texted him. To pick me up Monday for the gym. He replied right away. “Yeah, I’ll come. But wear one of the thongs. All three are yours.”

I stared at the message for a long while, biting my lip. I felt my cunt clench on its own, like a hungry mouth.

I’ll think about it.

I replied exactly that and left the phone face down on the table. When the kids went to sleep, I went up to my room, locked the door, and took the butterfly thong out of the drawer. I put it on naked in front of the mirror. The front ribbons left my cunt lips exposed, swollen, shiny from thinking about him driving around with his cock outlined in his pants. I got into bed, spread my legs, and touched myself. First the clit, with two fingers, in circles, pressing hard. Then I slid three fingers into my cunt, up to the knuckle, and curved them, searching for the spot that makes my back bend. I imagined the man from the interview turning me over the table, pulling my pants up to my knees, yanking the thong off in one tug and driving it all the way in while the other man watched. I imagined my friend pushing open my bedroom door, pulling out the cock he’d kept hard the whole ride, grabbing me by the hair and making me suck him to the back of my throat. I imagined both of them at once, one in front and one behind, filling all three holes with saliva and semen. I came with a low cry, face buried in the pillow, legs shaking like in the Bulgarian split squat. And I came again five minutes later, with the same brush from Tuesday, slower, longer, until I soaked the sheet beneath my ass.

I fell asleep still wearing the thong, wet, and with the certainty that Monday was going to come faster than was good for me.