Snake Eyes
A high roll, a higher promise.
⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit sexual content (consensual rough play), strong language, and gambling themes. Reader discretion advised.
The dice had turned him into a minor religion.
Every roll drew a congregation—tourists with souvenir cups, old pros with cigarette voices, cocktail dresses and loosened ties orbiting the green felt like moths. The table buzzed with superstition: knuckles tapped twice, chips kissed for luck, a stranger’s hand slid off the rail because someone hissed, “hands high!” The shooter—your guy—had been hot long enough to make security lean in and the pit boss pretend not to pray.
“Alls are alive,” the stickman called. “Tall’s already home. Need that two for the sweep.”
The woman across from him had been riding his smoke. Fifty on Make ‘Em All, twenty-fives riding smalls, tall already paid. She didn’t crowd the felt, didn’t chant. Just watched with that cool, patient look of someone who could turn a heartbeat into the clean click of stacked chips.
He raked his stack, squared his shoulders. The dice under the stick were translucent ruby-red with white pips, glossy as candy, waiting like sleeping animals.
“Dice out,” the stickman sang.
Before he took them, the shooter lifted his eyes and caught hers. Long blonde hair swept over one shoulder, skin catching the neon; smoky eyes framed in kohl; glossy pink lipstick on a mouth made for trouble. A black, strapless dress shimmered when she moved. The table noise thinned into something like ocean hiss.
“Wish me luck?” he asked, thumb rolling one die against the other, a nervous habit he hadn’t needed all night.
Her smile hooked wicked at one corner. “Hit snake eyes,” she said, voice low as a secret, “and I’ll take you upstairs and swallow your babies.”
A ripple of oooohs chased the words around the rail. He felt it—heat, electricity, some chemical slosh of adrenaline and want—run through his chest and down to his fingertips.
He set the dice. Fingertips barely kissed them. One breath. Two. He sent them soft and true, bouncing twice off the back wall. They tumbled, flirted with chaos, then settled.
Two little pips staring up like a dare.
“Two! Aces! Pay the field! Pay the line! Alls, all around!” The dealer’s voice cracked into laughter. The table detonated—chips clacking, strangers hugging strangers, a volcano of sound. The woman’s stack bloomed into towers, black and green chips climbing like a city skyline. He laughed because he couldn’t not, head tipped back, pulse thrumming through his teeth.
The pit boss gave him that thin smile that said both congratulations and please get out.
He colored up. She did the same, her racks heavy with the night’s proof. When the noise cooled to the soft afterglow of money counting and stories already inflationary, he found her again at the rail.
“How serious were you?” he asked, grin playing at the edge of his mouth.
She slid her last rack to the cashier. Click. Click. The dealer pushed a bundle of high-value checks. She palmed them like a magician making a coin vanish. “Serious enough to cash out,” she said, stepping close so the scent of her—citrus and heat—cut through the carpet cleaner and cold beer. “You handled the table. Let me handle the rest.”
They left together, past the glittering slot canyons and the lobby orchids that never died. The elevator doors parted like the beginning of a secret. Inside, they stood shoulder to shoulder, not touching, the chrome handrail catching their reflections in quick, stuttering frames—his loosened tie, her black strapless dress flashing a faint shimmer, long blonde hair over one shoulder, smoky eyes and a glossy pink mouth that kept threatening to turn into a bite.
“Name?” she asked, eyes on the floor numbers lighting up.
He told her. She repeated it like she was testing the chip between her teeth. “I’m Lila,” she said. It sounded like velvet and a locked drawer.
“Lila,” he tried back, and the way it fit in his mouth drew another almost-bite of a smile.
Ding. The hallway was hushed carpet and expensive silence. Their footsteps softened. She walked like she had somewhere to be and he was the scenic route. At the door, she folded a key card between two fingers and glanced at him over her shoulder.
“One more bet,” she said. “No snake eyes this time. Just… follow my lead.”
The lock blinked green. The door swung open on a suite dressed in evening light: city blinking below, a bottle sweating on the bar, ice chiming in the bucket like tiny bells. She set her chips on the table, a soft clatter that felt ceremonial, then turned and leaned against the counter, the city glitter wrapping her in electric blue.
“About that promise,” he said, throat a shade drier than it had been at the table.
She stepped close enough to touch but didn’t, letting the space between them hum. “Follow my lead,” she reminded, fingers teasing his undone tie. “And tonight, consider your credit… unlimited.”
He laughed, a breathless little surrender, and the last of the casino fell from his shoulders—the math, the rituals, the neon. There was only her, and the door clicking shut like a dealer’s rake gathering the final bet.
What came next wasn’t for the cameras in the pit or the gawkers at the rail. It was for the two of them and the city blinking approval from a thousand windows.
She sashayed to the plush couch and slid along its length like a snake seeking warmth. Legs like a goddess, heels still on. Her head found the armrest, and her long blonde hair spilled over the side. She closed her eyes, licked her lips—slow, deliberate—and parted them just enough.
He understood the point was set; all he had to do was avoid a bad roll. He loosened his belt, eased the zipper, rolled out his fat cock, and took his place at the end of the couch where her head rested. A teasing tap brushed her lips.
Lila’s eyes flared with genuine appreciation. “Fuck. Look at the size of you.” Her voice was a hot, wet whisper against his skin. Her tongue darted out, a quick, teasing flick that collected the bead of precum already gathered there. She savored it, her eyes closing for a second as if tasting a fine wine. Then she opened wider, a deliberate, hungry gesture, and took him in.
The heat was instantaneous, a silken, wet inferno that made his knees buckle. Her mouth was a perfect, slick vise. She started slow, her head moving with a rhythm that was all her own, a languid, torturous tempo that made his breath catch in his chest. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to guide his own to her head, pressing his palms against the crown of her skull. Take what you need, the pressure said.
He needed more. His fingers tangled in her soft hair, not forcing, matching the pace and taking the lead she’d set. He pushed in deeper, feeling the head of his cock nudge the back of her throat. She didn’t gag, just hummed—a low, vibrating sound that shot straight up his spine—and swallowed around him, the muscles of her throat working him with an expertise that felt criminal.
The tempo shifted. His hips began to piston, no longer content to let her set the pace. He fucked her mouth in earnest, each thrust burying his length between those gloss-smeared lips. From that angle, locking eyes wasn’t possible; she only glanced up between motions, lashes wet, closing when his balls crowded too near. One of her hands slid from his hip, trailing behind, over his ass, squeezing the clenched, muscled cheek. Then her fingers strayed further, a bold, seeking touch slipping into the seam of his ass, circling the tight, clenched pucker there.
He froze, a jolt of pure, electric surprise seizing him. Her finger pressed, just a hint of pressure, a question. He groaned, a ragged, broken sound, and his thrusts into her mouth stuttered. She took that as the answer it was. Her spit-slicked finger pressed again, insistently, and his body yielded, opening for her in a way that felt shockingly vulnerable and unbelievably good. The dual sensation was overwhelming; the wet, rhythmic suction on his cock and the intimate, probing pressure from behind. He was completely claimed.
“That’s it,” she murmured, her words mangled around his girth. “Gonna make you come so fucking hard.”
It was all the permission he needed. The climax tore through him without warning, a tidal wave of pure sensation. He drove deep into her throat and held there, his body bowing as pulse after pulse of his release shot into her. She took every spurt, her throat working, swallowing him down without a single drop escaping. The world narrowed to the raw, physical truth of it: the pounding of his heart, the taste of him lingering as she let him slip from her mouth with a hushed spit-covered parting, the involuntary shudders still wracking his frame.
He sagged, catching his breath, watching her. She looked utterly debauched, lipstick ruined, a stray trickle of saliva and his own spend glistening on the tip of her nose. She wiped it with the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact, a look of pure, feral satisfaction on her face.
Before he could process the aftermath, she was moving. She shifted on the couch, rolling onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to him. The black dress was rucked up around her waist, revealing the flawless curve of her ass and the damp, gleaming cleft of her cunt. Her heels were still on, digging into the couch fabric.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice rough. “Don’t you crap out on me now. Press the fucking bet.”
He circled the couch, his body already responding again, fueled by her raw hunger. He ran a hand over the smooth skin of her ass, then spanked her once, sharp and stinging. She jerked forward with a gasp that melted into a low, approving laugh. He positioned himself, the head of his renewed cock finding her wet entrance. He was still slick from her mouth, and she was dripping for him.
He eased into her, inch by inch, pausing when her tightness resisted—giving his thickness a heartbeat to be welcomed. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of pure pleasure, and pushed back against him. Her pussy was a tight, perfect fit, a sensual wallet filled to capacity. He built the rhythm, driving harder with each stroke, his hands gripping her hips, anchoring himself as he pounded into her. The sound of their bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, filled the luxurious suite, a vulgar counterpoint to the soft jazz filtering through the speakers.
“Yes! Fuck! Just like that!” she moaned, her words muffled by the cushion her face was pressed into. “Feels so fucking good. Your dick is wrecking me.”
He leaned over her, covering her body with his, both hands threading into her blonde hair. He lifted her head, taking the lead she’d set and driving harder. She answered in kind, shoulders arching as the tension wound through her, breath catching in quick, breaking sounds.
“Come for me, Lila,” he growled into her ear, his voice guttural. “I want to feel that pretty pink pocket milk my fucking dick dry.”
The command shattered her. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound as her orgasm ripped through her, her body a shivering thing impaled on his shaft. The intense, rhythmic spasming of her cunt was all it took for him to cash it in. With a final, deep thrust, he went balls deep, his own ejaculation pumping into her in hot, endless waves, a second, staggering payout from the luckiest roll of his life.
He collapsed atop her, both of them spent and slick with sweat. The city lights still blinked, indifferent. The stacks of chips sat on the table, a monument to the night’s fever dream. His voice was a ragged whisper against her damp skin. “How does my credit look now?”
Lila answered without words: a long, full-body exhale as a quiet aftershock swept through her—one last private streak breaking across her without warning. It crested and ebbed, leaving her loose and smiling, eyes closed; spent and satisfied.
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