The Bet by BrokenSpokes
Discover the tantalizing world of desire in 'The Bet,' an erotic sex story that explores passion, temptation, and the thrill of seduction. Join characters as they navigate lust and risk, leading to an unforgettable encounter. Perfect for fans of steamy romance and captivating narratives. Read more!<br/>
Hello friend, and welcome to my entry into Literotica’s 2024 Summer Lovin’ Contest. You don’t have to have read any of my other stories to enjoy this one. It’s a slow burn that takes a while, but it’ll get spicy.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
~~ Front Royal, Virginia – June ~~
“M-o-o-o-o-m! Where’s Layla?” I could hear my son, Eric, yelling from the hallway.
“Did you look in the barn?” my wife Jill called back from the sink, where she was braiding her hair.
“I swear if his head wasn’t attached…” I chuckled. I hopped out of the walk-in shower to the bench where my prosthetic foot waited for me.
“This might be the longest I’ve ever seen your hair,” Jill said, ruffling her fingers through my damp scalp. “Another few weeks and you could put it in a cute little topknot.”
“Blame your sister for going on vacation last month and me having to cover a shift during my regular appointment this month,” I grumbled. I balanced on my good leg to pull up my underwear, sat down again to pull the neoprene sleeve that held my foot to the stump of my left leg up over my knee then reached for my jeans. “Been awhile for you too. You’ve got almost an inch of roots showing.”
Jill turned to look in the mirror, teasing her bangs with one hand. “I know. I was thinking of seafoam this time, instead of my usual. What do you think?”
“Your hair, your choice. I’m still calling you Blue Girl no matter what color you dye it.”
That earned me a smile. I returned it in the mirror as I pulled on my sports bra and t-shirt, then reached for my little tub of hair gel. My hair was a little too long to spike up into my normal flat-top, but I could at least slick it back to keep it from flopping down into my face.
During our incredibly brief courtship the summer we met, Jill’s hair had been dyed an electric blue. In the nineteen years we’d been together since then, it had become a monthly tradition of ours to go to her sister’s salon in Fairfax. Me for my usual flat-top hair cut and her for a trim and, every two or three months, a new dye job. Her hair had gone through many different hues over the years, from dark blue, to royal, to a deep almost purple to many multi-colored variations. Through all the years, I’d called her Blue.
My Blue Girl.
I moved to stand next to her as she resumed teasing her hair. She was frowning at the mirror.
“More like gray girl,” she said, “I can’t believe how many I have coming in now. If I didn’t dye it I’d look like Emma Frost soon. Definitely in need of a coloring session.”
“You look perfectly yummy to me.” I rose onto my tiptoe, pulled down the neck of her t-shirt and kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder, causing her to shiver.
“Hey! Don’t get me going, Suzanne and Larry will be here any minute.”
“Spoilsport.” I gave the spot a little nibble, causing her knees to buckle.
“Eep!” she squeaked, “Jo, stop!”
I laughed. “Fine. We have all weekend for that, I suppose.” I took her hand and we went in search of our son.
Eric wasn’t in the house, but his backpack was sitting in front of the open sliding door to the barn, so we ambled down the steps and across the yard.
“Did you find her?” I called as we walked into the barn.
“Yeah, I’m back here,” I heard him call from the workbench towards the back.
We lived on the farm where I’d grown up with my mom and dad and little brother Steve. It had a big ranch-style farmhouse, a smaller one-bedroom cabin we used as a guest room when we had visitors, a hanger for my dad’s old Bell-47 helicopter and the barn. On the outside it appeared to be just like any old wooden barn you’d find on any old farm, but inside it was something else entirely. The walls were weather-proofed and half of the inside was set up as a music space. Four microphones stood in a semicircle on the dusty wooden floor, with a drum kit, an electronic keyboard on a stand and an old upright piano forming the other side. A large cabinet with glass doors against the wall revealed a number of guitars and various other instruments. One of the cabinet doors was standing wide open.
“Hey bud, this is a barn, but you weren’t born in here. Close the cabinet doors when you get something out,” I said, shutting the door.
“Sorry, Mama.” Eric called from the workbench near the double-doors at the back of the barn where I parked the tractor and had my home gym.
“Whatcha up to?” Jill asked, as we walked over to him.
“Replacing my strings. It’s been awhile and I figured I should do it before I leave so I don’t have one pop while we’re on stage.” Eric had Layla, his ’75 Fender Telecaster, laid out on the workbench, an old towel underneath.
“You know it’s totally okay with me if you ever want to take off that Pride sticker. It’s beat to hell,” I told him for probably the hundredth time, jerking my chin towards the faded rainbow flag I’d put on the guitar’s black lacquer finish years ago when it had been my instrument.
“I know, Mama,” Eric said, for probably the hundredth time. “I like it, though. It heads off a lot of dudes from dropping homophobic bullshit on me before they find out I have two moms,” he said.
A little corner of my mind acknowledged I kept saying that to him because it thrilled me to hear his matter-of-fact pride in his moms.
“Language,” Jill said, though the amused tone of her voice belied the rebuke.
“Sorry, Mom. Anyway, girls think it’s hot, so that’s two reasons to keep it,” he said with the trademark Collins smirk.
We watched him thread the last string through the bridge, up to the headstock and through the tuning peg. He used a winding tool on the tuning knob to quickly tighten the string, clipped off the excess with a pair of snips, then strummed across the strings, tuning by ear.
“Nice work, bud,” I said. “C’mon, let’s take her for a ride.” I went back to the instrument cabinet and pulled out my usual choice for barn jamming, a dark red Gibson SG that had been my dad’s. I settled the strap over my shoulder, as my boy did the same with his Telecaster. We both plugged into one of the small amps around the edge of the circle and clicked them on. Jill took a seat on the piano bench to watch as the electronic hum from the amps filled the barn with the promise of rock and roll.
I nodded at him to take the lead. His music tastes were pretty modern. I expected him to pick some new song I’d never heard, which was fine. He liked to try and stump me, but I was pretty good at improvisation.
He touched the distortion pedal on the ground with his right foot, then surprised me by launching into a series of heavy rock chords. It only took me the first five notes to recognize Van Halen’s version of You Really Got Me.
“Hell yeah,” I said under my breath, kicking one of my own pedals, spinning up my volume knob and launching into the rhythm chords. I played underneath him, letting him solo and throw licks all through the song. Eric wasn’t Van Halen (I mean, who was beside Eddie?) but he had his own style that suited him well.
As we jammed, I saw Jill out of the corner of my eye, tapping her feet and drumming her hands on her knees, watching us with pride. Eric wasn’t quite as good as me, but that was only because I had over thirty years of playing experience on him. He’d surpass me one day, maybe soon. He was a pretty good lyricist and songwriter too, which I was decidedly not. He and his band were already making splash around our corner of Virginia, playing mostly original stuff. I wasn’t going to be surprised if music turned out to be his career.