Betting Shop Beauty

Fixed-odds betting terminals were designed to take your money. I knew this. Everyone knew this. But at three on a Thursday afternoon with nothing else going on, sometimes you just wanted to watch digital roulette spin.

I was down thirty quid and considering cutting my losses when she appeared at the machine next to mine.

Curvy. Properly curvy. Tight jeans, tighter top, blonde hair with dark roots, nails painted blood red. She fed a twenty into the machine and started playing without acknowledging my existence.

Twenty minutes later, she was up two hundred and I was down fifty.

"Lucky streak," I observed.

"Not luck." She finally glanced at me. "System."

"There's no system. It's random."

"Tell that to my winnings." She nodded at my screen. "You're betting wrong. Too much on red, not enough on corners."

"Since when does a stranger care about my betting strategy?"

"Since you're cute and losing money you probably can't afford." She moved closer. "Want me to show you?"

"Show me what?"

"My system." Her smile was sharp. "Could teach you. If you make it worth my while."

Making it worth her while turned out to involve buying her a drink at the Wetherspoons next door, listening to her theory about betting terminal patterns (which was probably nonsense), and ending up in the disabled toilet because neither of us could wait.

"I don't usually do this," she said, pressing me against the door. "Just so you know."

"Neither do I."

"Liar." But she was grinning. "I could tell you were interested from the moment I sat down."

"You're hard to miss."

"I know." She kissed me—hard, demanding—her hands already at my belt. "My name's Tanya, by the way. In case you wanted to know what to moan."

"I'm—"

"Don't care." She dropped to her knees. "Not yet, anyway."

She took me in her mouth with zero buildup, all enthusiasm and skill. Her red nails gripped my thighs, her eyes looked up at me the whole time.

"Christ—"

"Shh. People outside."

She worked me to the edge, then pulled back, stood up, started undoing her jeans.

"Your turn. And make it good."

I dropped to my knees, pulled down her jeans and underwear together. She was wet, eager, and when my tongue found her, she grabbed my hair with both hands.

"Yes—fuck—right there—"

She ground against my face while I worked her, her moans echoing off the tile walls. She came fast—clearly turned on by the risk.

"Inside me. Now."

"Condom?"

"Purse. Come on, I'm impatient."

I found it, rolled it on. She turned around, braced against the sink.

"Don't be gentle."

I wasn't. I pushed in hard and she groaned, her head falling forward.

"Yes—that's what I needed—"

I fucked her against the Wetherspoons toilet sink while people drank cheap pints just outside the door. The risk made everything more intense.

"Harder—make me come—"

I reached around, found her clit. She came with a muffled scream, clenching around me.

"Your turn—inside—"

I came hard, buried deep, gripping her hips.

We cleaned up in silence, fixed our clothes, checked ourselves in the mirror.

"Well," she said, "that was a better return than the machines."

"Much better."

"Same time next Thursday?"

"Same machines?"

"Same everything." She kissed me—quick, hard. "Leave first. I need to fix my makeup."

I went back every Thursday. Sometimes I won, mostly I lost.

But I always came out ahead somehow.