I was serving food and drinks to five men, one of whom was my husband, Pietro. The men were all at our house, watching an Italian football contest, what the American’s call soccer, between the two best Italian clubs in the Serie A. When calling them men, I used the term loosely, as they acted more like boys. They were at our house because my husband owned the biggest TV. He is the richest asshole in town and he has the biggest house, the fastest car, biggest TV and the most beautiful wife, me. 

My name is Maria, and you might ask why I’m calling my husband an asshole - uno stronzo, in Italian. That will soon be evident even to the dullest of minds. My husband is a loudmouth and a braggart; one of the reasons he has the biggest and best of everything. He wants everyone to know how rich and successful he is. The only reason the other four men were here, listening to his self-promoting bragging, is so they could watch the game on his gigantic TV, three meters wide, corner to corner. Pietro was 179 centimeters tall, some salt in the pepper of his hair, handsome enough, with some thickness around the middle brought on by his age, 40, and too much pasta and wine. I was 170 centimeters tall, 50 kilograms, tanned evenly all over as the result of a privacy fence around the patio, with three tattoos I’d gotten before my marriage. I also had a piercing or two obtained when I was younger.

Like his TV, he had to show off his beautiful wife, so he had me serving his guests in a dress he picked out for me. A dress displaying far too much of my considerable charms to the leers and lecherous looks of his friends. I normally put up with much of Pietro’s boorish behavior because he’s a good provider and lover and he’s exceedingly generous despite his many faults. He often contributes to local charities and my own family has received many gifts demonstrating his largesse and generosity, but I was having a major problem with his conduct today.

His attempt to display me to his friends like his fancy cars or expensive clothes antagonized me to the end of my patience. I was doing my best not to become a bitch queen and scream at him, but I was struggling with my anger. I’d inherited my looks from my mother, but my temper from my father. Pietro kept putting an arm around me, patting and squeezing my bottom and fondling my breasts in front of the other men. Because of the way he was treating me, like a cheap prostitute, - prostituta a buon mercato, they started taking liberties themselves and I’d pushed away more than one hand attempting to grope me, not always fast enough or successfully.

I was Pietro’s second wife and fifteen years younger than my husband and we’d been married for five years. I had long brown hair and greenish brown eyes. Pietro had been urging me to give up my independence and have his children. At his age, he didn’t want to wait any longer, and I saw his point. While still quite young, I wasn’t getting younger either and was thinking it might be time to give him the children he craved. I’d enjoyed the freedom of being single and the freedom of being married to a rich man while childless, but it might be time for a change, and I accepted it. I was considering trying to have his child at some time in the near future and told him at some point, I would stop using birth control. Right now, it was taking every smidgeon of self control I possessed, not to slap him and every one of his football buddies across the face, leave the house, and spend another 4000 euros of his money to piss him off, let alone have his children. 

The four men watching the match with my husband were Matteo, the shortest of all the men, not much taller than my 170 centimeters. He was thin and wiry, with dark hair and an outrageous mustache, which looked too big for his small frame. Matteo was married and had two children, a girl and a boy who was Matteo’s pride and joy. He was the most avid of football fans, loud and boisterous, and constantly needling anyone who disagreed with his assessments. He was also quick; often getting a hand on me before I knew it was coming and grabbing a quick feel before I could evade it, then pulling it back before I could slap it.

Marco was the tallest of them; 188 centimeters tall, and looked like he had played a sport himself, perhaps basketball or volleyball. He was not body builder strong, but ruggedly so, with muscles in all the right places. He was married, and his wife was with child, about six months along. He complained at times her size was interfering with their sex. If ever tempted to cheat on my husband, I might consider Marco. In addition to his height and physique, he was movie star handsome. Despite my attraction to him, I was still annoyed he would attempt liberties with me in front of my husband. 

The next tallest was Luca, 182 centimeters tall. Luca was still young, thirty-five, but with prematurely white hair. According to many of the single women in town, as well as a few married ones, Luca was quite the stallion. It was not uncommon for the priests to hear women’s confessions on Sunday, of the many misdeeds committed with Luca on Saturday night. Of course, he was aware of his reputation with the ladies, which made him vain and a bit of a pig. His hands were the ones I had to slap most often from my ass. He was single. No woman was silly enough to tie herself to Luca, who would never be satisfied with one woman only.

Giovanni was quiet. There is a saying about still waters running deep; he was like the saying. Giovanni never revealed much about himself. You never knew what he was thinking or what his preferences or dislikes were. He could be anything from an assassin to a priest, and you’d never know. Giovanni was one of the few Italian men I knew with blue eyes and I wondered where they came from, a Germanic or Celtic invader, a Roman blue-eyed slave, a Viking raider. So much of Giovanni was below the surface. He was the least aggressive of my husband’s buddies today. Only once did I have to dodge his hand when he reached out to pinch a buttock. He was 180 centimeters tall with brown hair and though he did not appear as muscular as Marco, there seemed about him a hidden strength which could overwhelm you if he were angry, and his eyes would flash cold blue fire. He was single as well. The only thing I knew for sure about Giovanni is he was funny. He’d suddenly say something out of thin air and make everyone laugh. I always felt a sense of humor was a sign of intelligence, so believed he might be smarter than you would ever know.

The football match was between Juventus and Milan. My husband, Pietro, was rooting for Juventus. He was a friend of Andrea Agnelli, of the Fiat corporate group, and current president of Juventus. Of course, Juventus also boasted the player, Cristiano Ronaldo, who was perhaps the greatest football player ever. If not the best, he was certainly somewhere in the top three to ever play the game. Everyone else was cheering for Milan. Juventus and Milan were probably the two best Italian teams. Juventus won the Italian championship last year and was favored to win again, but so far, Milan had the better record. 

This was the source of their argument, and the precipitating cause of what would become the bet.

“It doesn’t make any difference if Milan has the better record now,” my husband said. “Juventus is the better team. They have Ronaldo and he’s the best player in the world.”

Matteo replied, “Milan plays the better tactical game and has the defense to hold Ronaldo in check.” 

I was only listening with half an ear as I served the wine, more alert to wandering hands than an argument about the merits of two football teams I cared nothing about.

“I would agree with Matteo,” Marco said. “There’s a reason Milan has the better record this season than Juventus. They play better as a team, not depending on the skill of a single player to win.”

“Nonsense. The only reason they have the better record is they’ve played poorer teams. Juventus is still the favorite to win it all this year,” my husband said. “I’ll bet a thousand euros with each of you that Juventus will win today.”

“That’s no fucking bet,” Matteo said. “You shit a thousand euros every day. A thousand euros is a house payment for any one of the rest of us. You should put up something of equal value to you.”

“What do you suggest, Matteo? My car, my house. That’s a ridiculous bet for me.”

“No,” Giovanni said, “something you value more than those things, your wife.” Deep waters indeed.

I got ready to explode if my husband even considered such a bet.

“I’m not betting my wife,” he said. “What were you thinking? I just can’t give her to you.”

I relaxed a little, thinking my husband was completely sane and had the situation handled.

“I’m not talking about you giving us your wife,” Giovanni said, “except for a weekend. She would have to wait on us hand and foot from Friday night to Monday morning, naked. The entire weekend we shall enjoy the sight of her lovely bare body serving us, waiting on us.”

“So, you’re not talking about fucking her, just looking,” Pietro said.

“Pietro!” I screamed at him. “What the fuck are you thinking? You’re not considering this ridiculous bet are you? I am not a possession to be bartered or traded like one of your precious toys. I’m your fucking wife. Do not do this. Do not even consider this! You will regret it, God help me, if you even think of making me part of some wager.”

“Maria, calm down. There’s no way Juventus is going to lose. Ronaldo is playing. He’s at the top of his game. Juventus can’t lose. Milan is going down.”

“Pietro, if you wager me in this stupid bet, I swear to you if you lose, I’m going to fuck every one of your friends. I will fulfill any fantasy they want filled, no matter how outrageous it is. Is that what you want; for me to become their whore? Put this stupid idea out of your mind right now. Do not treat me this way or you’ll live to regret it.”

“Why would you even say such a thing?” Pietro protested.

“Because you’re willing to wager my nude body to your friends. To have them grope and fondle me for a weekend like they have all afternoon, right in front of you, while you do nothing. You think they would treat me better while you’re gone? You are treating me as if I don’t matter, and I assure you, I most certainly do. I’m warning you.”

“Juventus can’t lose,” he insisted.

“Then what difference if I agree to fuck them all? Juventus can’t lose. Isn’t that what you believe? If you’re right, I won’t be fucking anyone, including you, for at least the next two months, if not longer. If you’re wrong, which you insist you couldn’t possibly be, then I will be fucking your friends all weekend. Is that the bet you’re willing to make, because that’s the one you’re making?”

Everyone was instantly much more interested and attentive. It had gone from being somewhat of a joke to serious business. They might have hoped to have sex with me if I was naked and waiting on them all weekend, but to know Pietro’s wife would definitely fuck them if I was wagered, upped the ante for all of them, married or not. 

“Come on, Pietro, are you confident Juventus is going to win or not,” Matteo said. “I say, if you’re so positive they’re going to win, you must bet a weekend with your wife, against 4000 euros.”

“Pietro,” I warned. “Don’t be a pig. I’m your wife. You want me to be the mother of your children and you would risk me in some stupid bet?”

That is when my husband started to become an asshole. 

“How would this work?” He asked.

Giovanni said, “The easiest method would be for you to leave your house on Friday afternoon and not come home until Monday morning. We would all come over Friday after you left.  Maria would be waiting for us naked. We would have the use of your villa, your wine cellar, and your wife to wait on us hand and foot dressed in only a little less than she is now. Did you choose her dress, Pietro? It shows off her many splendid assets so well. We see almost everything she has right now. We’d only be seeing a little more than you’ve chosen to show us.” 

Left unsaid was my fucking threat. Perhaps Pietro didn’t believe I was serious.

“Pietro, so help me God, I’ll fuck them all,” I said. “If you treat me like a whore, I will act like a whore.”

“Non ha le palle to make that bet,” Luca said. “He doesn’t have the balls. His wife has got her little finger wrapped around his pisellino like a ring. He wouldn’t dare.”

“What if it ends in a tie?” Pietro asked, ignoring me and acting as if he was going to go through with it. I hated him right now as much as it was possible to hate someone.

“Then all bets are off,” Giovanni said. “No one pays, no one forfeits anything. It’s like the bet never happened.”

It would have happened as far as I was concerned. He was going to regret it if he wagered my naked body to his four friends, win or lose.

“When would the bet be paid?” Pietro asked.

“We pay you today if you win. You pay this weekend if you lose,” Marco added his argument. “Matteo’s right though. Pietro doesn’t believe his team is going to win enough to risk his wife.”

“Why are you doing this, Marco, Matteo?” I asked. “You’re both married. Would you bet your wives in a crazy bet like this one? Matteo, you have children, and Marco, your wife is about to have one. Is this what you want to teach them? How to bet wives with stupid people like my husband? Would you want your daughter to be wagered like a prize cup? Or your son’s wife to his friends?” 

“Because your husband will never bet you, Maria,” Marco said. “It would be too crude even for him.”

Fuck Marco for saying that. I think it was the final straw in Pietro’s mind, questioning his manhood.

“I’ll take the bet.”

Boom! Asshole! He became an asshole in that moment. And my anger with him had made promises my body would have to pay if Juventus lost today. In any case, my husband would be lucky if I allowed him to touch me for the next six months, the fucking pig.

******

I had threatened my husband by telling him I would fuck all his friends but I did not want to fuck anyone else, especially while married. That was my temper talking in return for his wagering me in his ridiculous bet, so for the first time in my life, I found myself watching a match with any more than the mildest disinterest. It was a very close and hotly contested game. These teams were fierce rivals and no one on either side wanted to lose to the other. The first half ended in a 0-0 tie. Even a tie would be a satisfactory outcome for me. It wouldn’t be for Pietro, if he was thinking about children anytime soon, but it would be for me. 

Everyone got another drink during half time. I had two, I was so nervous. Milan scored a goal around the three minute mark of the second half. Merda! But it was still early in the half and Juventus was counterattacking fiercely, trying to win the goal back. Matteo had been right. Milan was playing an excellent tactical game and the defense was making it hard for Ronaldo to get untracked. They tried to keep the ball away from him and when he did get it, he was swarmed, forcing him to pass it to a teammate. 

With four minutes to play, Juventus pressed hard, going for the tie even if they couldn’t salvage a win. In the last two minutes they had three shots on goal, one of which was headed out of the pitch, and one by Ronaldo going just wide of the net to the right. 

Pietro was saying, “Come on, Ronaldo. You can do it. You’re the best player in football. You’ve got this. Put it in the goal now.”

The other four guys had their fingers crossed as Ronaldo looked like he was getting another opportunity to score with 10 seconds left to play. I couldn’t believe it but his last shot looked like it was going into the goal at the top of the net, but Milan’s goalie, Pepe Reina, a fucking Spaniard, leaped high and must have gotten a couple finger tips on the ball because it sailed just high. Juventus lost.

I slumped back in my chair. You fucking asshole, Pietro, I thought. If I was being honest, I should also blame my own temper. But while my husband might believe I had taken what would be nothing more than some serious grabbing and fondling while serving them naked for the weekend to a whole lot more, I knew that wasn’t true. They would have fucked me anyway. It was unavoidable under the circumstances. My husband turned off the TV.

“When do I have to be out of the house?” Pietro said.

“By four,” Giovanni replied. “We’ll start arriving shortly after. You can’t return until eight AM on Monday morning. We should all be gone by then.”

I was still angry with the bastard. “If you return before eight on Monday,” I said. “I will see each of your four friends one weekend at a time for the next four weekends and I won’t be on birth control. We’ll see who’s bambino I carry when I’m done.”

“Maria!” He exclaimed. 

“I told you not to make that fucking bet. You wouldn’t listen to me. Now you pay the price for your arrogance.”

“All I ask is one favor,” he said, more to his friends than me, knowing I was unlikely to grant any favors at this moment.

“What favor is that?” Giovanni asked.

“Please,” Pietro pleaded, “All I ask is only one at a time makes love to her, no multiple partners. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Giovanni shrugged. “We’ll do our best,” he said. The others also said they’d try to comply with his wishes. 

I got up and started leaving the room, removing my dress.

“Where are you going?” Pietro asked.

“To take a bath. If I’m going to be fucking all four of your friends this weekend, I should trim my pubic hair.”

I tossed the 300 euro dress on the floor just as I walked out the door, my naked ass leaving a stunned silence and lasting impression on all five men staring at me. 

******