Poker with my husband’s buddies

My name is Marlène. I am forty-seven, married to Xavier for twenty-five years, and mother to Marie, twenty-three, who has lived in Paris for her studies these past three years. For a long time I balanced, with quiet pride, a career in insurance against the demands of motherhood. After two decades of patient climbing I finally secured the position of agency manager in the largest city of our region—a professional dream made real.

Since Marie left, I have reclaimed time for myself. Aquagym twice a week, a run every Sunday morning, and, for my forty-fifth birthday—coinciding with the promotion—I took the step: breast augmentation. Nothing extravagant. I went from a generous but slightly softened cup to a firm, natural-looking 95D. That small refreshment rekindled something in our private life. Xavier and I sometimes speak of libertinage, of experiences with others. He fantasizes openly. I hold my ground: I feel completely fulfilled with two. No need for more.

Physically I have little to complain about. Natural redhead, one metre seventy for sixty-five kilos, legs still firm from sport, and the new breasts that fill my burgundy or black tailored jackets to advantage. Marie’s friends, when they used to visit, would murmur “MILF” under their breath, thinking they were flattering me. I pretended embarrassment, blushed a little for form… but underneath it stroked my ego in a way I rather liked.

Xavier is fifty. He lost his job a year ago and has not seriously looked for another; my salary keeps us more than comfortable. He is one metre seventy-five, eighty-five kilos, a little soft around the middle, not particularly athletic. He plays golf on weekends and almost never misses a PSG match, especially in the Champions League. Since the season restarted he has been inviting his friends over regularly to watch. They take over the living room—beer without limit, shouting, laughter. I stay upstairs. Netflix, HBO, a herbal tea or a glass of wine, and I leave them to their men’s evening.

For the past four months, though, I have suspected something else. Cash withdrawals of two hundred euros, always on match nights. I finally confronted him. He confessed: small poker games among friends after the final whistle. He swore on his heart it was finished. Promised, never again. Last month the same withdrawals reappeared. He had started again. I said nothing… not yet.

This Wednesday evening PSG is playing in European competition. Xavier has invited six friends: François and Damien, his inseparable companions since childhood, both fifty like him; two neighbours, Éric and Valentin; and two former colleagues, Thomas, forty, and the younger Valentin, twenty-five—Xavier’s old intern, whom everyone simply calls “the kid” to distinguish him from the other Valentin. By one in the morning the match has long been over, yet voices still rise from below. I can no longer stand it. I need to know.

I slip into a short, fluid pearl-grey satin house dress that stops mid-thigh. Underneath, simple but well-cut black lingerie: a push-up bra and matching thong. No stockings. Bare feet. I descend the stairs quietly.

In the living room the coffee table has been pushed aside and replaced by the large round dining table we use for dinner parties. Four players remain: François, Damien, young Valentin… and Xavier. Coloured stacks of chips sit in front of each man. Xavier has almost nothing left—his pile is pathetic. Valentin dominates outrageously.

Xavier turns at the sound of my arrival. His eyes are bright; six empty beer bottles stand in a row before him like melancholy trophies.

“You’re not sleeping? Are we making too much noise?”

I approach slowly. My thighs brush the edge of the table as I stop.

“So, boys… who’s winning tonight?”

Valentin colours slightly and looks down.

“For the moment, me… but the hand isn’t over.”

François, seated to my right, rests a casual hand on the back of my thigh, just beneath the hem of the dress. His palm is warm.

“It’s good to finally see you at one of our evenings, Marlène. We were starting to think you were snubbing us. Why don’t you join us?”

“I don’t know how to play.”

François chuckles; his hand slides up almost imperceptibly by two centimetres.

“Neither does Xavier, and that doesn’t stop him from trying.”

He gestures mockingly at my husband’s meagre stack. Xavier lowers his head, embarrassed, a tight smile on his lips. I am in a playful mood. Adrenaline is rising. I sit on François’s knee, crossing my legs so the dress rides a little higher.

“I’ll just watch for now.”

I stand, pour myself a double whisky on the rocks at the living-room bar, and return. As I pass behind Xavier he reaches to stroke my backside. I push his hand away with a sharp little slap.

“Hands off.”

I lean in again beside François to look at the cards, back arched, backside offered to Xavier’s view. I feel his gaze burning between my shoulder blades. I pretend not to notice.

The hand resumes. François folds quickly. Damien, Xavier and Valentin remain. Damien bets heavily—nearly three-quarters of his chips. Valentin calls without hesitation. Xavier calls too, proud of himself.

Damien warns him, amused:

“Careful, old man. If you lose, you only win the pot you’ve put in. No unlimited all-in.”

The alcohol warms my veins. The whisky goes down easily. I speak, voice soft but clear:

“What if we spiced things up a little? What if Xavier included me in his stake? If he wins, he takes everything. If he loses… the winner can do whatever he wants with me.”

Dead silence. Eyes meet. Xavier stares at me, mouth half-open, caught between shock, excitement and ...