I looked at the cards in her hand. "Do you have anything of value to bet?" I asked.

"Not yet," she answered. "But I may have something valuable later on."

I hesitated, and falteringly spoke. "Then let's bet for something that is worthless, something that has no value at all." I looked at her and she was watching me intently, waiting for my offer.

"I'll bet . . . my . . ." it was hard to get the words out. If it had been anyone else sitting across from me, the words probably never would have passed my lips. But it was Miley sitting across the blanket. I cleared my throat. "I'll bet my . . . shirt . . . against your . . . . blouse . . ."

I heard a quick intake of breath, and I was afraid to look up at her eyes. Would she slap me? Would she get back in the car and drive home. Would she tell me how rude and uncouth I was to even suggest such a thing? Would she burst into tears at the very suggestion coming from someone who she thought was her friend? I held my breath, afraid to move, afraid to look up.

With my peripheral vision, I saw her trembling hand begin to deal the cards. And I heard her say, "It's a bet!"

Still afraid to look at her, I turned my cards over. My hand was a bust, nothing. She had a pair of deuces. She had won.

I stole a glance at her. She was sitting on her knees with a smug look on her face waiting for me to pay my bet. Noticing my hesitation, she said: "Take it off! A bet's a bet!" It was no big deal, so I shrugged off the shirt. I still had a tee shirt on.

Satisfied, Miles allowed her gaze to linger on my shoulders and the muscles in my arms. She picked up the cards and handed them to me as she placed the next bet. "I bet my blouse against your tee-shirt. The stakes were higher, but not by much. I had a pair of jacks, she had two pair. She had won again. I was disappointed, but a glance at her showed her waiting expectantly. I pulled off my tee shirt and again I heard an intake of breath from her.

"You have hair on your chest!" she exclaimed. And I realized she hadn't seen me bare-chested since I was fifteen.

"Can I feel the hair on your chest?" she asked, almost the way an innocent child will ask a simple question. I nodded, and she moved close to me and tentatively reached out her hand.

"It's so course," she exclaimed, experiencing the texture of the hair. Then she raised her hand and ran her fingers through the hair on my head. ". . . not soft and silky like it is here!" Then suddenly she was embarrassed withdrawing her hand and returning to her place across the blanket. She picked up the cards, shuffled and dealt, beginning to get nervous.

"I bet my shoes and stockings against your blouse." She nodded turning the cards over, we both had two kings.

"How do we handle this?" I asked. "Is your Spade higher than my heart? Or do we call it a draw?"

"I don't think it's a draw," she responded. "I think we both lost." And her hands moved to where her blouse was tied, opening the knot. Then a couple of buttons and a shrug of her shoulders and there she was, wearing only her bra. I was staring again, and after a moment, she cleared her throat and pointed to my shoes. My gaze on her bra-covered chest must have been so intense that I have no recollection of removing my shoes and socks.

I think she pretended not to notice my gawking at her chest. Handing me the cards, I shuffled. It took enormous effort on my part to come back to reality enough to hear her say, "My bra against your pants." How much further would this go, I wondered, and I dealt the next hand.

I forced my eyes to see her cards. She had two pair. I turned my cards over. I held four queens.

In awe, I looked at her. Would she do it? Yes, she would. Her bra had a front clasp, and she effortlessly opened it and peeled it off, and we were both sitting across from each other bare-chested.

Her breasts were not what I expected. When she wore a bra and sweater, they were these perfectly proportioned, well-shaped mounds with just the hint of a nipple showing through sometimes. Without the bra, her breasts took on a different shape, narrower where they met her body but seeming to protrude further, elongated, maybe? They were certainly NOT cone shaped. Her nipples were situated exactly at the end of her breasts pointing directly at me. If course, I was not an expert in breasts, by any means. I had seen some pictures in a few 'girlie' magazines, and gotten a glimpse or two when a girl's blouse had gapped open or when a carelessly unbuttoned top had flopped open. And then there was the time I was walking home and a woman had left her shades open.

I was staring and she began to squirm and looked down at her bare breasts, unconsciously lifting a hand to cover them. As if by way of apology, she stammered, "they're not shaped the same as most girls. I think they'll fill out more in time." Keeping herself covered, she looked up at me fearfully. "Are they okay?"

I remembered an Internet story about a girl who was self conscious about her breasts. It had said that every woman in the world is self conscious about something, wishing she had a little more here, a little less there . . . The writer had said that the greatest gift a man can give a virgin partner is to totally accept her as she is.

"I think you have the most beautiful breasts I had ever seen!" I whispered. I reached out and took her hand, drawing it downward and uncovering her breasts again exposing it to my view.

She took a quick glance at them and began, "But they're narrow, and . . ."

"They're beautiful! They're beautiful just the way they are!" I interrupted. I could see the weight and concern drain from her as she accepted my words.

It was totally awesome sitting across from Miley. I noticed she had some peach fuzz on her breastbone.

"You ran your hand through the hair on my chest. Will you return the favor?"

"But I don't have any . . ." she looked down and saw the few strands of almost invisible silky hair on her chest and blushed deeply. Then with fear in her eyes, she looked up at me. "Oh . . ." She hesitated. "I . . . well . . . fair is fair. Yes, I guess you can," she stammered.

Now it was my turn to scoot across the blanket to her side. She knelt looking straight ahead as I raised my hand to her neck and slowly slid my fingers downward between her breasts, barely touching the hair that was so fine it couldn't even be felt. I didn't even graze her breasts, but still I could feel the shiver run through her as my fingers ran down her sternum. Within moments, she began to tremble and she grasped my hand in hers. She was breathing shallowly.

"It's my turn to deal!"

I returned to my side of the blanket and she dealt. I won the next two hands winning her shoes, and her shorts. She won my pants and I hesitatingly shuffled the cards that would determine who would lose his or her underpants. As I shuffled, her eyes remained locked on the bulge in my boxers as if she were mesmerized. I dealt, and I had two pair while she had a single pair. Again, she blushed, but with only minimal hesitation, she rose on her knees and slid her panties down her thighs. Then, rocking back on her bottom, she raised her legs and slipped her panties off of her feet. Then she returned to her kneeling position, her hands on her thighs, eyes downcast, quite frankly displaying herself to me. Her nudity had generated the obvious response in me, and any attempt to hide what felt like a massive bulge in my boxers would have been a gross exercise in futility.

I couldn't help but admire the beauty and perfection before me. Her neat, triangular bush, her slightly elongated breasts and her beautiful nipples . . . it was hard to get beyond the basics. She took a deep breath and picked up the cards. "My deal."

"How can we continue? You don't have any more clothes to bet," I asked.

"You wouldn't deprive me of the opportunity to get you naked, would you?" she asked.

How can one answer a question like that? "No, but . . ." I floundered.

"If I win, you take off your pants," she began. Then in almost a whisper, still with downcast eyes, she continued. "If you win, you get to play with my titties."

It was an offer I couldn't refuse. Her hands were trembling she dealt the cards. Both of us were hesitant to turn over our cards. Finally, she flipped her cards into view. She had a pair of fours. I had a pair of deuces. My trembling fingers moved to the waistband of my boxers and pushed them downward. I knelt to the side and slipped them off.

She was still staring at my painful erection, now in plain view. Somehow, the embarrassment of the situation made it wilt, and she watched with fascination as it shrank, despite my every thought and fantasy trying to keep it up.

We sat there for a long time, both afraid to move, both afraid to say anything, but neither willing to take our eyes off of the other.

Finally, she picked up the cards, but didn't shuffle them.

"What now?" I asked, my voice coming out in a croak. I was also aware that my erection was starting to return.

"How about the loser has to do whatever the winner asks?" she suggested.

I reached out and took her hand, capturing both her hand and the cards. We both knew it was time for the game to end.

"Do we need the cards for that?" I asked.