games people play

It began with an innocent game of pool and ended up with his cue inside my pocket. Well, that even made me cringe, what an awful analogy and I should know better, but in my defence, or actually, I have no defence, as you will read.

It was just me and him remained as the rest of our group had gone on to eat somewhere, neither of us were hungry so we stayed in the pub. He suggested a game of pool in the pool room at the back of the pub in a room of its own keeping a lonely dartboard company. Being Thursday the pub was fairly quiet so we had the room and the table to ourselves. I felt quite relieved as being watched making a fool of myself playing a game I’m definitely not very good at makes me even worse.

He took charge, seems it’s a man-thing to take charge of ensuring the coloured balls in the triangle with the black ball in the centre, adjusting it just right on what’s called the foot-spot on a very fetching but well-worn green baize. I watched thinking he was clearly in his element and decided there and then there was no chance I was going to win this match, but it’s the playing that counts, passing the time, especially with someone you don’t know that well as if conversation dries up then at least we have the game; I suppose I could’ve called it a bonding exercise.

We selected our chosen cue from the rack as though preparing for a duel, or a joust! I might win a joust, prodding with sticks. He looked confident, I looked ridiculous, copying his method of chalking the tip of his cue. Luckily, I am a fast learner.

We tossed a coin to see who would break: me! I like breaking, the joy of scattering all those well-ordered balls into a random chaotic disarray, seems to suit my way of thinking, and blindly hoping for the best that one or more ball might, by some sheer fluke, actually go down a hole, sorry, pocket. None did. What a surprise, off to a good start then: not.

His turn, or shot. He didn’t miss, one nor the next, nor the next but as the game progressed either he wasn’t as good as I’d thought, or, he was being gentle on me. I suspected the latter. I, of course, missed loads but did manage to pocket a few, and admittedly the white a few times too; I seemed to be quite skilled at that. If only it counted I’d have won.

Eventually, all that remained was the black. The tension was palpable. Actually it wasn’t, there was an increasing deal of larking about going on, such as me threatening his rear-end with my chalky cue while he bent over a shot, and coughing at inopportune moments, Irrespective of my cunning strategies, I still lost.

Best of three?

I lost the second game. Best of four?

I lost the third.

Okay, perhaps he wasn’t being easy on my after all. I suppose he didn’t take kindly to my unorthodox cue-handling skills.

Best of five. You guessed it, I lost. At this point he proposed a wager: I pot the black, he buys the fish and chips later; if he pots it, he gets to kiss me. Well, I can’t say no to fish and chips so we shook on it, but I only agreed as long as he played left-handed, being he was right-handed. Deal!

I don’t believe it, I lost!

So a kiss it was (even though I was still determined to get free fish and chips from him, I can be very persuasive). We rested our cues, which must have been exhausted by then so well in need of time-out, in their rack. I could hear mine almost breathe a sigh of relief. I glowered at it for being so cheeky. I turned and he backed my up against the table, I looked up at his, his 6’1 height towering over my 5’3 and noticed his head perfectly-framed by the dartboard a few feet behind like some medieval martyrs painting. He leaned in and I automatically leaned back a little, despite this his lips found mine and we made contact, first against my teeth which made them do that zing sensation and made me go ouch, then on a second attempt, success!

We docked. And docked we did, in full-lipped face-suck. I gripped the edge of the table while feeling not only his lips but his hips pressing firmly against mine, and not only his lips and his hips, but that thing between his legs at which if I wasn’t smothered in a kiss at the time I might have commented, is that a poll cue in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?

I didn’t, it might have tainted the moment. He was like a limpet, once locked he was well and truly loaded, and in this case with tongue which came slithering out of his mouth like an alien  and into mine, poking and flapping like a fish on a riverbank. A minute or so more and I was beginning to more than enjoy it. The initial awkwardness now passed and both he and I were free to hone our skills with each other’s mouths, and not only was he doing that but was also training his finger skills which were not so surreptitiously moving around and over my white boatneck dress, slipping around the back as though to investigate the knot which held the top of the dress secure, then over the waist and pressing against my hips.

All the while I was becoming increasingly aware of a certain expansion evident between his legs making contact with my hips, despite it still being firmly hidden inside his jeans. He pulled me closer using my elbows and once again playfully and freely wandered around my dress until one hand found itself caressing my breast; I broke from the kiss struggling to say, hey, not here, to which he whispered, no one’s here, just us, and did it again anyway while hoovering my lips into his which the force of what I imagine an octopus would have if it indeed did kiss.

His heavy-handed fingers squeezed me there and I felt ripples of thrill radiating through my body. His hips gyrating as though to a tune that made no sense but nevertheless was having the desired effect inside my thighs sending all the right, or wrong, signals to my brain via a biochemical express train exciting chain reactions at several stops along the way, in particular all the erogenous ones.

He was a bad boy. But what does that make me, half bent backwards over a pool table in the back room of a pub, albeit mostly empty, midweek with the shape of a guy I hardly knew until that evening moulded against me so close that you couldn’t slip a piece of paper in between, while he paws at my boob and quietly announces what is beginning to feel like an extra appendage between his legs pressed into my hips?

I was drowning in signals now, and chemicals, and his aftershave while snatching breaths between brief lip-decouplings and no longer able to resist his hands which were only earlier manipulating their gifts on a pool cue, now were working their magic on me. My body was happy but wary of where we were, a pub, as in public bar, the operative word here being ‘public’; as in, anyone could walk in at any time. This seemed not to bother him if the ‘cue’ between his legs was now anything to go by.

Then he was on his knees, his hands following him down my waist, the sides of my hips, my legs and to the hem of my dress which he duly lifted. While one hand still gripping the table I used the other to dissuade him, but to no avail, either I was being feeble or he was too persuasive: or both. He’d raised it as high as my knickers, my black Brazilian briefs, which he felt obliged to pull away just a little. I gripped the table with both hands even more firmly and fixed my gaze on the bullseye of the dartboard and wondered why I was also a bit crap at that game too. His hand slipped inside my knickers and rubbed a part of me that was decidedly now more wet than I’d realised.

I was up on my tip-toes now, almost sitting on the table as he pulled them down my legs and I just let him as though it was the most natural thing to be doing right here, right now, in the games room of a pub with my mind still distracted wondering who decided originally how the numbers on a dartboard would be arranged.

I was keenly aware of my position and exposure here and still, luckily, no one had walked in on us. I have no idea what I’d have done. Probably, being the level-headed girl I am, panicked!

His breath told me he was now inches away from my bare sex which, frankly, felt a bit weird, but didn’t stop the mercury of my arousal levels breaking the thermometer. As I felt the edge of the table digging into my buttocks I looked down to where he was now wearing the lower part of my dress like a hood. It looked like I was giving birth, although if I did so to something over six foot long you’d be hearing my screams all the way to the moon. As it was, I kept any screaming and moans low-key, still nervously aware of where we were.

He kissed my sex; his tongue as dextrous as it was in my mouth now tasted a different part of me. The numbers on the dartboard became a blur, my legs shook, felt weak, as they do. I had a minor panic about them literally turning to jelly, bones and all, would I have to stick them in a freezer to reconstitute them to something solid again?

His tongue entered me, seeming to revel in the new-found freedom while camping under my dress. I was willing myself to orgasm as soon as possible, before anyone came in and noticed him consuming something that’s definitely not on the bar menu. I felt my pale legs beneath flushed with heat, sweat pocked my brow, I felt his fingers kneading my inner thighs, caressing my mouth while he effectively dined on me until my body finally surrendered and I did experience jelly-legs in a blinding flash. Luckily he was holding me up otherwise I might have broken his neck. That wouldn’t have been very sexy, would it? How would I explain that one away?

I glimpsed the ceiling and realised I was being lifted onto the table, sprawled across the well-worn green baize. Thankfully all the balls had been since pocketed. My knees were in the air not unlike when I had my last smear. Now that’s a potential turn-off, if ever there was one. Luckily, all thoughts of that soon vanished as my dress rode up to my hips and he placed himself between my legs. I craned my neck and saw he magically released the not-so mini-beast that’s been straining the stitching of his jeans all this time, and what a not-so mini-beast, or it looked big from this perspective anyway, but what did I know, I was suffering from post-orgasmical-hallucinations.

Then I was staring at the ceiling again as I felt his beast pushing into my thighs, stretching my swollen folds, now flushed with blood having raced there to my defence and to probably have a nosey as to what on earth was happening. In he slipped, tight as I was and felt he moved easily and I felt the heat of both of our thighs now joined… at the hip!

We fucked. No other way to put it, we fucked, there and then, in the back games room of a public bar on a midweek night on a pool table as I slipped my fingers into two pockets to hold myself steady as he rocked me up and down with the force of each thrust of his wiry hips. His hands were at first on my hips then both reached and grabbed my breasts. I opened my eyes finally having just realised they’d been closed for several minutes and saw his face fixed on mine and, I was sure, sometimes the dartboard. I wonder if he wondered the same: who on earth decided to order the numbers that way?

I won’t lie; the edge of the table dug into my back and bum and was exactly what I’d call comfortable. But adrenalin must have dulled some of my pain receptors, even though I knew for sure I will have quite a bruise there in the morning. He began rubbing my clit which made me break my earlier vow of being as quiet as possible and shouting probably louder than I should have, “oh f***!”

He was twitching inside me when I had another orgasm, and in this position was no mean feat. I hope I’m not staining the table’s fabric, now that would be embarrassing. I was sure he had grown a few more inches since being inside me as I felt him so absurdly deep. I think my imagination was getting the better of me. I went with it and locked my legs around his buttocks and soon his face seemed to be changing shape like some gone-wrong special effects and he stopped breathing momentarily, arched back which pushed his not-so mini-beast as far as it could go inside me and I knew just then he was cumming, its flood insatiably finding an outlet; in me. The moment weirdly lasted longer than was realistic, like it was happening in slow-motion. I think I blacked-out for a second or two. I was sweating, he was sweating, no one as far as I knew had come into the room, no one had saw. Or, at least I hope they didn’t when my vision cleared and I noticed in a ceiling corner of the room a CCTV camera.

What the f***!

Oh well, too late now. Would I have stopped even if I’d noticed it before? Possibly not. I can only hope it wasn’t working, as these things often aren’t. I comforted myself with that delusion.

Needless to say, I was in disarray, and filled with his cum, and perspiring like I’d just been in a sauna for an hour. His not-so mini-beast was back in its denim cave as he helped me off the table and onto my uncertain legs. There was a slight sweat stain on the green from my shoulders. I knew my first and only course of action right now was to make it to the toilets, which rather inconveniently were through to the other end of the bar. I rolled my knickers into my fist I walked as casually as one could after such an experience, avoiding eye-contact with anyone, especially bar-staff, feeling half-drunk but not from drink while keeping certain muscles tense to avoid an embarrassing trickling event (guys, you have no idea how hard that can be sometimes) through the half-empty bar, bare-arsed under my dress.

He definitely owes me fish and chips now, and a super-sized coffee!

© Emmaleela