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Nine Ball






Mike's was a pool hall where I used to hang out. No, not a pool hall, a
billiard parlor, you know, one of those yuppified new joints. It had about
fifteen tables in the main area, a little sports bar that sold sandwiches and
stuff, and a private room in the back. Mike, the owner, always wanted to hold
tournaments like they do on ESPN, so he built a special tournament room. I
wasn't sure it ever got used.
I was a regular, a pretty good player but not a pro by a long stretch. I have
day job. Pool is a fun thing, but I do try to play it well. Robin was one of
a small number of women who were regulars, too. I thought she was hot,
myself, but then I've always had a thing for athletic, no-makeup types. Robin
used to rollerblade over to Mike's. I often had the urge to ask her if I
could please lick her calves.
We never really spoke except to say hello, until one night Robin strolled over
and asked me "Do you want to play?"
"I'd like to, but they're about to close," I said.
"No problem. Frankie'll let use the back room."
Frankie was the night clerk at Mike's. So I said sure, and we went over and
asked him. "No problem. I know both of you." He took us over to the door
and unlocked it and switched on the lights. It had one first-class table
surrounded by two rows of theater seats on risers. There were only three bar
stools, one for each player and one for the referee. "Play as long as you
want. Just make sure the door's locked when you leave. The alarm sets
itself." With that he closed the door and left. After a minute we could hear
him close the front door and turn the lock.
"Okay," I said, "What's your game?"
"Nine ball. Best of seven. Hundred bucks."
"A hundred?" I asked. I was a bit off guard. I mean even casual players play
for some money "just to make it interesting," but a hundred? I usually play
nine ball for five bucks a game. Even then you can lose a lot real fast if
you're not careful. I started to give my excuses when she added, "By the way,
when I say nine ball, I mean strip nine ball."
That stopped me. "Strip nine ball? What do you mean?"
"Just what it says. Loser takes off clothes for each game - shoes, shirt,
pants and underwear. The winner gets the hundred and a good look."
I thought just for an instant. I can't quite believe this, but I'll always
wonder what would have happened, so I decided what the hell. "Let me see if
I've got it." I checked my wallet. Hundred-ten cash. "Okay, you're on."
"Put in the pocket." Tradition is each player puts his money in one of the
corner pockets. That way you know they're good for it and you don't have to
have a holder.
"One last thing," I said, "Bra and shirt together." She smiled, held up her
cash, and put it in.
We lagged for first break. I won. I broke and made the six-ball. I got the
one and two, but then got tied up. Robin smoothly pocketed the three and
four. I'd seen her play before, and I knew she was pretty decent. I couldn't
fool around with her, but I should win if I play my game at all. I sank the
five and seven. The eight was against the far rail, so I played safe by
knocking it out to the center of the table, but leaving the cue-ball frozen on
the rail.
"You play serious," she said as she looked over the table. The nine's in the
way. She tries to hit the eight by banking the cue off the side rail, but
misses.
"Tough luck." I had ball-in-hand, and easily put the eight in one side
pocket, then the nine in the other. "One-zip."
Robin sat on one of the player chairs and kicked-off her canvas shoes.
Winners break, so she racked the balls again.
She got a break in game two. When I broke, the nine-ball rolled toward the
left corner pocket, but didn't fall. Robin had an easy shot on the one-ball
to tap it in. "One-one."
Game three - her break. She drops the five and picks up the one, but can't hit
the two. I get ball-in-hand and sink the two, three and four before missing
the five. She gets the five, six and seven, but then rattles the eight in the
corner. I get an easy tap-in on the eight, and make the nine in the side.
"Two-one, Robin." She stands up and pulls her T-shirt over her head, and then
unsnaps her bra. My god. She has the champagne-glass-perfect tits I had
always imagined. Small, firm, with little brown aureolae. Her nipples
hardened slightly in the air. I realized that I wasn't breathing. "Your
break."
Suddenly it got a lot harder to play. I was getting tired - I had worked that
day since eight, and now it was almost one a.m. Half of my shots had her tits
in the background, making it even harder to concentrate. I broke but didn't
make any. She sank the one, two and three in a row, and was looking more
confident even though she was behind. I made the four, but then choked an
easy shot on the five. She made the five, six and seven easily, but she
missed her cue position badly after making the eight and couldn't get an angle
on the nine, which was frozen against the center of the foot rail. She tried
to bank it out into a safe position, but left it too close to the side pocket.
It was a tough cut, but I made it without scratching. "Whew! Okay, that's
three-one." Robin rested her stick against her stool and took off her khaki
shorts and tossed them onto the pile with the rest of her clothes. All she
had left were her white cotton panties. "Looks like I've got you on the
ropes." She looked at me and said, "Double or nothing."
"Huh? Double or nothing what? I haven't won anything yet," I said.
"Look, you're ahead. Double the bet." She looked serious.
"Robin, I'd love to double-up on somebody when I've got 'em down three to one,
but I don't have another hundred on me."
"Not another hundred. Oral sex."
My brain sputtered. It was 1:30. I was tired. I wasn't sure what had been
happening up to now, and now I wasn't sure that this wasn't a hallucination.
"What do you mean?"
"Winner gets the hundred. Plus head. C'mon - yes or no."
God I wanted to fuck her. One game - one more game - and I could have her
down on her beautiful knees with her mouth on my cock, pony tail swinging
while she pumped me. I noticed that I wasn't breathing again. Not only that,
my legs trembled and my cock started to swell. "All the way?"
"Yeah. All the way."
"Let's go" I gasped.
Game five is still my break. The three and seven drop, opening up the table.
I manage to sink the one and two. As I start to line up the four I notice my
bridge hand shaking. I shake it out to make it stop. "Cramp. Been playing a
lot today." Robin seemed to smirk.
The four is easy, but I fuck up the position on the five. I try to tap it by
banking the cue off the side rail, but miss and knock in the eight by mistake.
Only the five and nine left, and Robin has ball-in-hand. Boom, boom, and
it's three-two. I peeled off my shirt.
Her break. She pounds the rack as hard as she can. Eight balls explode away
from the nine, which sits frozen on its spot for several seconds while the
others fly around the table. The five goes three rails straight for the
motionless nine, and knocks it straight into the left corner. Nine ball on
the break. "Looks like we're even."
I took off my jeans and threw them on my own clothes pile. It's obvious that I
have a huge hard-on under my Y-fronts. Robin fixed her gaze on my dick and
just held it there, smiling to herself until it hurt.
Match game - her break. Two balls drop. She makes the one and two before
missing. I've got a shot on the three, but it's a reach. I've got to put my
right knee up on the table, but this makes my swollen dick touch the rail.
I've got this urge to start humping the table, which I managed to suppress
long enough to shoot. I've got an easy shot on the four, despite wanting to
stroke myself. I tapped in the four, but before I can pick out my next angle,
Robin interrupted. "Excuse me, but wasn't that the seven?" Shit. It was. I
shot the wrong ball. My brain's locked. Only the five, eight and nine left
on the table.
My fuckup gave Robin ball-in-hand. She carefully looked over the table, first
circling one way, then the other. She stopped between me and the table,
eyeing it up. For some reason, she put the cue ball in the center for a long
reach shot on the five. She had to put her right knee up on the rail and
stretch way out to line it up. Her ass was up in the air right in front of
me. I could see the outline of her snatch through the white cotton, and a
light blond hair curling out from under the elastic. I realized I wasn't
breathing again and sucked air. I looked down and saw a little cum stain on
the front of my briefs. How long was this shot going to take for god's sake?
At long last she shoots the five into the corner pocket, setting herself up
for an easy but long shot on the eight the other way. Again, seemingly
endless circling and eye-balling an obvious shot. She leaned over to shoot
straight towards me. I could see the cue stick just graze her left nipple as
she shot. And missed. The eight rattled in the pocket but didn't drop!
"Shit," she said to herself. "Shit, shit, shit." She sat down on her stool.
My turn - two balls and out. Robin down on her shapely knees gobbling me like
there's no tomorrow. The eight's a tap-in, but I need to bring the cue ball
around near the center of the table. The nine's frozen half way up the side
rail, so position is critical. Too soft and I have a long rail shot. Too
hard and I'll have try a bank shot, and I'm not good at them. I took a deep
breath, lined it up and stroked it near perfect. The cue came around two
rails and stopped about a foot from the side pocket near the nine. I've got a
routine rail shot for the money and the honey, one I've made a thousand times.
As I leaned over to eye my angle, I realized that Robin was sitting directly in
my sight line. She sitting on her stool, on foot on the footrest, one on the
floor, her cue resting against her thigh and shoulder. Her snatch is right at
the end of my cue. She moved slightly, and the shaft of her cue pressed
against her crotch. I shook my head slightly to clear it. I leaned over to
shoot. She moved again, this time the cue caught on the side of her nipple,
and then sort of flicked it, just like my tongue would. Cripes, the shot. I
tried again to concentrate. One last shot. It's nearly two o'clock. I'm
dead tired. My eyes feel like sand. My dick's been hard for over an hour,
and I think it's draining the blood from my brain. I took another breath and
line up again. Robin seemed to sigh, then opened her mouth slightly and
licked her teeth. This is it. I drew the cue back smoothly and then CRACK!
I miscued miserably, the cue ball glancing off the side of my stick and
spinning against the side rail.
Robin jumped up from her perch on the stool. "Oh, man, you had me worried
there. Whew! I though I was gonna have to warm up my lips and pay!" She
strode up to the table, took two quick practice strokes and calmly shot the
nine clean up the rail and in. "Game and match. Okay, drop 'em."
I put my cue against my stool and looked down at my crotch. Still hard. I
pulled my briefs down and kicked them off. I stood there with my dick
sticking straight out while Robin went around to each pocket collecting the
money and stuffed into the pocket of her khaki shorts on the floor. "Say,"
she said, "that's a nice one. I almost wish you would have sank that nine so
I could try it out." "Hey," I retorted, "you can if you want to." "Sorry, a
bet's a bet."
She pealed her panties down and kicked them onto her clothes pile. She then
sat down on one of the theater seats and dr*ped one leg over each of the arms,
spreading her sweet little snatch wide open. She still had her cue stick,
which she held with two hands at her shoulders like one of those kung fu
sticks. "Come on, now, pay up."
There's nothing I want more right then than to walk right over and plunge it in
right up to my balls, but something told me she would split my head with her
cue stick. It'd been a weird night already, and I didn't want it to end with
a skull fracture and a r*pe charge.
You know, if Robin had approached me in the bar and said "Eat me, but no
fucking," I would have jumped at the chance. So what the hell, a bet's a bet.
I knelt down in front of her and put my hands on either side of her snatch to
spread her lips. She watched me, still holding the cue in kill position. I
gave her snatch a few upward licks with the flat of my tongue, making sure to
get her clit. She seemed to relax a little.
I got into it. I sucked her button up between my lips and rubbed the tip of
my tongue against it in circles. She shifted her butt slightly. I glanced up
without stopping. Her eyes were now closed and had only one hand on the cue.
I pushed up with my hands to make her hard little button pop up where I could
get at it better, and started rapidly flicking my tongue up and down. A small
"oo" slipped out. I sped up. Barely audible, she croaked, "Yeah. Like
that." I alternated between rapid-fire tongue-flicks and deep, slurping
sucks. She now had her eyes closed tight, her mouth closed and slightly
pursed, and was breathing deeply through her nose. I bore down. Her pussy
was now slick and sweet-smelling. I paused just for a second to catch my
breath, and then lunged into machine gun tonguing, the tip of my tongue
batting her bud up and down as fast and as hard as I could. "Keep going." I
felt her body start to tense, curling slightly so I could see the barest
outlines of her tummy muscles under her belly-down. She started sucking air
in loudly through her nose, and exhaling in little humm's, mmmmm, mmmm, mmm,
mmmm, which grew louder and more throaty until she gasped with a loud grunt,
used her free hand to push my head back, and sat there panting. She kept
saying "That's good. That's good," out of breath.
She got up from the theater chair using her cue as a cane, and quickly started
pulling her shorts on. "Hey, if you played pool as good as you give head I'd
have a mouthful." She pulled her T-shirt over her head. "Boy, if I knew you
had that kind of talent I would have paid you the hundred bucks for the
service." She slipped her tennies on while stuffing her bra and panties into
her shorts pockets.
I was still on my knees, lazily stroking myself. I just couldn't stand it any
more. "Listen," she said, "I need to leave you to finish there. Got a class
in the morning. I'll give you a chance to get even real soon. Promise." I
heard footsteps and the door to the tourney room close, then the panic bar on
the front door open and slam shut. I continued to stroke my poor dick until
some semen oozed onto the carpet. What the hell - nobody'd believe it,
anyway.

The next day at work was a bitch. I got barely four hours sleep, and it was
endless crises all day. I didn't get a lunch break, and by 5:30 I was dead.
I staggered over to Mike's to see if I could find Robin, maybe get her to buy
me a drink with my former money. She wasn't around, so I went over to the
sports bar for a burger and a beer with my final ten bucks.
While I was eating and staring at the TV one of the other regulars came over
and asked me if I wanted to play. "We're trying to get a four-stick game of
one-pocket going. Two bucks a game. You know, just for fun."
"Sorry," I replied, "I'm beat. I was up real late playing nine ball with
Robin. After hours."
"Oh yeah? Hope she didn't sucker you into that double-or-nothing game.
Nobody ever wins." He then got up and left to ask somebody else.

Huh. For some reason it struck me as kind of funny. I doubt Minnesota Fats
ever hustled like that.


End of Story