“You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead,” she said, cradling the cue stick in the crook of her elbow. He grinned, widely, and took aim at the 4-ball at the far end of the table. Her trash talk was fun, but distracting. Or, maybe, it was knowing that she wore nothing under that paper-thin tube dress that was interrupting his concentration.
He drew his cue back and sent the cue ball rolling. It was off line, and the four caromed off the cushion, inches from the pocket. She giggled as she saw the frustration etched on his face. She took a sip of Maker’s and fondled a breast until the nipple hardened. “I guess it’s my turn,” she said, smugly.
Tuesday nights, at the Golden Globe Tavern, was usually pretty slow. Billy and Daisy picked Tuesday as their weekly pool tournament night. The Golden Globe, or “GiGi” as the regulars called it, was a sleazy little neighborhood hangout that hid all of its filth and flaws in dim, windowless, light. With faux Persian carpeting over concrete, band poster-covered dark wood walls, ceiling-mounted stereo speakers and four regulation pool tables, the GiGi had survived decades of dry rot, carpenter ants, spilled beer, puke and human debauchery. Billy and Daisy knew most of the clientele and had befriended the staff. It was their kind of place.
Daisy sauntered up to the table. She was ahead in the 8-ball tournament, with one win out of the usual 9-game match. In this game, Billy had two balls on the table and she had four. The Budweiser pool lamp glared down on the stained and ragged green felt of the table. Daisy stood against the table, eyeing the arrangement of the balls, chalking up her stick. Her breasts jutted into the bright light. The Stones’ “Start Me Up” blasted through the speakers and the clinking of glassware behind the bar.
Billy stood on the other side of the table, glass in hand. Daisy decided to start her run with the 11-ball in the side pocket. It was a straight-in shot, no slop. She flashed a grin at Billy and bent at the waist. The weight of her tits pushed the slight fabric of her dress away from her chest and Billy stared into the naked tunnel of her cleavage as she took a bead on the cue ball. She snapped the cue ball against the 11, drove the 11 home and stopped the cue ball dead, all lined up for the next shot.
Daisy moved around to the end of the table, bent over and tapped a gentle push down the slate to the 14-ball. In it dropped. Tie game.
Daisy stood and slinked up to Billy. She pressed her soft body into his and kissed him. He reached around to grab her ass and pull her closer. “You’re so fucking hot,” he growled. “Wanna fuck?”
Daisy suddenly felt a familiar jolt in her abdomen, followed by a damp warmth between her legs. “Tell ya what, pool boy,” she purred, “you win, you call.”
“You’re totally on, bitch,” Billy said, grabbing Daisy’s pussy. “What if you win?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Daisy’s next shot rammed the 9-ball home. After that, the 13 skirted by the 8-ball and left a nice little side pocket shot for the second win. Billy just had to watch the game run away from him. “Rack’em, pool boy!” Daisy ordered, as she stood back away from the table. “That’s two, zip, baby.”
Billy scooped the balls into the rack. “You’re goin’ down, bitch,” he said.
Daisy lined up for the break. She had a smirk on her face as she bent over the cue ball. “Yeah, I know.”
The cue ball crashed into the rack and balls scattered all over the table. It was a good break, but nothing went down. “Open table,” Daisy announced. She walked over to her whiskey and took a sip. “See if you can get it in the hole, stud,” she pimped. She kicked off her pumps and wiggled her toes as she watched Billy go to work. The whiskey was making her nice and warm, inside. In between shots, Billy glanced over her way. She hooked a finger under the hem of her dress and pulled it up until Billy could get a good view of her naked pussy. She giggled and took another draw on her whiskey. “Get busy,” she said.
Billy did as told and ran the table. One after another, the stripes disappeared off the felt. As Billy bent into the last shot at the 8-ball, Daisy came up behind him and reached between his legs. At first, Billy was distracted. Then, as Daisy rolled his nuts in her hand, he drove the 8-ball home and won the game.
“Wow,” Daisy said, stepping back. “That was some concentration!”
“Rack’em, pool girl!” Billy ordered. He walked over to the table where his drink sat and reclined in the chair. After Daisy had racked up the balls, good and tight, he commanded, “Come over here.” Reaching into the front of his unzipped jeans, he pulled out his cock. “See if you know what to do with this,” he taunted.
Daisy looked around the bar, nervously. No one seemed to be paying much attention. She padded over to Billy and bent over him, sucking his dick into her mouth. Bending over that far, made her dress pull up high over her bare ass. Billy slid a wet finger into her pussy. He pumped in and out of her a couple of times, then pushed her away, tucking his semi-turgid stick back into his pants. “Guess I’d better shoot,” he said with a sly grin. “I’m comin’ back.”
Billy stood up and started to move toward the table. Daisy grabbed the crotch of his pants and planted a big kiss on his mouth. “God, I want that,” she growled.
“Don’t worry, you little slut, you’re gonna get it.”
“Step away, little girl…I got work to do.”
Billy walked up to the table, aimed the cue ball and smashed it into the lead ball. A good break, balls scattered evenly across the green. But, again, nothing went in. Daisy’s turn. She assessed the sequence and stepped up to the task. She rolled the top of her dress down until her breasts popped out, then bent over the table. This got the attention of a few of the patrons, and they called out, egging her on. That’s the reaction she was hoping for. The 1-ball was Daisy’s first victim. Down it went and the cue ball banked off the cushion, in place for the next shot at the 6-ball. Daisy took steady aim, but missed. She rose up and walked over to her whiskey, feeling bold and a little drunk. In the shadowy lighting of the bar, she could sit back in her chair and play with herself while she watched her man circle the pool table like a cat.
By the time Billy had emptied the table of about three of the stripes, Daisy was all worked up. She was slow in getting out of her chair to go take the next shot. Her dress was down around her waist, but she was comfortably oblivious to how she looked as she bent over to take a shot at the 6-ball again. Billy was more than happy to stand behind Daisy and admire her wet clam as her dress rode up over the curves of her ass. The 6-ball rolled into the corner pocket and Daisy stood up.
“Take it off!” someone shouted from across the bar. It took a couple seconds for the plea to sink into Daisy’s consciousness. Once it registered, however, Daisy was quite happy to comply. Off the dress came, and Daisy stood naked in the bar, pool stick in hand, a wickedly delicious grin on her face.
“Like that?” she shouted back. A cheer went up from the bar, accompanied by a smattering of enthusiastic applause. Daisy returned to the game. The 2-ball was next. Daisy took her time, bending over the table, aiming the cue ball. Her ass gleamed in the harsh light of the pool table lamp. Her brain was swimming with excitement. The 2-ball missed the mark and Daisy returned to her chair.
Not to be outdone by his companion, Billy removed his shirt. His taut muscles and thinly-haired chest rippled beneath the light. Daisy’s legs instinctively splayed as she watched him circle the table, making shot after shot. Finally, Billy had the stripes off the table, and was zeroing in on the final shot of the game. “Take it off!” a female hollered from the bar. Billy backed away from the table and peered out toward the bar. Apparently, he and Daisy had become the center of attention at that point. All eyes were on him as he set his pool cue on the table, unbuckled his belt ceremoniously, and stripped his pants off. Hoots and hollers filled the GiGi as he swung his cock in his hand, pumped his hips for the benefit of the crowd, then stepped back up to the table.
He was about to make the shot, when Daisy called out from the sidelines, “You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead.”
Billy looked over and started laughing. “Watch and learn,” he shot back.
Bam! The 8-ball in the side pocket wrapped up game number four. “Tied up,” Billy announced, as he turned and leaned his bare ass against the table. “Rack’em, pool girl!” Fuck Pool!
Daisy got up out of her chair and walked, seductively, over to Billy, fell to her knees and gulped his cock deep into her throat. A cheer went up from the bar. The Eagles “Take It To The Limit” blared over the speakers. Daisy held Billy’s cock in her throat and looked into his eyes, the corners of her mouth upturned in a shit-eatin’ grin. He started to harden, filling her mouth with hot meat until she had to back off. People with beers in hand started moving into place around the pool tables, watching from the shadows as Daisy started to work Billy’s stick from head to root. Billy leaned back, his stomach tight, his ass clenched. Daisy’s hungry saliva dripped off his balls onto the faux Persian carpet. When Billy’s pecker was like the wood of a pool cue, Daisy rose up and, clutching his nuts in her hand, ordered, “Fuck me!”
“Let’s see if I can hit that hole,” Billy said. He grabbed Daisy, and spun around behind her and, in one deft move, grabbed her hair and pushed her over the table and impaled her from behind. His cock slammed into her, and the excited onlookers shouted their approval. Daisy’s tits were squashed on the green felt and she drooled onto the table while Billy’s long strokes drove his balls against her labia, slapping again and again until Daisy’s ass squeezed her first orgasm out of her throat. A chant went up from the room. “Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her!” Billy rammed into Daisy like a machine. Joan Jett was cranking out “I Love Rock & Roll” on the Bose speakers. Daisy came in screams, her cum running down the insides of her legs. Billy slapped Daisy’s ass cheeks until they glowed in the spotlight. He drove his long, straight, strokes with backspin, right-hand English, left-hand English, sending the balls back to the whole until he couldn’t take it any more. He pulled out and, to the roaring approval of the GiGi patrons, spewed his talcum sperm all over Daisy’s ass. When the last dribble dropped off the tip of his cock and into Daisy’s crack, Billy bent over Daisy’s heaving body and he whispered in her ear, “Fuck pool.”
It wasn’t too long after his surgery that he was able to use his cock again. It was painful, at first, and he closed his eyes, tightly, when the thin juice of his balls flowed out of him in spasmodic dribbles. After the initial novelty of the post-prostate experience, he began to settle into the disconcerting change in his orgasmic feelings. Instead of blasting quantities of thick, white, jism into space, his dick just leaked clear and sticky stuff while he ground his hips in rhythm to a deeply gripping, muscular, series of contractions. It was, as he was told, more female-like. Over time, as the clarity of the memory of his pre-surgery orgasmic sensations waned, he began to enjoy the depth of his transformation. One thing, in particular, was exciting. He found that by rapidly rubbing his frenulum, he could trigger an orgasm in the most covert manner. He quickly learned that he could secretly cum, under the table at meetings, or on the plane, or in the back seat of cars. Other than a moment of silence, and a flush of the skin on his face, there were no outward indications of what was going on in his pants. It was delightful, having this option. After all, the volume of his ejaculate was not so much that it would soak through the fabric of what he was wearing. But, the intensity of his orgasm was tremendously satisfying. He quickly became addicted to the feeling and the depraved excitement of it all. He was a newly-born pervert, and it was such a gratifying feeling to have beaten death and be left with the means to experience such naughty joy. He squirted into his pants at work, behind his desk. He did it in bathrooms and bars. He imagined that his sensual situation was akin to that of a woman with a dildo implanted in her pussy, vibrating constantly. Unfortunately, as time progressed and the sensitivity of the nerves impacted by surgery regained a level of homeostasis, the frenulum became less sensitive, returning to where it had been before the cancer. He needed more stimulation and the urgency disappeared. It was a grand time, however, that post-surgery insanity. And it taught him a valuable lesson: when life gives your lemons the inability to make juice, make the most of the rinds. After all, there’s reason their shavings are called “zest.”