9 Ball

True story. Seriously. Who could make this up? *grin*

9 Ball

We met and got to know each other over a game of pool. Nine Ball. I was unfamiliar with this game, and barely familiar with pool at all, short of knocking the balls everywhere except in a pocket. He opens the special carrier which holds his stick. (no, his cue stick!) Two pieces which he screws tightly together. It is longer than most, blue marbled, very expensive looking, well balanced and straight.

He, too, seems remarkably well balanced and straight. A nice change from some of the men I had met recently. Tall, intelligent, longish, silvering hair swept back, a ready smile and eyes that seemed forever changing both color and expression. He is a humble sort.

"Anyone can buy an expensive stick," he comments. "Doesn't mean they know how to use it well."

Hmmm, he has a point I think to my self, all the while knowing that I am sure he does know how to use it, and use it well, his cue stick, that is, I tell myself, adding that I had best get my mind back on the game.

Handing me a drink, a screwdriver, he explains the rules of Texas 9 Ball. You have to hit the lowest numbered ball on the table first otherwise it is 'ball in hand' and you have to hand the ball to your opponent. If you can sink the 9 ball by playing it off the lowest ball on the table, you win.

"Break," he says, handing me his cue stick.

Acting far more confident than I felt, I sighted down the cue stick, hit the 1 ball and promptly sent my cue ball into the corner pocket. Sigh. Great start.

"Ball in hand," says he. He sinks the 1, the 2, misses on the 3, leaving me with the cue ball neatly tucked behind the 4 and the 6. No clear shot. I walk around the table trying to figure out how I have any chance of hitting the 3 ball at all.

"Always keep your stick pointed straight up," he cautions. "Don't want to put someone's eye out with it."

Does he realize what all these pool references sound like or is it just that my mind is in the gutter? No wait, that's bowling. Silly me. I smile and he comes up and explains I can always give him ball in hand if I can't handle it. No way! I smiled, and lined up a shot which would require the cue ball to bank off two sides before maybe, just maybe, hitting the 3 ball,let alone actually sinking it.

"Better really slam it!" he says.

I give it a good shot. It ricochets off two sides of the table, hits the 3 and sends it neatly into the side pocket. I meant to do that. Yup, sure did!

The 4 and 5 go kerthunk as only a straight on shot can. I'd watched and learned.Hit the cue ball down low: it hits the other ball and stops rather than following it into the pocket.

The 6 careened off as the cue ball hit the pocket. "Ball in hand," he says.

His shot misses by the tiniest fraction. "Ball in hand," he says, slowly handing me the ball. He smiles. Says he'll let me have them all, except the last one.

"A gentleman," says he, "neither runs the table nor goes to bed with his socks on." Interesting definition of a gentleman, I think as he sinks the 6 and leaves the 7 perched right on the rail halfway to nowhere.

"That's a Bob shot," I am told and there follows a long story involving the Bahamas, lots of rum and a fellow named Bob who is the champion pool player of some bar there. The jist of it was, is to come up behind the ball just barely kissing it on the ass and startling it into the pocket. Works too!

I barely sip the last of my drink before another one appears at my elbow. "Don't worry, we aren't driving. I never drink and drive." His hand slides around to the small of my back, as he hands me a five. "Feed this to the juke box, we need some music. Play some Sinatra and whatever else you want. Play 27-2."

(The Lady is a Tramp...hey! I like that song! I grin and consider choices. 18-5 (Stairway to Heaven), 15-4 (Born in the USA) before he comes over and punches in some from memory. Back at the table, we are joined by several of his buddies.

I am introduced to them all. Names blurring as he brags that I am pretty good, for a girl. That comment alone sank the 8, followed by the nine in the same shot. Meant to do that too, I did. Honest!

"Rack 'em," he says.

He won the next game and then played a couple with his buddies. I sat there on the bar stool watching. The bar reminded me of a cross between Cheers and the Starwar's 'Cantina.' Easy comraderie. Drinks racked up like pool balls, pool balls disappearing as fast as the beer.

I looked down at the yellow rose on the bar next to my drink. My mind meandered back a few hours to my stepping off the train.

"Follow the rose petals," he'd said.

There, where I stepped off the train was a scattering of pale peach rose petals, more a few feet further towards the exit. A trail of them, pink, yellow, red (how many roses did this take, I'd wondered) led through the main concourse, around kiosks, out across the road and down the sidewalk to a series of carved wooden benches. There, sitting with a yellow rose in his hand, surrounded by hundreds of rose petals was the man I'd come to meet.

I am startled out of my reverie by a nudge on my shoulder. "Hey...hellooo! Where'd you go?"

"Oh, I was ... um ... visiting a certain bench." I respond, playing with the rose.

"Ah," he says with a knowing grin. "Well, you're up!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you! I lost and so you are up."

Oh swell, well, this should be good for a laugh. Billy or Smitty or Stevie goes for the break and leaves me several possible shots including one that I notice as I'm walking around the table. I pause, considering...

"You aren't EVEN thinking about doing what I think you are thinking about are you?"

I grin, wondering if I am seeing the angles right. 1 off the 6 sending the

9 ball into the side pocket.

"20 bucks says you don't make it," says BillySmittyStevie.

"50 says she does," answers my champion.

"Nooooooo, don't bet on me," I say, looking at him, and silently pleading not to do this.

"You are a good bet any way I look at it," he grins. "Money up, boys!"

Bets begin flying. I'm wondering if there is room under the table to hide. He just sits there across the table from me casually leaning against the bar. His eyes are sparkling. He is tall, jeans just tight enough to show off the butt that won him first place in the bar-buff-off a few weeks back and to suggest the pleasures that wait in the future. I wonder if he handles that cue stick as well as...

The cue stick in my hand feels damp and I realize my palm is sweating. Shifting to wipe my hand on my jeans, I realize my hand isn't the only thing damp. Flashing another look in his direction, I see one of those 'all knowing' looks that tells me he knows my mind wasn't exactly on pool!

The bar becomes very quiet. Figures the juke box picks now to run out of songs. I look down at the table, feeling every eye on me.

I line up the shot. "Nine in the side," I say as I take a deep breath.

BAM!

I sink that 9 ball right in as sweet as can be!

"Knew you'd do it, Doll!" Gee. I'm glad HE did!

"Last Call," bellows the bartender over the noise.

We walked, hand in hand, back to the train station where we could catch a cab. There are still rose petals fluttering around.

"Well, do I put you in a cab for home or would you like to come back to my place with me?" he asks as he opens the door to the cab. I get in and, not letting go of his hand, pull him in after me. Guess that answered THAT question!

I prowl around his place, exploring. Living Room - bookshelves full of Grissom, King, Steele(?), Cussler and Sheldon. A fireplace ready for a fire. The whole place is neat as can be. The dining room table has still more yellow roses on it! Wow! Plants thriving everywhere. I hear music come on in the living room. I pick up and begin to play with a green Furby.

"They talk," he says. "Gibberish mostly, but they learn phrases too."

Then after I put the Furby on the table, I am thinking about nothing other than the way his kisses are doing strange and wonderful things to me.

"Yuuummmm," says the Furby.

You got that right, I think.

Somehow I am standing there in his dining room half naked. Shoes have been kicked off, shirt tossed over a chair. My bra is dangling off the chandelier. He makes a comment about wild abandon as he gives me a total body hug and then deepens his kiss.

"Moooore," says Furby.

A trail of discarded clothing follows us to the bedroom.

"Ut-oh," says Mr Furby from just outside the door.

A green-sheeted, queen-sized bed triggers a thought but before I can comment, he says, "Up for a game of pool?"

I am so game!

He says "My break," and gently pushes me backwards so that I sprawl on the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Flopping next to me, he takes my face gently between his hands. Fluttering butterfly kisses rain down on my forehead, eyelids, the tip of my nose, then, finally down on my lips. My mouth parts to accept his, but he pulls away for a moment. His eyes are dark with passion-bottomless.

His hands move to entangle themselves tightly in my hair, before bending to kiss me deeply. A slow kiss, building in intensity as his tongue thoroughly explores my mouth-meeting and greeting my tongue, inviting it to dance. A tango of sorts melds into something more frenetic as he pushes it deep within me, allowing me to suck on it for mere moments before withdrawing and letting me do some exploration of my own. All the time, his fingers hold my head almost fiercely against his. Then, suddenly, he breaks contact, lifts his head and says, "There goes the one ball."

He moves down my body, still fluttering quick kisses here and there. He follows the column of my throat, pausing now and then to kiss or lick the edge of my jaw, the hollow at the base of my throat, a shoulder; inching ever so slowly down. Down to kiss the swell of my breast. Supporting himself on his elbows, he takes a breast in each hand. His thumbs rubbing over each nipple causing each to strain for his touch. Kissing each, he returns to the first, all the while kneading both breasts. Taking my nipple between his teeth, he worries it, sucking it gently as his tongue laps over it. As I arch to meet him, he releases it and moves over to its twin. Pinching my nipple sharply between thumb and forefinger, he cautions me not to move.

Bringing both breasts together within his large hands, he takes both nipples in his mouth at once and draws intensely on them. One again, I arch, so close to cumming. He continues until I am about to explode and then abruptly stops, releasing both breasts.

"There goes the 2 and the 3; a combination shot."

He moves down my body, licking, tickling, at me with his fingers, his tongue, those ever wandering fingers. He encircles my navel, dipping in, causing ripples of pleasure as his hands wrap around my back, rubbing the base of my spine, fingers caressing, finding pleasure places I hadn't known existed.

"There's the 4 neatly sunk," says he, reaching lower.

I grin and move, quickly flipping him over on his back.

"A gentle never runs the table," I say.

"Who ever said I was a gentleman?" he asks.

My hands travel down his body, my ultimate destination being his balls.

"Hmmmm, not sure there's a shot here," I say quietly. "Might have to be 'ball in hand."

Giggling, I spread his legs. My fingers find and then hold his balls, caressing them, weighing them. I lean over to lick at first one then the other as my fingers find and press on that sensitive area at the base of his balls. I take first one, and then the other in my mouth sucking first hard, then softly as I watch his cue stick harden and grow.

"The 5," I say, giving one a kiss..."and the 6," a quick lick to the other. Blue marbled and straight, his pool cue dances at attention. Seeing a drop of precum, I gently rub it around the head of his cock with my finger, mentioning that one "Must always remember to chalk up before playing." Right on cue, it jumps, wanting to wait no longer. I almost let it dive into my mouth, but no, one has to take one's time and plan their shots, so that one is in a good position for the next shot to come- err ... cum. Licking around the edge of his ruby knob, down, slowly down, down the shaft, all the while playing with the 5 and 6 balls. Finally, taking Him into my mouth, I suck him in hard, feeling him pulse and throb as I almost swallow him.

I almost dissolve into laughter as I hear the furby in the other room saying "Yuuuum!"

Playing and stroking him, a hand sneaking up to tweak a nipple, I feel his ass muscles begin to clench and immediately withdraw saying, "There goes the 7."

"ENOUGH," he growls, flipping me neatly on my back and dives between my legs, moving in to closely examine my shaved pussy. His fingers spread me wide, wide. His tongue teasing at my clit, coaxing it out to play. Teeth nibble as fingers, first one, then two push deep within me, curving up, pushing, nudging at that spot deep inside causing me to levitate my hips clear off the bed. He lifts his head and grins.

"Gives new meaning to the phrase 'behind the 8 ball' doesn't it?" he says before returning to drink of the moisture that is literally dripping from my pussy.

"HUUUNGRY" complains a far off furby voice.

He brings me so very close again and yet again. Teasing, nibbling, sucking at my clit. One hand, his fingers pulls, pinches at a nipple. The other hand, moving slowly in and out of me. Repeatedly. He brings me to the edge one more time before at long, long last he sends me careening over in an explosive whirl!!

"Guess that's the end of the 8 ball!"

Breaking into my beyond coherent silence is a furbish comment, "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!!"

The ah, 'self-declared' 9-Ball Master drinks the fruit of his labors bringing me out of my stupor and back into feeling like a total mass of feeling.

"Yummm," comes the furby's voice.

I may kill that furby, I think before I am again sidetracked by his relentless tongue, which once again has brought me teetering on the edge. He shifts, moves above me, positions his cue stick and then rams himself home crying out "9 ball in the corner pocket!"

Fast and furious he moves within me, both of us meeting each other in a frenzy of lust and passion. Moves and counter moves, angles shifting, until, until, until we both cum, blending, melting into the other, as worlds collided and exploded. I feel his coming as a hot stream fills me, feel my muscles clamping down, milking him dry.

"Game," he grins, eyes twinkling.

"More," says the furby, reading my mind.

"Rack 'em, sweetie!" I grin.