Dead Ringer

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It’s pouring with rain as I open the door of the building I work in. Shit. I’ve no umbrella, and I’m dressed for summer, not monsoon season.

I’m aware of the security guard behind me, tapping his foot and jangling his keys in his trouser pocket. I’m already the last person in the building. I’m going to have to brave it.

I make a quick decision to duck across the square for a drink, and hope that it stops soon.

“Goodnight Tom.” I say to the guard.

“Goodnight ma’am” he replies, obviously relieved that I’m going.

The square is empty and I race across, water splashing into my shoes, up my calves and down the back of my neck.

I shove open the door of the bar and run inside, head down.

A few people turn and look

“Horrible night!” I say, holding up my arms, and shaking the rain from my hair. A few smile and nod, and then return to their conversations.

The bar is fairly busy, but I easily squeeze into a spot, and examine myself in the mirror behind the bottles. My hair, short and blonde with a long sweeping fringe, has survived the dash through the rain, and there’s no makeup running down my face, I look not bad.

The bar tender approaches and I order a whisky and ginger to warm up. Finding a table near the back, I sit and look around.

This bar also hosts a pool hall, which is below me as I sit, and a few people are engaged in games. I watch, trying to pick a game to bet on. I’m good at pool, and like to come here with work colleagues and kick their unsuspecting asses.

Everyone seems to be having fairly light hearted games, and I let my eyes drift over the tables until I find this guy playing on his own. He’s cute and I haven’t seen him here before. I settle down to watch.

He’s fast, and dedicated, knocking the balls into the pockets, and making the minimum of movement around the table. I know a lot of guys who like to walk around the table, eyeing up shots, bending down over the cushion, sticking their eyes in the pockets, it takes forever. And it doesn’t make them any more likely to pot anything. This guy is smooth though, clearing the table in a few shots, and then racking them up again. A row of coins holds his place.

I very much want to get to know him better.

I hold back, watching him for a couple of games, to make sure no-one else is on the scene, and then slide off my stool and go down to the hall.

He glances up as I approach.

“Table’s taken.”

“I can see that.” I reply. “I’ve been admiring your technique, and it’s brought out my competitive side.”

He glances up again, and then goes back to his shot, potting a yellow in the far corner, then moving round the table to set up the next. Hard to get. My interest if definitely piqued. I shrug to myself and sit down on one of the stools near the table.

While he played I could have a proper look at him. He’s around my age, maybe a year or two older, brown hair and a short beard, dark framed glasses. His hands look calloused and rough, like he works ulus escort manually, and he’s wearing worn jeans and an iron maiden tshirt.

He’s definitely good looking, sexy, and this, combined with his assuredness round the table, is turning me on.

He pays no attention to me, so I enjoy watching him play, and finish my drink, ordering another from a waiter who’s moving among the tables. As my whisky arrives, he sinks the last ball and orders a beer. When it arrives, he stands to drink, holding his cue in one hand and rolling his neck and shoulders to relax the muscles.

A vision shoots into my mind of my hands rubbing those muscles, slipping my fingers under the tshirt and down his chest… I cross my legs, feeling the warmth swell in my body. He glances my way again, but with a little interest in his eye this time. I see him take in my legs, my body, and decide to go for it. At worst I can gather material for my imagination later tonight if I have to go home alone.

“Where did you learn to play?” I ask.

“Here and there” he replies, still giving me nothing. Then his face softens and he seems to relent and says “Green’s hall mostly, when I was a kid, and Barney’s when that was still open, do you know Barney’s?”

“I’ve played there myself, I used to go there with my brothers, They were meant to be watching me, and instead they’d go down and shoot pool with their friends, dragging me along. I think I played my first game there aged about 9.”

He raises his eyebrows at that, unconvinced, shifting his weight onto his other foot and giving me another once over. He’s almost there. I’ve almost hooked him. I decide to slip down off my stool and choose a cue from the rack.

“You still play?”

“I sure do. That’s why I came down here, to see if I could get you to give me a game. You’re very talented. I’d like to try and beat you.”

“I’d like to see you try!” he retorts. They always do. I smile. Gotcha.

“Great! It’s a deal then. Shall I set them up?”

I slip a coin out of my purse, push it into the tray and set the balls rolling down to the end of the table. I feel him watching as I quickly move the balls into the right order in the rack, and showily spin the black in the centre.

We flip for the break and he wins it, shattering the neat triangle and potting a red straight away.

Adrenaline is sliding into my blood, the excitement of the challenge, and the conquest, making my skin prickle, and the excitement of attracting this unknown man made me see sex everywhere. The triangle of balls, the cue, the table itself. I imagined the pool hall deserted, myself spread out on the green baize, my new friend working away above me, hard and rough.

He pots again and again, reds shooting into pockets, his calm manner never changing. I enjoy the view, his shirt sliding up over his back, his strong forearms, his ass.

He misses the fifth pot, the ball hovering over the centre pocket.

I examined his face for a reaction but he simply yenimahalle escort crosses to the wall and picks up his drink.

I can see there’s no point in the usual tricks, the gaping top, the long bend over the table, and settle down to simply play well. I already know my first play, and take it, the ball sliding easily into the pocket. The second goes in harder, the third setting up the forth and now I am ahead, eyeing the spread of the balls, before sinking the remainder of the yellow on the table. Now the 8, in a difficult position near his red, but I catch it right and slide it into the corner with a satisfying clunk.

I turn to him. He already has the next coin in his hand and a determined look on his face.

“Another game then?” I offer sweetly. He’s crouched next to me at the coin drawer, I can smell his cologne. I hope he can smell what he’s was doing to me.

We play four more games, his manner loosening as we go, opening up to my gentle teasing, responding to my presence behind him as he set up his shots.

I catch his eyes on my breasts, and ass as I lean over the table more than once, and I let him know I knew, and let him catch me too.

When the fourth game was finished he doesn’t rush to set up another. I’ve won three out of five, one clearing the table before he could even pick up his cue.

He leans on the wall, one foot pressed against it, knee cocked.

I hold out my hand, “Good game” I offer, smiling. After a moment he meets me in the middle, his hand warm, dry and rough, gripping mine firmly. We both hold a little longer than was necessary, eyes locked.

Finally “Another drink? For winning” he asks.

“I think I’ve had enough to drink.” I say, stepping a little closer to him. “I’d like to have you as my prize.”

I watch his pupils dilate, and feel his grip tighten on my fingers.

The pause is almost too long but then he nods quickly.

I pickup my purse, swallow the last of my drink and we head for the door.

The square is empty, dark and silent, just the twinkle of fairy bulbs in the trees. The rain has stopped and the night is warmer. My heart is hammering at the thought of my prize.

My apartment is nearby but I know I can’t wait that long. I take his hand, and lead him down the side of the bar, into an alley at the back.

He starts to ask where we’re going and I turn and kiss him, holding his face and drawing him in. He presses against me, not bothered now by my choice of location, pushing me back against the wall, his hands gripping my hips. He’s strong. The rough brick pulls at my hair. Now the heat that had started in the bar pours through me and I felt the first gush of wetness from my pussy and push against him, eager and ready. His hands are under my top now, thumbs caressing my skin, fingers gripping my back, hard. I move my hands down, copying his, pushing his t-shirt up, squeezing his ass, pulling him harder against me. I feel his cock, hard in his jeans, and start to work on his fly. His hands are on my tits now, pulling at my bra, pinching with his fingers, shoving fabric aside. I lifted my arms briefly and he pulls my top over my head, knowing what I want, bringing his mouth down to nip and suck my flesh. My head falls back and he kisses my throat, his tongue running over the delicate bones there, still pulling my hips to his as I pop buttons my breathing fast, moaning out loud as he laps my tits, lifting them to his mouth.

His fly is finally open and I reach inside, gripping his hot hard dick in my fist, making him grunt against me in pleasure. Shoving down his jeans and boxers, I pull up my skirt at the same time. He’s thrusting against me harder, his mouth on mine, his hand under my thigh, gripping the flesh, lifting my leg. The air is cool on my hot wet hole and I wriggle free pushing down my underwear, stepping out with one leg and then leaning back against the wall, wrapping my leg around his. The wall is cold against my skin, and the thrill of fucking out there is immense. The hot head of his cock is pushing at my cunt now, searching for the hole, slipping in wetness. He grips the shaft impatiently in his hand, guiding it in, slamming my body back against the wall as he thrusts deep. “Fuck, yes!” he growls into my ear, and I cry out, not caring who hears us, maybe hoping someone will.

I lay my head back again against the brick, letting him lick and suck my throat and thrust that hard dick into me, but it isn’t enough. I push him back, he’s surprised and stumbles against the other wall, wet dick shining, mouth open. “What the fuck?”

I press against him, and he tries to shove it back in, but I’ve got other ideas. I push and guide him until he’s on the ground, his back against old beer boxes. I pause a moment, enjoying the scene, bare flesh and wet pussy, mouths open. He’s holding his dick at the base, ready for me and I oblige, lowering myself onto him. I’d love to slide my clit up to his face and have him lick and suck me, but that’s for another night, so I use my own fingers, working my hips until I feel that glorious pressure of cock on gspot and start to ride him for real.

He’s looking along his body to my fingers frigging my clit, and up to my other hand on my tit, pinching and rolling the nipple. His hands clench on my hips and he’s working his body up into mine, grunting and thrusting, faster and harder. I’m ready to cum and lean in to tell him. His eyes widen and he pushes faster “fuck, yes, oh yes, come on, come ON” I urge, teeth gritted, feeling his dick swell inside me, his head rolling back in the floor, hips arching as I start to cum, the first wave making me freeze on him, still rolling my clit in my fingers, my pussy gripping his hard hard cock, “oh yes, oh god yes” I’m yelling now and I don’t care. He lets out a deep cry and I feel him start to cum too and we’re fucking hard in this alley and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever done.

My orgasm subsides and I sit back, his dick sliding out of me and slapping back on his stomach. We look at each other and grin, he lifts himself onto his elbows and I bend to kiss him.

We pull on our clothes and head back towards the square, but not before I give a wave to the security camera above us, red light blinking in the dark.

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