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I'm good at pool. It's not bragging if it's a fact.
I could, though. Brag.
It started in college. To be incredibly frank with you, I got an ass like the back end of a Mac truck. She's sturdy, and there's a lot of her. That's an asset in bar pool if you know how to use it, and I do. In the bad old days before I knew who I was, I used to put on a leather miniskirt, get a $3 beer I'd nurse for four hours, and shark at the dive bars near my campus to fill out my weed fund. At first, honestly, my ass was doing most of the work. It's not hard, or morally wrong, in my opinion, to con a bunch of drunk future finance bros out of their mamas' money. But I guess all that practice made perfect, because it turns out I'm a pretty good shooter too.
How good? Let's just say I kept my stash jar full.
I've since traded my miniskirt for well-fitted shorts with five inch inseams, thank God. Other than that, my strategy is very similar these days. I'm not usually sharking for weed money anymore, though. Just for the joy of it, and the financial flexibility an extra few bucks in my pocket gives me. Not enough to get the student loan bastards off my back now that those fucking throatcrushing payments have started back up again, but enough that I can have a little fun while I make payments on it til the government finally collapses into an ash heap.
You'll have to forgive the nihilism. Or don't, and see if I care. I'm in a grim mood today. Lilah sent me a "thinking of you. hope you're doing well." text at 2:11 am this morning. I've been white knuckling my way through not responding most of the day. Thank God I never enabled my read receipts. Four increasingly bitchy versions of the sentiment So you and that architect didn't work out? sit in my deleted Notes drafts.
Lilah and I have been on and off for the last couple years - long enough to know we're no good together, which in classic lesbian fashion means we've broken it off four times. I don't think she really wants somebody who's butch in the way I am. Not some big-assed five foot nothing twink covered in ink wearing hoochie daddy shorts and a cutoff t-shirt just this side of slutty to a dive bar on a Friday night. Judging by the string of exes that punctuate the dead zones in our former situationship, her kind of butch hides any (tiny, tasteful) tattoos under a crisp long-sleeved Oxford, goes to cigar lounges, and has strong opinions on Degas and other dead Frenchmen. That'll never be me. And I'm tired of feeling like a placeholder, like liquor she only wants to drink when the top shelf bottles are empty or too costly. So the last six months have been our longest stretch since we've met without any getting back together or ill-advised 3AM hookups, and I intend to keep it that way. Fifth time’s the charm.
So that's why I'm in the corner booth at Viper Lounge, instead of spending all night brooding - or, worse yet, slinking into Lilah's apartment with my head slung low, like a muddy dog that knows it'll get yelled at for leaving footprints but just doesn't know where else home is. I know I could call up some friends, but any pep talk from Javi or tough love from Sandy would require talking about Lilah. And I just don't want to talk about her anymore. I'd much rather shark somebody for spare cash and ponder what I'm gonna spend my newfound pocket money on.
If I can hit two fifty, I think, either here or between here and Houlihan's, I'll treat myself to something nice. Maybe a really fancy new knife. Or something leather, strappy, and slutty.
The Viper Lounge is one of those ancient neighborhood dives with dim lighting and wood siding that's smelled like eau du stale beer (now with base notes of piss!) since before I was born. It's not technically a dyke bar, just general purpose queer, but for some reason - maybe its proximity to the dog park? - dykes show up at a higher ratio than might otherwise be expected. Can't say I'm complaining, but that does mean I have to wait for a spot at the single pool table in the joint.
Right now, that table's occupied by a handsome older stud with gray streaked through her locs and a wiry ginger butch with very sexy pronounced crow's feet. They're practically eyefucking each other over the table, trading barbs and sly smiles with an easy familiarity. They're both big, and I admire the way their bodies take up space, loose, unconstrained, and unapologetic - so hot. Fat dykes have a place in my heart. (Other parts of me too, if they're packing, silicone or factory edition.) I clock their wedding rings, simple matching wide gold bands, and for some reason that's what makes me blush. No way am I getting between the two of them. The heat of all those double entendres might melt me.
After about fifteen minutes of gradually escalating grabass, they duck off to the gender neutral bathroom with a distinct giggly intensity. I salute them with my half-sipped Angry Orchard, which gets a chuckle from the stud and a wink from the redhead. God willing and knees permitting, I too plan on still being hot and having quickies in gross bar bathrooms when I'm their age. When the battered door swings closed behind them, I hop out of my booth and unrack a cue.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, once, then twice, and I check the notifications. Lilah. Again. I bite my tongue, about to read her texts, but at the last second, I find my spine again and turn “Do Not Disturb” mode on instead. The notification disappears, and if, God forbid, there are any more, I won't see them til at least tomorrow. Maybe never. Maybe I'll throw my shit in a lake or something instead and get a new number. Or maybe I'll just block her. Probably I should just block her.
I pocket my phone again, rack up the balls, and start shooting casually. Not too well, or too seriously. I don't want to scare anybody off. As I fuck around, I scan the bar: a couple of bears talking animatedly over pilsners. One wide eyed baby gay sitting at the end of the bar waiting for the bartender. A small gaggle of leatherdykes who are probably on their way to Eve's. Some business butch with a full on leather briefcase who looks so lost it's almost funny. A booth full of chatty regulars at the back. Bad idea to hustle regulars, I learned that the hard way. Besides, I know most of the regulars at the Viper Lounge, and like them. They let me do my thing, and I let them do theirs.
The evening crowd fills out the seats, but nobody's looking like such an obvious mark as the business butch. She's clearly good for it, I can tell by the shoes. (Well-fitted honey-toned leather embossed with a floral pattern. Italian, I'm guessing.) And her judgment clearly needs some work, because wearing a nice suit like that to the Viper is like begging God for a bastard of a dry cleaning bill. But there's something else about her, something twigging my intuition. I just can't put a finger on it at first. So I keep looking.
She's strapping, broad and big the way I like ‘em, filling out that suit jacket in a way that screams "ask me about my tailor.” Her face ain't so bad to look at either - she's got powerful brows, a serious scowl, and one of those vintage-looking slicked-back haircuts that looks way hotter on dykes than it ever did on any coke-addled fifties businessman. In fact, now that I think of it, she's kind of -
Oh.
My stomach burns. My face burns. I chalk the pool cue with gritted teeth, suddenly eager to tear my eyes away from this stranger's three-quarters profile.
She looks like Lilah's type.
As far as I'm concerned, that just makes this slick-haired business butch an even better mark.
The bears play a couple of rounds and filter back to the bar; we play for petty cash and I very deliberately break even. Afterwards a couple of the regulars come over, say hi, play a few rounds with me for nothing other than the love of the game. I lose, but not by much. Viv, who is sixty seven and sees directly through my bullshit, ribs me about my inconsistent aim. I just smile, say nothing. "Leave the kid alone, at least," she chides me in an undertone, nodding to the bar where the petrified baby gay is drinking something curaçao colored and trying to act nonchalant.
"I'm not gonna bother the kid, Viv," I promise, and sink a ball into the pocket closest to the business butch, who is half done with her whiskey something and starting to glance around. Viv follows my shot, says nothing, but raises an eyebrow as she returns to the booth with her friends. I smile, and turn my gaze back to the bar.
The business butch is scanning the room in earnest now. She catches my eye for a moment, then moves on, flicking over each face she sees. I wonder if she's feeling restless, if she's realizing she's out of place, or if maybe she's looking for somebody.
I circle over to the corner of the pool table closest to her for my next shot, bend over, aim, and shoot. My next few shots are from similar vantage points. I'm not too obvious about it, not yet, but I want to finish this round with my ass very firmly in that stranger's eyeline.
It's always better when the mark thinks it's their idea to play you, anyway.
I take my time lining up my next shot. As I strike the cue ball again, I'm lazy about my bridge, and I don't keep my head down the way I should either. The ball I was aiming for careens off-kilter, bouncing to the side of the billiards table and back to the middle again. I come closer than I intended to scratching. The cue ball comes to a stop only a few inches from a pocket.
"Shit," I mutter to myself, watching the carnage. What an embarrassing shot. At least anybody watching thinks I'm a total fucking amateur.
A low voice near my left shoulder informs me, "You're gripping the cue pretty tight. If you loosen up, you'll have more luck."
I glance over my shoulder.
It's Slick, standing there with her thumbs tucked into her pockets and an air of detached amusement. At this distance, I can see the second hand on her watch sweeping, not ticking. Bastard didn't even have the sense to wear a regular old watch to go to a dive bar.
Oh, I'm going to take you for everything you're worth.
"That so, Slick?" I eye her, trying to decide if she's the type who'll benefit from a doe-eyed approach (like this, Daddy? with my ass in your face? Oops, now I have all your money!) , or if she needs a more deft hand.
"No offense intended. Just trying to be friendly."
That's your first mistake. A deft hand it is, then. "No offense taken," I reply, mirroring her language. "But if you're going to give me constructive criticism, I think it's only fair you play me." I smirk at her. My smirk, I am told, is almost as hot as my ass. Only one person has ever told me that, but I'm riding that compliment into the grave.
She raises an eyebrow, glancing at the cue rack. "What are the stakes?"
What a sucker. I pick up my mostly-empty Angry Orchard bottle, slosh it, and shrug. "Winner buys a round."
"I like the sound of that," she announces, and retrieves a cue. I hand her the chalk, taking the opportunity to give her the up-and-down up close. The only new piece of information I learn is that she smells expensive. The goddamn nerve.
"Want me to rack?" she asks, and I nod.
"Go ahead, Slick."
I lose the first round, obviously, and do the appropriate amount of bitching and moaning to make it seem genuine without deterring her from playing me again. I consider the addition to my bar tab a small price to pay for my opportunity to observe her in action. I bet her a hundred bucks I can beat her in a round of eight ball. She's undeterred by the bet, which means I have picked an excellent mark, and she's happy to answer all my slightly flirty, slightly calculated questions. No, Slick isn't from around here, not originally (shock and awe, et cetera.) Yes, she does get these suits tailored. She offers to share her tailor's card, and I laugh. I look like a tailoring kind of dyke to you? I rib her, gesturing to myself. She raises an eyebrow as she leans into her shot and says something like what you look like is a very handsome loser. I have to admit, it should be corny, but it's hot. Would be hotter if she made the shot, which she doesn't, but hey, we can't all be minor league pool gods.
I continue plying her with questions, hip-checking her once in a while or giving her arm a gentle shove when she roasts a particularly bad shot of mine. Yes, she does work nearby. Her firm (she's a lawyer in training wheels or something) wants her back in the office two days a week, so she had to move recently, and she's taking the opportunity to drink in new bars after hours. I ask if her coworkers don't expect to socialize with her, and she rolls her eyes. "Don't really give a damn. I handed in my notice at the beginning of the month."
"Won't that hurt your career?" I know nothing about lawyering but it feels like a very schmoozey business.
She laughs, without humor. "If I planned on practicing after this? If I had a chance in hell of making partner? Sure. But I don’t. I was just there to make the firm's staff page look marginally better til Brosnan Junior's kid passes the bar." She gestures down at herself. "I'm what my colleagues in HR would call not a good culture fit .”
That makes me feel a little bad for her - being second best is uniquely painful, as I think I've pretty firmly established - so I decide to lose the second round. (Narrowly. She's still a hot lawyer who probably makes quadruple my yearly pay and looks like a fucking AI composition of my shitty ex’s dream dyke, so I resist the urge to feel too bad for her.) Before the last eight ball is sunk, I learn that Slick loves whiskey, that her most played artist on Spotify is still My Chemical Romance, that she bites her cheek whenever I tease her, and that her apartment is not far from my own but in a nicer (well. more gentrified) area of town. She still doesn't give me her name or ask for mine. I'm okay with that. It's always easier to con someone who clearly wants to jump your bones. It's just a little more difficult if the feeling is mutual.
Luckily for me, I'm a professional. I barely even stare when she finally takes that shit jacket off, folds it nicely over the back of an empty bar chair, and rolls up her sleeves. Slick, I'm surprised to learn, is hiding a lot of ink under that crisp dress shirt of hers, which makes her hotter and makes me more determined to exsanguinate her wallet. Her collection - what I can see of it - is mostly black and gray illustrative renderings of medieval weapons. I show off a few of mine, pointing them out among their neighboring ink - the carabiner on my forearm, the larkspur growing up my calves, and the word dyke tattooed on my inner thigh right at the hem of my shorts. Slick stares at that third one (really, at my thighs) a few beats longer than the others. I restrain myself from preening. My plan is going swimmingly.
When she sinks the last eight ball into a pocket, Slick crows over her victory and I smack my forehead in good-natured protest. "That's bullshit, your last shot was a fluke! Double or nothing?"
Slick smirks at me over the top of her tumbler. "Oh, sweetheart, don't you think I've taken enough of your money?"
My blood rushes hot and loud in my ears. Spending your cash is going to rewire my brain about as much as three months of therapy would. I can feel the dopamine rush already. "All I'm hearing is that you're scared to lose to a bottom, Slick."
She bites her cheek again and reracks the billiard balls so fast, I swear her hands blur. Gotcha, fucker. Her watch glints with her quick movements. I wonder if I can get her to bet that Rolex on her wrist if I get her deep enough in the hole. ( I wouldn't mind her in my - a voice in my head begins, and I cut that thought off with a very large pull of cider.)
She allows me the first break. I settle into an easy open bridge, confident Slick will be too fascinated by my ass to notice that my technique has rapidly improved. Just to make sure, I sway my ass from side to side a little, shifting my weight as I give the cue a few test swings.
The striped 12 rolls smoothly into a corner pocket as the other balls scatter in their chain reaction to the tap of the cue ball.
Slick says nothing. When I turn, she's hurriedly rechalking her cue. Biting that cheek.
She fucks up that next shot royally - her stance is all wrong, and she doesn't get her head down far enough. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I chose that precise moment to lick perspiration off the side of my bottle.
At first it's a fight, then, gradually, it's just a slaughter. I do have the decency to feel a little bad. To put her out of her misery, I sink the eight ball into the center left pocket as soon as I've gotten the rest of these bastards off the board. Most of her balls are still on the table. Slick's eyes burn at me, and I can't tell if it's because she wants me or because she's figured out she's been conned and she wants to throttle me. Maybe a bit of both.
"Last call," the bartender announces, and I realize we've been playing for a couple hours. I glance around and realize the bar's emptied out long ago. A scattered few patrons converge upon the bar, settling tabs. So much for Houlihan’s later.
Slick pushes her cash, and mine, towards me and turns to the bartender. She says nothing to me, but engages the bartender in hushed, animated conversation. I occupy my time by finishing my drink and checking the price for an Uber back to my place.
No touch can feel as good as this money is going to spend, I tell myself.
But when she comes back and sets our drinks on the table we've commandeered, she looks determined. Determined, and hungry for blood. A set of keys jingle in her hands; I raise my eyebrow, and she pockets them, making no explanation. The bartender, clearly exhausted after a long shift, flips the "open" sign off and starts yanking the shades down.
"Hey, we should - "
"Don't worry about it," Slick says tersely, "I know her, we'll lock up after ourselves." What? I eye her, uncertain. That's not the whole story, and I know it, but I can't imagine what the whole story might be. The next thing she says, though, knocks me right out of my reverie.
"You're a pool shark."
I normally demur when accused, but maybe it's the attorney in her - she so clearly has my number now, there's no use denying it.
"Guilty, your honor."
"Fuck you. Play me again," she demands as the bartender bustles out of the back. The door closes and clicks behind her.
I shake my head, tucking the cash away into my wallet. "Sorry, babe, the money's mine. Unlike some of us, I know when to quit."
"I don't care about the cash. I care about kicking your ass. Play me again."
I cock my head at her, trying to understand her angle. "Not to put too fine a point on it - if we're not playing for cash, why play?" I'm not opposed. I'm just not understanding what her goal is here, if it's not getting her money back.
"Greedy little shit, ain't you?" she says, and for a second I hear an accent in her voice I can almost place. Virginian, maybe, or southern PA. Maybe Slick's not as slick as I thought. Maybe Slick's a country boy out of her element and trying to blend in as best she can. I shelve that assumption for later.
"More than you know, Slick," I snap back. I wanted it to come off cool and collected. Instead it comes off, uh, horny. I'm alone in a dive bar with a stranger who's clearly pissed at me and all I can think about is how hot it would be if Slick hatefucked me on top of the bar.
Slick's face is a mask of cool poise. I wonder if this is what she's like in court. "I bet you my Rolex," she replies with quiet confidence, "that you cannot shoot the solid three into the center left pocket."
My eyes flick to her watch. It is a nice watch, and I do clearly have a kink for taking valuables from suckers. "Afraid I don't have a Rolex to bet, rich boy."
"Bet your mouth instead."
For a second, I'm sure I misheard her. "Excuse me?"
"I said. Bet. Your mouth. Instead."
I eye the door, Slick, her watch, the drawn shades, the particular orientation of the billiard balls still on the table.
Pool shares a cardinal rule with its sister sports: you never bet what you're not willing to lose.
"Your left or mine?"
Slick's eyes narrow, and her mouth curves dangerously to show her teeth.
"Mine."
She doesn't know who she's fucking with.
"Kiss it goodbye, boss," I tell her, and turn my attention to the pool table.
She leans into my space as I sink into my stance. I tense, pulling back from my shot - she's not getting me that easy. "Don't miss," she murmurs in my ear, and I can smell the lingering haze of that expensive cologne again.
I inhale, sight, exhale, and swing.
The cue ball pings into the violet solid 1, which knocks into the solid 7 before slowing to a stop, which nudges 3 into the wall and ricochets it toward the center pocket. For a long, slow moment, it looks as though its momentum will slow. When it finally rolls in, I can breathe again.
I ought to feel vindicated, but somehow, I'm more disappointed than anything.
"My Rolex, Slick," I request as I turn. She's right behind me. Like, right behind me; when I turn our noses nearly brush.
She locks eyes with me as she leans into my space, bracing a palm on either side of me. She's head and shoulders taller than I am, and the way her eyes are cutting at my face makes me a little weak at the knees.
Something clinks mutedly onto the pool table. Slick's watch, probably. I'm not turning my head to look. The bar is quiet; all I can hear is the low buzz of the neon lights above the back booths and Slick's slow, steady breath. I'm afraid to move - not because she's so close. Because I'm worried she'll pull away.
Eventually, unable to stand the silence or the thought of her stepping back, I speak.
"If you can sink two in one shot, I'll give you your watch back," I breathe. "Since you're that sore a loser."
Her gaze moves down to my mouth, where it lingers. "I don't want my watch."
My heart stutters in my chest. "Okay," I breathe, "deal."
It's gonna suck when she misses. I'm really curious what Slick's been thinking about my mouth. I was kind of hoping to get a hands-on demonstration. Too bad. Maybe I'll take pity on her and botch my next shot. Or would that just piss her off more?
When she lines up now, she's determined, fluid in her movements. She takes her time, lining up several angles until she thinks she's got it right. I realize as she places her bridge that I forgot to name the stakes for missing the shot. A thousand ideas flood my head, each filthier than the last.
The cue ball clacks into one billiard, clangs off another. I don't really watch; I take the time to pocket my new Rolex and lose myself in very deep thought about Slick's hands.
Except one billiard clangs into a pocket, and then, an aeon later, so does a second.
I raise an eyebrow at Slick, very impressed and tense with anticipation.
I expect her to push me to my knees, to taunt me, to laugh or wink or say something. Instead, she steps back into my space and grips my jaw. Heat flashes through me.
I open my mouth for her.
She fucks her fingers slowly into my mouth. I taste the chill of her tumbler glass layered under the grit of bitter pool cue chalk. It's honestly almost embarrassing how massive my oral fixation is, how a hot dyke fingering my mouth gets me just as turned on as any other hole. I moan, my mouth full, and she watches me, eyes blazing, like she's trying to memorize every twitch and muffled noise I give her.
When she fucks just a little too deep, and I gag on the fullness of her fingers in my throat, she pulls back, spreading my spit across my lower lip.
"Worth it," she says quietly, as if to herself. Her hand and gaze linger on my mouth. I’m a little lightheaded, my skin buzzing with the residual electricity from her touch. My immediate urge is to drop to my knees for her, see what else she might like to shove into my mouth. Only my pride prevents me from doing it, tattered and threadbare though that pride might be, now that I'm drooling from two of my holes for this hot arrogant lawyer. I want her to take that pride from me, I realize, my guts burning with the thought of it; I want nothing more than for Slick to put me in my place - preferably, underneath her.
She eyes me with a cold hunger, like a wildcat calculating where to strike her prey next. I fight the fevered, nonsensical urge to bare my jugular for her.
“Bet you can't sink the 7 into center right without scratching.”
I glance at the pool table, taking the moment to study the shot, like the front of my cutoff Against Me! tee isn't soaked in my own spit. Both the awkward angle I’ll have to cut and the 7’s distance from the center right pocket make this a challenge, but not an insurmountable one.
“Easy,” I decide.
She tilts her head at me, raising an eyebrow. She looks so arrogant, sneering at me like that. Makes it hard to breathe or think. “Oh? Then let's make it interesting. Bet you can't do it while I'm eating your pussy.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. Yeah, I fucking bet I can't either, dude, I think, but that's quitter shit, and I'm not a fucking quitter. More to the point, I'm absolutely not passing up a chance to see what Slick’s mouth can do.
“What do I get if I make the shot?” I ask, glancing at her hands.
Slick smirks at me, and drums her fingers softly on the edge of the billiards table. I swallow. “Whatever you want.” God, that's a long list. My mouth is suddenly so, so dry. Bet she’d spit in it if I asked nicely , I think, and this time, there's nothing to sip or stare at to distract myself from how badly I want to do just that. I shift my gaze, glancing at the bar baseboards and the filthy floor, trying to steady my breathing.
Slick’s not having it. She tucks her pool cue under my chin, forcing me to look back up at her. I shudder. “But if you can't make the shot, or if you scratch,” she adds, eyeing my mouth again, “ I get whatever I want.”
“Deal,” I breathe before I even have time to think, and the pool cue slips out from under my chin. I moan a little, and choke it off almost as soon as it begins. I'm not sure why I'm so embarrassed, considering she's about to see exactly how wet that made me anyway. (That thought almost makes me moan again.)
Before she can say anything, before her eyes burn away the last of my pride and I just forfeit the whole damn thing because I want her so badly I could scream, I turn away and start trying to find my angle at the billiards table.
“They're not gonna take themselves off,” I tell her, and my voice only shakes a little.
Her hands are cool on my fevered flesh as they work my shorts down my thighs, then my jockstrap. The dizzying mix of sensation makes my head swim as I try to settle into a bridge.
“‘Good boy,’ huh?” she asks, reading the cursive lettering etched under the curve of each ass cheek, right at the top of the backs of my thighs.
“Congratulations, you can fucking read,” I reply, heartbeat so loud and quick I'm lucky it's not leaping out of my damn mouth.
She scoffs at me. “You don't seem like a good boy to me. You seem like a fucking brat.”
“Yeah, well, eat me about it,” I mutter. As I eye the remaining billiard balls, I grasp for something, anything, to clear my head enough that I have a chance in hell at making this shot. Something gnaws at the back of my brain, something I've been ignoring examining in favor of letting a stranger fingerfuck my mouth in an empty bar.
That last shot from Slick was good. Really good. Better than it had any right to be based on her previous performance, which was solid but nothing special. Sure, flukes happen, but that's about the best luck I've ever seen. She was playing just above average most of the night and now all of a sudden, when it counts, she's -
Oh, this slick bastard.
It clicks:
She conned me.
"You motherfucker!" I hiss with the most contempt I can muster when lust has an absolute chokehold on my throat, banging my fist against the table even as her firm hands wander over my ass. "You Don Draper-ass haircut having, briefcase carrying, pool sharking motherfucker, you conned me, you were just pissed I beat you at your own fucking game -"
Slick bites the back of my neck to shut me up, and God, it does, shuts me right the hell up as the sweet ache of her teeth in my flesh shoots directly to my cunt. I'm such a fucking masochist, my eyes can't help but roll back for a few seconds. I want this fucking dyke, I want her fingers inside me, I want her teeth marks on my neck so badly I can barely remember how to hold a cue. Somewhere in the back of my skull, I'm grateful that I'm facing away from her. If she saw what my face is doing right now, said something about it, I think I’d short circuit.
"Is playing worse than I am to be nice to some stupid little twink really conning you?" she taunts as she kneels behind me.
"Yes," I snarl, because I can feel her hands on my hips and her breath on my thighs, and if I don't snarl, I'm going to make a much more embarrassing noise.
She barks a laugh. "So what's that make you?"
I grit my teeth. I'm not gonna give her the satisfaction of another moan. Not yet. "Just lick me already so I can make this shot, you Mad Men wannabe asshole!"
Slick squeezes my thighs to shut me up. Her hands are strong, and a little rough against my freshly exposed skin. "If I'm a con artist, what does that make you? " she insists. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me hot. But you know what also gets me off? Winning.
"A better con artist," I snap back, faking out like I'm going to shoot. Of course, that's when she decides to start licking me - it's what I'd do, if I was a poolsharking bastard and also a top -
Her tongue moves softly and slowly against me, like she's savoring my taste. The sensation thrums through my body, prickling at my nerves. I rock my hips back in spite of myself. It's really difficult to concentrate on setting up a shot when a hot dyke's eating you like dessert. In case you were wondering.
"You're gonna have to dry clean that fucking suit," I gasp, just to have something to say while I'm arching my back to chase the warm wet heat of her tongue. She grips my hips firmly, pulling me back harder into her mouth. I brace against the side of the pool table for support.
She's got the consistency of a machine, but the appreciative hums against my skin are a hundred percent organic. I try to line up my shot but I can barely think; my pulse pounds in my ears, quick with craving. Her mouth on me feels so good; I can't keep myself from bucking back into her, chasing the warmth and wetness of her tongue.
She sucks my clit into her mouth, and the inescapable sensation makes my knees buckle. I lean against the billiard table with my free arm, gasping with the intensity of the pleasure. I can't think, I can't get my angle, I can barely keep my eyes open.
There's no way I can make this shot, I realize, not with her eating me out like this. Not when I know what happens when I lose and I'm so tense with need that I can feel it between my teeth.
I never make bets I'm not willing to lose. And, God, I have decided I am very fucking willing to lose this one in particular.
So I drop the cue, letting it fall onto the worn green felt of the pool table.
Slick hums with approval at my forfeit, teasing her fingers just outside my cunt. My thighs shake. Please , I think, but can't choke out because I'm moaning too much, please, please, please fuck me.
And just as soon as my thighs start shaking, she stands, bringing her hand to my face as she presses me into the corner of the table.
"Huh. And you've been calling me Slick," she muses, spreading her fingers apart; my cum strings and drips between them.
I open my mouth to reply, but she slips her fingers past my lips. The only thing I can manage is a muffled moan as I taste myself on her skin. She withdraws her fingers and presses me face-down against the table with the weight of her body. The felt is slightly scratchy against my cheek. She doesn't even have the decency to make it seem difficult; one hand's on the back of my neck and the other's gripping my bare hip hard enough to bruise. I hope it bruises, anyway. I'm so fucking wet. I want her mouth back on me. I also want whatever the hell degrading thing she's about to make me do instead.
"Now be a good boy and grind, you little bitch," she orders me. Her command hits me in the guts. A little " uh " escapes my throat, like I've been gut punched, and my ears burn.
I do as I'm told. I grind my needy cunt against the corner of a battered pool table in this grimy dive bar. It feels dirty. Degrading. Incredibly fucking hot. The firm chill of the polished and worn wood against my clit sends gooseflesh down my spine. I have to raise up onto the toes of my boots to manage it, and somehow the effort makes it even hotter. Slick’s manhandling - butch-handling - me, fiercely gripping my hair and my hips, forcing me to move at the pace she picks.
"You probably come here all the time, huh? Little poolsharking twink like you fits right into this dive. Well, next time you come in, and the next -" she pushes my hips against the table for me, and I gasp - "and the next - " she forces a long, hard grind out of me, and I whine - "you're gonna think about the time a stranger made you hump this fucking pool table."
The way she's controlling the pace and pressure on my clit - handling me so effortlessly, like it's nothing, like I'm a rag doll or a toy or a fucking object - has my eyes rolling back in my head. She's right. I will. That's what makes it so hot. I moan for her, long and loud and slutty. The louder I moan, the better it feels, somehow, like I'm caught in a feedback loop of my own pleasure.
“Oh, do you like that, you fucking dyke?” she snarls in my ear, grip on the back of my neck tightening.
I nod, moaning, eyelids fluttering closed as my cunt throbs against the cool wood.
She presses my face into the felt of the table by the back of my neck. “I said , ‘do you like that, you nasty little fucking dyke?’” She bites off each syllable like she hates it; somehow that makes me wetter.
“Yes, Daddy,” I moan, half-muffled, not realizing what just came out of my mouth until I hear Slick growl.
“Call me that again.” Her voice is gravelly, urgent, commanding. It's so hot, she’s so hot, and I'm eager to obey, eager to please.
“I like it, Daddy,” I cry out, bucking my hips against the wood. I don't know whether it's obeying her command or calling her that, specifically, but it stokes the fire burning in my guts. So I say it again, shaking as the pleasure builds in my bloodstream and between my thighs: “I like it, Daddy, fuck, I like it, it feels so fucking good.”
Her thumb strokes down the back of my neck, sending chills down my spine. I shiver. “Then you’re going to be a good little slut for Daddy and cum like this for her.”
I groan, neck arching into her touch. “Yes, Daddy.”
She lets go of my neck and grips my other hip, guiding me with her strong, steady hand. I grind with her rhythm on the smooth wood, giving over control to her, losing myself in deep moans and whimpers.
It's not quite enough. Need burns my skin; I'm so close, but it's as though my orgasm is behind pressed glass, at hand and yet untouchable.
Fuck. I know why. I know what's missing. I'm going to have to beg Slick for pain like the masochist I am.
And I do.
“Please bite me,” I beg, and my voice sounds so fucked-out and breathy and pathetic even to my own ears. “Please, please, Daddy, I'm right there, I just need to h-hurt -”
I stutter as her weight shifts - she's practically on top of me, pushing me into a particularly deep and hard grind. I try to rip air into my lungs, but her teeth sink into the back of my neck again, harder this time, hard enough that my vision blurs. The ache radiates to my shoulders, my fingertips, my pelvis; her bite is overwhelming, all-encompassing, everything that exists. The only thing that exists.
At least until its radiating ache meets the tension in my core and the rhythm Slick is forcing out of my hips.
Then, everything is lightning, fire, earthquake.
I fall limp and fall apart, surrendering to the sensation, to the pain-gilded pleasure, to the will and wicked hands of the dyke relentlessly slutting me out. My vision whites out, my hearing goes, pleasure throbs in my cunt to the rush of my blood and pulses in my core with every eternal heartbeat.
When I reenter my body, I'm breathing heavy and bleary-eyed. God only knows what kinds of noises I was just making, but my voice is hoarse and low when I thank her: “Thank you, Daddy.”
“So you do have some fucking manners,” Slick muses. I whine under her. I don't know what I’m expecting to hear next, but it's not the question she asks, murmured into my ear so softly it almost startles me.
“You like pain, handsome thing?”
I whimper, seen. Caught. Trapped. Exactly where I want to be. She called me handsome again, I think, dumbly, and then, she called me a thing, and I'm honestly not sure what I like better.
“Hmm? Are you a pathetic little prettyboy painslut?” she taunts me, squeezing my hips. Her voice is warm and teasing, contrasting so sweetly with the filthy things she's saying. The contradiction stutters my thoughts, makes my cunt throb.
Pathetic little prettyboy painslut bounces off every neuron and nerve I've got on the way to my clit. My eyes flutter shut as my mouth (and, realistically, my tragically as-yet-unfucked cunt) answer for me . “Yeah…”
“‘Yeah,’ what?” she prompts, tugging me up off the table by my shirt collar.
God, she's so fucking bossy and so much bigger than me. I love it, crave it, submit to it and to her: “Yeah, I’m a pathetic fucking prettyboy painslut, Daddy.”
She tugs me around to face her, and her brown eyes are dark. Greedy. Gorgeous. I want to give her anything she wants to take; I'll take anything she wants to give.
“That’s right. Just a fucking masochist with a slutty little mouth,” she tells me, tracing my lips with her fingertips.
“God, Daddy, my mouth can get so slutty,” I tell her, hoping she'll fuck those fingers into my mouth again.
Slick raises an eyebrow at me, and I bite my lip, waiting. Wanting. “Is that right? Let's see it then, boytoy.”
I expect her to slip at least a finger into my mouth, but Slick has done nothing but defy my expectations for the last three hours. She gestures to the mess I've left on the wood corner of the billiards table, my cum streaked and beaded up on the battered surface.
"Clean this up."
Panting, I lick my dry lips and get to my knees to obey. It takes me a second - my shorts and jockstrap are still pooled around my ankles - and Slick laughs at my wobbly legs as I drop. The wood is warm with my body heat and I moan with embarrassment and arousal as I taste my own cum, all sweetness and salt.
“Oh, now, that's a good boy,” Slick murmurs, watching me lick my own mess up. “Just like that.” My skull buzzes with her praise.
When she's satisfied, she pulls me away from the table by the shirt collar. I stare up at her with hungry eyes, hoping. Waiting. "Since I'm dry cleaning this anyway…" she muses, and presses me down onto the bar floor. “I think a filthy little whore like you only deserves this filthy little floor.”
“Shut up and fuck me.” It comes out reedy and strained - I'm begging without begging - and I shudder at hearing my own desperation. I can't help it. Slick’s body is warm and heavy on mine, and she grabs my jaw to make me look at her.
“No. You're going to be a good boy and ask nicely,” she tells me, low, inches from my mouth.
If she keeps calling me a good boy I'll do whatever the hell she wants. “Please, please, please, Daddy, fuck my filthy little whore cunt on this nasty floor,” I beg.
“Attaboy,” she tells me, teasing my clit and my entrance with her free hand. She makes me look at her, handsome features still striking even in this low light, as she teases a finger inside me, so slowly, slowly enough that I grit my teeth and cry out in frustrated want. Slick laughs, stroking my jaw as she fucks me torturously slowly. No matter how I beg for more or try vainly to thrust my hips into her touch, she just keeps me pinned and frantic, fucking me like she has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it.
When I am absolutely positive I am going to die of lack of Slick’s strong fingers inside me, she does damn near the only thing that could possibly drive me crazier.
She starts biting me.
Each bite of her teeth in my flesh, each thrust of her fingers inside me, lights a new blaze under my skin. She pushes my cutoff tee up, not bothering to take it off me all the way, and leaves a trail of her teeth marks down my neck, my tits, my stomach. The harsher her bites get, the quicker and harder she fucks me, first with two fingers and then, finally, with three, stretching my needy cunt open for her as she works my clit with her thumb. By the time she's sucking a bruise into my left hip I'm screaming, begging, half-senseless.
When she bites my inner thigh, I throw my head back into the floor so hard I'm lucky I don't get a concussion. I cum, instead, drenching Slick’s fingers and gasping for her.
I’m loose and warm after the aftershocks leaves me, practically a puddle under Slick. By contrast, Slick is taut, tense, every muscle in her body tight like a wire. I'm struck, for a second, by the vulnerability of this moment, by her showing me her need so nakedly and without shame. I would do anything to get her off right now, fit any size cock into my holes, say whatever she wanted. I just want to please her.
I don't know why this, specifically, makes me feel so fucking shy, but it does. I manage to ask her, whispering in her ear so I don't have to look her in the eye, “how can I get you off, Daddy?”
Slick hisses through her teeth. “God. If I had only hard packed.”
The butch cock alarm that lives somewhere in my amygdala starts blaring, and I have to catch my breath for a moment at the series of possible combinations of my holes and Slick’s cock that flit through my brain. “If you don't mind a loaner dick, I, uh, I literally live like five blocks away.”
Slick nips my ear and I gasp, hands grasping at her shirt with the sudden sensation. “Let’s go.”
_____
I'm woken up the next morning (well, early afternoon) by a knocking on my door. I curse, flailing myself up and fumbling for a shirt and some boxers from the pile of clothes off the floor. Who the fuck bothers fine upstanding dykes unannounced on a Saturday?
The other side of the bed’s empty, but it's still warm, and the shower’s running, which kind of surprises me. I thought Slick might be out of here already. I don't mind, though. In fact, I'm glad she stuck around - gives me a chance to slip her my number, if she wants it. I wouldn't mind an encore.
The knocking comes again, and I call out, “Jesus Christ, enough already,” tugging on the oversized shirt I grabbed on my way out of the bedroom and through the kitchen/living room combo.
I peer out the peephole, hoping it's not my shithead landlord trying to pull another unannounced and therefore super illegal inspection. Fucking Mike.
But it is, in fact, not Mike. It's much worse.
Lilah stands there in her familiar black wool overcoat and platinum, perfectly imprecise gay mullet.
Fuck.
I expect a wave of dread and grief. Maybe it'll come later, because right now, I'm just… annoyed. Annoyed and tired. I undo the deadbolt, but don't take the chain off the door.
“What?” I ask, my tone short, clipped, and in an undertone. She seems startled, looks me up and down through the two-inch crack in the door.
“Can I come in, Jessie?” Her voice is soft, and a whisper of amber and patchouli drift through the open door. She wears that scent when -
Oh. Christ. I know this drill. She wants to kiss and make up. Normally this maneuver works, it's why she's doing it, but instead of heartsick and horny, I just feel… empty. Exhausted, maybe.
“Uh, big fucking negatory on that, chief,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder. The shower’s still running. When I turn back, her nose is wrinkled in distaste. She thinks it's embarrassing when I talk like that. Like… myself, I guess. Jesus Christ, what the fuck have I been doing with the last two years of my life? “Like, what the fuck, Lilah. I was dead asleep. Why didn't you call?”
“It’s one PM,” she informs me, surprise and annoyance creasing her brow.
I frown at her, a little aghast and increasingly annoyed. “ And ? Why the fuck are you showing up at my place unannounced at any hour?”
Her forehead softens, and she presses her mouth into a thin line for a moment. I can't tell if she's embarrassed or holding her tongue. “Look, I texted you all last night and I didn't hear anything, I just - I was worried, and I thought I'd check on -”
God. This is too much. I rub my eyes, trying to blink the rest of last night's sleep out of my eyes. “Look, Lilah, you should go. Now.”
She frowns at me, stepping towards the door a little bit and laying a hand on the other side of the frame. “Are you okay?”
Now, that pisses me off. “What, I don't wanna see you and that means something’s wrong? ”
She gives me an exasperated growl and gestures to me, squinting at something. “No, your neck -”
I touch my neck absentmindedly, feeling the tender spots where Slick sunk her teeth into me under my palm. I haven't looked in the mirror yet - I've been a bit busy - but judging by my tender skin and Lilah's comment, I must have a few bruises. “Lilah, please, seriously, go. Like, you, me -” I gesture between the two of us - “ this is not happening again. I mean it. I'm done. And I got shit I have to do today. So please go away.”
“I just want to talk,” she insists, palms open in a display of apparent goodwill. Her volume raises with her insistence, and I glance over my shoulder again. Her tone turns, and she asks me, “Jessie, is someone else in there?” Her voice is edged with something. Shock, maybe. And something else too, I realize when I glance back at her and see the hard set of her jaw: anger, entitlement denied. It's been six fucking months since she broke it off last, and she's pissed off that this time I didn't just wait around languishing in my apartment for her to get bored of the architect or the programmer or whoever she was seeing. Fury prickles my hackles. Where does she get off?
“What part of ‘go the fuck away’ feels like an invitation for more intrusive questions to you?” I snap back, and I take a little less care with my volume than I should.
“Everything okay?” Slick’s pleasant tenor startles me, and I turn around; she's poking her head out of the bathroom, hair still wet with perspiration from the shower.
“Yeah, no, fine, she was just leaving. ”
When I turn back to Lilah, she's silent and brooding in her wool overcoat, eyes moving from Slick to me. She doesn't move for a moment.
Then, without a word, she turns on her heel and sweeps down the hall, leaving a faint cloud of amber and patchouli behind her.
I shut the door, deadbolt it, and lean my forehead against the door for a moment.
“You alright?”
I sigh, taking stock of the sensations in my body. I'm tense at the shoulders and hands, but there's no pit of despair opening in my chest, no wash of shame or regret. I know I did the right thing. And that clarity is how I know for sure I'm done with Lilah, for good this time.
“Yeah, actually, I'm fine, sorry, that was real fucking weird but it's all g-” I turn, and Slick's half out of the bathroom now. My voice fails. She's got a towel wrapped around her waist, another slung across her shoulders and falling over her tits. The maces and swords and axes inked on her arms blend into ivy climbing down her sides, her ribs. The words mens rea are tattooed in large gothic script over her generous stomach, something I missed last night in the predawn half-light while I was clawing her back up. This butch just keeps getting hotter.
She grins, watching my gaze. “See something you like?”
I cross to her, unfortunate ex encounter already halfway forgotten. When I reach her, my fingers ghost over her skin, grazing her stomach tattoo. “What’s this?”
Slick is biting her cheek again. “Legal term. Latin for ‘guilty mind.’”
“Fuckin’ nerd,” I tell her, tugging on the towel wrapped around her waist.
She smirks and steps closer to me. “Well. Kind of a play on words, too, prettyboy.”
“How's that, Slick?” I ask, hand wandering up the ivy on her ribs, and over her lower back.
She winks, tilting my head up to look at her with a hand under my jaw. I swallow, thinking of last night and the pool cue tucked under my chin. “Don't get me wrong, I like the nickname, but - my name’s Rhea.”
“Hi, Rhea,” I reply, feeling like trying my luck. “I'm Jessie. Want an omelet? Some OJ? A blowjob?”
She laughs, long and loud, and I bask in the sound for a moment. “Yes. To all of the above. But - protein first.”
I strut to the kitchen, chest swelled with pride and already a little wet. It's going to be a good afternoon.