Billiards in Blackpool
Good looking, handsome even, but rugged, a whisper of stubble on his chin and that windswept hair. Young, 23, maybe 24 at a push, but worldly wise with that slight uncertainty of youth. His eyes, bright, watching every move, but not daring to be caught staring at her, flicked from the vision before him, back to the scoreboard.
Slender and youthful, she took her next shot. Giggling as the drink took hold and she miss-cued crunching the ball into the mushrooms. Back to zero, she fell forwards into the table in frustration, her skirt riding higher than before showing the roundness of her cheeks and offering just a glimpse of her engorged pussy.
We’d played all evening, from the moment he walked in to meet us, sharing the bottle of vodka he’d brought with him. Initially he’d not realised the view was for his benefit, too engrossed in learning the rules of this new game, to show of his manly skills and make an impression, but as he saw me look,
