Brittany S. Hall Runs the Corner Table and the Back Room
The pool hall had two lights that actually worked and a jukebox stuck on the same short rotation, but the music wasn't what held the room. Every eye sat on the corner table, where Brittany S. Hall had just cleared six balls without so much as a blink. A cut-off denim vest hung open over a black tank top stretched to its limit, and her low-rise jeans rode so low on her hips that the band of her panties showed whenever she bent across the cue. Her hair was knotted up messy and dark, and a streak of blue chalk sat on her jaw like she'd forgotten it was there. She never glanced at the crowd. She circled the table, slid the cue through her fingers, and sank balls with the flat boredom of someone stubbing out cigarettes. When the last one dropped she straightened, found me — not past me, me — and tipped her chin at the back. No smile. No question. The entire room read it anyway.
How Brittany S. Hall Takes a Table
The back room was barely deserving of the name — a closet with a folding table, a mop bucket, and a door that hung loose in its frame. She shut it with her heel and stood there, arms folded, working the inside of her cheek between her teeth. Close up she carried chalk dust, flat beer, and something sweeter and sharper beneath it. "You been staring at my ass all night," she said. "You gonna do something with it, or just stand there breathing?" I hooked a hand in her back pocket and drew her in; she came without resistance, mouth already open before mine arrived. She kissed the way she shot pool — quick, hard, no wasted motion. Her tongue pushed into my mouth while her fingers went after my belt, and once she had it open she shoved a hand straight down my jeans and closed it around my cock. "There he is," she said into my teeth, and squeezed.
The Bet Behind a Door That Won't Latch
My jeans landed around my knees and she dropped into a squat, thighs wide, denim pulling tight. No teasing — she spat, smeared it with her thumb, and took me to the root in a single swallow, and I had to plant a palm on the folding table to stay upright. Her mouth was hot and messy and utterly certain of itself, pulling off slow to drag her tongue up the vein, then driving back down until her nose pressed skin. Chalk from her fingers dusted my hip. She hummed, and it traveled the length of my spine. When she surfaced there was spit strung off her lip and she wiped it with her wrist. "Don't you dare come yet," she said. "I ain't finished being looked at." She rose, shucked the vest, and peeled the tank over her head. No bra. Her tits sat high and heavy, nipples already dark and hard, and she watched my face while I took them in, chin lifted like she was keeping score. I got both hands on her and she let a breath out through her nose that was nearly a laugh. "Yeah," she said. "That's what I thought."
What Brittany S. Hall Does With a Folding Table
She turned, planted both hands on the table, and shoved her jeans and panties to her knees in one motion. Her ass was round and pale, the backs of her thighs still creased from denim, and she looked back over her shoulder. "Well?" she said. "Don't make me ask twice." Two fingers through her first — soaked, slick down her inner thighs — and she dropped her head with a low, dirty groan, pushing back into my hand. Then I lined up and sank in, and she took the whole of it with her knuckles bleaching on the table edge. The legs screeched across the concrete. She liked that. She rocked back to meet me and the mop bucket rattled with every slap of our hips. "Harder," she said. "Come on — I ain't made of glass." So I gave it harder, one fist in her hair, the other spread across her hip, the closet stinking of sweat and beer and old squeaking wood. She talked the whole time, filth mostly, my name once, a run of nonsense that meant nothing but keep going. When she came she went silent first, then loud, one long shuddering moan into the table, clenching so hard I saw spots. Three more strokes and I buried it, hips stuttering, holding her in place until I was empty.
After Last Call, Brittany S. Hall Racks Them Again
We stood there breathing, jeans at our ankles, jukebox leaking under the door. She reached back and patted my thigh twice, flat, the way you'd praise a dog for a trick. "Alright," she said. "Grab me a towel — there's a stack by the mop." She pulled her jeans up without cleaning off properly, snapped the waistband, and repaired her hair in the cracked mirror over the bucket like nothing had happened. Then she dug a crumpled pack from her vest, set a cigarette between her lips, and looked at me across the flame. "You play pool?" she asked. "Because I'm here every Thursday, and I get bored." She didn't wait for an answer. She pushed the door wide, walked back into the noise, and started racking.
And what do you wear to a place like that? Nothing you care about. Jeans, boots, a shirt that can eat chalk dust. She'll clock the boots before the shirt, every time.
