Cassidy Freeman: Last Call and a Pool Table Hookup

Cassidy Freeman Kills the Neon

The rain beat against the tin roof like it wanted the whole building to fold, and Cassidy Freeman let it set the tempo for a night already sliding toward dirty. The jukebox was grinding through a scuffed blues record, but the storm mostly buried it. With a lazy flick, Cassidy shut off the neon and the dive bar sank into a smoky orange gloom, lit only by the pool lamps and the cooler rattling in the corner. Her chin was dipped, her eyes lifted, and that smirk on her mouth told me she had already mapped the ending and I was just close enough to get caught in it. Her tank top clung damp at the neck from lugging kegs, black ink twisted up one forearm, and she racked the balls with deliberate slowness, inviting me to stare at her hands. "You gonna drip on my floor," she asked, "or are you gonna break?"

Chalk, Denim, and Cassidy Freeman's Bad Intentions

I broke. The cue ball slammed into the rack and sent the balls skittering ugly, and Cassidy gave a low laugh that landed somewhere below my belt. She never waited for her turn. She walked the table with a loose-hipped swagger, palm skimming the rail, and when she bent to line up her shot, the cut-off denim climbed high enough to show the pale curve of her ass and the black band of her panties. The whole bar smelled of spilled beer, chalk dust, and her—cheap coconut shampoo, sweat, and a warmer note underneath. She dropped the eight by mistake, swore at it, then wiped the felt clear with one flat sweep of her hand. "Fuck it," she said, and pushed herself up onto the table, boots hanging, one finger curling to call me over. "Get here. This is better than a bed anyway."

I stepped between her knees and she caught my shirt, dragged me in, and kissed me like she was collecting a debt—teeth first, tongue after, her fist twisted in my hair hard enough to sting. She tasted of tequila and mint gum. Her thighs locked around my hips and she rocked up into me through two layers of denim, and I could feel the furnace of her, the damp heat soaking through. "Don't get precious," she muttered against my mouth. "I hate precious." So I pushed a hand under her tank top and palmed her breast through the bra, rubbing my thumb over the stiff point of her nipple until she hissed and caught my lower lip in her teeth. Rain kept pounding. The cooler kicked on behind us with a heavy clunk.

Bent Over the Felt

She shoved her shorts and panties down without fuss, kicked them free of one boot, and stretched back on the green felt with her knees raised and her cunt bare under the lamp—wet, pink, blunt about what it wanted. I got my jeans down around my thighs and she grabbed my cock before I had a grip on myself, gave it two unhurried pulls with her thumb dragging through the slick at the tip, and said, "Yeah. That's it. Put it in." The first push went home easy and she grunted, spine bowing, fingers clawing at the rail behind her head. The table complained with every move. She dug a boot heel into the small of my back and pulled me deeper, and I fucked her slow at first, watching her face twist and her mouth fall open, then harder when she began to meet me thrust for thrust, skin slapping loud in the empty room.

"Harder—fuck, come on, harder," she forced out between her teeth, so I gave it to her. One hand braced on the felt beside her head, the other clamped on her hip, and the pool table shuffled sideways an inch with every drive. Her tits bounced beneath the tank top, her necklace jumped at her throat, and she slipped a hand between us and rubbed her clit fast and messy, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. She came in a long shudder with a streak of filthy words that would have made the jukebox blush, her cunt clamping around me like a fist, and I lasted about three more strokes before pulling out and finishing across her belly and the hem of her tank top. She lay there breathing hard and laughing, one arm thrown over her eyes. "Well," she said. "Guess you can break after all."

Cassidy Freeman, Still Calling Shots

The rain had softened to a steady hiss against the tin. Cassidy stayed sprawled on the felt a moment longer, one boot propped on the rail, her belly still rising and falling. Then she sat up, wiped a smear from her stomach with the side of her hand, and pulled her tank top down like nothing had happened. Her ink looked darker in the low lamp, her hair a wreck, and that smirk was already crawling back. She hopped off the table, found her shorts with the toe of her boot, and stepped into them without hurry. "You rack 'em," she said, nodding at the scattered balls, "I'll get the lights." The cooler hummed. The bar still smelled of chalk and beer and her. She had called every shot, on the table and off it, and I was still just lucky to be in the blast radius.