Sally Pressman Takes the Pool Table and the Bet
Sally Pressman shoulders through the door of the Rusty Cue like the deed to the place is folded in her back pocket. Black tank top, nothing underneath, and the cold draft from the swinging door keeps making the cotton go tight across her chest. Her jeans are ripped and sitting low, her boots are scuffed to hell, and her lipstick is that shade of red that looks like she just finished biting somebody. She racks the balls without asking permission, grinds chalk onto the cue like she's honing a blade, then throws the whole room that flat, unimpressed stare that translates to come on, then. I'm parked at the far end of the bar with a beer going warm and a situation in my jeans I haven't bothered to introduce. She drops three in a row, rims out the fourth by a hair, and drapes herself over the felt so her chest spills against the rail. The clown in the trucker cap she's shooting against thinks he has her figured out. He doesn't. She's hustling him, and everyone with working eyes can see it except the man himself.
Sally Pressman Strolls In Like She Owns the Cue
He starts running his mouth about what he'd get up to if she choked. Sally straightens, tucks a dark strand behind her ear, and spells out the terms. He wins, he gets a night. She wins, he covers the tab and keeps his hands where they belong. He agrees before she finishes the sentence, which is his first mistake. She breaks, walks the table all the way down to the eight, then scratches on purpose. The cue ball rolls into the corner and disappears. Trucker cap hollers like he's just hit the lottery. Sally only smiles, lazy and filthy, and says guess I owe you, then. No handshake. Instead she crooks one finger through my belt loop because I happen to be nearest, and says you'll do. My beer is still sweating on the counter when she hauls me toward the back door. Somebody whistles. She throws them the finger without breaking stride.
The Wager Turns Smutty
The alley stinks of rain and old garbage and fryer grease. Sally plants me against the brick, cold enough to bite through my shirt, and kisses me with her entire mouth, tongue and teeth and lipstick smearing everywhere. Her hands skip the small talk and go for my zipper. She fishes me out, wraps her fist around it, gives it two lazy pulls while glancing down like she's checking a watch. I get her jeans unbuttoned and work them down her thighs. No panties. Just bare skin, a neatly trimmed patch, and heat rolling off her like an open oven. She hisses the second my fingers drag through it, already soaked, already slippery. Yeah, she says, right there, don't get cute. I work her clit in tight little circles and her head falls back against the wall, mouth open, chest pushing out. Her hips rock into my hand. She's loud about it. Not performed, not fake, just raw and dirty and bouncing off the dumpster.
Sally Pressman Pins Him to the Brick
She kicks one boot off, then the other, and steps clear of the jeans entirely. Bare-assed in an alley, tank still on, boots abandoned, toes curling on the wet concrete. She grabs me again and drags the head of my cock along her slit. I ask if she's sure. She tells me I'm wasting time. So I lift her. She jumps, legs locking around my waist, back thudding softly into the brick. She reaches down, lines me up, and sinks onto it with a long, shaking breath. Tight. Hot. She clenches around me just to watch my face fall apart. Then I fuck her into the wall, slow at first, deep enough to pull a grunt out of her, then harder. Her heels dig into my ass. Her nails rake my shoulders. The dumpster clatters every time I bury it. She bites my jaw and growls harder, so she gets harder, balls smacking her ass, her tits jolting against my chest.
Off the Wall and Onto the Crate
My legs start to quit, so she taps my shoulder and tells me to put her down. There's a milk crate by the kitchen door. She kicks it upright, shoves me onto it, and mounts up like it's a throne. Her knees bracket my hips. She reaches between us, feeds me back inside, and starts to move. A slow grind first, palms on my shoulders, eyes pinned to mine. Then quicker. Tits in my face. I pull one nipple through the tank and she moans loud enough to set a dog off two blocks away.
She Takes the Top and the Finish
She owns everything about it, the angle, the pace, the depth. Every time I try to push up she flattens me with a palm to the chest. Let me work, she says. So I do. She rides herself on me, hair pasted to her neck, lipstick long gone, face flushed and mean and gorgeous. The pressure coils low and I tell her I'm close. She says don't you dare pull out yet and grinds down harder, clit dragging across my pelvis. Then she shudders, thighs clamping, pussy pulsing in waves, and comes with a broken curse breathed into my mouth. That finishes me. She pulls off just in time, fists my cock, and stripes my load across her stomach and the hem of her tank. She wrings out the last of it, panting, then laughs and swipes a finger through the mess.
