The Cosima Sutra, part 3: Dirty Pool
Damn. Place hasn't changed at all.
Allman Brothers on the jukebox. Vague film of lard over everything. When I breathe in, the back of my throat gets coated with the taste of salt air mixed with the smell of grease traps that haven't been cleaned out since, like, ever. I could swear the waitresses are the same ones who used to take care of my family whenever we'd come here for dinner. Forget health regulations — each of the women has a lit cigarette parked in the corner of her mouth, with a sunburst of wrinkles radiating around the butt and a long tail of ash dangling from the end. The rough wooden trestle tables are full of the regular crowd of fishermen pounding beer and fried catfish/fried clams/fried everything. There's a young couple with two little kids tucked away in a corner and eating quietly without speaking; they look like boating tourists who got lost in the inlets and stumbled over the only commercial establishment for miles.
Delphine takes it all in. Somehow, even though she looks completely out of place, she's still totally comfortable in her skin and rolls with whatever comes along. I fucking love that about her. She watches as the bartender pulls a Killian's draft and slides it over to me without asking. He nods politely at her. "What'll it be, ma'am?"
"Jack and Coke." Her go-to when she knows the wine and whisky selection are going to be less than stellar. "And I would prefer that you didn't call me 'ma'am.'"
Flash of white teeth below the thick brush of a mustache. "You been with her long?" Mike asks me, handing over her drink and giving her an appreciative glance that encompasses her tight white 'beater and the perfect painted-on fit of her faded jeans.
"Not long enough," I say softly. Those big gorgeous eyes meet mine, smiling.
A snort from the big man bursts the moment. "Right. Well, you two behave yourselves, you hear?"
I give him the Bambi look, which startles him for a second and then makes him snort again. "Save that for someone who'll buy it and let you keep the change. You gonna spend any money tonight or are you just gonna decorate the place like you used to?"
"She has a tendency to do both," says Delphine. A smirk lurks around the edges of her mouth.
"Nice to see some brats do grow up. At least now I don't have to pretend to believe that crappy fake ID you used to flash at me." Recovering his manners, or more likely his prudence, he clears his throat and goes back to wiping the spotless varnished teak of the bar top.
An elegantly raised eyebrow looks a question at me. Later, I glare. Aloud I say, "You want to sit down, babe? Or we could shoot some pool for a bit."
Up goes the other brow. "Pool, I guess. You'll have to show me how to play, though."
"No prob. Just gotta think of it as applied physics."
Mike shoves over a box of balls, a cube of chalk and a couple of cues that are only a little warped. Nodding my thanks, I pick up the lot and haul it over to the pool table in the back of the room. It's small but the hardwood rails are polished and the slate looks like it's been recently re-felted; the cushions are sharp and square and look as though they'll bounce true. The stained glass lamp hanging above it proclaims Budweiser to be the king of beers and makes the green surface glow.
I take out a few balls and pick up one of the cues. "Hold the cue near the base like this, and let the other end rest on your left hand." Flattening my hand to make a bridge with the cue balanced in the vee between my thumb and index finger, I show her how to keep the cue steady as I stroke it back and forth. She watches me intently, then copies my movements perfectly. "That's awesome. Okay, the cue ball is the only ball you hit directly. The point of contact varies depending on whether you're trying to put english or spin on it, but right now we're just gonna focus on hitting it dead center. You want a smooth, even, controlled motion." I demonstrate, sending a ball down the table in a straight line to bounce it off the foot cushion so that it rolls to a stop against the tip of my cue.
Delphine nods, still watching my hands. She strokes her cue lightly into a ball, catching it when it returns, then hits it again hard enough to rocket it around off all the cushions.
"Now try using the cue ball to hit another ball."
Catching her lower lip in her teeth, she taps the cue ball to click it against her object ball. She tries a few more shots, varying the force and angles and watching how the balls respond. "Okay, I think I get the concept."
"Cool." Quickly I explain the rules while I rack the balls and position the cue ball behind the headstring. "Wanna break?"
"Break?"
"First shot to start the game."
"Sure, why not?"
I stand behind her, mostly so I can get a good look at her ass as she bends over. A quick heavy snap of her wrist knocks the cue ball into the apex with a loud crack, sending the balls flying. Three balls dive into pockets like gophers running for shelter from a hawk. Moving fluidly around the table, she sinks two more shots in quick succession.
"Very nice, Dr. Cormier," I say, giving her a sarcastic golf clap. "I think I've been hustled."
She looks up at me and makes an obscene gesture with the tip of her tongue. "It's not hustling if I haven't lured you into playing for higher stakes than you can afford, chérie." Making sure I get a good look down her cleavage, she cuts the 7 so that it glides along the rail to drop into the corner pocket; the cue ball kisses off the far cushion and rolls to a stop in perfect position for her to put away the 8 in the opposite corner. "Shall we play for dinner?" she says with a wink.
"You're on, Fast Eddie."
While she racks the balls again, I go over to the jukebox and feed in some quarters. Well, I never been to Spain but I kinda like the music...
When I return, I'm a little annoyed to see that we've been joined by a couple of dude-bros with Miller Light longnecks in hand. They're watching Delphine like hyenas sniffing around an antelope. One of them catches my eye: looks like early twenties, sun-streaked dark blond hair, lean muscular body packed into tight jeans and a sleeveless shirt with the armholes cut low enough to show a glimpse of his ab definition. In ten years his skin will be saddle leather but right now it's the color of buttered caramel; my sensory imagination supplies its warm, supple texture. He leans against the edge of a table, thumbs hooked in his front pockets and fingers framing his crotch in the classic pose of the inveterate horndog.
His friend is perfectly decent looking but his complexion is a disaster area of acne and there's a wide strawberry birthmark across his forehead. He's clearly seen this dance before. "Come on, man, let's eat."
"Nah, you go on, Ricky," the kid says. His gaze never leaves us, appraising, supremely confident in his ability to cut his choice out of the available female population at will. Shrugging in resignation, Ricky parks himself on the edge of a nearby table, arms crossed, a scowl on his face.
A smile that is probably the mirror to mine plays over Delphine's lips. I avoid her eyes, knowing that if I see the amusement sparking in them I will bust out laughing.
Stretching a touch more than necessary, she lifts one foot off the floor and drapes herself along the edge to take a shot down table. "How about a game?" she asks the kid, just to see his eyes snap back to her face. "Eight-ball?"
The faintest color touches his chiseled cheekbones but then the cocksure grin flashes. "A'ight. Loser buys the next round?"
"Very well." She salutes him with her glass and takes a big swallow, then racks the balls again with the 8 in the center, a stripe and a solid in the corners.
"Ladies first," says the kid with what I guess is supposed to be a gallant gesture.
She nods and deliberately mishits so the cue ball just glances off the apex, barely scattering the balls. With a shrug, she drifts over to my side, not far from the table where his friend is slouched.
Practically crowing, the kid whacks the cue ball. Typically, he wastes a lot of energy and motion in a display of power with no strategy or precision, though the 7 does drop as the balls roll to a halt. He winks at us. "Guess I'm solids."
Guess you're a rocket scientist. "Check out that ass," I say to Delphine, pitching my voice so that it's just loud enough for Ricky to hear. All three of us watch as the kid makes a big show of calculating angles and leaves, then sinking his shots with unnecessary force.
"Yes, very nice," she replies in a similar tone, clearly wondering where this is going but following my lead.
"Yep. Firm round bubble butt. Just the kind I like." Ricky grunts, covering by taking a swig from his bottle. "Wouldn't you love to drill your cock into it?"
I pretend not to notice the choking sound from our neighbor. "Oh, yeah," I continue, my eyes never leaving the kid as he struts and preens around the pool table, "when you take that cherry, I bet his asshole is so tight you can feel it vibrate."
"Mmm," says Delphine, picking up on the game. "I do love initiating a straight boy. It's absolutely delicious, the struggle between his sense of revulsion at being violated in that way and the unthinkable realization that it feels too damned good to do anything to stop it. Especially when you finally have him opened enough to take the head of your cock and you feel that beautiful quivering resistance give way. Then you start pumping your hips, just a little, just enough to work the head back and forth so it tugs against the ring."
I swallow hard. Sense-memory is making my thighs rub together of their own volition. "Fuck, yeah. And every time you shift or change direction it's like a ripple goes up his spine, until he's hunching back into you and you know that ass is begging for more."
"Oh, yes. And when you work your way deeper, his cock gets so hard it's almost parallel to his belly. Hot and heavy and pulsing, and so slick with his pre-ejaculate that you don't even need lube. It's even better if he's not circumcised , so you can tug at and twist the skin with each stroke.
"They usually come for the first time when you're about halfway in, right when the head of your cock is pushing against the prostate and the bulb of the corpus spongiosum. You can feel the energy gathering in the clenching of his whole body, the drawing up of his balls. You thrust slow but hard and deep to push him over the edge and the next thing you know, he's dancing on the end of your cock and squeezing you so hard you can't move."
"Eight ball, side pocket," calls the kid triumphantly, whooping as it arrows in with a final click.
Ricky shakes himself from his daze. His face is beet red and there is an impressive bulge tenting his jeans.
Not nearly as impressive as the one in Delphine's jeans, but he doesn't need to know that.
The kid swaggers over, clearly expecting to claim his prize. "Sorry, baby, I guess a gentleman ought to have let you get in a couple shots at least. What the hell's wrong with you?" he asks his friend.
An even deeper flush stains Ricky's craggy face. "Nothing," he mutters, looking away.
Not that the kid notices or cares. "Would you ladies care to join us for dinner?" Mr. Suave waggles an eyebrow. "Or anything else that comes to mind?"
"I'm afraid we have plans," Delphine says softly.
There is a dangerous note in her voice. I look closely at her face. Instantly I am wet and throbbing at the promise I read there.
Still the kid is oblivious. "You waiting for someone? Got boyfriends or something like that?"
Her eyes blaze. "Something like that."
Vaguely I register him spitting out the words "Fucking dykes!" and then he is gone and so is his little friend, but I don't give a shit because I am consumed with welcoming the bruising demands of her mouth, lips, teeth and tongue, with crushing the length of my body against hers, with grinding my sex against the hard insistent jut of her cock until I am lightheaded and panting and absolutely sopping with the need to be filled.
"Goddammit, I want you. Now."
She kisses me again, hard, then releases my mouth with a gasp. Latching on to my throat, she marks me with her teeth, then grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door.
"No, wait, babe. This way." I tow her out the side exit near the kitchen, to the dark area behind the bar where the big dumpster hides us from view of the parking lot and the docks. The air is damp and alive with the sounds of cicadas and frogs, the scents of far-off rotting fish, the clean briny smell of the sea. But then she slams me up against the wall and awareness of anything else goes away.
Laughing breathlessly, I kiss her roughly even as my hands dive for the zip of her fly and yank out her cock. In something less than no time flat she has my skirt hiked up and my underwear looped around one ankle. Hiking my leg and clamping it around her waist, I moan against her lips as she guides the head of her cock into my waiting dripping wanting cunt.
I clutch at her shoulder blades, clawing bluntly through the thin material of her tanktop. My hair is snagging on something but I couldn't care less. I grind to meet her, only to get slammed back by the vicious snapping of her hips that plunges her cock deep inside me. She snakes a hand between us, making me almost fall over when she circles her fingers over my hot, swollen clit. Goading her to fuck me harder, faster, a hoarse stream of obscenities spills from my throat until a rolling thunder of quaking spasms grips me again and again, shuddering around her. A red haze obscures my vision and I am vaguely aware of her choking shout and the eruption of her hips as she comes violently inside me. The savage rutting of her cock into my cunt gradually slows until she is fighting for breath, leaning heavily against me and pinning me to the wall. I'm glad of the support because my legs are pretty much useless right now.
Sweat clings to us, turning clammy in the salt air and soaking through the thin barriers of our clothes. Her tongue flickers lightly in the sensitive area between my neck and jaw.
"Shit, Dr. Cormier," I manage to say hoarsely, feeling my cunt pulsing helplessly around the thick spear of her cock. "I think I like your version of strip pool."