Behind the Eight Ball

Every Saturday I go to the pool hall to watch the men at play. When I find someone intriguing, I engage him by challenging him to a game of pool. You can tell a lot about a man from how he plays pool. The way he holds his stick. The way he watches the table, circling around, looking for the best shot. How he plays against another man, as opposed to against a woman. If he likes to show off. Whether he just wants to win, or if he truly enjoys the game. If they don’t enjoy the game, I won’t waste my time. 


I had been watching him for a while. He was a well-built man with broad shoulders, just the way I like them. He looked so manly, so in control, but I could sense the deep desire in him, the need to abdicate control and have someone else take over. I had played many games with this particular man—interviewing him, in a sense, to see if he really wanted what I could teach him.


This was to be the night; I invited him to join me for an evening he would never forget.   


In the car, I blindfolded him. I drove around for over an hour, going fast, slowing down, making hard turns, stopping abruptly, and finally swerving as if we were going down a long driveway. You see, I truly enjoy the game. I pulled up to our destination and told my bitch to stay put; someone would be back for him. I laughed as I let him sit there, seeing him squirm. I walked over to the car door and opened it. He could hear the soft clicking of heels. I grabbed his hand roughly with my leather gloves. I told him to get out, and I slowly walked him into the house. 


I had him stand in my entryway. “Take all your clothes off,” I directed in a neutral tone. He started to protest, and I quickly slapped his face, putting a little English on it. “Once again: take your clothes off, now!” Shivering, he complied. I grabbed him by the balls with my gloved hand and led him over to a chair. I told him to sit. Then I gently kissed his neck and whispered to him, “You are mine.” I tied his hands to the arms of the chair and strapped his shins to its stout wooden legs before removing his blindfold. 


I sat on a bench about ten feet from him. Slowly I parted my legs, running my fingers inside my wet pussy, showing him how damp it was. I approached him and put my fingers to his lips. He sucked on them, excited by the taste of me. I walked away laughing and said, “Wait for me”—as if he had any choice. I left the room; it must have seemed an eternity to him.


I returned with a black satin ribbon. I rubbed it against his cheek then let it fall between his legs. Looking right into his eyes, I peeled my gloves off slowly, as if I were doing a striptease. I have beautiful hands, and I’m good with them. Then I slapped him hard across his face. He let out a whimper, and I smacked him again. I loved seeing the red handprint bloom across his face. I enjoyed seeing his dick rise even more.  


I dropped to my knees, blowing warm air onto his sac, before winding the ribbon tightly around his balls. His cock grew very hard, and I slapped it, watching as it grew harder still. I trailed my fingernails up his chest, reaching the nape of his neck, where I grabbed at his hair, pulling his head back. He winced. What a little protester!  I like them this way, with a tear coming out of the side of the eye. I laughed as I kissed the tear away, let go of his head, and struck him across the face again. “I have a special toy just for you,” I murmured, letting him feel my breath against his ear.


I retrieved my cat-o’-nine-tails, which could certainly tell more than nine tales. I stood before him, running the thongs across his chest before waling into him. Oh, how I loved his little sissy cry. I brought my red stiletto to his scrotum, digging the tip of the heel into his wrapped balls. When I grew tired of this, I removed my pleated miniskirt. He flushed when he spied the strap-on and began shaking his head no. I slapped his face again and shoved my cock into his mouth. I grabbed the back of his head and pressed deeper into his throat. Loving to see those sweet tears fall, I pulled it away. I then freed his arms, only to retie them behind his back. I released his legs and guided him over to my leather ottoman, positioning him stomach down, securing his spread legs.   


I then began smacking his tempting ass with my hand: oh, there's that red handprint again. He was crying, moaning, complaining that his balls were tied too tightly. I reached down and grabbed his balls, saying, “I’m really going to give you something to cry about.” I prodded the tip of my strap-on against his asshole, as if feeling for the aim spot on the cue ball. I had just been fucking with him before; now I was going to fuck him. 


And I was brutal to his little ass, spurred on by his groans. I withdrew my cock and spanked him hard until he began pleading for more, more, more. Laughing, I brought the dildo to his mouth. He begged me not to make him lick it, but I insisted. Plunging it back into his bottom, I reached around and felt his hardness. I must have miscalculated, because he climaxed right away. I chastised him and made him lick his cum off my hands. He was sweating and panting. So cute! I could see in his eyes how much he loved it, even though he was pretending to be humiliated. 


I allowed him to get dressed before blindfolding him and driving him back. We came to a stop in the parking lot of the pool hall, and I removed his blindfold. I was amused by the look of relief that swept over his face as he registered the familiar territory. “Good game. Good night,” I said. Even so, he hesitated to get out of the car, apparently seized by a spasm of male separation anxiety. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I’ll be putting you behind the eight ball again real soon.”


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