“Roberts,” he corrected me, mid-sentence.
“Excuse me?”
“My name,” he said. “It’s Roberts, not Robert.”
“Oh.” I smiled politely, thinking of the things his tongue could be doing instead of arguing with me. “As I was saying, Roberts,” I started again, putting enough emphasis on the maligned consonant as I could without giving in to outright sarcasm, “I can’t think of a job that a man can do which a woman can’t, but there are plenty of jobs that a woman can do that no man can.”
Roberts was getting flustered, in a cute way. His neck up to the ears had flushed and his casual stream of, “uh, and, like I was, uh, saying,” had progressed to an outright stammer. “There’s all kinds of th-th-uh-th-uh-things that men can do b-be-be-uh-best. There’s teaching and all kinds of, uh, social work, and, uh…”
“And coat checks,” I suggested, “and I’ve never gotten a proper boot shine at a show from a woman. But you’d never want to guy pilot. Or rocket scientist. Right? The last thing we need is a male driver behind the wheel of a multi-billion dollar machine,” I insisted to general agreement and laughter. Roberts pulled down the fringe of his short, white shorts, attracting the eyes he’d hoped to avoid. Stacy caught my eye with a knowing nod. I tried to communicate “back the fuck off” with my eyes, but was unsure if I succeeded.
Roberts’ girlfriend tried to ease the tension, “Now that’s not entirely fair. There are some great male racing drivers. They say guys can focus on one task more intensely than we can.”
“Yeah, focused. That’s what they say about guys,” I chortled. “Dogs are focused too until a steak enters the room.”
The girlfriend, Carley I think (or Charleigh or Karley or somesuch nonsense) was no competition for me, any woman of the table could see. She was just a girl, and a naive one at that. Earlier she told us that Roberts wouldn’t give her his key until she put out for him. Her doughy body and passive attitude would never hold his attention for long. What he needed was a stern hand to encourage his manly nature and punish his womanly pretentions. Carley was only in town for a few weeks and was staying with her aunt, my friend, Stacy, until spring break was over. Stacy had plenty of time to make a move on Roberts, but she would never be brazen enough to attempt it with her husband Tom always around.
With the last few drinks finished and the conversation wound down (with neither sex having been declared superior), we moved the party back to Stacy’s house, where there was a pool table, a pool, and cheaper liquor.
After a drink and maybe another, we convinced the boys into a few games of strip pool. The first game went quickly, with only a couple of socks and Tom’s tie discarded, so we made it more interesting. “Once you miss a shot, you lose clothing for every sank ball until you sink again,” I suggested. For a while only Tom was disrobing, his protuberant belly hanging low over his waistline and then his waistband. When his undies came off, he was hairy and pale, and we allowed him to put them back on. Carly was the next to lose her clothes, sitting pudgy, pale, and sad, overflowing her bar stool in a tightly-packed bra and underwear. It wasn’t until the last few rounds that Roberts started missing. My turn followed his.
“I’m going to make you regret that,” I said devilishly as his solid ball bounced harmlessly off a bumper, not even close to the hole. With my first strike, his shawl came off. Even though the weather was warm, he had retrieved his shawl from the car. “That doesn’t count,” I insisted, but Carly and Stacy shouted me down. “Fine,” I accepted, and promptly sank two balls with my next hit. Off came his necklace (another questionable “clothing item”) and his shirt. Underneath was a pretty unimpressive chest, almost entirely free of hair, with two tiny cherry-drop nipples. As he walked around the table, I could see the flexing and relaxing of tight muscles under his pale skin. His tiny shorts left little to the imagination.
“Give us a twirl,” I shouted. Carly rolled her eyes, but Roberts didn’t look to her for permission, he looked at me. “Pah,” he powerlessly protested, and took a turn, quick and awkward. “Aw, come on,” I insisted, “give us some sugar,” and reluctantly he spun around again, slowly, letting me examine how the ridges of his scrawny lower back gave way to the ass cleft below. His was a small ass, but perky enough to fill in those tight little shorts.
Right on cue, Stacy dropped the straw with which she had been stirring her margarita. It just so happened to roll close to Roberts’ feet. “Sorry,” she said coyly, “could you get that?” Again, the boy looked not to his girlfriend, but to me, at the eyes he could feel burning into his skin. I gave a slight nod. Like a good boy, he bent to his feet, leaving his ass high, those wonderful shorts sliding slightly up, just enough to tantalize without satisfying. I find that a boy in a good pair of shorts can be more interesting than any nude. The suspense has its own allure, I suppose.
When Tom cleared his throat, I realized that it was still my turn. “I could clear this table,” I said, counting one, two, three balls left. “What are you going to lose if I get two more?” I asked. Roberts giggled and shrugged. “All I see are the shorts,” I said. Carly finally lost her patience and demanded, “just take the shot.” Dutifully I sank another ball, sending it speeding clear to the other side of the table before, luck beyond luck, it dropped into a pocket on my side of the table. I let out an evil laugh and Stacy shot me a chiding look. Had it been earlier in the night, or had we had a few fewer drinks, I might have controlled myself, but not tonight. “What ever will you do?” I asked as he dropped the shorts.
This was one of those rare cases where the reality was actually better than fantasy. Beneath his shorts he had a lovely see-through chastity enforcer, pressed tightly against his (maybe a little engorged) cock, a small tuft of pubic hair (although I prefer clean shaven, a cute design can be nice), and the most incredible skin. Most skinny white boys are too pale and their skin becomes translucent, red and blue with veins, but Roberts’ skin was white as porcelain and just as smooth. A little stubble was forming up in the corners of his pubic triangle, but that somehow seemed hot in a rugged kind of way. Almost immediately I wanted more. I started imagining the things I could do, the things he could do for me. To be honest, I imagined that perky white ass sliding down over my fattest purple cock, the look his face would make, the ripple of his muscles as he took my thrusting, the noises that whore mouth would make. The imagination reels. The things I could mold that body into…
Roberts sort-of half-covered his cute little package with one hand, a futile but manish gesture. “It’s still my turn,” I noted, circling the table to the boy’s side. I had worn the correct dress for pool, figuring that the night would end here, as it so often did. Stretching to reach the middle of the table, I knew Roberts was getting a look at my curves in full view of his helpless girlfriend. When I stood up from sinking the shot, a red flush had sprouted in the middle of his chest. “What should we bet this time?” I asked the room. I sat beside Carly on a low bench to implicate her as a co-conspirator. “What else can he bet?” I asked her. Carly eyed her boy like a slab of meat in a butcher. My first suggestion would of course be dares of a humiliating, penetrating nature, but I didn’t want to put our pudgy, young friend off. She hemmed and hawed for a time, eventually standing to examine him from other angles. Finally she asked, “Which pocket are you aiming for?”
Tom returned from the kitchen with fresh drinks for us all. “You’ll want a nip of that. For courage,” I advised Roberts. Only the eight ball remained of my targets, in a somewhat tricky spot, far from the cue. “Far end. Left,” I chose. Carly led Roberts’ to the pocket and delicately (he shied away at first, but she held tight) lifted his little enforcer with his tightly packed, clean-shaven balls over the edge and into the leather pocket. “What if he flinches?” I asked.
Roberts looked flustered and shot his girl a panicked, pleading gaze. “What do you want to do to him?” she asked.
“Ten smacks, does that sound fair?”
I lined up my shot carefully, studying the angle from the cue to the black ball, from the black ball to my pretty pink targets. His cock had shriveled in its cage as if to hide. With a crack I let loose, laying hard into the ball, which hit the eight and sent both barrelling harmlessly around the table, sending the remaining balls into chaos.
“There’s too damn many of your balls on the table,” I complained.
A few short turns later, Roberts asked permission to visit the little boys room. I caught him in the hallway on his way back. Casually I slapped his ass as we passed.
“Hey,” he complained. “Hands to yourself!”
“Oh?” I asked as I grabbed hold of him, slipping my slender fingers along the hard plastic of his enforcer, sliding back behind his balls. I squeezed the package, lightly crushing his man eggs against the hard plastic cock cage. “I can’t touch you? ‘Cause of that girl out there?” I demanded.
“She-she’s-uh, well she’s my girlfriend,” he stammered.
I scoffed. “she’s a silly young thing. Fun for an afternoon, maybe, but she can’t teach you like I can. How old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” he replied, “just.”
The number alone turned me on. I practically licked my lips. I had dated young guys before, but never into the teens. Still in high school, I considered, or just graduated.
“You owe me, you know,” I said.
“What?”
“You owe me for that extra ball I sank. You think that was free?” I traced the ridge of the enforcer with my thumb, exploring his prison. “I want to see your clit uncaged.”
Roberts pulled away a bit but my grasp held him tight. “Please,” he whispered.
“Where’s your key?” I asked.
He looked down at himself, avoiding my gaze. “At home,” he admitted finally.
“Your girly friend doesn’t have it?” I clarified.
“No.”
“Good.” I gave him a little kiss on the shoulder where it met his neck. He stood about a head shorter than me, and when I stooped I knew he could see my black lace bra, about a size too small, working its magic. Now I pulled his little clit, bringing him to his tip-toes. “Does it hurt when I do that?” I asked. He whimpered submissively. “Very good, little kitty. I like you purring for me.” It was true, I was getting wet, warmness heating me from the inside. I wanted to press him flat against the wall and rub up against him, but I restrained myself. “Are you going to be a good boy and leave that tramp?” I asked. My index and middle fingers, wrapped around the back of his balls along the plastic enforcer, strayed backwards and upwards, across the short prickles of his stubbly skin, back to the wrinkly edges of his exposed hole. Already on his tip-toes, he struggled up and away from my touch, but had nowhere to go. I circled his hole with my index and gently probed the tensing muscle. “Have you ever taken a cock? A real woman’s cock?”
He shook his head and turned his face away. With my other hand I took his face and pulled it back to me, staring him down eye-to-eye. “I can make you feel good. How do you feel?”
“Scuh-uh-scared,” he whimpered.
“But a little turned on?”
He nodded.
“Good.”
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