The game of pool at The Dive

The evening had oozed in, sticky and heavy, the city’s pulse still thudding through the humid dusk as I rolled up to The Dive—a low-slung bar on the outskirts where neon buzzed against cracked asphalt. Yesterday’s picnic couple at Willow Creek clung to me—that blonde’s flustered wobble still a warm hum in my gut—and I wasn’t out to top it tonight, not really. The week had been a slow ****, desk walls and droning voices grinding me down, and after claiming that sundress in the grass, I figured I’d earned a cold one, maybe a jukebox riff to shake off the edge. No big hunt—just a detour to let the itch under my ribs stretch its legs. But The Dive was a trap for trouble, its grimy pull too loud to ignore.

I shoved through the door, stale air smacking me—beer, leather, and a faint whiff of something else that reminded me of engine grease, cutting through a Stones lick growling from the jukebox. The place thrummed low: a friendly pack of bikers sprawled at the bar, patched vests and gravelly laughs, their rides gleaming outside through the streaked glass. My boots stuck to the floor as I grabbed a bottle from the bartender—a gray-bearded relic with a squint—and claimed a chipped high-top near the wall, half-shaded by a flickering Bud sign. Then I clocked her—at the pool table in the corner, cue in hand, lit sharp under a bare bulb swaying loose.

In her 20s, she was a stunner in a black tank top that hugged her lean frame, tracing the curve of her waist and the swell of her chest, tan skin slick with a faint sweat glow. Blonde hair fell straight and choppy, brushing her shoulders, a few strands plastered to her neck. Ripped jeans gripped her thighs, frayed at the knees, and scuffed black boots clicked as she sized up the table. Her boyfriend—wiry, patchy beard, whiskey by his side—chalked his cue beside her, smirking. “Your break, Jess—don’t **** again,” he said, voice rough but easy. She flashed a grin, sharp and brassy. “Keep dreaming, asshole—I’m owning you tonight.”

I leaned on my table, bottle cool against my palm, watching her rack the balls—her tank riding up, flashing tan skin above her jeans. She bent for the break, hips cocked, ass jutting as she lined up—crack, the balls split, a stripe dropping clean. “See that?” she said, straightening with a hair toss, green eyes sparking as she strutted to her next shot. That cocky edge, the way she swaggered, lit a fuse—the itch flaring hot, unbidden. I hadn’t rolled in for this, but her attitude begged for a twist, and I wasn’t passing it up. She bent again, cue poised, body taut for the shot—perfect—and I let it rip: Stop.

The bar locked still, sound snuffed cold. Bikers froze mid-roar, beers aloft, one guy’s beard flecked with foam mid-swipe. The jukebox stalled, the bartender’s rag hung limp, and Jess—bent forward, cue lined, ass high—stood pinned, an alluring statue under the bulb’s glare. Her boyfriend’s whiskey tilted, smirk stuck. I set my beer down slow, the clink sharp in the hush, and rolled my neck—easing into the silence, the bar now my sandbox. She’d handed me the play, and I was taking it.

I crossed the floor, boots scuffing the grit, air cool against my arms as I closed in. Up close, she was raw—tan skin shimmering with sweat, lips parted in a frozen smirk, her tank sketching her ribs, bra strap peeking. Blonde strands clung to her neck, and those jeans gripped her ass tight, denim soft at the seams. “Jess, huh?” I murmured, voice low and smug, circling her slow—drinking in her lean thighs, the way her boots braced her stance. “Let’s switch up the game.” Her ass was prime, but I had a dirtier move in mind—something sly to keep her guessing.

I stepped to the bar—grinning as I snagged a mayo packet from a basket by the bikers, the kind you tear for fries, greasy and convenient. “Cheers, fellas,” I said as I walked back to her. I set it by her cue on the table’s edge and hooked her jeans—button popped, zipper eased down slow, peeling them to her thighs. Red thong cut high on her hips, barely there—I tugged it aside, baring her pussy—shaved, pink, warm under the light—and smirked, plotting my mess.

My jeans hit the floor, buckle clanking as my cock sprang free—thick, hard, pulsing with the sight. I ripped the mayo packet open with my teeth, the tangy whiff hitting me as I squeezed a cold dollop into my palm— slick, discreet. I smeared my shaft with it—cool, creamy and absurd—and stepped up, nudging her legs wider with my knee, her frozen boots keeping the stance. I rubbed my cockhead against her slit, teasing her lips apart—mayo slicking the way—and pushed in slow, her heat parting soft, snug as I slid deep, a grunt slipping out. My hands settled light on her hips and I thrust steady, hips rocking, the faint squish of mayo and flesh cutting the quiet.

Her pussy gripped me tight, slick and strange with the makeshift lube, and I kept it smooth—watching her take me, her tank rucked up from the lean, baring the small of her back. Sweat beaded my chest, the bar’s stale air thick around us, and I savored the twist—mayo’s tang weaving with her musk, sharp and wild. I paused deep—breath ragged, heat coiling—and leaned over her, nose brushing her hair, one hand tracing her tank’s edge, feeling her skin where we joined. “Fuck, you’re a riot,” I murmured, holding still—her bent form mine to play, the stillness stretching the buzz—inhaling: cheap perfume, a whiff of leather and whiskey. The rush built slow, and I rocked again—deeper, steady, her walls hugging me tight.

It hit sharp—a hot, thick spill as I came, flooding her, the mayo mixing in a creamy pulse that left me lightheaded. “Game on, champ,” I chuckled, pulling out slow—no streaks, just a hidden mess—and wiped my hands on my jeans, grinning. I eased her thong back, jeans up—zipping her tight, smoothing her tank, resetting her bent over the table, cue poised. I fixed myself—jeans cinched, shirt tugged straight—and strolled back to my table, bottle in hand, settling under the Bud sign: Go.

The bar roared back—Stones wailing, bikers hooting, balls clacking as her shot went wild, cue skittering off the felt. Jess jolted, a sharp “huh” slipping out—straightening fast, wincing as she shifted, one hand brushing her crotch, frowning at the squidgy heat inside. She rubbed her thighs together, a quick squirm she masked with a cough—her grin faltering. “What the fuck,” she muttered, adjusting her stance, shaky. Her boyfriend laughed. “Nice miss, Jess—**** already?” She **** a snort, unsteady. “Yeah, uh—table’s off or something.”

The game wrapped quick—Jess’s shots stayed sloppy, her swagger fraying as she grimaced mid-lean, that filled-up feeling probably nagging her. By the third rack, she threw her cue down, muttering, “Fuck it, you win,” and stalked to the jukebox, hips swaying stiff. I sipped my beer, the buzz humming warm, and waited—her bent over the machine, punching in a song, perfect for round two. Stop.

The bar froze again—bikers mid-cheer, her boyfriend mid-sip, Jess arched over the jukebox, blonde hair spilling. I crossed over, lifted her tank and bra slow—tan tits spilling free, nipples stiff in the cool air—and squeezed mayo onto them, a cold dollop each, smearing it slick. I went to town—sucking hard, licking the creamy tang clean, leaving them damp and swollen—then tugged her bra and top back, resetting her over the machine. Go.

The riff kicked in—she twitched, a gasp slipping out, hands darting to her chest, brushing her tank as she straightened. “Fuck, that’s…” she muttered, tugging at her top, green eyes darting as her nipples poked through, a flush creeping up her neck. She shook it off, stalking back to her boyfriend at the bar, but the squirm stuck—her thighs clenching faint as she perched on a stool, sipping a beer he’d slid her. I grinned, biding my time—then, mid-chat as she laughed at his joke, Stop.

Bar hushed—her mid-laugh, beer raised, him mid-nod. I slipped behind, eased her jeans open and snaked my hand down her thong. I teased her clit with a mayo-slick finger till she swelled—then wiped it dry on a napkin. I pulled her clothes up tight, resumed my spot and, Go.

She jolted, beer sloshing as her laugh choked off—thighs snapping shut, a sharp inhale as she shifted, flustered. “Goddamn, I’m—” she started, trailing off, rubbing her legs together, that squidgy mess now a hot pulse she couldn’t place.

The night wore on, and she unraveled—squirming on her stool, nipples stiff, tan skin flushed as she fidgeted, muttering, Fuck, what’s with me? under her breath. The bikers chuckled at her antsy vibe, oblivious, and her boyfriend raised a brow.

“You good, Jess?”

She nodded, tight-lipped—her insides a twitching, drenched mess, inexplicable heat coiling low.

I kept stopping time to toy with her—nothing major, just enough to keep her on edge, to wind the tension tight and let it simmer.

By last call, she was wrecked—green eyes wild, thighs locked tight, her brassy edge swallowed by restless want. She grabbed his arm, voice husky.

“Let’s go—now.”

Dragging him off the stool, hips swaying hard, she hauled him out, boots stomping through the grime. I snickered into my bottle—empty now, the bar’s haze my playground, her unraveling my spark.

With how riled she was by the end, that guy was in for an interesting night, for sure.

“No need to thank me, pal,” I muttered, smirking as the door banged shut, victory sharp as the neon’s hum.