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Corner Pocket by BCW8

I think the most unbelievable part of this story is that Mark didn’t even tell me what the ticket entailed.  But, there is a lot that is unbelievable here.  You might have a different opinion.

Mark is my best friend.  He got me through my divorce.  He’s filthy rich, and more than a little crazy.  It was just what I needed then.  He also knew most of my secrets, because I tend to talk too much when I drink.

Last week was my birthday.  Mark gave me the ticket then.

“Enjoy!” he said.

It was a simple card, with an address on one side and a stylized drawing of a jaguar on the other.  The cat, not the car.

“Enjoy what?” I said.

“The show,” he said.  “Go there.  Tonight.  Go around nine.  The show will be at ten.”

“Just me?” I said.  “What about you?”

“I’ve been before,” he said.  “I think it’s best experienced as a solo.  And – rent a tuxedo.” 

At times, Mark liked to be mysterious. 

The address was in the Richie Rich part of town, a street with huge oak trees and mansions spaced well apart, with wrought-iron gates across their long driveways.  I checked it three times as I sat there, and finally pressed the buzzer.

“Please show your cat,” a voice crackled back.  Because I was holding the card in my hand, I understood it.  I held it up to the cctv camera by the speaker.  The gate slid noiselessly open.  “Park in back,” the voice said.  “Enjoy.”  That’s what Mark said, I thought.

I was greeted at the door, and my drink order taken, by a smiling young waiter.  I felt like James Fucking Bond but I resisted the urge and ordered a gin and tonic.  He found me again in less than two minutes with my drink.

This house was amazing.  Marble everywhere.  Sweeping staircases and chandeliers.  I wandered through the rooms.  The layout reminded me of a Clue board.  Yes, there was a conservatory.  There were several people there – maybe twenty?  Not a big group, for the size of the house; mostly men, some women.  Everyone dressed to the nines.  We nodded to each other but the mood seemed not to be to start conversations.  One man was the exception to that; the host, I decided.  He stopped me, in the main room next to the grand piano, and greeted me.  I dropped Mark’s name, but he didn’t seem to care.  Glad I was here.

I watched him for a minute after he moved on.  He paused to talk to a young woman who was just entering from the terrace.

Oh my god.  She was stunning.  A semi-wild mane of dark blonde hair, with sun highlights.  Blue eyes.  A brilliant white dress of elegant simplicity that fit her amazing figure perfectly.

He left her.  I had to talk to her.

She was pleasant, but her eyes were distant and she didn’t smile when she shook my hand.

“Rick,” she repeated after me.  “So nice to meet you.  I’m Alison.”

“Have you been here before?” was third on my list of attempted conversation starters.  For the first time, her eyes truly focused on me.

“Your first time,” she said; a statement, not a question.  “You don’t know who I am?”

She wasn’t famous, just gorgeous.  Should I have known her?

“No,” I said.

She smiled then, a little bit.  “I’m part of the show,” she said.  “Excuse me.”   

I watched her take the open curved staircase up and out of sight.  Wow.  And then my line of sight was interrupted by a second astounding beauty sweeping into the room.  She wore some sort of satin micro-dress, and air of arrogant eroticism, and clearly no bra.  Her breasts were about 80% on display in her neckline as she walked – no, strutted – to the staircase.  She stopped for a few seconds to speak to the host, flashing him a wolfish smile.  Also part of the show?  I had to adjust my tux trousers a bit at the thought.  Thank you, Mark.

A few more well-dressed older men and women filtered in.  A pianist sat down at the grand and played for us.  I found myself next to one of the women.  She was a slightly more mature version of the other two, maybe thirty-five to their twenty-five.  Despite my adjustment, her eyes still noticed my crotch as I gazed into her cleavage.  It made her smile, which made me harder.  Fucking vicious cycle. 

I had just opened my mouth to ask her what the show was, when the pianist finished and the host clapped his hands.

“Welcome, everyone,” he boomed.  “Welcome to tonight’s event!  It is a special one. We have Alison and Petra.”

Applause.  Event? I thought.

“If you are a regular here, you know their history,” he continued.  My elbow companion snorted softly.  There was a sudden murmur in the room as the brunette appeared at the top of the staircase.  If I were a cartoon character, my jay would’ve hit my chest and my eyes would’ve bulged from their sockets.  The satin mini-dress was gone.  She started down the stairs, in nothing but her heels and a tiny metallic silver thong.

She paused at the bend in the staircase.

“Our ‘history’ is that I beat the fuck out of that bitch,” she said.  “It’s taken this long for her tits to heal.  Now, she wants a rematch, the stupid cxnt.”

I looked at the woman next to me, in disbelief.  She didn’t seem surprised at all.  She did seem aroused.  Her nipples tented the fabric of her gown.  Her lips were parted, just a little.  Oh my fucking god.

“You’re right about the rematch.”

My head whipped around at the sound of Alison’s voice.  She now stood at the top of the stairs.  Like the brunette, she wore only her heels and white thong.  She started down the stairs.  With a brief backwards look of contempt, Petra descended the rest of the way and waited by the host.  Alison arrived a few moments later.  The two moved to face each other.

The host slipped a hand around the back of each woman’s neck, caressed them, then gripped their hair closed to the back of their heads, pushing them together.  Their bare breasts just brushed.  The crowd hummed, just loud enough to cover my gasp.  My neighbor had closed her fingers around my cock.

“I’m Sara,” she purred.  “You are?”

“Rick,” I managed.

“Stay with me, little boy,” she said.

“Alison,” said the host, his voice harsh now.  “What are the rules?”

“No rules,” she said. Her voice was tight.  “Just to fight, until one is finished.”

“Petra,” he said.  “Which room?”

“The billiard room,” she said, her voice nearly a moan of pleasure.  “This time, I want to fight her in the billiard room.”

I followed Sara, in a daze.  The billiard room was huge.  The table sat in the center, polished dark wood with a triangle of nine-ball in position on the green felt surface.  Cues were in formation like soldiers in a matching rack.  We lined the walls.

Petra entered first, her brown legs flashing.  Her breasts were high and hard but her stride set them swaying to the sexiest rhythm.  Alison followed, and only Petra could possibly overshadow her.  The host was last.  Unlike Clue, there was only one door to the room.  He locked it, and slipped the key into his pocket.

Petra had come around the table to the end farthest from the door; Alison had stopped at the near end.  In unison, they each mounted the table on all fours, facing off again, this time like cats.  With a flick of her hand, Petra scattered the pool balls across the table, one clunked into a pocket.  The way she moved, her back flat but slightly arched, her breasts swaying, her perfect ass perhaps six feet in front of me, all enough to drive me fully hard.  Then there was the amazing blonde across the table.  And Sara, who slipped in front of me and ground her ass into my cock as she leaned back against my chest.

“It was lovely last time,” she whispered.  “Petra is right.  She beat that little blonde slut within an inch of her life.  It was submission rules that night.  Alison submitted, all right.  She begged,”  She reached for my hands, placed them on her waist.   With her shoulders thrown back, her breasts were as nearly on display as those of the two topless women.  “God, it makes me cum hard when the loser begs,” she said.

“You’re not ready, Ali,” Petra said to her opponent.  “You think you are, but you aren’t.  And I’ve had two months to think of all the new ways I can hurt you.”  Her hand closed on one of the balls, and she rapped it hard against the surface.

“Fuck you, Petra,” Alison said.  “This time will be different.”

Petra laughed, and dropped the ball.  On their knees, they clashed.

Shoulders back, they smashed their tits together.  Neither gave an inch.  Their hands found each other, and interlocked fingers.  They pulled apart and slammed together a second time.  Petra rolled her shoulders in sort of a figure eight, a move that dragged her nipples across Alison’s like grappling hooks.  Their arms corded with lean muscle as their hands twisted and bent, but the real fight was chest to chest.

“Fight me,”  Petra spat.  “Fight my tits, whore.  If you dare.  My girls will destroy yours.”  She pumped into the blonde to punctuate those last five syllables, and from where I stood directly behind Petra, I saw their breasts bulge wider than their backs as they flattened together.  I also saw the flicker of pain in Alison’s face.  Sara saw it too, I know, because it made her shiver just a little, with her ass pressed against my cock.

Alison tore her right hand free and hit Petra in the stomach.  Petra grabbed the blonde’s hair and wrenched her to the left.  They fell on their sides, and rolled across the table.  Alison twisted both hands full of Petra’s hair, jerked her head up and slammed it back down on the side rail.  Petra’s temple cracked against the unpadded wood.  Fucking christ.  Alison did it again, this time twisting Petra’s head so that it was her eyebrow that took the impact.

“First blood!” the host crowed. 

Alison flipped Petra back to the center of the table, balls scattering and clicking as their legs swept around.  One jarred off the table and bounced.  A spectator picked it up and rolled it back onto the table.  Alison straddled Petra’s ass and dragged her head back.  The brunette’s spine arched, her tits lifting off the green felt, pointing first straight out and then at the point where the wall met the ceiling as Alison jerked hard.  Petra made a strained, gurgling sound.  She had a small cut in her eyebrow, blood beginning to trickle down the outer corner of her eye and down her cheek.  Holding her hair with one hand, Alison found the cut with her fingernails and dug them in.  Petra screamed, her toes scrabbling against the table as she desperately sought some leverage.  Alison clenched her teeth.  “Fucking cxnt,” she said, and turned that first cut into a gash.  She slammed Petra’s face down into the table and jerked it back up.  The jarring of the table was enough to set the balls in motion, not much, but a little.

The four-ball rolled a few inches, to the edge of the blood spot Petra’s face had just made.  Alison’s grimace turned to a cruel grin, and she slammed Petra’s face down again – this time, into the billiard ball.  It skittered away from the impact, rebounding from side bumper to end bumper.  Petra’s head lay on the table, her dark hair fanned out.

“How’d you like that, bitch?”  Alison said.  She swung off of Petra and dismounted the table, like a graceful lover leaving a bed.  Reaching in, she tugged Petra’s head to the edge, twisting her onto her back, dragging her until her shoulders cleared, her arms falling limply down the side of the table, her head lolling, her brown hair cascading nearly to the floor.  Petra was conscious, but dazed.  Her eye was a fucking mess.  Her tits sat there like twin lambs on an altar, ready for sacrifice.  Alison was the high priestess, and she sank her nails into them like ritual knives stabbing deep.

This sudden agony jerked Petra back to reality, but her reality was helpless torture.  Alison dug in for all she was worth, and I could only imagine what Petra must have done to her before to have inspired revenge like this.  “Thumbnails,” Sara whispered, and I saw Alison had stabbed her thumbs to the joint and beyond into Petra’s brown nipples.  The mansions here were far apart, and closed tight.  Anywhere else, someone would have heard the insane screams that burst from Petra’s throat.

Petra did the only thing she could do.  She threw her long legs up and jack-knifed off the table.  Alison tried to hold her but Petra’s weight tore her nails loose.  Petra landed in a heap on the floor, scarlet slashes in her breasts, and rolled away under the table, sobbing.

“Come out, come out!”  Alison sang.  In a few seconds, Petra rolled out, across the table.

Alison lifted one leg, extending it down the table rail, then drew her knee in and lifted herself back on to the table.  “You were lucky last time, whore,”  she said.  “Come on.  Let’s play some more.”  She picked up one ball, and rolled another slowly across the table to Petra.

Petra was no coward.  Her head slightly turned to keep her good eye more centered, she mounted the table again too, her hand closing around the ball.  “It wasn’t luck that made you say ‘please no more please,’” she said.  Sara moaned softly at those words.

They clashed again, slamming the hard billiard balls into each other.  Alison landed two brutal shots into Petra’s ribs but then lost her ball when Petra smashed hers into the blonde’s mouth.  Alison’s ball bounced to the floor, and again was replaced on the table by one of my fellow watchers.

Petra hammered a wild swing across Alison’s face, then a lashing backhand.  Blonde hair whipped right then left.  Blood spattered across the emerald felt.  Alison’s knees were set wide, but her crotch was still maybe eight inches above the table top.  Enough room for Petra to pound her rock into the front panel of Ali’s white thong.  The sound that made, was indescribable.  Alison collapsed, her cheek on the side rail, her hair dangling down the table side.

Petra rested a minute, getting her own rasping breathing under some semblance of control.  She wiped blood from her eye and smeared it on Alison’s sweaty tits, like war paint, and swung off of the table.  She took her time choosing a cue.

Shoulders back, they smashed their tits together.  Neither gave an inch.  Their hands found each other, and interlocked fingers.  They pulled apart and slammed together a second time.  Petra rolled her shoulders in sort of a figure eight, a move that dragged her nipples across Alison’s like grappling hooks.  Their arms corded with lean muscle as their hands twisted and bent, but the real fight was chest to chest.

“Fight me,”  Petra spat.  “Fight my tits, whore.  If you dare.  My girls will destroy yours.”  She pumped into the blonde to punctuate those last five syllables, and from where I stood directly behind Petra, I saw their breasts bulge wider than their backs as they flattened together.  I also saw the flicker of pain in Alison’s face.  Sara saw it too, I know, because it made her shiver just a little, with her ass pressed against my cock.

Alison tore her right hand free and hit Petra in the stomach.  Petra grabbed the blonde’s hair and wrenched her to the left.  They fell on their sides, and rolled across the table.  Alison twisted both hands full of Petra’s hair, jerked her head up and slammed it back down on the side rail.  Petra’s temple cracked against the unpadded wood.  Fucking christ.  Alison did it again, this time twisting Petra’s head so that it was her eyebrow that took the impact.

“First blood!” the host crowed. 

Alison flipped Petra back to the center of the table, balls scattering and clicking as their legs swept around.  One jarred off the table and bounced.  A spectator picked it up and rolled it back onto the table.  Alison straddled Petra’s ass and dragged her head back.  The brunette’s spine arched, her tits lifting off the green felt, pointing first straight out and then at the point where the wall met the ceiling as Alison jerked hard.  Petra made a strained, gurgling sound.  She had a small cut in her eyebrow, blood beginning to trickle down the outer corner of her eye and down her cheek.  Holding her hair with one hand, Alison found the cut with her fingernails and dug them in.  Petra screamed, her toes scrabbling against the table as she desperately sought some leverage.  Alison clenched her teeth.  “Fucking cxnt,” she said, and turned that first cut into a gash.  She slammed Petra’s face down into the table and jerked it back up.  The jarring of the table was enough to set the balls in motion, not much, but a little.

The four-ball rolled a few inches, to the edge of the blood spot Petra’s face had just made.  Alison’s grimace turned to a cruel grin, and she slammed Petra’s face down again – this time, into the billiard ball.  It skittered away from the impact, rebounding from side bumper to end bumper.  Petra’s head lay on the table, her dark hair fanned out.

“How’d you like that, bitch?”  Alison said.  She swung off of Petra and dismounted the table, like a graceful lover leaving a bed.  Reaching in, she tugged Petra’s head to the edge, twisting her onto her back, dragging her until her shoulders cleared, her arms falling limply down the side of the table, her head lolling, her brown hair cascading nearly to the floor.  Petra was conscious, but dazed.  Her eye was a fucking mess.  Her tits sat there like twin lambs on an altar, ready for sacrifice.  Alison was the high priestess, and she sank her nails into them like ritual knives stabbing deep.

This sudden agony jerked Petra back to reality, but her reality was helpless torture.  Alison dug in for all she was worth, and I could only imagine what Petra must have done to her before to have inspired revenge like this.  “Thumbnails,” Sara whispered, and I saw Alison had stabbed her thumbs to the joint and beyond into Petra’s brown nipples.  The mansions here were far apart, and closed tight.  Anywhere else, someone would have heard the insane screams that burst from Petra’s throat.

Petra did the only thing she could do.  She threw her long legs up and jack-knifed off the table.  Alison tried to hold her but Petra’s weight tore her nails loose.  Petra landed in a heap on the floor, scarlet slashes in her breasts, and rolled away under the table, sobbing.

“Come out, come out!”  Alison sang.  In a few seconds, Petra rolled out, across the table.

Alison lifted one leg, extending it down the table rail, then drew her knee in and lifted herself back on to the table.  “You were lucky last time, whore,”  she said.  “Come on.  Let’s play some more.”  She picked up one ball, and rolled another slowly across the table to Petra.

Petra was no coward.  Her head slightly turned to keep her good eye more centered, she mounted the table again too, her hand closing around the ball.  “It wasn’t luck that made you say ‘please no more please,’” she said.  Sara moaned softly at those words.

They clashed again, slamming the hard billiard balls into each other.  Alison landed two brutal shots into Petra’s ribs but then lost her ball when Petra smashed hers into the blonde’s mouth.  Alison’s ball bounced to the floor, and again was replaced on the table by one of my fellow watchers.

Petra hammered a wild swing across Alison’s face, then a lashing backhand.  Blonde hair whipped right then left.  Blood spattered across the emerald felt.  Alison’s knees were set wide, but her crotch was still maybe eight inches above the table top.  Enough room for Petra to pound her rock into the front panel of Ali’s white thong.  The sound that made, was indescribable.  Alison collapsed, her cheek on the side rail, her hair dangling down the table side.

Petra rested a minute, getting her own rasping breathing under some semblance of control.  She wiped blood from her eye and smeared it on Alison’s sweaty tits, like war paint, and swung off of the table.  She took her time choosing a cue.

“This is not a death fight, Alison,” the host’s voice boomed.  He was just pulling his cock out of the redhead’s mouth.  She grinned, letting cum and saliva drip from her chin across her bared breasts.  Was she looking at me?  Or Sara?  Sara’s fingers tightened on my cock. 

“Alison!” the host repeated.

“Fuck!” screamed the blonde in frustration, but she obeyed.  She lifted the cue from Petra’s throat.  The brunette sucked in air but only for a second because Alison slammed the cue back down still in her two-handed grip, and this time right across Petra’s eyes.  Petra’s whole body jerked.

Alison straightened up.  She grabbed Petra’s thong strap at her right hip and flipped her hips over.  Petra’s upper body followed, rolling over to face the table.  Alison pinned her there with a leg.  Petra’s slashed-up tits rested on the uncushioned wood of the table edge.

Every person in the room saw what was coming.

“Payback time, bitch,” Alison said, and brought the cue down.

She started at Petra’s chest wall, at the roots of her breasts, and crushed them.  The cue moved out with glacial slowness, like a thin steamroller.  The wave of titflesh being pushed ahead of it bulged dramatically, Petra’s small brown nipples rode, unnaturally hard and thick, at its crest.  Petra started to scream when the cue crossed the center of her breasts, a continuous, blood-curdling shriek of pure agony.

I think we were all holding our breath.  When the two streams of thin bloody fluid burst from Petra’s nipples, spurting out across the green felt, we let it out in a collective gasp.  Alison finished with a flourish, lingering with the cue rolling back and forth on just the distended nipples of her enemy, until Petra’s scream broke off in a strangled, desperate sound.  Alison flipped the cue away and lifted Petra onto the table by her thong.  The brunette rolled once, to her back.  Her ruined tits, once so high and hard, sagged to her armpits, purple and swelling at an alarming rate, nipples still dribbling.

“That’s for what you did to my tits last time,” Alison said to Petra, wincing at the pain in her bloodied pussy as she crawled back onto the table as well.  “No submission rules tonight, bitch, but feel free to beg for mercy, if it makes you feel better.”

Unbelievably, Petra was still conscious.  Her words were punctuated by sobbing gasps, but she still answered.

“I . . . . would never . . . submit to you,” she said.

“Break her, Ali!”  it was the redhead across the room.  Sara’s body tensed.  “She’ll submit if you hurt her enough!

Alison looked at her.  Petra’s hand whipped up with the eight-ball, and broke Alison’s jaw.  No need for an x-ray; it was clear from the sound alone.

“We never submit,” Sara said.  Her voice was smooth as satin, loud enough for everyone to hear but no louder.

I’d like to be able to tell you that there was redemption in this story for Alison; that win or lose, she at least regained her pride.  Sorry.  She regained nothing.  And for the purposes of storytelling, I can just say that Petra beat her into an unrecognizable piece of meat.  Blood-soaked green felt turns black.

They carried Alison out first.  Petra insisted on walking; she wobbled badly but she made it.  We filed out, a group of dazed catfight aficionados, like emerging from a violent dream.  Sara and I were the last to exit.  Instead of following the crowd, Sara pushed through the door across the hall.  The library, of course.  She’d stripped before the door clicked shut.  She turned to me and pushed down my trousers and lifted herself onto me, her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, my hands under her ass.

She came with my first thrust.  I know it wasn’t me.  I was just a handy tool.  She came a second time a minute later.  Only the fact that I’d already blown a load maybe twenty minutes before kept me going.  Her pussy was milking me.  She shuddered hard with her third orgasm, her thighs crushing my waist.  That one finished me too.  I emptied my balls into her, her back slapping against the door.  The whole thing lasted less than five minutes.

She licked me clean and got dressed again, without a word, but with a wicked smile.  When she opened the door to leave, the redhead was waiting there, in the hall.  Her hand shot out like a cobra striking, her fingers closed on Sara’s throat.  She ripped her free fist into Sara’s belly, quick, hard, digging gut punches.  A minute before, I was thrusting into her against one side of the door; now the redhead was pounding her in a different but almost equally intimate way.  Still choking Sara, she tore open her neckline and dug her breast out of her bra, squeezing it hard.

“Never say never,” she hissed.  She twisted Sara’s nipple.  “It’s just a matter of hurting you enough, Sara.”

She turned and left.  Sara leaned against the door, breathing hard.  After a minute, she fixed her dress and straightened up.

“Who the fuck is she?”  I asked.

Sara sighed, and her wicked smile slipped in a little, once more.  “I have a complicated family,” she said.

The End

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