Pool fun

Picture this scene: I had him bent over my pool table like he belonged there, pants crumpled on the floor, the green felt cool beneath his bare hips. I rolled a perfectly round billiard ball between my palm and that warm little hole, coating it in thick lube until it glistened. With a lazy grin I pushed. The ball popped in easily at first, vanishing up that greedy ass one slick inch at a time, until his rim clenched down around it, shiny, flushed, keeping everything snug inside. I pressed another slick ball against him. Same steady pressure, same delicious pop as he took it. Two now, snug and shifting. He grunted and wiggled, feeling them clack softly deep in his belly. Number three—still easier than it should have been, but the stretch grew into a slow burn. Number four dragged, stretching his hole wide, the pressure huge, obscene. By the fifth he was biting the rail, muscles twitching, hole glistening like a porn star's, stuffed tight and quivering. I could see his body strain with every breath, yet he begged for the rest. Six inches of hard cue, wrapped in velvet-soft skin, slid in next, fucking the balls deeper, scattering them, making them grind together inside him in perfect little collisions. Each nudge sent sparks up his spine, and he cursed beautifully, drooling on polished wood. I pulled the cue back, balls rattling inside, rim clenching hungrily for more. He ground back against nothing, addicted to that heavy, loaded sensation, while I lined him up for another rack.