From: nogarder@ix.netcom.com(*** )
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Love On The Pool Table (mf, oral)
Date: 25 Feb 1996 17:33:45 GMT

			Love On The Pool Table

	It was mid-June and just after our last final exam. We finally
finished our third year of high school. At sixteen, with summer
simmering, and the adolescent hormones doing their thing, it was
clearly fated.

	We both went to the same parochial school. Unlike most modern
schools, ours separated the boys and girls into different classes with
only a very few exceptions. Other than the times they passed our
classroom on their way to gym, or when we could hang out the windows
to talk (or just watch as they walked by), or the rare co-ed class, we
almost never saw the girls. But we knew every one of them by name, and
they us.

	I was a quiet kind of guy - good in school, getting the As
with little attention or effort - and as horny as any average
teenager. I'd go from crush to crush, rarely having the nerve to
follow through. I was still inexperienced with dating and naive when
it came to girls. I didn't drive - too young. Only thing in my favor
was that I played drums in a band. And we played pretty steadily.
Though I wasn't very outgoing, the band and my grades gave me the
image of a smart, talented, and maybe a little wild, kid.

	That year had the girls in mini-skirts (sigh - remember mini-
skirts?). Since our school was pretty strict, we also had a dress
code. Skirts below the knee. No sleeveless shirts. No jeans. No T-
shirts for the guys. Ask any red-blooded kid what they do when school
pushes too far. "Easy," they'll answer with a smirk, "Rules are made
to be tested, stretched and broken."

	She sat in my math class. Tall, about five nine. Blond, with
long straight hair. Athletic and captain of the girl's junior varsity
b-ball team. Now some say that she was no beauty, what with her
braces, the fading scar from a long-ago fish-hook on her left cheek,
and the flatter-than-flat chest, but to me - well to me, she was
better than Christie Brinkley, Cheryl Tiegs, Cybil Shepherd, and
Raquel Welch all rolled into one.

	The day of the final she walked into class wearing a skirt
that was no longer than Hulk Hogan's WWF championship belt (so much
for the dress code!). It ended about a foot above her knee and hugged
her taut, endless thighs. Her white knee socks looked like they were
painted on her calf. Her blouse was white and you could make out the
faint outline of her bra underneath if you tried. Her hair fell loose
around her neck and shoulders.

	The windows were open and the warm spring breezes blew the
smell of the shore in. The pounding of the pile drivers putting the
foundation of the new boardwalk building hammered in the distance. She
took the desk in front of me to my left, just in my line of view to
Mr. B., our pudgy, balding Trig teacher. Every time I looked up, there
she was. That skirt, short as it was standing up, was even shorter
when she sat down. It would ride up, at times showing the edge of her
panties on her firm bottom. She'd pull at it, give it a tug, but a
minute later, it was hiking up again.

	I rooted for the skirt and definitely had trouble
concentrating on the exam that day.

	When the exam let out, I slowly walked over to the bike rack
at the far end of the lot. As I ambled along I heard someone calling
my name. I turned and, sure enough, it was her. As she caught up to me
she said: "My Mom can't pick me up today so I'm walking home. Can I
walk with you?" I was glad for the company and said so. We picked up
my bike and started the mile walk to her house.

	We talked and joked, generally having a good time. She put me
at ease, and I must have done the same to her. When we came to her
house, she invited me in for a cool drink. Her house smelled very
different than mine, sort of sweet and a little musty. The living room
drapes were drawn and the house was cool and dark.

	"Where's your Mom?" I asked, noting how quiet the house was.

	"Still at work," she replied. "She has a late meeting. Won't
be home `til dinner time." Her Mom worked at a local bank.

	We talked for a while in the kitchen and she offered to show
me the house. The living room was furnished with deeply padded
furniture - a long couch, a wing chair, and a library reaching from
floor to ceiling in a small alcove off the main room. The long drapes
and deep pile carpet made the room feel hushed, like a library. Her
bedrooms was upstairs. It was bright and cheery. She put on a stack
of records and we went to explore the rest of the house. The music
echoed through the stairway as we walked down, first to the main
floor, then to the basement.

	The basement was a real surprise. Smack in the middle was the
biggest, most beautiful pool table I'd ever seen, along with all the
paraphernalia. It looked longer than a Cadillac and heavier than a
tank. It was carved ornately. The felt was perfect. It was gorgeous.

	"Do you play?" she asked.

	"Not much. With a table like this, you must be good."

	"I'm OK," she replied. "Want to play?"

	We played a few games. We kept getting in each other's way as
we set up our shots. It didn't take long `til the touch barriers broke
down and we were tickling and teasing each other. She beat me every
game, but we had such a good time, it didn't matter.

	Later we went upstairs to the living room and looked through
the books in the library. We found an interesting one and stretched
out on the lush deep pile of the carpet. We snuggled close as we
turned the pages, giving each other nudges and tickles, playing games
with our stockinged feet (our shoes kicked off long before).

	As we closed the book, I turned to her and she to me. I leaned
close to her, smelling her unique scent, feeling her hair with my face
and touched my lips to hers. She met my kiss willingly, slid the book
away and stretched out close to me. We intertwined our fingers and
wove our legs together, my upper leg between hers, her upper leg over
me. We pressed together and she felt my hardness against her.

	We were shaking from the excitement. We ran our hands over
each other, exploring all the curves and niches of our shoulders,
backs, bellies, and arms. I felt her bottom and traced out the curve
of her panties. Our lips and noses explored each other's ears, hair,
and neck.

	My fingertips traced swirls on her back. Tenderly they
wandered over the roundness of her full hips, along the hot softness
of her thighs, under her skirt, back up to her hip, and around to her
bottom. I pressed our bodies together tightly, finding her ready mouth
with long deep kisses.

	She nuzzled my ear, darting her tender moist tongue in and
out, in and out. The shivers ran up and down my spine. With a giggle,
she took my earlobe in her teeth, alternately nibbling and sucking.

	I brought my hand down her soft belly, towards her moistness,
still outside her white brushed-cotton panties. She parted her thighs
slightly, directing my hand to its goal. I felt her excitement in the
warm wetness. I traced the crease where her thigh met her mound, the
seams of her panties guiding me, and she began to move with my
touches.

	Her hand moved to the bulge of hardness gathered in my pants.
Down the zipper flap, between my thighs, and back up again her fingers
pressed over and over. I felt the intense heat growing.

	I began to undo her shirt, when she stopped me. "Wait," she
said. I'll be right back," and she gently undid our tangle and bounded
up the steps.

	In a moment she was back with a thick down quilt and a pillow.

	"Come with me," she said lovingly. She took my hand and led me
towards the basement. We walked down with our arms around each other's
waists, stopping every few steps for a hug, a kiss, or an intimate
touch.

	She laid the blanket and pillow on the pool table. I turned
her to face me and with her rear against the edge of the pool table,
we pressed together, our arms eager with anticipation.

	We pressed our groins into each other and moved in slow
circles, reawakening upstair's passion. She buried her face where my
shoulder and neck meet, darting her tongue, kissing every exposed
inch, working her way around my collarbone to the other shoulder. I
gently pulled her blouse from her skirt and reached under it, feeling
her peach-soft belly skin. I began massaging her tight belly, working
around her sides to her back.

	I felt her bra catch and traced along the straps to the sides,
and then to the cup. Her ever-so-small breasts were springy under the
lacy cups. As I placed my palms over them I felt her nipples pressing
through.

	She unbuttoned my shirt, slowly, one button at a time, finally
pulling it from my pants. "Nice chest," she said quietly, giggling as
she kissed my navel.

	I stood her up and with a caress, unbuttoned her blouse. Her
strong shoulders glowed with the excitement. Her belly was firm, with
the broadness of her hips enticing me, disappearing into her skirt.
Her bra hugged her tightly, her pert raisins straining to escape. I
drew her close to my bare, hairless, chest and felt the lace against
me. Her ears were hot next to my neck, our chests rising and falling
in unison.

	As we held each other, I unhooked her bra. We separated for
the barest moment as she removed it, and there was nothing between us.
For a moment I held her close, savoring the sensation, then I bent to
her right breast taking her nipple between my lips. I touched the tip
with the tip of my tongue, just barely touching it, and then not. I
ran my tongue side to side, and I could feel her shake with the
motion. She held me even more tightly, pressing my face into her. I
sucked her erect nipple into my mouth and with a sweet rhythm, gently
pulled on her breast.

	Her hands reached to my zipper, feeling my turgid penis behind
it. By now, my hardness was full, straining, aching. She opened my
belt, pulled on the zipper and my erect penis shot out. She encircled
it with her long, slender fingers, her other hand working into my
pants and between my legs. A growl escaped from deep in my throat with
the anticipation. She loosened her hand, and then she tightened it.
Slowly she moved it up and down my shaft, her other hand taking one
testicle and then the other. She massaged the soft flesh under my
ball-sack.

	"Oh, so close," I muttered. "Stop, or you'll have quite a mess
on your hands," I warned as a drop of clear honey worked it's way from
the tip of my engorged glans. Gently she released me, taking the honey
with her. She touched her finger to her outstretched tongue.

	"Oh, I'll get you for beating me at pool," said I as I turned
her around and reached for her skirt zipper. It slid open smoothly and
she let it drop around her ankles and stepped out of it.

	I stepped out of my pants, my penis restrained against the
elastic of my underwear. I sloughed off my shirt and pitched it over
the score-marker wire.

	As we rejoined, of one mind we reached for each other's
underwear. As I lowered her white brushed cotton panties to below her
knees I caressed her hips and her thigh crease with the backs of my
fingers. She kissed me lightly as she worked mine down my legs. We
kicked them off under the table.

	Our stockinged feet were all that kept us from the cold tile
of that basement floor. The room was slightly chilled and as we came
together, skin touching skin in all the right places, we felt each
other's warmth. I wondered if my shivers were due to the temperature
or the situation.

	She spread her thighs slightly and I put my rod where my
fantasies had longed it to be. She had just a tuft of fine blond hair.
It was flower soft as I rubbed against it when she helped position me
in her crease. Still standing, I felt her lovely juices lubricate my
way. I pressed forward and felt the tip of my love muscle touch her
rear's cheeks. She closed her thighs on me and I worked my pelvic bone
against her mons. Her juices covered me, my shaft against her hooded
clitoris, and I pressed in and out with her around me. At first we
moved together. As our tension built, she began to move in jerks,
spasms, with my sometimes measured, sometimes sudden thrusts. Still
not inside her, our pleasure was indescribable.

	I had to stop. I was so aroused, I was ready to come. I
claimed my tool back, buried my longing mouth against her beckoning
lips, and put my finger on the button. While our tongues darted and
played, she tried to concentrate on my tense back while I did my best
to distract her.

	I was succeeding. I gathered juice on my fingertips and
lightly worked the folds back from her love bud. I touched it gently
and circled it, teasing it, sensing her reactions to my ministrations.
Her breathing quickened. I matched her rhythm with my own. Suddenly I
thrust two fingers deep inside her.

	She let out a gasp and took a deep breath. I worked the back
of her clit, the soft spongy ball in the top ridge of her love canal
with a deep tapping beat. Her breathing grew shallower and became a
panting. Her nails dug into my back and shoulders. I slowed my rhythm
and she moaned. Her heart beat strongly against my chest. I withdrew
my fingers and quickly drove them back into her. Oh, another gasp.
Slowly I withdrew them, tracing them up her slit to her belly and then
up to my waiting tongue.

	Her taste was as honey to a starving man, almost more than one
could bear. To this day her scent remains with me - forever the memory
of sex.