Which Jack delivers?
The bowls club room smells of carpet deodoriser and used tea bags.
I'm perched on a vinyl window seat on the second floor, knees drawn up, rolling a watermelon lollipop against my tongue while I watch the green below.
The bowl itself is absurdly flat, ghastly over green, totally boring.
Auntie Janey's down there in her white uniform, all concentration and competitive simmer, chasing that little white ball like it owes her money. Probably does; she likes a flutter on the side.
Nineteen. I should be at the beach. I should be anywhere but here, babysitting my fifty-three-year-old aunt through her midlife crisis hobby because: " Sweetie, there was a stupid row of shopping trolleys. Ellie, please, just until the BMW's fixed."
Three weeks as an on-call chauffeur in my cute but rusty Toyota.
The lollipop clicks against my teeth.
"Bored, sweetheart," I hear behind me.
Yellow work vest, heavy paunch, balding, a smudge of green on his thumb.
The groundskeeper.
Janey's rambling in the car; I think she mentioned Jack.
My eyes assess a decent bulge in his pants.
His perky, alert, needy tits under a tight pink T-shirt.
Camel toe tight, cut-off denim shorts.
"You offering something better to suck," as I pop out my lolly and leave my lips glistening in a perfect cock sucking O.
He over by me, two fingers raised.
I let him have my mouth.
My lollipop sticks tacky to the nearest vinyl table.
He knows inside cheek pressure, tongue massage and dirty, effective gob widening.
Our tongues dance fast. Think rap— he SpongeBob's my mouth. Our tips bounce and swipe each other's, side to side. Popping and Locking: lusty, lush muscles synced, in very fast beats.
That insta wet myth leaves my sexual memory.
I'm dripping through my folds.
Well, I'm through his zip and the old dude is packing serious beef.
Through the opening of his shorts—thick, flushed, only half-hard and a genuine trouser snake.
I'm on my knees.
Nearly prayerful.
This is the kind of monster a girl prays for: the legendary eight and change.
Okay, I stare at it.
The vein running along the underside, the way his foreskin shifts as he gives himself a single lazy stroke.
My mouth waters, a physical response I can't control, the ghost of sugar still on my tongue replaced by the sudden craving for salt, for weight, for the ache of stretch.
I need my cake-hole filled.
I slurp like he's an oversized popsicle.
Well, he is.
I take him deep immediately, no teasing, no pretence, my lips stretched around his girth and my tongue flattening against that vein I noticed.
He groans, a sound that starts in his chest and breaks rough against the air conditioning hum, and his free hand comes to the back of my head—not pushing, just holding, his fingers threading through my hair.
I give him eye contact.
Guys love that.
Then, it's as much boner as I can take.
I establish a tempo that's wet and messy.
Spit and drool, everywhere from his balls to his knob.
Gluggy, guggy gurgles fill the room.
I use my hand on what I can't take, twisting in time with my movements, and his hips start to jerk, small involuntary thrusts that he tries to control.
His eyes roll.
He pats my cheek and says, "Bend over the table you cute cheap tart."
My shorts and G-string are around my ankles.
My cute butt cheeks wobble.
The window is right there, the green spread below, and I can see Janey's white figure still circling, still focused on her game, completely unaware that her niece is about to get fucked two stories above her head.
Jack, jags to spit soaked fingers in my pussy.
A squelch test.
His fat, long sausage pushes into my slick tightness with a stretching delight.
"Uhh! Oohh! Yes! Yes! Oohh!"
My super wetness has give with my tight.
Still, I appreciate his praise.
"Christ," he mutters. "You're tight."
My fingers grip the table edge.
He's way thicker than I expected, filling me with a stretch that borders on too much, and he doesn't wait for me to adjust—he pulls back and thrusts again, setting a pace that's fast and functional, the table legs scraping against the floor with each impact.
I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, the sound of our bodies connecting loud and soppy in the empty room.
I take every thrust, every grunt, the slap of his balls.
My own arousal drips down my thighs, undeniable, and when his hand snakes around to press against my clit, I bite my lip hard in pure pleasure.
"Cream pie or fill your sweet foul mouth," he grunts.
I'm flying to my peak.
I can only moan.
"Hnnghh! Orggh!"
He fills my pussy with a warm jolting injection.
Great thing about club rooms: plenty of tissues and serviettes to clean up.
Our swipes between thighs and buttoning up, broken by loud applause from the green below.
Both teams are congratulating Janey.
I catch the shape of a word, the jack.
Nupe, Auntie dear, my Jack was way better.
He gives me a backhand wave as he leaves the room.