Centre Pocket

The little prick has no fucking business being in here, and he knows it.

Jock has seen him about before, normally on the arm of somebody or other or even in some fucker's lap, but at least then he was out of the way, in somebody's shadow, leaning into them.

Now when he walks in he's alone, goes up the bar, orders some fruity little drink that Vaughn puts a fucking pink cocktail umbrella in, like the little bastard needs encouraging. When he moves over to the pool table, it's with his hips shifting from side to side, his jeans so fucking tight Jock almost can't believe he can move at all.

The jeans are a steel-grey that clings to his calves, his thighs, the curve of his fat little arse, and he's wearing a t-shirt that's too fucking small for him, might even be a kid's size, with the hem snipped off so bare a bit more of his midriff. It's so tight you'd probably be able to see his fucking nipples, if not for the fact that he's wearing a little sleeveless denim jacket over top of it.

It's got a patch on the back that says, HEARTBREAKER.

It says GAY BOY in white across his arse cheeks. Jock can read it when he bends over to break.

"Can you fucking believe that kid?" asks Rob across from him, sipping at his beer. "What the fuck is he asking for?"

"Anything he can get," mutters Jock, and shifts in his seat so that he's got his back to the lad, but he's aware of him through the course of the evening — he hears the way he says thank you when some of the other patrons buy him drinks, all effeminate, hears the way he lisps, "Hi, boys!" when Patton comes in with his boys and gets half-laughing, "Hey, Phin!" in reply.

When he goes to the bar later in the evening, he orders another one of his fucking pink G&Ts, sips at it, and he turns his head like he knows Jock's been watching him, his lips parted, his eyelashes fluttering as he fucking bats them at him.

He doesn't put any volume into the words, just mouths them, as he looks over at Jock: "Hi, big boy."

Jock's lip curls, and he doesn't say anything, just stares the little bastard down until he, smiling, looks back to his drink and sips at it, shifting on his feet as though he's trying to make his jeans fit differently.

He's wiggling his fucking ass so that everyone will look, and a lot of people are.

A lot of people do.

Grinding his teeth, Jock waves to Vaughn that he wants another drink on his tab, and he doesn't bother to stand and go, just turns to Otto and lets him fucking talk about hydraulics, about whatever the fuck is going on with the tools at his job.

It's hours later when he finally loses patience.

It was last call forty minutes ago, and Vaughn's shut the shutters and the door — the lock-in'll go on until two or three, maybe. The kid hasn't left. He's hustling pool now, started hustling a few hours ago, and everyone in this place should know fucking better, should know better than to play with him, to fall for it.

It's not even an act, is the thing — it's just that he's skinny and gangling, looks younger than he is with his big brown fucking eyes and his thick, swept-back hair, his thin, brown lips. He's not pretending he's not a fucking maths PhD, that he doesn't do every single calculation in his head before he even puts his hand on the cue. He's not even pretending he doesn't do little fucking Tik-Toks where he makes Rube Goldberg machines and performs fucking trick shots.

"You can't fucking make that shot," Al Rooney is saying. "Not without hitting the blue."

"Aw, you don't want to see me even try?"

Those big brown eyes are about as big as he can fucking make 'em right now.

"A hundred says you can't do it."

"Oh, you're paying me not to try?"

"I want you to fucking try!"

"A whole hundred dollars?"

Al puts the bill on the green.

The kid makes the shot, and Jock doesn't look to know that he's made it, just takes a swig of his drink and listens to the sound of the cue hitting the ball, then the softer click of one ball against another as it drops into the pocket.

"Holy fuck," says Al.

"Uh huh," says the kid.

Jock gets up, and he heads over, looking over the baize and the balls on it — balls 11 through 15 are still on the table, scattered around, and Jock looks at Al and then at the lad, whose jeans are hung low on his hips, so low that Jock can see the top of his arse crack.

"I'll make a bet," he says.

"Hi, Jock," lisps the twink, stroking his fingers obviously down the length of the cue and then back up again. He's gripping it loosely, leaving space between his fingers and the wood, so that people can look over, presumably, and fucking imagine their cock there instead. "I thought you didn't bet."

"Twenty says you can't pot the 11 and the 12 in one shot."

"Twenty?" repeats the twink, tilting his head to the side, pouting out his lips.

Jock smiles at him. "Fifty, then." He puts the bill on the side of the table, and the lad smiles at him, chalking up the cue, and looks over the table.

Jock isn't saying he could pot the 11 and the 12 in one, but he can see that for someone like this little cunt, it'll be pretty easy: the two of them are at a right angle from one another, the 12 poised right in front of one corner, the 11 in the middle of the baize with an easy shot of the left middle pocket.

He watches him make the calculation in his head, watches him take a step to the right, leaning down over the table.

The waistband on his jeans is elasticated, so when Jock sucks his finger into his mouth and slides it underneath them, hooking into the pink bud of his hole under the denim, it's no struggle at all: the twink falters his grip on the cue, letting out a sharp, gasping noise: he fucks the 11 and sends it wide, and when he pots the 12, the cueball follows it into the pocket.

He's been fucked already today, or maybe he was fingering himself this morning, or maybe he's just such a delightful slut that he's so open because of that — Jock slides his finger in further, tugging at the muscle of his rim. He can't get the angle to go for the lad's prostate right here, but he's squirming a bit, his hips tipping forward, grinding against the air.

"Foul," intones Jock, and pulls his hand back.

Al is laughing, and Jock looks down at the lad as he turns around, his cheeks darkening just slightly, the skin a little shiny with sweat, or maybe just his flush.

"You got any cash on you except for Al's hundred?" asks Jock. "Do you have a fifty on you?"

"I could give you the hundred and take the fifty," says the twink.

"I've got a better idea," says Jock, and demonstratively puts his hands on the lad's waist, his thumbs hooking into the band of his jeans. He does it slowly, gives him more than enough time to respond, to stop him, but he doesn't. The twink stays stock still as Jock slowly pushes his jeans down.

He's not wearing underwear, fucking obviously.

"Phineas, isn't it?" asks Jock as he pushes his jeans down to the lower part of his thighs — his cock, which is half-hard because the little fuck's a pervert, bounces free.

"Yes, sir," says the twink immediately, and that makes Jock's lips twitch even as he gets his hand on the back of his neck and pushes him down over the pool table.

"Not on the baize!" snaps Vaughn from behind the bar, and Jock hauls him up again by his pretty brown curls, tugging the jacket off his body and putting it back down again, making sure that his cock will only drip on the denim, not the pool tabletop.

He slides his hands over the globes of Phineas' arse, squeezing his fingers into the meat, and Phineas whimpers, buries his face against his arse.

"I like the shy act," Jock says, more to Al than to the lad. "He really puts it on, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," says Al, spellbound, and Jock fists his hand over his cock a few times, working it to proper hardness. He doesn't put the condom on right away, fishes it out of his pocket with his spare hand as he lets his prick drop between Phineas' cheeks, resting on top of his lower back.

Phineas shudders, his thighs spreading apart.

"He's been wanting this for a while," says Jock, tearing the condom open with his teeth, and he slides forward, against his hole, his cock sandwiched between his cheeks. He nudges, doesn't push in but just slides over his hole, and Phineas whimpers. "Ask for it."

"What?" the lad asks when Jock stops moving.

"Ask for it," says Jock. "You want it, don't you? Fucking ask."

"Pl — Please. Can I have it?"

"I don't know," says Jock. "Can you?"

"May I, may I, may I, old man, come on, are you gonna fuck me or not?"

It's funny, how the shy act is thrown into the ether, replaced with the demanding little brat they all know he fucking is, whining for what he wants.

Well.

Who is to Jock to deny him?

He slides the condom down his cock, wraps his hand around the base of his prick to steady himself, and then sinks forward. The condom's lubricated, and he wants him to fucking feel it, wants him to feel the stretch —

Phineas whines into his arms as Jock slowly sinks himself in, gripping him by the hip and keeping him in place. He's infernally hot inside, so tight that Jock's mouth feels dry at the fucking sensation of it, the tight clasp on every side — the little slag probably would have let him go bare, too, and he thinks about that for a second, thinks about what this might be like without the condom, too.

He shoves himself forward the last two inches, grunting at the sudden clutch of Phineas' tight ring around the base of his cock: the twink lets out a wail, grabbing helplessly at the table as Jock pulls back and starts to thrust. He focuses on depth more than speed, sinks himself in as deeply as he can in long, measured strokes, and when he grabs the lad by the hair and pulls his head back he can see his eyes are tearing up at the intensity of it, his body shuddering, jerking.

"This what you fucking wanted, yeah? This what you've been angling for all day?"

Phineas lets out a wordless whimper, obviously not quite with it enough to string words together while Jock's cock is splitting him open like this, more than he hoped for, more than he expected to get.

Jock speeds up a bit, keeps on with the long strokes, and Phineas' noises get louder — the others in the bar look over, and Jock considers the value of offering him out, of them all doing a bit of pass and play. He'd probably enjoy that, wouldn't he?

"Pass us number 11 there, Al," says Jock, and Al barely looks away from Phineas' teary-eyed face as he grabs hold of the ball and slides it over the green. Jock catches it, snatching it up, and he feels its weight in his hand, the cool surface of the resin under his palm.

He rests it on the hollow at the lad's lower back, comparing the width of the ball to the width of his own cock — he's a little narrower, but only a little, which is a nice little boost for the ego.

"How many of these do you reckon I could pocket, Phineas?" he asks quietly, and presses the ball down to make his point. The sound the lad makes when the ball parts his cheeks and comes down to meet where Jock's cock is buried in his arse makes him suddenly jump. "You think you could take all fifteen?"

He pulls out, and he tugs his thumb against Phineas' open hole — he obviously shaves his arse to keep it this fucking bare, and it's gloriously pink on the inside, a beautiful contrast with the warm brown colour of his arse cheeks, his thighs, his lower back.

He tucks the 12-ball against his arsehole, watches the way he clenches, the way his fucking boycunt swallows greedily, like it's hungry for it.

"Would you like that, lad?" asks Jock in the lowest rumble he can, pushing the ball forward without inserting it, just making sure he can feel his hole widen. "You want to feel them all hot and snug inside you like a clutch of fucking eggs, listen to them click as we all take turns fucking you?"

Phineas whimpers.

"That's worth a bit more than a fifty, isn't it?" asks Jock, not without humour, and rolls the ball across the baize at the same time he sinks his cock back into the boy: Phineas wails, going limp on the table at the same time he spreads his legs wide, and Jock doesn't hold back this time, shoves him down with one hand between his shoulders and fucks into him as hard as he feels like, the sound of slapping flesh filling the room and mingling with Phineas' sharp, desperate whimpers, his body writhing under Jock's.

When Jock comes, it's buried deep in the lad's boycunt, and he wishes again that he hadn't worn the condom, that he'd just spent in him so that now, as he slowly pulls out, he could watch it drip out of him, over his pretty little shaven balls, down his thighs.

But then —

Safety first.

"You next, Al," says Jock, and tosses him another condom out of his front pocket. "Keep him busy until I can get it up again."

Phineas shudders, but when Jock looks down at him, he's grinning through the wet streaks over his cheeks.

"Had my eye on you a while," he mumbles.

"You have, haven't you?" asks Jock. "Keep your mouth shut, or I'll make good on my threats, send you home with a bellyful."

Phineas moans as Al slides in behind him, immediately setting up a rapid, jerking pace like a rabbit, and Jock smirks down at him as he waves to Vaughn for another beer.