Pot Black

Snooker is a highly skilled fixed table game - a little similar to pool, attracting huge money prizes all over the world except USA. It features big time on UK TV main channels. Some of the names used in this story are actual slebs "Celebrities" in the game and TV.

*****

"Have you done one before Simon?" asked Hazel Irvine, as I settled into the green room, having taken a pint of real ale, room temperature beer my request ten days ago from the bar.

"Yes, but this is one in my new exalted status and looking forward to it now," I answered the Scottish anchor woman for the national TV channel. "All the previous were at local back street clubs and there were no fanfares," I chuckled.

"You'll enjoy it mate, I always did," chuckled Willie Thorne, his avuncular face sweating after his session in an overheated commentary booth. His moustache was wet with foam from his over lively, bottle poured lager. "That club you're going to has a lot and I mean a lot going for it," he smirked and winked.

I had just played in a major snooker tournament, broadcast live over ten days, playing several rounds to finish and winning the eleven frame final easily tonight over the cocky Judd Trump, supposedly the rising star and answer to the waning skills and magnetism of Ronnie, the extremely popular London boy, son of a jailed gangster and a convicted fraud mother. Hazel grinned knowingly at Willie's comment, having experienced for the umpteenth time throughout the tournament his fingers groping her snatch in a cupboard he had found for their regular sexy interludes, when not interviewing the retired players, celebrities and commentating.

With her dirty blonde hair, which I have always liked and never found out - do I care? - if its natural or shop bought, heavily lacquered - that spoils it Hazel - the woman was ultra careful but randy as hell. She was well known on the circuit as an easy lay or a quick fumble, depending on time and place. She was also nick named amongst us chaps as Hard Hat, because that's what her coiffure was like and no matter how many nods, shakes, leans and shudders the mass below it did, her mane would remain rigid. I didn't fancy her, like a lot of the guys, she was skinny, big toothed and always interrupting me and the others. Big and chubby, were my likings as far as women went. She's fifty-one, no problem with that, not an old bag and if an old bag is fuckable and available I'm there, up and ready.

She had just finished interviewing me in the studio purposely created by the broadcaster in the Alexandra Palace stadium, where I'd won in front of 2000 rapturous fans..

* * * * * *

I arrived by taxi at seven o'clock at the conservative club in a Southern, small, market town, and was greeted by a stout, ruddy faced, blue rinse, well spoken lady, checking membership cards at the door. She was almost swooning with excitement as I walked in with my cue box and travel case, my suit and stuff inside it, in one hand and a snatched burger from the kiosk in the pretty square outside, having had no chance to eat since leaving home - what happened to usual pack of sandwiches Mum? ...oh yes maybe distracted with the mega orgasm in the kitchen - getting the train here.

The welcome committee enlarged to her husband and another man. Mrs Ulick, call me Eileen, Eileen Ulick, that's a cute name I mused, fawned over me, her bad breath overpowering even the last bite of the burger. It was my first "celebrity" appearance event, where I would play ten of the club's members and then give an exhibition of trick shots.

Always on the look out for a glimpse of something remotely sneaky and erotic and of course a chance of a shag wherever I was, Eileen, tried, not successfully in discreet standards, to slide off the high stool she was perched on and I got views of her blue tinted, hold up stockings, for there - only inches above her fat knees were bare, obese thighs. Her loose, flabby flesh overspilled the elastic stocking tops and it occurred to me that she would have ugly red wheals on them. She was about five and a half feet tall in three inch heels and dressed in an elaborate patterned blouse, with a fussy neck and short sleeves, emphasising her bingo wings. The blouse hung loose round her ample bosom, but she'd tucked it into the belt of her over tight Tory blue skirt.

Eileen reminded me of my mother who is much taller, with a very similar build. Our family are not the usual snooker people I found out. My long dead father Simon Fotheringham had been, until his untimely death being crushed by a stampeding steer, the county council leader, local squire, landowner and farmer of pedigree Long Horns and rare breed sheep in a pretty stone village on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. My young brother, Walter, was at university, somewhere I had missed out, mainly because it seemed such a sheltered, cocooned way of life and I wanted life so I played dumb through entrance exams, flunked out and got a job on father's estate. Our sister Caroline, she's the middle one of three, was at boarding school, which she hated.

Mummy had breast fed all of us until we were four or five. I was the first offspring for her to experiment with, Daddy being a great fan of it - she later told me that he loved to sit and watch. One of the villagers, a West Indian midwife who promoted the tit-sucking-till-kids in early years life skill, which I came to love, had a son and daughter round my age. When I was twelve, the son, who helped his dad on our estate during school holidays and we chummed up, played pool in the village pub, got me in to it and I went on to snooker and turned professional when I was eighteen. Mummy was shocked, Daddy didn't give a fuck but I am fucking good and now the English champion, the Welsh is next.

Connie, the midwife who had given birth to her daughter six weeks before me and was having trouble with an over supply of teat juice, showed mother, and father, the practicalities of heaving her enormous jugs out and stuffing what to me was like a black walnut in my mouth. I must have loved it, which maybe explains my preference for ladies of colour as mummy taught me to say.

Lady Deborah, as mummy is known jokingly in the village is a formidable woman, but very loving, in what might be called taboo ways and protective of her family. She is very similar in looks to our beloved Prime Minister Teresea Might, tall but bigger in physical stature, same Roman nose, steely smile, more of the same colour and styled hair. Chieftain wrong word of the Women's Institute, Chairwoman of the the county conservative party and part time helper at her lover Hugh Jardon's surgery, the first Caribbean resident in the village. Connie and her family came later.

Mummy had cooked my breakfast this morning at four thirty in my self contained apartment in the manor and while I gobbled my baked beans, mushrooms, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes and toast, sat sideways on a chair, she was down on her knees gobbling my dick as a good luck memento. When I'd finished, she had lifted her apron, knee length gingham skirt, dropped her big black knickers and sat on my cock, then transferring, me still up her, to bend over the table. It was a glorious incestuous fuck, repeating something we had practised for years, after she had noticed my erection when I suckled her and Connie's mountainous saggy boobs. It was several years after Daddy had died and I was travelling the world playing snooker, that Lady Deborah had been seduced by Doctor Hugh during his inspection of her vagina at a women's health clinic. I can't blame her, as Caroline does, I mean she likes a shag.

Mrs Ulrick walked in front of me, following the others, into the body of the club and mummy's butt was there, just about a foot lower, wobbling richly from side to side, Eileen's stilettos clacking on the tiled floor until we entered the carpeted snooker room. Even then the silly buggers started clapping and drinks were offered from all sides and I accepted one and chatted inanely until Eileen fussily shepherded me away to an empty committee room which was where I was supposed to change into white shirt, waist coat and bow tie, plus of course black pants, I had jeans on. I took off my black leather bomber jacket and light sweater, the fat lady hovering and fiddling, as if to make space for me, but the room was large, with plenty of chairs.

I started to unbutton my shirt and noticed she was trying her hardest not to be caught peeping, but I had spotted her, as I had been watching the expanse of buttocks and distinct VPL as Eileen bent and stooped. O'ho I mused, another fat old lady getting off on a glimpse of a young man's torso. I decided to titillate her for my amusement, you never know where it could lead and if there was nothing else around to shag, she could be my seed receptacle in a new place in the country. Part sideways to the peeping old bag, I slowly undid the shirt buttons and peeled it half off, pretending to get the cuffs caught up with something. I glanced up quickly and caught her, eyes wide, her actual chin way down in the fourth version and no doubt foul breath oozing out of her wide open mouth. Eileen blushed immediately and turned to scuttle away.

I strolled into the main room, finding that the one other snooker table had been pushed to one side, not an easy job and two, three tier raised rows of chairs had been erected, now full of men and women giving me another round of applause and I hadn't done anything yet. Luckily introductions were nicely handled and observed my request at the bar earlier to the estate agent MC, not to use Rob Fucking Walker's annoying TV intro, where he's given all the players a nickname and I hate mine "Rich Boy". Yes I will be richer one day, but my background has nothing to do with the game I am in love with.

The club members were easily beat, but carefully not to humiliate any. There was an interval where I did the usual - autographs, selfies and snooker tips of the information and demonstration type. In fact the tip on my prized, very expensive three piece O'Sullivan cue was in danger of being ruined until kept took a firm hold on it. Eileen fussed round me and introduced me to Sharon Cox, much younger I guessed and thought, great name. she looked like she would like cocks. She was an off duty barmaid and having heard golden boy - me, was on display, she had deserted her husband John - not a snooker fan who was playing darts in the next door bar - charming - him I mean! Eileen and Sharon hadn't been interested in the frames against the regulars and had been finishing making the buffet, we were now enjoying, It was tasty and so I noticed was the new body on the block - Sharon.

There was a lot to notice in such a small but well stuffed package. Maybe five tall, similar to Eileen, she had a clean wholesome, fit look of a school gym teacher, who had made a successful transition into her mid fifties. Her very short hair, a trendy modern cut, was a light brunette colour. If I was attached to her, like boyfriend or perish the thought at my free to fuck age, married, her eyebrow piercing would have gone, in fact never happened. Strong delineated brows, trimmed perfectly. She had gorgeous deep brown eyes. For a local barmaid in what I deemed a hick town Sharon wore a trendy low cut dress, exposing acres of heaving bosom and deep cleavage. The customers must have been ten deep at the bar when she bent for a bottle on a shelf. Some massive tits wobbled behind the button fronted, casual summery dress in that salmony, pinkish colour that brunettes always look good in. A cracking figure too, not Page 3, more pages 2 to 4 inclusive. Shaking hands I took in the mass of jewellery on both wrists and fingers

The evening took off again and I went into a routine of trick shots accompanied by amusing (I hope) anecdotes from the circuit. Sharon and Eileen had taken up some chairs emptied, by the competitive member families after my jousting with them. It was my second trick as I lined up the angle for a shot, a movement - how dare they? don't they no better? In the front row of a raised tier caught my eye. Normally in this situation, I would stand up and petulantly stare at the perpetrator, but in this case I saw flesh. Eileen's arms rested on the high shelf of her boobs, bare flabby skin yes, but even better, maybe a foot below, was the same bare flesh I'd seen in the entrance lobby. From her chubby knees up there was a straight dark crease until the dark of her skirt masked any further vista.

However, the movement that had caught my eye, was next to her. Sharon sat with a sly grin and a wink, her arms folded too, but while Eileen couldn't sit gracefully, yes, her knees were aiming to be together like her mummy had told her, her younger companion had deliberately opened her thighs. I was busy earning £1000, will power ruled, so I did the trick and then lined up another trick and the same movement occurred, but I had anticipated it and saw Sharon opening what looked to be lush thighs, with a distinct gap between them until the shadow of her dress obscured further views, the same grin and wink. I gulped, did the trick and moved round the Riley slate laid table, aiming to check if fee paying members at the opposite end were getting more than they paid for and my situation. No, there was ample space for me to manoeuvre round and bend to plays shots, no spectators.

During a short comfort stop, the two chunky women stepped down, leaving the room, but only Sharon returned taking the same seat. I had been delightfully accosted by the town pharmacist

and his family, all ardent snooker fans and players, even his charming daughter. They were all very well educated and of high caste Indian. I say high caste as I am sure not many low caste would be so well spoken, mannered, attractive and favouring a Tory club in one of the highest property value area in the UK. I gathered that Ravi, the sixteen year old son was aiming to be a pro. I had met him in minor competitions, not much to bother about, but I chatted to him briefly for the main reason I could keep an eye on burgeoning titties on his sister. Certainly nothing big, but she can't have been wearing a starter brassiere, as the distinct points were creating lovely folds in her formal white, maybe school shirt. It also passed through my evil mind that if she was an up and coming female snooker player and there are a few, maybe she would join me and lead my movement for them to wear skirts - heh heh! Not likely. Denis Taylor would fluff and waffled about that for hours.

Exhibition period finished and the crowd milled round and I went through the same routine as the interval. I spotted Sharon going to the ladies and moved discreetly through the crowd to position myself near where she would return into the room. Eileen found me of course.

"Where's you pal?" I asked.

"Gone to the little girls room," she giggled. "Then probably see her hubby off to work as he's on ten to two shifts. She will stay on and clear up, I'll help and so will other people. She's ever such good fun and she's a big fan."

Oh nice thanks Mrs Ulrick, I thought and I wouldn't mind betting that Sharon has a big, fat fanny.

There were some moments before Sharon had to help Eileen and I made, accidentally, sure of nabbing her as she re-entered the hall and engaged her in chat.

"Oh hello, you seem to be enjoying things." was my opening, as if just happening to be there.

The big Southern lass swiftly glanced around and came straight out with it.

"Oh yes I am hugely," she replied with a sly wink. "Where you staying Simon, I assume you're staying because of tomorrow, do you mind me calling you Simon?" she chuckled.

"The White Horse. I can walk there, the taxi driver showed me."

"That's the old name, it's called Silk now, but nobody says that. Yes two hundred yards if that."

Then she moved closer, looked around and murmured, "See you there, The receptionist is my sister you know."

Fuck! Wow! I nodded and returned her wink.

* * * * *

A few pints at the club and I made off to the Silk and checked in, shit it was dead on a Friday night. Sharon's sister, Queenie, was temporarily indisposed, so a barman popped through and did the bookwork. Half an hour later catching up with the Friday TV, there was a knock on the door and there stood Sharon, a navy blue, light linen jacket flung over her arm. She sat, crossed her legs without bothering to right the gap at the front affording me a lots of naked flesh and I poured her a lager, I joined her on a sofa in the suite portion of the large room.

"I'm so chuffed you hammered that little prick Trump," she snickered. "He's so cocky."

"You obviously follow snooker a lot, good to hear it..."

"But it's you I follow Simon, honestly and when Eileen told me that you were booked tonight I actually volunteered for bar work, I mean normally I only work Saturdays and after working out the dates and seeing John was on nights...well here I am," she grinned. "It's those black pants stretched over your bum that turns us ladies on you know," she chuckled, placing a heavily ringed hand on my thigh. "Same as rugby, tight lovely bums...and thighs."

My drink disappeared after a small gulp of pleasure and I slung my arm round her, trying to catch sight down her front of what must be a formidable brassiere. Mind the gap, they say on the London Tubes, and in the gap I was not minding but trying to get close to, I caught sight of a pale blue lacy edge. She knew the signs, reaching to the table, placing her drink and turning her face gave me a bright red pair of lips to kiss. We undressed in a flash, I noticed a large, pale pink bra and a pair of pink lace trimmed bikini briefs, not big Bridget Jones versions, but not minuscule thongs and leapt on to the bed and seconds later, fuck the foreplay I was ramming her rotten, until I sank onto her hot, heaving, pliant comfortable frame, we panted and cooed. Sharon stroking my back as I nibbled her ears and we both giggled as she did a fanny fart.

We decided on another drink, neither of us driving anywhere and as I sorted those, she slid up and rested back against the very ornate, soft cushioned bed head. Her tits were massive, the biggest I have ever seem, hanging over her arms, a really full rack as my pool playing pals would say. As I reached the bed and handed Sharon her drink, she reached for my tackle and she played with my balls and cock.

"I'll have to put a new tip on this for you Simon," she snickered. My eyes played over her chest.

She saw me admiring them and she told me as she juggled them as I'd seen on big tit videos, they were 48 H, I mean fuck! That's huge.

"I guess you were big, I mean these - from day one," I suggested, fondling her boobs and tweaking her nipples.

"Yeah I was a big girl at school, sometimes useful. I was one teacher's pet I remember - naughty man, but they are sometimes a pain, get in the way, you know and they can be a real pain - so heavy Simon. I was a 38 then...Ohhhh that's lovely don't stop..."

Her nipples were in proportion, big round and lumpy, a dark brown and hardened when I very lightly stroked the tips. Again in proportion and colour, her saucer sized areolae matched the sturdy stumps mounted on them.

I wanted to explore more, stroking her, middle ripple, then the lower one ad finally Sharon's tummy bulge which had it's own way of spillage on her thighs. Nestled in the bottom triangle I could see another fold in her belly from which sprouted some dark brown hairs. Wow! Superb. She opened her legs and reached to grasp my prick which soon started to thicken again.

"You've got a lovely overall golden tan Sharon, nude in the back garden?" I chuckled.

"You're joking Simon, where we live, fuck no - sorry." I waved the expletive away. "John and me have been nudists for years, his mum and dad -still are, in fact all his family, granny too. Quite a sight when we go on holiday. John's like his dad, small and wiry, strong and he's inherited the old man's tackle. It's not big, you know a big cock, but it's long, even when he's not randy and their ballocks, wow! Not big but they hang really low and dangle. I love them. They're like those old kids toys, what was it...clackers, that's right".