Publisher Description

Wilf Noble OBE is an old snooker player whose exhibitions in smoky clubs aren’t hugely successful. So when hot Pia Monroe turns up at one of his events and starts to play with his cue, elderly Wilf is offered an opportunity of a lifetime with a sexy young woman.

This story is only suitable for adult readers. It contains graphic descriptions of sex between an old man and a younger woman. The characters depicted are aged 18+.
Intimate acts featured in the story include M/F consensual sex, oral sex, a*******s, group sex. Although the characters don’t use condoms, the author encourages all her readers to always practice safe sex.

The room was dark apart from the overhead light illuminating one of the six full-length snooker tables. It was all set up for a game: the 15 reds in a triangle-shape at the bottom end of the table; the pink at the pyramid’s point; the black at its base. The blue ball sat in the centre of the table. At the far end, were the D-shape was marked, the yellow, brown, and green balls were in position. The white cue ball nestled against the cushion.
Wilf’s throat was dry. His nerves were ablaze.
“H... Hello?” he said.
She appeared much as she had done the previous evening, gliding out of the shadows. As twenty-four hours ago, she looked breath-taking.
“Hello, Mr Noble,” she purred.
She wore a waistcoat, with nothing underneath, just as she had in one of the photographs he’d found of her on the internet. She wore a black pencil skirt, black stockings, and black patent-leather heels. She carried a snooker cue, slung casually over her shoulder. Her hair, flowing over her right shoulder, shimmered in the dim-lit club, and her dark eyes flashed.
“Goodness me,” he said.
“Do I look good to you?”
“Yes, absolutely... stunning, Miss Monroe.”
She strutted over to the table, and leaned forward, her bottom in the air, her cleavage on show. She started to roll the red balls into the pockets. “I thought we’d just play with the colours, Mr Noble.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, taking his cue out of its sheath. His hands were shaking. It was the anticipation. He was virtually certain she would perform some sexual act on him. But not knowing what, or when, made him nervous.
“Pot them in order, first one to pot the black wins,” she said, running the last red into the corner pocket.
“Wins what?” he said.
“Anything they want. And there’s one other little forfeit.”
“I see,” he said.
“Each time one of us misses a pot, we have to take off an item of clothing – perhaps with the help of our opponent.”

Fiction & Literature
January 8
Rebecca Ryatt

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