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Author’s note: The story is part of Literotica’s unofficial tag team competition. Eighteen of Literotica’s authors have accepted the challenge of being randomly paired with a partner to co-author a story under the pen name “The_Odd_Couplings” The pairings have remained anonymous and the true authors of this story will be revealed in the comments section one week from today.
Disclaimer: Because part of the fun of this challenge is the secrecy of the partners I would like to ask that readers and fellow authors alike refrain from posting their guesses in the comments section as we would like the scoring to be as fair as possible.
* * * * *
She walked down the street, quietly making sure that no eyes lingered on her. There was nothing conspicuous about her appearance.
“Crap,” said Jordan, deleting the page.
She walked down the street, her hips swaying in rhythm with her step. Faces in the crowd threw her the occasional second glance before continuing towards their destination. She seemed not to notice anyone else.
“Select all and delete.”
She walked down the empty street, wondering what happened to the usual throng that she met at this time. Her sharp eyes went to the far end where she saw a solitary man, leaning against a lamp post and lighting a cigarette.
His hands went to the most used keys and Jordan was once again staring at an empty page.
She walked down the street, flashing a broad smile at any who took the pain to look in her direction. There was an infectious happiness in that smile that could momentarily gladden any random passerby. A lively enthusiasm bubbled in her every step. She was more effervescent than…
“Champagne?” completed Jordan mentally. “This is getting ridiculous.”
Once more, his work was wiped out of existence by the unfeeling delete key. He took a break and leaned back on his ratty old chair. The dim glow from his ancient laptop was the only illumination in the room. His eyes traveled across the length and breadth of his accommodation, noting every crack in the wall or missing patch of plaster. His furniture was in a similar state of senile decay.
Shaking himself awake, he turned to his keyboard once more.
She walked down the street, unable to come to terms with her choice. She was walking away from the life she had longed for since she knew how to want and the life that had come in a whirlwind dream and swept her off her feet. Every footstep carried the weight of her indecision, vacillating between the secure certainty that she left behind her to the passionate adventure lying ahead.
Jordan took a moment to study his paragraph again. There was a certain artistry in the words for sure, but something was missing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Cursing quietly, he erased the page for the umpteenth time and set his laptop to hibernate.
There is something unnaturally sad about a writer struggling to write. One who loves words like himself should not have to struggle so much to create them. The story was mapped out so beautifully in his head, but the words would not coalesce.
He looked out and saw the grime covered Bronx around him. It looked nothing like his small town. He had packed his entire life into one suitcase and come to New York to be a writer, a life long dream of his. Sadly, his dream looked no closer to reality than when he boarded the bus.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, looking at the time. His bartending shift down the street was about to begin. His futile attempt at the perfect opening paragraph made him lose track of time.
He grabbed his jacket and ran down the street towards the sole source of his rent. His mind was still firmly on the novel playing out beautifully in his mind’s eye. If only it could translate so well onto his screen.
Jordan closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for a muse. Maybe Fate could be so kind as to have her come to the bar. Something, anything to inspire the words out of him.
* * * * * Jasmine Hunter, Jaz as she liked to be called, sat at the gleaming bar at Park Billiards in the Bronx. Not far from her left hand sat her hand-crafted leather pool case. She finished her vodka martini and munched on one of the four olives she had ordered in the drink. The bartender, Jordan, glanced up as her stomach rumbled in complaint. Jaz was hungry.
A full ride academic scholar at Fordham, studying for her Masters in Education, an ME, she had no trouble passing the complicated and stringent academic requirements. She had always had As. She cared intensely, she tried hard. But Jasmine did not have to. Academics came to her as naturally as, well as eating, which Jaz had not done for the third day now.
She glanced around the half-crowded sports bar, seeking an easy mark. “God I hope I don’t have to sell Sting”, she thought, laying her left hand protectively on the fine hand-tooled leather pool case o the bar beside her. Inside the case was a $1500 Mucci pool cue with the magnificent peacock emblazoned along the haft. After Jasmine bursa escort had seen the first version of The Hobbit, she had whimsically referred to her cue at the time as ‘Sting’ Bilbo’s famous sword that glowed when goblins were near.
“Maybe some good looking guy would offer to buy me a drink,” she thought.”I don’t need the drink, but maybe I could up the ante to a Philly cheese steak sandwich.” Merely saying the words in her mind started her mouth watering.
“Jordan,” she called, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the different sports events currently showing on the Park’s eight big screens.
“Another one, Jaz?” he called back over the din;
“Please,” she answered. “Don’t forget.. . . “
“I know, I know, four olives, right?”
“You got it Jordan, thanks.”
Jordan turned his back and fussed with something behind the bar. He reached to yank a bag of Ruffles from the overhead rack, tore open the bag and dumped the contents in a basket. He brought over the drink, casually placed the basket of chips near Jasmine’s right hand. He studiously avoided looking at the chips as he took the last of $2.75 of Jasmine’s money for the drink, turned self-consciously away and fled to the other end of the bar where a very loud, drunk patron was hollering for service. Jordan knew that the girl had no money, but could not legally give her the chips unless he paid for them. He would have to pay anyway, since the bar required his till be even at night’s end, But he had no desire to provide charity to Jaz, or to hint in any way that he pitied her.
Jasmine sat up straight as two men in their mid twenties ambled cockily in, pool cue cases in hand. A slight smile etched her thin lips and her fingers crabbed at her case. Her deep blue eyes narrowed like those of a leopard.
“Easy Jaz,” she told herself, “Easy. Not too soon, let them have a few drinks first. Quiet, she said to her grumbling belly. Be patient. Looks like eats are in the way.” She swiveled her bar stool to face the two men, wriggling her tiny butt to make her short skirt hike up a bit, parting her thighs very slightly.
She sat nursing her half-price martini, slowly munching each olive, while the two men played. They seemed fairly well matched to one another, but no real match for her. She was going to have to hold back a bit. While she waited for the pickings to ripen, she checked out the two guy’s wardrobe. ‘Slow stick’ as she named one of the men, was clad in designer jeans and Izod golf shirt of lemon yellow, but had a Rolex on his wrist.
“Fast Eddie, ” as she chose to christen the other, had just slipped off his pearl gray Armani jacket, exposing a slick expensive Kelly green dress shirt bearing what looked like solid gold cufflinks and tie bar. A sea foam spray of blond chest hair overflowed the top three buttons of the shirt.
“Jordan, she called softly. The bartender slid over.
“Another?” he asked.
“Oh god no,”she answered, “you’d have to carry me out of here. What I need is pool token. Tonight’s free, right Jordan?”
“Only for lovely ladies like yourself,” he countered, laying a pool token on the bar.
“Thanks, Jordan. You’re a doll.”
She wandered slowly over and placed the token on the pool table, above the coin slot. “You guys mind if I play,” she asked coyly.
The two men exchanged glances, grinning widely. “Anything for a lady,” ‘fast Eddie’ said quickly. “You wanna play right now?”
“I’ll wait my proper turn,” Jaz answered. “It wouldn’t be fair to one of you.” She turned, reversed her steps, and plopped herself on the bar stool. She took her time. They really were trying to shoot pool, but both men kept looking at her. “It would probably be easier to just blow them both, she said to herself, I could probably get $100 apiece and I could eat for two weeks. If I were that kind of girl.’ She laughed quietly to herself. Her wild imagination had begun to create the image in her brain, but she shut it down.
Her hands caressed the soft leather of the case her uncle Frank had made for her. Poor uncle Frank. Oh well, he never became the pool champion he had envisioned himself, before he got hit by that train. But at least he had taught her a useful trade.
Lovingly she eased “Sting” from the case and screwed it together, The wild peacock, catching the attention of the two young men, caused them to look up from their game. “Nice stick,” ‘slowstick’ called over.
“Thanks,” Jasmine replied, “my uncle Frank gave it to me.” No way was she going to tell them she had won the cue as second prize in a national invitational tournament way out in Portland Oregon. She slipped her cube of chalk in her tight back pocket where whomever she played would have to see her hand go back there each time she prepared for a shot. It never hurt to use one’s assets to psychological advantage. She had learned that from her Chess playing father. And her slut of a mother.
Fast Eddie, the quick shooter won the game. Jaz slipped her token in the slot and racked the bursa escort bayan balls. “Straight eight, no slop,” fast Eddie called out.
Jasmine stepped up close and held out her hand. “Jaz,” she said.
“Harold,” he answered, shaking her hand, “but everyone calls me ‘Buddy’.”
“Okay Buddy, you’re on. You guys playin’ for anything?”
“Well we were just foolin’ around, but if ya want we can play for money.”
“Five dollars okay,” Jaz asked.
“Sure that’s fine, wanna make it ten?”
“Well I am a little strapped right now so I better stick with five.”
She stepped over to the other guy, the blond, “Hi,” she introduced herself, “I am Jaz.”
“Dick,” he says, reaching.
Jasmine was startled how weak his handshake was, and a bit cold and clammy. Well, Dick, you gonna play the winner?”
Dick looked back and forth from Jasmine to Buddy about four or five times before answering. “Sure, I’m up for it.”
Cool she said, letting her shoulder brush him as she went by. She won the first game against Buddy, by only one ball after three shots apiece. Dick took the fin from her on the next game, then beat Buddy out of five more.
She won the five from Dick on a lucky shot in which the eight ball barely had enough energy to drop. Then she took five from Buddy on the next game, during which she scratched twice, but Buddy was unable to capitalize on her errors.
Dick stepped up to the table to rack. “Why don’t we make it a it more interesting?” he asked,” say twenty bucks.
Again, Jaz barely won. Now she had enough for a decent meal if she didn’t eat here. Buddy was very excited. Jasmine figured he had been holding back, maybe even scratched once on purpose.
He stepped close to her. She reached in her back pocket for the chalk, held it in one hand while she smoothed her stick with a very fine emery paper. Her hand action on the beautiful stick looked oddly similar to a guy masturbating. This was the moment she had been waiting for. “I’ll tell you what,” Buddy said. “How about if we play for a different kind of reward? How about if i win you have to kiss me?”
“Two questions,” Jaz said. “What do I get if I win? and what about him?”
“Yeah, what about me?” Dick cut in, grinning widely.
“How about if I play against both of you? You guys can shoot every other shot for your team and I’ll shoot alone.”
“For a kiss,” Buddy said, really grinning like the Cheshire cat, now.
“Each,” Dick cut in.
“Deal,” Jaz said, “each.”
Buddy played, Jasmine thought, like he probably had never played before, sinking six balls on his first shot. Jaz sunk five of her stripes, but missed on the eleven, leaving her the nine, the fifteen and the eight. Dick stepped up, chalking, Jaz noticed his hands were shaking. Confidently, he sunk the four ball, but fluffed the eight. Jaz sunk the nine and fifteen but bobbled the eight and left it almost in the pocket. Buddy was gloating as he easily sunk the eight to win the game.
“Well, pay up,” Dick said, moving toward her.
“Not so fast, Dick,” Buddy blurted, “I won the game. Me first.”
Jasmine kissed them both, long and solid and passionate. She could easily feel the excitement of both of them as each pressed his body against her.
She motioned both men closer. “That was quite some kiss,” she said. “I have a proposition for you boys.”
“I am all ears,” Dick said.
“Well. I am all, er, something else,” Buddy hinted, stupid junior high leer on his face.
“How about we play one more game for the works?”
“The works?” they queried simultaneously.
Jasmine leaned in close, placed an arm around each of their shoulders. “We will play, one game, straight eight, no slop. I get to break cuz there’s two of you. The prize, Me. I’ll go to bed with both of you, separately or together, if you guys win.”
“And if you win?” Dick was quick to ask.
“A hundred dollars,” Jaz said, with no inflection or expression. “Each.”
“Are you serious?” Buddy said.
“For real?” Dick added.
“For real and true,” Jasmine countered. “What’s the matter guys, don’t you like what you see?”
“How do we know you’ll pay up?”
“This is billiards guys, the gentleman’s game. You have to take my word. Have you seen anything in my behavior so far that would lead you to believe I’d cheat, lie or steal? Anyway it might be fun.”
“Fuck it! I’m in,” Buddy says loudly.
“Uh, yeah, er, uh, I guess me too.”
“Let’s see the color of your money boys.”
“You don’t trust us.’
“C’mon guys, we have been showing the money up to now.”
“Hang on,” Dick says, digging in his wallet. “Shit! Shit! Hey, wait, hold on”
Both guys rush to the ATM machine to withdraw cash. Very soon, they returned.
Jasmine moved deftly to the head of the table. To look at her, one would not think her capable of playing a game, less likely being proficient. She is diminutive, 5’2″ in shoes and weighing in at about 110 when she is escort bursa eating well; right now she probably tips the scale at about 95. Her flaming red hair and a milky way of freckles across her nose and cheeks gives her more the look of a tiny elf than a woman. Except all her bumps and curves are most definitely in the right places.
* * * * *
Jordan Cosway chuckled to himself, as he took empty glasses from a group of semi-inebriated patrons. Another round of lusty cheering alerted him to the possibility that more drinks were needed.
He threw a passing glance where Jasmine leaned over the table and positioned her cue expertly. The tip hovered in the air before colliding into its target at perfectly measured speed.
“Those two guys have no idea what they’re in for,” he mused, hurriedly taking more orders. He knew Jasmine well enough to guess what would come next.
“You guys ready?” Jasmine asked. ” Uh, go ahead just put your money there, under that serving tray I picked up for the purpose.”
She squared her feet perpendicular to the table, shifted from foot to foot, waving her cute little butt. Leaning only slightly, she drew back. When her cue tip struck the white cue ball, both her feet had left the floor. Her entire body was pointed toward the cue ball like an arrow, every ounce of strength in her body concentrated at one tiny point.
The cue ball struck the rack with tremendous force, backed up and struck again, flowing toward the end of the table. Balls collided loudly, scattering to all corners and rails, some even bouncing straight up, until they all come to rest. Jasmine’s lips creased by the tiniest hint of a smile. She saw the boys counting the balls. She had done this, sunk the eight on the break about twenty times in the thousands of games she has played. Most players never accomplish it. She couldn’t think of a better time to have done it.
“M, my shot,” Buddy eked out.
“Look again,” Jaz said, cold as ice.
Dick’s mouth was wide open, a drop of slobber winding its way off his lower lip.
“Holy crap,” Buddy said. “I don’t fucking believe it. Eight ball break, you gotta be kiddin’ me. Eight ball break. What the. . . I ain’t never seen such. . . luck. How did you. . .? Naw. You can’t. I mean, you. . . “
His voice trailed off as Jasmine reached for what is under the tray, crumpled it in her hand, shoved it in her jeans.
“Thank you boys, it’s been a real pleasure,” Jasmine said, unscrewing her cue and placing it back in the soft leather bag. She called over her shoulder, “Maybe we could play again sometime.
“Funny”, she says to herself, “They look like they are about to fall asleep.”
* * * * *
Jordan went about his job, plying eager patrons with more drinks than they should take. The game reached a critical juncture, descending a deathly pall of silence over the bar. He used to opportunity to sneak a glance at Jasmine’s table.
Her elegant frame leaned over the plush green surface, contorting to the side to get a better shot. He saw her beautiful green eyes, focused on the round white ball in front of her. With the stick in her hand, she was a different person.
Jordan turned his attentions back to the pad he has carefully hidden behind the counter. It contained a few more half-hearted paragraphs. He tore out a page and had a fresh stab at it. He wrote a few lines, re-reading it with a feeling of utter revulsion. It sounded so good when he thought about it, but his thoughts would not translate to words.
He looked over at Jaz, fully concentrated on the task at hand. Her sharp eyes belied no weakness, not showing even a flicker of a lapse. Her left elbow drew back, showing the polished surface of her cue stick against the lights. Something alluring captivated his senses. The way she held the cue with her hand, sensuous in her grasp. Her front hand formed a closed bridge, caressing the head of the cue while it wound up.
The female character would have to look like her. His mind had firmly decided on that detail. The cover art floated in his mind several times. Jasmine Hunter, draped in a svelte imported dress with her hair hanging loose past her ears. The face of his masterpiece was ready, but the body was a painstaking work in progress.
“Three Cuba Libres.”
His head snapped up in the direction of the voice. One of the pool victims ordered. He and his friend looked decidedly glum, standing beside Jaz who gleefully counted out a thick wad of notes. Smiling to himself, Jordan poured out the drinks and mixed them.
“Thanks, buddy,” said the blonde among them. Jordan returned to the counter just in time to service dejected fans with several helpings of Heineken to drown their disappointment with. His eyes fleetingly returned to the table where the three players sat. Jaz excused herself to attend a call. His eyes lingered long enough to see them take a sip of their drinks. Then, he saw something else.
Immediately, he walked over to the table. His mind was unsure how he should proceed, but he knew he had to do something fast.
“Sorry guys, I forgot to add the umbrellas,” he said apologetically, picking up the drinks from the table. “Don’t worry. I remember which drink was whose. Be back in a flash.”
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