Timmy, Bree, and Jamal: Chapter 5
by passion_pilot_2026Abstract: The 5th of 12 chapters. Bree tags along for Timmy's monthly billiards game with his buddies. Bree gives Timmy a little treat he was not expecting. \\\ The billiards parlor hummed with the
about 2 months ago
•long read•hot intensityAbstract:
The 5th of 12 chapters. Bree tags along for Timmy's monthly billiards game with his buddies. Bree gives Timmy a little treat he was not expecting.
\\\
The billiards parlor hummed with the sharp crack of ivory balls scattering across green felt, a smoky haze curling from forgotten cigars in ashtrays shaped like flamingos. It was Timmy's monthly ritual, this gathering with his four club buddies—guys he'd known since childhood.
The place was a relic itself, walls lined with neon signs for long-defunct beers and a jukebox crooning old blues tunes that made the air feel thicker, more intimate. Timmy, ever the enthusiast, had already sunk a few shots, his wiry frame leaning over the table with precision. Bree had tagged along tonight, a rare addition to the boys' night, her athletic legs crossed casually as she perched on a stool near the action, drawing a few appreciative glances from the group that she met with easy confidence.
Timmy’s buddies—Mark, Dave, Pete, and Lou were deep into their rotation. Cues clacked, balls thumped into pockets, and good-natured ribbing filled the gaps. "Come on Timmy, are you aiming for the corner or the bartender's foot?" Mark teased as Timmy lined up his next shot.
Bree watched from the sidelines, her phone buzzing insistently in her lap, a secret smile appears on her lips. She'd been texting Jamal non-stop since they arrived, the thrill of it making her thighs press together under her short denim skirt. Timmy finally scratched on an easy one, groaning as he straightened up. "Alright, I'm tapping out for a bit. You misfits can have the table." He wiped his hands on a napkin, shooting Bree a look that mixed affection and that familiar undercurrent of anticipation.
She patted the stool beside her at the scarred wooden table tucked in the corner, away from the main fray but with a clear view of the game. The guys waved him off with chuckles, already reshuffling for the next round, oblivious to the charged bubble forming around the couple. Timmy slid onto the stool, close enough that his knee brushed hers, the warmth of him grounding her amid the parlor's chaos.
"Having fun?" he asked, his voice low, eyes crinkling behind those wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a professor in on a scandalous joke. Bree nodded, but her fingers flew over her phone screen, a fresh message from Jamal lighting it up: *Can't wait to be with you tonight. Wear that red lace I love you so much.* Her pulse quickened, the memory of their last encounter—the way his thick cock had stretched her, filling her until she squirted around him—flooding back like a rogue wave.
She set the phone down, turning to Timmy with a mischievous glint. The guys were engrossed, Pete lining up a bank shot that had them all leaning in. Bree leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I'm going to see Jamal tonight," she murmured, her voice a sultry thread weaving through the distant clatter. "The man I'm madly in love with. He's going to fuck me senseless." The words hung there, bold and unfiltered, her hand slipping under the table to rest on his thigh.
Timmy's breath caught, his body going still as her fingers traced upward, finding his Tinnie Winnie rock-hard, straining against his khakis. She pressed her palm there, feeling the heat of his arousal pulse beneath the fabric. "Oh," she purred, her eyes locking onto his, wide with feigned surprise that dissolved into wicked delight. "Did that turn you on?" Timmy's face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and excitement etching lines around his kind eyes. He nodded, swallowing hard, the parlor's noise fading to a dull roar in his ears. Bree's touch was electric, her grip firm as she rubbed slow circles over his crotch, the friction sending sparks up his spine.
The guys laughed at something Dave said—a missed shot, probably—but Timmy barely registered it, his world narrowing to her hand and the vivid images her words conjured: Jamal's massive frame pinning her down, that ten-inch cock plunging deep, making her scream in ways Timmy's modest two inches never could. Emboldened by his silence, Bree's fingers worked at his belt buckle under the table's edge, the metal clinking softly. She unbuttoned his pants with deft movements, the zipper rasping down like a whispered promise. His buddies were still at it, cues cracking, but the table hid her actions perfectly, a clandestine veil in the middle of their ritual.
She slipped her hand inside his underwear, wrapping her thumb and index finger around his Tinnie Wennie. It throbbed in her grasp, hot and eager, the velvety skin slicking as she stroked from base to tip. Timmy gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening, a soft exhale escaping him that she silenced with a quick kiss to his jaw.
"Jamal's going to fill me up with lots of cum to bring home to you," she continued, her voice husky, stroking him steadily now, her rhythm matching the lazy sway of the jukebox tune. Timmy's hips twitched involuntarily, his small dick leaking pre-cum that made her strokes glide smoother, wetter. She could feel him teetering on the edge, his breath coming in shallow bursts, his shaft pulsing within her fingers. The risk of it all—their friends just feet away, oblivious—only heightened the tension, her own pussy aching with need, dampening her panties as she imagined Jamal's tongue on her later, lapping at her folds before replacing it with his cock.
Timmy's eyes darted to the group, then back to her, arousal warring with the thrill of exposure. Bree leaned in again, her free hand on his knee to steady him. "What would your friends think if I told them it was your desire for me to be fucked by a black man?" The question was a spark to dry tinder, taboo and teasing, painting the scene in her mind: her confessing it all right there, the guys' jaws dropping as Timmy squirmed. It pushed him over—his body tensed, a muffled groan vibrating in his throat as he ejaculated into her hand. Hot spurts coated her palm, sticky and warm, his tiny penis jerking with each release.
She milked him through it, gentle squeezes drawing out every drop, his face a mask of blissful surrender. Bree withdrew her hand slowly, careful not to draw attention, the evidence of his climax glistening on her skin. Without breaking eye contact, she lifted it to his mouth, her fingers hovering near his lips. "Lick this," she commanded softly, her tone laced with that affectionate dominance he'd confessed to craving when he'd first whispered his fantasies. "I know you like it."
Timmy hesitated for a split second, the salty tang already teasing his senses, then parted his lips, his tongue darting out to lap at her hand. He sucked her fingers clean, one by one, the act intimate and filthy, his eyes never leaving hers as the flavors mingled—his own release, sharp and musky, with the faint trace of her lotion from earlier. The guys called out then, Mark hollering for Timmy to rejoin the game, shattering the moment. Bree withdrew her hand, wiping the last traces on a napkin with a sly wink, while Timmy zipped up, his cheeks still pink.
"Your turn to lose spectacularly," she quipped, sliding off the stool with a sway of her hips. He chuckled, shaky but composed, returning to the pool table as if nothing had happened. But the seed was planted, her night far from over.
The 5th of 12 chapters. Bree tags along for Timmy's monthly billiards game with his buddies. Bree gives Timmy a little treat he was not expecting.
\\\
The billiards parlor hummed with the sharp crack of ivory balls scattering across green felt, a smoky haze curling from forgotten cigars in ashtrays shaped like flamingos. It was Timmy's monthly ritual, this gathering with his four club buddies—guys he'd known since childhood.
The place was a relic itself, walls lined with neon signs for long-defunct beers and a jukebox crooning old blues tunes that made the air feel thicker, more intimate. Timmy, ever the enthusiast, had already sunk a few shots, his wiry frame leaning over the table with precision. Bree had tagged along tonight, a rare addition to the boys' night, her athletic legs crossed casually as she perched on a stool near the action, drawing a few appreciative glances from the group that she met with easy confidence.
Timmy’s buddies—Mark, Dave, Pete, and Lou were deep into their rotation. Cues clacked, balls thumped into pockets, and good-natured ribbing filled the gaps. "Come on Timmy, are you aiming for the corner or the bartender's foot?" Mark teased as Timmy lined up his next shot.
Bree watched from the sidelines, her phone buzzing insistently in her lap, a secret smile appears on her lips. She'd been texting Jamal non-stop since they arrived, the thrill of it making her thighs press together under her short denim skirt. Timmy finally scratched on an easy one, groaning as he straightened up. "Alright, I'm tapping out for a bit. You misfits can have the table." He wiped his hands on a napkin, shooting Bree a look that mixed affection and that familiar undercurrent of anticipation.
She patted the stool beside her at the scarred wooden table tucked in the corner, away from the main fray but with a clear view of the game. The guys waved him off with chuckles, already reshuffling for the next round, oblivious to the charged bubble forming around the couple. Timmy slid onto the stool, close enough that his knee brushed hers, the warmth of him grounding her amid the parlor's chaos.
"Having fun?" he asked, his voice low, eyes crinkling behind those wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like a professor in on a scandalous joke. Bree nodded, but her fingers flew over her phone screen, a fresh message from Jamal lighting it up: *Can't wait to be with you tonight. Wear that red lace I love you so much.* Her pulse quickened, the memory of their last encounter—the way his thick cock had stretched her, filling her until she squirted around him—flooding back like a rogue wave.
She set the phone down, turning to Timmy with a mischievous glint. The guys were engrossed, Pete lining up a bank shot that had them all leaning in. Bree leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I'm going to see Jamal tonight," she murmured, her voice a sultry thread weaving through the distant clatter. "The man I'm madly in love with. He's going to fuck me senseless." The words hung there, bold and unfiltered, her hand slipping under the table to rest on his thigh.
Timmy's breath caught, his body going still as her fingers traced upward, finding his Tinnie Winnie rock-hard, straining against his khakis. She pressed her palm there, feeling the heat of his arousal pulse beneath the fabric. "Oh," she purred, her eyes locking onto his, wide with feigned surprise that dissolved into wicked delight. "Did that turn you on?" Timmy's face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and excitement etching lines around his kind eyes. He nodded, swallowing hard, the parlor's noise fading to a dull roar in his ears. Bree's touch was electric, her grip firm as she rubbed slow circles over his crotch, the friction sending sparks up his spine.
The guys laughed at something Dave said—a missed shot, probably—but Timmy barely registered it, his world narrowing to her hand and the vivid images her words conjured: Jamal's massive frame pinning her down, that ten-inch cock plunging deep, making her scream in ways Timmy's modest two inches never could. Emboldened by his silence, Bree's fingers worked at his belt buckle under the table's edge, the metal clinking softly. She unbuttoned his pants with deft movements, the zipper rasping down like a whispered promise. His buddies were still at it, cues cracking, but the table hid her actions perfectly, a clandestine veil in the middle of their ritual.
She slipped her hand inside his underwear, wrapping her thumb and index finger around his Tinnie Wennie. It throbbed in her grasp, hot and eager, the velvety skin slicking as she stroked from base to tip. Timmy gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening, a soft exhale escaping him that she silenced with a quick kiss to his jaw.
"Jamal's going to fill me up with lots of cum to bring home to you," she continued, her voice husky, stroking him steadily now, her rhythm matching the lazy sway of the jukebox tune. Timmy's hips twitched involuntarily, his small dick leaking pre-cum that made her strokes glide smoother, wetter. She could feel him teetering on the edge, his breath coming in shallow bursts, his shaft pulsing within her fingers. The risk of it all—their friends just feet away, oblivious—only heightened the tension, her own pussy aching with need, dampening her panties as she imagined Jamal's tongue on her later, lapping at her folds before replacing it with his cock.
Timmy's eyes darted to the group, then back to her, arousal warring with the thrill of exposure. Bree leaned in again, her free hand on his knee to steady him. "What would your friends think if I told them it was your desire for me to be fucked by a black man?" The question was a spark to dry tinder, taboo and teasing, painting the scene in her mind: her confessing it all right there, the guys' jaws dropping as Timmy squirmed. It pushed him over—his body tensed, a muffled groan vibrating in his throat as he ejaculated into her hand. Hot spurts coated her palm, sticky and warm, his tiny penis jerking with each release.
She milked him through it, gentle squeezes drawing out every drop, his face a mask of blissful surrender. Bree withdrew her hand slowly, careful not to draw attention, the evidence of his climax glistening on her skin. Without breaking eye contact, she lifted it to his mouth, her fingers hovering near his lips. "Lick this," she commanded softly, her tone laced with that affectionate dominance he'd confessed to craving when he'd first whispered his fantasies. "I know you like it."
Timmy hesitated for a split second, the salty tang already teasing his senses, then parted his lips, his tongue darting out to lap at her hand. He sucked her fingers clean, one by one, the act intimate and filthy, his eyes never leaving hers as the flavors mingled—his own release, sharp and musky, with the faint trace of her lotion from earlier. The guys called out then, Mark hollering for Timmy to rejoin the game, shattering the moment. Bree withdrew her hand, wiping the last traces on a napkin with a sly wink, while Timmy zipped up, his cheeks still pink.
"Your turn to lose spectacularly," she quipped, sliding off the stool with a sway of her hips. He chuckled, shaky but composed, returning to the pool table as if nothing had happened. But the seed was planted, her night far from over.