Billiard babe

She walks in wearing nothing but heels. The cue rests against the green felt, but her attention drifts elsewhere. She strokes the stick slowly, then runs her free hand across her stomach and down between her legs. The balls sit untouched. She leans over the table anyway, presses her breasts against the rail, and watches her own reflection in the glossy wood. Her fingers move in lazy circles, pressing harder, slipping lower. She raises one foot, places it on the edge of the table, shows the arch and the sole. The sight makes her breath catch. She shifts her weight, slides two fingers inside, pulls them out glistening, then brings them to her mouth. Her hips roll against nothing but air. A sharp moan echoes off the walls. She moves the cue between her thighs, rides it, lets it slip along her slit while her toes curl. Her free hand pinches a nipple, rolls it until it hardens. She keeps going, pace quickening, until her thighs tremble and the sound of her wetness fills the empty room. She comes hard, knuckles white on the table, foot still raised, toes spread wide.