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.
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"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.
