…the waistband was made to withstand tension like a rubber ring, like a fenced in dog barking for attention; just know I will listen, and I will let you tongue my ears with wetted glistens as I dribble over your little lips that hide under laced crotch coverings; the oozing that I’m choosing is to make dirty messies on your chesties; whither you suck on my fingies or twitch from my caressing of your playfield of tendies, it’s purely a mental game of steel and metal that ends all the same…

Spit ran down Gary’s pint glass as he watched Mary play one of the pinball machines from across the bar. She was the daughter of the pub owner, who was a standout gentleman in the local community. Mary, on the other hand, saw no good future ahead of her. In fact, she considered herself a good-for-nothing, a rock’n’roll burnout.

After draining her last ball and cursing the game, Mary went back behind the bar to clean up. As she grabbed a rag and flicked it over her shoulder, she locked eyes with Gary.

“You ready for another, love?” Mary asked.

“Yes, darling.” Gary responded.

Gary paused to study Mary. Long brunette hair, a ripped shirt, and paint-covered jeans. Overall, an unseemly appearance that invited curiosity. She hid away impulses that Gary secretly wanted. Mary returned with a beer and struck up a conversation.

“I don’t mind draining balls, but I’ve never won a free game, and these machines are eating my quid. I want to get better at these flipper tables. Any tips?” Mary inquired.

“You need to find your playstyle,” Gary said.

“Well then, what styles are you aware of, mister…”

“Gary.”

“Charming. My name is Mary.”

Gary extended his sweaty palm to shake Mary’s hand decorated by bruises and cigarette burns. Her arms were covered in cuts, and her stomach was painted with vulgar tattoos. Gary knew that she wasn’t afraid to show raw openings.

Mary found Gary to be a straight-laced delight with hardly any roughened edges on his body. He had short brunette hair and no body art. He wore a white t-shirt tucked into his jeans with slightly scuffed tennis shoes. He was taller than most customers, but he didn’t intimidate her like the drunk old pundits. Shifting his posture in his stool, he took a swig and continued the conversation.

“My father once told me that flippers were either crankers or strokers.”

“Yeah?” Mary said, pausing her polishing.

“Crankers are fast, they take advantage of the ball in play. A ball at rest is no fun for these jacks. Crankers flip away and react to the ball. They’re like playful tommy cats, a bulldog with a wet, slobbery bone. Judging by the way you were playing, I’d say you’re a natural cranker.”

Surprised at his own declaration, Gary took a desperation chug, avoiding Mary’s raised eyebrow.

“Oh? What do you consider yourself, then?” she asked.

“I’m a stroker.” Gary said, looking directly into Mary’s hazel eyes.

“Tell me more, mister stroker.” she said, unfazed.

“Well, strokers, erm, are slow players; they caress the flipper buttons, feeling out each impression before pushing them. Every time the ball descends the playfield, strokers let the ball bounce about, refusing to flip. This patient technique lets the player trap the ball to control the direction of the next flip. Do that, and you’re a stroker.”

Mary leaned toward Gary with a new look, noticing that they were alone in the bar. She enjoyed the banter but decided now to make her move.

“Mister stroker, you seem like a kind fellow, so listen closely: I want you to lock up the front. I’m going to close early so that you can show me how you stroke,” Mary said sliding the keys over to Gary.

Gary had been a hand crankin’, ass spankin’ mess in his youth, but now he was just a steel ball know-it-all. He wasn’t planning on a late night at the pub, but he took the keys. If he played his cards right, he could be in it for a fired-up night of huffing steam and spitting smoke.

As Gary secured the pub, he turned and saw Mary already in front of one of the flipping tables with her ripped up jeans down to her knees, exposing her black, skull printed skimpies. She licked her fingers slowly and spit-shined the loaded spring plunger before reaching down to finger herself.

“Mister stroker, let’s cut the bollocks. I want you. I want to spit-suck your shuttle cock while I have my cummy-cunt stretched by this shooter rod before we fuck,” Mary stated.

Mary then removed her knickers and lifted off her shirt, exposing both her smooth breasts and her hair-lined thigh-lips. Gary shifted his stiffness and approached her with his zipper already pulled down.

“Darling, I don’t know what to say,” he whispered.

“Just give me a push and let me choke on you,” Mary said, leaning her tightened vagina closer to the plunger.

Gary unbuttoned his trousers and flapped out his hidden cunt poker before Mary, whose eyes lit up with pubic delight; she took Gary lightly but was soon aroused all unsightly. Gary walked forward, gagging Mary and slipping the ball whacker into her pussy at the same time. Her gurgled pleasure sounds only made Gary more hardened. He pulled her hair back so she could look up at his aroused expression. The machine’s protrusion spread apart Mary’s walls and caused her legs and ass to shake around all giddy-like.

After Mary was stretched enough and her mouth drippings leaked down Gary’s sack, she took Gary into her hand, stroking him senseless. She reached her arm around him and hoisted herself off the machine’s appendage to have a face-to-face.

“Start a game, bend me over this flipper table, and make me your cum-drenched fuck-punk,” Mary whispered aggressively.

Gary spun her around toward the machine and used his thumbs and pointer fingers to twist small circles around her areolae to excite her even more.

“Oh daddy, show me how you can stroke,” Mary said grunting between breaths.

Gary got down on one knee to become eye-level with the coin-door beside Mary’s backside. He licked his teeth and dove his tongue into her, flinging it around while spreading her labia with his mouth. He released her clit from his lips and used a juiced-up finger to flick a coin into the machine and hit the start button.

The score reel rotated all the numbers back to zero, matching Mary’s eyes as they rolled backward to look at her own beat-up brain. He grabbed enough spit from her mouth and spread her buttocks apart appropriately. Finally, Gary placed his throbbing thudder into Mary’s prized fuck-twat and began his lecture with slow back-and-forth thrusts.

“When you push the ball into play, you want to, oh fuck, you, you feel so good, you need to nudge the game, like how I, how I hold you, how I hunch toward you, understand?” Gary said, panting with sweat as he started to fuck Mary.

“Yes baby, fucking fuck I understand you,” she moaned.

“The ball is, oh my god darling, going to go crazy around these pop, pop-pop, fuck, pop bumpers, same with the rubber posts, so you have to be, uhmf, prepared; the tools of the game are reaction, stamina, timing, pacing, and pumping.”

The two lovies ignored the ball in play and found themselves lost in their own slip-sliding drudgery. Gary’s cock swelled in Mary’s darkness; this was a recreational luxury, an unexpected explicity with cursings and perverted nurseries mixing sweat with dilated milky white stares.

As the last ball fell into the trough, the machine counted up a bonus and Gary and Mary both released their inner spirits to swirl around in a warm privacy. The only sound in the bar was the combination of their exhales and the piercing sound of a hard knock from the pinball machine, indicating a free game had been earned. 

“Oh Gary, that was so lovely,” Mary said, cooing between inhales as she gathered herself against Gary’s torso, his arms tightening around her.

“Did we…did we really finish in sync, my dear?” Gary asked, nervous about his performance.

“Why yes, of course we did. You just made me the happiest girl tonight. I’ll send father your regards, mister stroker,” Mary said, walking back behind the bar. As she turned down the lights, she looked toward Gary.

“How about one more drink? My treat.” she said.

Gary pulled up his gatherings and sat at the stool he had left only a few minutes beforehand.

“Of course. Cheers to you, my cranker queen,” Gary said in a low hush.

As Mary turned around to reward him with a brewed bonus for a well done fucking, he noticed his leaking spunkies traveling down her thighs. He figured this was a sign, a purpose that this punking would alter his ordinary life. This lesson would turn everything inside out and move time backward going forward to a new age of troublemaking.