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Two friends stumble through the front door after a long night out, laughing, flushed, and already wet with bad intentions. The house is quiet, the lights are low, and the big blue pool table in the living room suddenly looks like the only place that matters. Sandy doesn't waste a second. She locks eyes with me, bites her lip, and says in that low, commanding voice, "Get on that pool table." I knew exactly what she wanted. I wanted it just as bad. Knees press into the soft felt, and the rest is pure, filthy history.