The Big Game

I found Tom, our star wideout, parked on the locker bench like someone just ran over his dog. And yeah, the guy earned it—he straight-up dropped the winning pass. Coach threw me at him like some cheerleader-shaped pep talk on legs. Fine by me. Last thing I need is the team letting down the girls and me while we’re out there shaking our pom-poms for a bunch of chumps. So I told Tom to stand up, quick as you like, and snapped a kick right into his family jewels. He folded like cheap lawn furniture and howled, asking what the hell. I laid it out plain: this was the only language his nuts would understand. Another punt followed, then another—hard, quick jabs that made him squeal every single time. When his boxers hit the floor, I gave those swollen stones a playful squeeze just long enough for him to sigh before I drove a knee up and dropped him again. I kept him on his feet long enough to land ten full-force kicks in a row. He got the message and swore he’d play like a champ. To be sure, I clocked him one more time—same spot, same lightning pain. He stayed upright and tight-lipped. Good boy. Reward time. Off came the skirt. I flashed my tits, then fed him my tired feet, one at a time. They probably tasted like victory sweat. He didn’t argue when I shoved a whole foot between his lips, just sucked. After that I wrapped my arches around his sore cock and worked him over nice and slow, calling plays between strokes. When I decided he’d learned enough, I ordered him to pop. He painted my toes white. Then I made him lick every drop clean before I smeared what was left across his face like cheap sunscreen. “Now hit the showers,” I barked. He wobbled off, a little wiser and a lot lighter.