She thought about it a minute. “All right,” she decided grudgingly. “I’ll watch a game with you next Sunday.”
“Next Sunday is Superbowl Sunday.”
“Isn’t that all right?”
“Oh, sure. Sure.”
Superbowl Sunday! My luck!
So here we were. The game was only a smidgeon over six minutes old, and I’d already missed the first interception, the first touchdown, and the first conversion. I wondered if feminists feel as strongly about murder as they do about rape
Stephanie was sulking. “Do you think it would be all right if I had a beer?” she asked with petulant sarcasm. “Or would that be too much of a distraction?”
“Sure, baby. Have a beer.” My bitterness gave way to remorse. I’m a sucker for guilt trips, and after all, she was my guest. Her watching the game with me was my own doing. “Let’s be friends.” I kissed the little pulse at the base of her neck.
I didn’t have to see the red light flashing or hear the bells jangling to know I’d hit right on target. The sensitivity of that pulse was one of the first things I’d learned about Stephanie when we’d started sleeping together on a steady basis about a month before the start of the gridiron season. Kissing her there was key to fulfilling all of the erotic fantasies her body aroused in me.
It’s the kind of body that’s sometimes described as Amazonian, or Junoesque. Stephanie being a leading feminist, such descriptions, I suppose, are inevitable. But there is an implication in them of unyielding flesh which is very far from the reality of Stephanie.
She may be tall and hold herself tall, but she is also very soft and womanly. Her breasts are large and creamy and welcoming as fleece. Her long legs are sleek and shapely. Water jugs might be slung easily from her hips, and when they are in motion their rhythm is the raw stuff from which erections are erected. Her behind is high and plump, compact and springy. Lascivious traps lurk deep in her jade-green eyes and when she discards her inhibitions in bed, her mane of red hair swirls about like a demanding whirlpool sucking one deeper and deeper into the tempestuous depths of her libido.
Phew! But it’s true, all true!
Now my kissing of the pulse at the base of her neck unlocked that libido. She dug her nails into my back and spread her thighs and moaned and bounced on her volatile bottom. “Steve!” She kissed me urgently, her tongue deep in my mouth. “Ahh! ... I’m ... so . .. hot!”
My cock, flat up against my naked belly and prodding, told me it was mutual. Lying atop her, I rested my chest on the pillow of her breasts. Her long, excited, blood-red nipples burned into my flesh. I reached down and my fingers tangled in the silky hair over her Mound of Venus. I probed and found her honey hot and flowing. I played with her clitty and she sank her teeth into the muscle of my shoulder. “Don’t tease me,” she panted. And her ass burned and writhed under my squeezing, stroking hand. “Please! Please!”
I shifted position. I raised her legs over my arms and placed them on my shoulders, placed them high so that her thighs, their muscles straining and the insides shiny with a mixture of syrup and perspiration, pressed against my upper chest. This bent her long body double and raised her pussy and spread it wide. Sopping as it was, it was also deliciously tight and thrillingly ridged. I eased my cock inside her, savoring the rippling sensation. And then I began to pump with short, hard, deep, punishing strokes.
Stephanie began beating a tattoo on my shoulders with her fists. “Fuck!” she snarled, half crying. “Fuck!” And she slammed her pussy against me in a manner that kept my hot balls swinging, a manner that insisted that she was fucking me every bit as much as I was fucking her.
We went at it for a long time. Sometimes we pumped. Sometimes we screwed. Sometimes we teased and sometimes we punished. We aroused and we held off and then we aroused each other again. And we made verbal demands on each other as we humped:
“Squeeze my balls as I come down inside you!”
“Suck my nipples hard!”
“Ride up and down on it!”
“Play with my ass!”
“Squeeze tighter! Tighter!”
“Harder! Faster! Harder! Faster!”
“I’m gonna fuck the ass off you, Stephanie!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! . . . Oh! I’m going to come! . . . I can feel it! . . . Your cock is—! Ooh! I’m going to come!”
And just then—-
“Jaworski to Rodney Parker, and it’s touchdown Eagles!”
My head shot up and turned as if my neck was double-jointed. Hell, I was betting Philly. Shit! I was just in time to hear the play called back. Illegal motion!
“What’s that? What did you say?” Stephanie panted.
“Illegal motion!
“What’s that?”
“Something like this!” I told her, slamming my cock so high up her cunt that I momentarily breached the mouth of her womb.
“Oh, darling!” She began playing her own version of Ravel’s Bolero with her quim.
I danced to her tune. Once again we writhed in sync, building to orgasm. Once again we took our time, savoring, teasing, fucking intimately, deep and hard. Once again we reached the point where Stephanie announced “I’m going to come!” And once again—
The crowd roared. Both announcers were shouting at once. By the time I managed to crane my neck around again, it was over. King had taken a pass from Plunkett and gone eighty yards for the Raiders’ second touchdown.
“What is it? What happened?” Stephanie, still writhing, noticed that I wasn’t writhing back.
“Touchdown.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Touchdown. A record-breaker. The longest play in Superbowl history.”
“The longest—” Suddenly Stephanie’s foot drew back and shot forward into my face. Her next kick went right between the goalposts to score a devastating blow to my testicles. And then she was out from under me and storming across the room. “I don’t believe you!” she was screaming. “I just don’t believe you!”
“Listen.” I tried to explain. “Try to understand. I took the Eagles and gave three points. Sentiment. Next to New York, the nicest people live in Philly.”
The pain in my balls was making me babble.
“What I mean, this is real tragedy. A TD called back. And now a fluke eighty yard run!”
“You listen to yourself! Just listen to yourself! There I am about to come and you—! Ooh! And now you stand here trying to tell me—! Ooh! I don’t believe you! Ooh! I just don’t believe you! Can this be Steve Victor behaving this way? Can this be Steve Victor, the reknowned man from O.R.G.Y.?”
“Come on now, Stephanie! What does that have to do—?”
“Steve Victor, the illustrious sex expert!” she jeered. “The fair haired boy of the sex research grant circuit! The sex-master who’d rather get his rocks off watching barbarians clash over a pig’s bladder than satisfy a woman! Yes, Steve Victor, whom they mention in the same breath with Kinsey1 and Masters and Johnson2 and Comfort3 , but whose real heroes are bone-breaking behemoths in human form. The Man from O.R.C.Y. indeed!”
“O.R.G.Y.,” I reminded her frostily, “is not meant to indicate my status. It stands for 'Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth’ “
“And is this what you call rational guidance? Make touchdowns, not love!”
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.” I tried to lighten the hostility with a joke.
It was a mistake. Stephanie’s sense of humor was on vacation. She took the remark as an insult. “Don’t you dare condescend to me!” And she began scrambling into her clothes.
It took the rest of the first half to convince her to stay. I missed the Eagles’ field goal early in the second quarter. I didn’t see the Oakland attempt which failed. Neither did I view the second attempt by Philly in the closing minutes, nor the spectacular move by Ted Hendricks which blocked it.