Twenty-seventeen, Philly’s favor, was where it stood going into the final quarter. My sighs at this state of affairs brought consolation from Stephanie. “Poor Steve.” She kissed the very tip of my prick. “They’ll come back.” Her long fingernails furrowed the hair over my groin. “Don’t you worry.” Her long nipples brushed my thighs ticklingly as she bent over me.
But the Philly defense seemed grimly determined not to end up as the scapegoats they’d been the year before. Hairston and Harrison, the left and right ends, kept rolling off Nuke Outlaw and Plowboy Palmer to keep the kind of pressure on Terry that prevented her from setting up for the long pass. Short gains carried the Stonewalls well inside Eagles’ territory, but then -- disaster! The Philly outside linebacker, Jerry Robinson, intercepted a crucial pass and, with the clock starting to run out, the Eagles once again had possession.
“Damn!” I reacted.
“Now, now.” Stephanie slipped to her knees beside the bed.
All I could see was the top sheen of her red hair between my thighs. But I felt her tongue as it dipped deep under my balls to lick the sensitive area there. “Ahhh!” Her facile tongue drew the exclamation of pleasure from me. Warm and wet, her lips formed around my right ball. Between my eyes and the TV screen my prick loomed up like a tower.
Whittier had that savage look defensive teams get in the last minutes of a game when their side is behind and they’re operating on reserve energy. Behind their safety masks, their lips were curled like the fang-filled mouths of trapped cougars. Grinder Meade was coming on like a steamroller, knocking aside everything in his way to get to the ball carrier. Ambrose Pierce slid off the blockers like greased lightning on every play. Even though it was obvious that Philly was playing a running game and not chancing an interception, Foley and Sabbath, the Whittier linebackers, were playing bump-and-run so viciously that two possible Philly receivers were carried off the field.
This kind of desperate—but effective—defense held Philly so successfully that, in the end, they were forced to punt. Once again, Whittier had possession of the ball, this time on their own twenty-seven yard line. There were three minutes left to play in the game.
“Now!” I breathed a fervent prayer. “Let’s go now!” I addressed the close-up of Terry Niemath on the TV screen as she called an audible at the scrimmage line.
I’m not sure if Stephanie misunderstood or not. In any case, she drew my prick deep inside her warm, wet mouth and licked the sensitive head voraciously. One of her hands squeezed my balls as she did this. The other one was between her own legs, toying lightly with her exposed and quivering clitoris. By angling my head, I could just barely see her fingers playing in her pussy as she sucked cock. It distracted me from the game.
Abruptly she stopped, removed her mouth from my stiff prick and looked up at me. Her red lips were glistening, her green eyes sultry, her breath coming in quick, erotic little gasps. “I don’t want you to miss the game,” she said. “You keep watching. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’ll just keep on doing what I like to do. But you watch your Superbowl.” And once again her sensitive and innovative mouth enveloped me.
I watched the screen. The Eagles’ defense was set up to guard against the expected passing blitz. Terry frustrated them with a series of hand-offs and fakes for the kind of short yardage that nevertheless added up. Thus, as Stephanie drew my cock deep into her throat so she could lick my balls while sucking it, the Stonewalls made their way to midfield.
The two-minute warning sounded. . . . Stephanie withdrew her mouth to rest a moment and squeezed my straining prick between the soft, panting globes of her firm white breasts . . . Terry handed off to her running back for five yards . . . Stephanie rubbed one of her long, red nipples into the wide stretched hole at the head of my cock . . . Terry completed a sideline pass to Pete Gorgonzola, who stepped out of bounds with one minute thirty-seven to play . . . Stephanie stood up alongside the bed to pull off her nightgown. The black silk slid up her voluptuous body with a rustle, the sensuality of which was confirmed by her straining nipples and honey-coated pussy-lips and by my hard-bucking cock . . . Two more of Terry’s passes went incomplete and the clock continued to run . . . Stephanie stretched luxuriously, her tall, beautifully proportioned body shimmering in the flickering light cast by the TV screen . . . Terry’s third bullet in a row connected and she had eked out another first down with fifty-seven seconds left in the quarter . . . Stephanie stretched out beside me carefully, not blocking the screen, and rubbed her hot, damp cunt against my thigh . . . Forty-two seconds left and six yards short of another first down . . . “I’m so hot!” Stephanie murmured in my ear. “You can keep watching the game, but please—Please!—fuck me now!” . .. Third down, one yard to go and thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four seconds left in the game . . . “I’m going to straddle you so you can see,” Stephanie promised, suiting the action to the word. Crouching with one knee on either side of my hips, she slowly -- savoringly—lowered her raw and quivering pink pussy over my upstanding cock until it pressed down and spread out over my groin. “Oh, God!” Her breasts swayed wildly back and forth as she rocked to increase the sensation of my hard prick filling her clutching quim . . . Twenty-three seconds left, and Terry called Whittier’s last time-out in order to go over to the sidelines and confer with Coach Newtrokni. She came back in with Horseshoe Cohen. They, were going for the field goal . “Fuck me!” Stephanie’s sharp fingernails clawed underneath me as she moved up and down along the length of my prick. I felt her clitty rubbing hard with the movement and the way she moaned testified to the arousal of the contact. “Fuck me!” she repeated and I began to thrust upward, deep and hard, in tempo with her movements . . . The kick was good! The score was all tied up at twenty-twenty with eight seconds left in the final quarter . . . Stephanie stretched her long legs out full-length up my body so that my hard-pumping cock might penetrate her more deeply. I grabbed her hips and pulled her to me as I continued to move in and out of her clutching quim. The inside of her pussy felt like an oven around the frankfurter of my lust . . . my balls bouncing against the underside of her thrusting ass, the two of us fucked away those last eight seconds of vain endeavor for the Eagles and sudden death overtime was now the situation facing both Superbowl teams . . . “Harder!” Stephanie panted as the beer commercial preceding the sudden death period came on the screen. “Faster!” She ground down on me so that her cunt circled my cock in such a way as to stimulate every tactile surface of both organs. “Oh! You fuck so goo-oo-ood!” Stephanie groaned. “Don’t stop! I’m coming! Soon! . . . Soon! . . . Soon I’m going to come!” . . . The team captains faced off. The referee tossed the coin to see who was going to receive. It spun high in the air . . . “FUCK! FUCK!” Stephanie scrambled to change position. She flung herself on her back and doubled her body so that her long legs locked around my neck. She pulled me over on top of her. I stabbed my frothing cock into her gaping, hungry cunt and resumed screwing her like a jackhammer. “YES! YES!” Stephanie’s arms flailed wildly behind her. “FUCK! FUCK!” . . . As the coin fell to the ground, her hand tangled in the wire to the TV set, pulling the plug. The screen went dead. . .“NOW!” Stephanie bleated “I’M COMING! I’M COMING! I’M COMING! . . .”