Football Erotica
"Third and Long" a sex story by N.S. Faulk
Nevaeh Eden Loves Charger Girls“What the fuck are you doing?” I shoved my husband’s hand off my naked thigh.
“I can’t help it, you look SO sexy!”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. But the Chargers are 3rd and 2 on the 26-yard line.” I did look sexy. As I did every game. Oversized San Diego Chargers jersey number 83, wide receiver Vincent Jackson—my favorite player—barely long enough to cover my ass.
“I love these the most,” he snickered, snapping my Charger-blue thong against my hip. This annoyed the hell out of me all the time, but especially during a game.
“First down!” I clapped and did a little butt-wiggle on the sofa. “I’m wearing shorts next week,” I announced, contemplating whether NFL chastity belts might be a lucrative business endeavor.
“I love those skimpy gray ones.”
“Shut up.” Like I’d wear gray. Maybe if I were a Raiders fan. I leaned over, adjusting my lucky Chargers socks (cuffs up for home games, turned down on the road) and felt his hand grabbing my ass.
“Can’t you wait for a commercial?” I complained. He smiled wickedly and shook his head. “If you MUST touch me, how about a back rub honey.”
“Okay. Take your shirt off.”
“Are you insane?!” I chuckled, feeling his big, strong hands on my shoulders. “Don’t wrinkle VJ’s name, it’s bad luck,” I instructed. He wrapped his hands playfully around my neck. “Stop,” I ordered, reabsorbing myself into the game. A screen pass to Sproles who was immediately tackled. I blamed my husband. I shifted on the sofa, his hands falling abruptly.
“Okay, commercial. Come here quick.” I grabbed his face and kissed him like an awkward teenager. My tongue rapidly swirled around his mouth like the toilet brush doing a quick once-over, drool streamed down my chin.
“And we’re back at Qualcomm stadium…” reported the inane announcer. I wish the NFL would get a clue that former players make horrendous commentators. Coaches too. Well, except for Jon Gruden. I like John Gruden, even if he was the Raiders’ coach for three years. I don’t mind the other teams he coached: Green Bay, Philadelphia, and Tampa Bay. At least Tampa Bay beat Oakland in Super Bowl XXXVII. That made me happy. Anyway, when the game resumed I pulled away from hubby more quickly than the time I forgot to use the potholder to take a scalding chocolate cake out of the oven for his birthday.
“Game’s on baby.” He looked stunned. He’ll get over it. The Chargers driving in the red zone is all the foreplay I need.
He knew about my football obsession the minute we met. I explained, much to his amusement, my little rituals. He carried the boxes containing my extensive Chargers memorabilia collection when I moved in. He fucking licked my Chargers tramp stamp arching gracefully over my ass the first time we had sex. And if that weren’t enough, when I wanted to add “to love and honor, except during Chargers games” into the wedding vows, he should have gotten a clue. Hey, I was allowing him to watch the game with me for heaven’s sake! I just wish he would shut up and keep his hands to himself for three hours. Three-and-a-half if it goes into overtime.
For the first quarter and halfway through the second he was so quiet, I almost forgot about him. The Chargers were leading 10-3. I snuck a glance, careful not to fuel him the slightest bit. He was watching the game, hand in his shorts, cock rock hard. I stifled a chuckle. I felt guilty. Masturbating to a football game while his half-naked wife ignored him. Poor baby.
“It’s almost halftime,” I apologized, patting his thigh. “Keep up the good work.” I chuckled as he sighed.
Another touchdown for my boys. Leading 21-6 at the half. I was soaked. I checked my husband, shorts off, erection in hand. I giggled. His eyes pleaded with me as he shook his dick around. I leaned over and kissed the head, slowly circling my tongue around the tip, tasting the first salty sweet drops of his semen. He moaned, his hand to the back of my head, fingers entwined in my hair, urging. I ran my tongue along the underside of his cock, tip to base and back again; his hands firmer, trying to hold me still as he slid into my mouth.
I sucked him hard. Latched on and didn’t let go. His pubic hair tickled my nose as I opened my throat to swallow his head. His ass clenched, raising his hips to meet my every stroke. I cupped his balls with one hand while squeezing the base of his cock with my other. His groans grew louder, encouraging me. I continued, bringing him closer to the edge. I was so horny, my wetness flowing down my thigh. He stiffened, toes curled, and pressed my face into his groin as a guttural grunt emanated from his throat. He flooded my mouth with his hot seed, thick against my throat and upon my tongue. I swallowed every drop and then licked around his sensitive tip, nibbling here and there until he cried out for me to stop, releasing my head.
“Happy now?” I teased, glancing at the halftime show on the television.
“Mmm hmm. Thanks babe.”
“Now will you leave me alone?”
“Maybe.” Asshole.
Third quarter kickoff; Kaeding’s kick dropped inside the 5-yard line. Beautiful. I settled back, studying the game. Weddle Interception! Woo hoo! Chargers’ ball. First down, Rivers to Gates – touchdown! I jumped and clapped and kissed my naked husband. Point after—good. 28-6. Commercial.
Suddenly I was lifted and carried behind the sofa, placed on the carpet facing the TV. A hand pressed hard against my back, forcing me over the couch.
“What the fuck?” I shouted.
“Relax. You can still watch the game.” His hand remained firmly against my back as his other slid the thong strap aside. My dampness and the cool rush of air titillated me. “Damn you’re wet!” he announced as he pressed against me and I felt his erection reborn against my ass. A flood of kisses upon the back of my neck. He lifted my jersey, wrinkling it under my armpits as his hands reached around to grab my breasts. He kneaded them, squeezing and pulling my nipples, coaxing them into hard little stones; his cock hard against my thigh.
I lifted my head as the commercial ended, television eye-level as he continued fondling my breasts. “Just take it off,” I motioned toward my jersey, as he slid it over my head and onto the sofa cushion. “So you don’t ruin it.”
“Funny,” he replied, gently biting my shoulder blades.
He released one breast, reaching down my belly and between my damp thighs, hard cock still wedged against my ass, until he found my clit, swollen and wet. My eyes closed as he pinched and stroked that little pleasure nub, making it difficult to watch the game. Faster he rubbed me, immobilizing me against the sofa, biting and licking my naked back. My moans grew louder. Now I could neither see nor hear the game.
“Tell me what happens,” I pleaded.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he started, dropping to his knees and running his tongue along my wet slit, drinking the nectar. “I can’t see it,” he added, resuming.
I struggled to keep my eyes open as he licked and sucked me, occasionally touching my clit with his tongue, making me jump. I clutched the back of the sofa and spread my legs farther apart, bending my knees for balance. I glanced back during the next commercial to see him kneeling on the carpet behind me, face buried in my wetness, hands clutching my hips. I teetered on the edge, torn between forcing my eyes open to watch the Chargers’ crucial defensive stand and succumbing to my body’s inevitable orgasm. Oh fuck it! I closed my eyes and came on his face, my body convulsing, my chest heaving.
He stood up. “Damn rug burns,” he whined, rubbing his knees.
“Hey baby, it’s your own fault. I’m trying to watch the game, remember?” I taunted as he slapped my ass. Hard. “Ouch! What was that for?”
“For being a shit.” He laughed and spanked me again. Commercial on. I turned and kissed him hard on the mouth, grabbing his renewed erection. I tasted myself on his lips, smelled myself on his nose. “How was it?” he asked.
“Not bad.” I grinned.
“Is that so?” he said sarcastically. “What’s the score then?”
“Well, last I checked it was 31-6 Chargers.” I glanced at the screen, 34-13. Shit. “I must have missed a little.” I blushed.
“You ought to pay better attention. Don’t you think?”
“Fuck off.” I started to walk back around the sofa. He stopped me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked smugly, grabbing my shoulders and kissing my neck.
“I can’t see the game,” I protested, struggling to get away. He turned me around so I faced the TV again, still nibbling at my neck and my earlobes. He ran his tongue down my back, licking the outline of my tattoo. Chargers’ ball again. Rivers to Jackson, gain of 37 yards and another first down in the red zone. I felt him slide inside of me—and missed the rest of the game. At least the Chargers won. I think.
Originally published March 2011