6 Sexy Three Can Play Stories (5 page)

“
I'm Kimberly. That's
Hank. Can you get your dick out like that?”

What an introduction! I consider
things.

“
Should be okay,
ma'am.”

Her laugh is kinda high and
cute.

“
No need for formality,
babe. We are going to be great friends.”

I yank myself up and reset my
height.

“
Be careful I warn” and
then dig out my fat cock from my pants as if I'm offering up a
tasty sausage to a hungry lass.

“
I'm always careful, big
guy.”

Hank snorts. I concur. No one could
mistake this for careful. Not one little bit.

Popping my dick in her mouth, Kimberly
does a great job of providing some solid exercise for my cock after
the warm up before. I grab the window from the side that I can
reach and hang there as Hank fucks her like a typhoon devastating a
small village and I get the benefit as the lady chokes and gurgles
on my cock.

All good things must come
to an end. Fortunately, it's not
me
that's first to loose my load.

Hank fulls her up, smirks
at me in that
all yours, buddy
kind of way
and strolls
off to get us a beer or two.

I'm left with her.

“
You want?”

She turns and pushes her butt out at
me.

I smile.

“
Sure.”

Coming around, she pushes her butt out
at me. Now, you know, it's probably a good idea to get inside and
stuff, but this is fucking hot, so I decide to fuck her with her
fat white ass hanging out half way and my cock in that cute pussy
of hers.

Little drips of white flow down to
pelt the commuters as I open her up. It's soft, smooth and
wet-wet-wet. I last less time than Hank before I'm painting her
white. She falls to the flooring and works her clit on her knees
until she cums.

“
Want a beer?” Hank asks
shortly after, him hanging out the window with a bottle
offered.

“
On the job,” I say with a
smile. “Can I have it after I'm done?”

“
It's her place.
Kim?”

“
Any time, honey. But,
bring the harness.”

I laugh. These women these days.
Fucking brilliant.

In under an hour I'm finished. It's
the fastest job ever.

Looking up at the
12
^th
floor, I can't stop
thinking that how wonderful little surprises are. Today has
certainly been one of the better of them.

Trailing The Soft Studs

The Super Fan

Mary Henderson, 25 years
old, has a near psychotic love of the Soft Studs.

So every girl has to have a hobby,
right? I mean what's so wrong about a young woman of 25 screaming
and hollering (much like a bloke watching a truly filthy strip show
might) at the sight of a bunch of hot athletic guys – sweaty, sexy,
and playing with their ball – running about a great big pitch of
Oregon green?

Nothing in my mind, but some around me
today have differing opinions.

I'm standing on the front lines this
time with my arms super wide and my green and white Soft Studs
t-shirt clinging tight to my large chest as I heave in a big heavy
breath and cry “Go, go, soft Studs, go, go!!!” at the top of my
lungs.

My arms wave about in long circular
motions and I stomp my small feet hard enough to make the long
wooden bleachers at the edge of the field rattle. I'm facing the
crowd as I do this, so everyone from right in front of me to
way-way up back can see me at it.

The problem with that is
that it's
only me
cheering. The game at my back is a clash of big strong bodies
hammering into big strong bodies. Under the wide blue sky our men
fight with brave vigor to overcome the twin agonies of an overly
hot Oregon summer day – well into the 80s today – and the limited
traction of a pitch that is still a little moist from the previous
day's rain storm. Everyone watching from the bleachers that
surround the green can tell that this is more a battle of 'slip and
slide' than real football.

I grit my bleached white teeth, suck
in another long breath that tastes of the hot dogs and cheap beer
that the crowd on our side are drowning themselves in and cry the
same chant all over.

None of the rabid supporters that I
imagine are out there stand to share my praise of the mighty Soft
Studs. Nope, they are on their ass with their hands under their
thighs and their faces hanging low like little unhappy puppies
after their master took their favorite soft toy away.

On the opposite side of the pitch from
where I'm standing, the great big Bluster's Beer digital scoreboard
shows that it is past half time and that the score is 30 to 1. The
1 is the Soft Studs. The 30 is the soon to be winners of this round
of football – the Gerico Michells.

I stare at the score hatefully before
spinning back to the crowd to stomp my right foot into the
bleachers with such strength that the wood cracks. They are lazily
wobbling about in their seats, drunk and fueled, in their deep
depression, by cheap meat and white bread alone. It inspires a
nasty rage in me and I turn it on them with a rough
efficiency.

“
Come on, you pansies!
What's got you in a bush? None of you got any balls, eh?” That's
what I yell, word for word, as I beat my arms in the air in a wild
fit of anger that would make my Irish mother, who isn't on the
tamer side of ladylikeness either, very proud.

Beside me an old man of graying hair
and double chins dares to roll his eyes as he licks his soft cream
in silence. I see him shake his head at the 'over-enthusiasm of
youngsters today' out of the corner of my eye and give him the
finger up close and personal.

The old fart now dealt
with I throw up my hands once more and try to lead the true fans
among this heaving mass of weak minded morons into a long chorus of
one of
Z to A
(a
famous Soft Studs cheering tune composed by yours truly) before
giving a long winding speech on why the Soft Studs will turn it
around. Half way through one fatso in the back tries to shut me up,
but I tell him to go find a screwdriver and drill himself before
continuing onward unaffected.

30 minutes passes in this fashion
until, unfortunately, the big old game horn rattles out the final
call and it is confirmed: The Soft Studs have lost
again.

I hang my head in shame like the
others and stumble helpless and broken from the wooden bleachers to
the car park to catch the bus back into the city.

Another loss.
That's 3 in a row now. When are the Soft Studs
going to regain their mojo?

If only I knew that I would be a
central player in getting it back. I might have been a little more
cheerful.

The Player and The
Fan

Andy Jackson, 32 years
old, Soft Studs offensive line captain.

It's dead quiet tonight just like he
expected.

The large man in a black beany and
blue and white workout sweats, closes the big heavy wooden door to
McMullen's Bar, locking out the creeping grip of the 9 o'clock
chill at the same time, and casually strolls across the deep
mahogany finish of the floor – his worn trainers squeaking on the
polish – up to the large black and brown wooden bar to slide up on
a hard leather capped stool to put a single finger up.

Behind the counter the aging bartender
– gray flecked hair and lines on his face that indicate that his
furrowed brow has been like that for some time over the years –
glances up from where he is polishing the glass of a lightly
sweating beer fridge and nods his head in
acknowledgment.

A cool beer is procured and placed
down on a brand new McMullen's coaster in front of the large
man.

“
Another loss tonight, eh,
Andy?” Walter McMullen, the owner and manager of the bar, says with
a hint of sadness touching his voice.

“
Yeah, not sure what
happened this time.”

The big sportsman picks up his beer,
feels the pleasant chill of it in his palm for a time and then
gulps down half before setting it down without adding any more.
It's post match for him and he knows he shouldn't be out drinking,
but tonight is special. It's the second anniversary of what
happened and he needs a drink to calm the rage that wells up on
nights like this.

The aging bartender throws a crooked
skinny elbow out on the spotless wooden counter top and presses a
scarred palm into his unshaven jaw. He throws his tired gray-blue
eyes over the small but active crowd gathered in his little place
on West and Park and sighs in a long out press of air.

“
Reckon we are going to
lose clientele if this keeps up,” the man starts like he always
does on days when the resident team loses.

He jerks his thumb at a group of
university students in white and green who are moping around on one
side of the bar near a bunch of pictures of Soft Studs players.
“The regulars aren't happy,” he says.

Walter twists his hand and lazily
turns his thumb in the opposite direction of the small group to the
other side of the brown polished wood decorated bar interior of his
bar to where a bunch of equally young men in red are boisterously
cheering the highlight reel playing on the six blaring TVs above
the counter. “The competition are though.”

The old man angrily snatches up a
clean white cloth, sprays some stale smelling green gunk from a
bottle onto the bar and sets to vigorously running it round in
tight little circles on the already much too clean bar
top.

“
I'm thinking about
changing to karaoke,” he admits finally after a fair few circles of
the cloth on the slick, clean surface. “You guys were a great draw
card when you were winning, but maybe it's time to get with the
times.” The old man flips the cloth into a nearby bin with a look
of distaste and adds, “Everyone likes to sing, I hear. It's not
dependent on someone's favorite team winning or losing.”

The tall man doesn't show any signs of
acknowledge the older man's comments. He quietly dumps down the
rest of his beer in three long glugs and puts up his finger for
another.

Andy has been about these
parts his whole life. When he was 18, he used to sneak in here
after practice down at the local university grounds to watch the
Stud games that the old man reruns day after day. He knows that
Walter is actually one of their biggest fans and every time they
lose, which has been more often of late admittedly, he goes on and
on like this to anyone that might listen. In Andy's memory this is
the 20
^th
time that he's suggested changing to karaoke and not once has
Walter even bothered to check a catalog or call in a rep to ask
about pricing. The player gets the feeling that that is something
that probably won't change for as long as the oldster continues to
support the Studs.

“
I'm going to grab a table
seat before it crowds out,” Andy says after picking up his beer and
kicking his stool back into place.

The aging bartender lazily waves a
hand at him and goes back to watching the two groups of happy and
unhappy revelers. He doesn't look to happy right now.

Lumbering across the bar, Andy takes a
seat near the small colored glass windows that line one wall. This
is where he used to sit when she was around. They'd talk and chat
and everything was good. Heck, life was good. How many days has it
been since she...?

CRASH!
The large wooden door hammers back against the wall and a
feminine voice shouting for someone to follow on behind echoes off
the walls.

Andy quietly turns his gaze from the
window to the door. There's a short woman and a bunch of very tough
looking hooligans standing there. They scan the bar from one side
to the other with dark eyes loaded with malice. An aura of violence
and pent up rage seems to sit on their shoulders like a lion about
to leap forward and bite the head off any who dares get in their
way. Of all of them, it's the woman that embodies this most. A
spitfire and a lethal one by the curve of her knuckles which are
aching white from the tightness of her fists.

She makes a rude gesture at the group
of young men celebrating then makes a bee line with the rest of her
gang for the university guys in green and white. The big man's
eyebrows raise when he sees how the fiery blond slaps the bigger
men on the back with enough roughness to have them nearly falling
over. Clearly she's the leader of the pack and a hard one at
that.

Quietly sipping his beer, Andy chooses
to ignore the rabid fans and that crazy woman for a view out the
window of the street and time to entertain his dark
thoughts.

A loud shout that rattles his table
quickly brings them back to the woman. She's small and slim and has
huge breasts for the trimness of her waist, but she boisterous for
her size.

The clonk of a glass being removed
from a table behind him catches his attention. He glances
back.