Secret Superpower 02 Ball Sports

Just when I think that, okay, cool, I've got this superpower that can make women do this and this, and that can get me into this pleasurable situation or that— in other words, just when I think I have my special abilities figured out— I get a big, fat, sliding curve thrown at me and I have to admit I don't know whether I have any superpower at all or I'm just crazy and lucky. I'm thinking now of what happened last week.

I was in a hotel bar one evening wasting time. Out on the road on business, as usual. It was a convention town, but I wasn't horny enough to go out and seduce some housewife from Oklahoma who thinks that cock is what you do with a gun. So I sat at the bar and watched a football game on the tube. Some college game. I can't even remember the teams anymore.

A guy and his wife sat next to me. He wanted to watch the game and the best seat was mine, smack in front of the screen behind the bar, so I slid down one. The wife went along with him, showing profound boredom that he was oblivious to. They drank boring beers and he rooted for one of the centers of learning, though he really didn't look like higher education material. He started talking to me. It seems he went to Wewillwewillrock U. for a couple of semesters, didn't graduate so hadn't moved beyond the rabid fan stage.

He had a lot to cheer about in the first half. WU ran up 21 unanswered points before the opponent scored, then added another right before half time. The boy was happy. He bought me a drink. The wife too. She wasn't bad looking, tall and trim. Though it was hard to tell because she was sitting, she had the look of an athlete. I wondered what she was doing with this loser until he started telling me the story of his life. Seems he lucked into an air conditioning business, was making reasonably big bucks (he called himself the Jeff Bezos of air-conditioning in some podunk city) and was doing A-OK, good buddy. They say women who marry for money end up earning it.

When the second half started he waxed eloquent on the merits of his college, the quarterback, the defense, even the awesome cheerleaders and how he used to date one (which the wife did not appreciate). He was looking forward to another thirty minutes of slaughter.

I started feeling a familiar twitch. Not in my testicles this time, in someplace near my frontal lobes. But nonetheless there. My superpower had awakened. And I knew with certainty, as if I'd read tomorrow's sports page, that my barmate's favorite team was going to lose.

I've learned to trust that twitch. I said, as a friendly heads up, "Don't count your chickens yet. Opponent U. could make a comeback."

"No way, they've got nothing, nothing going for them."

"Stranger things have happened," I answered, continuing my friendly caution. He had bought me a drink, after all.

"Put your money where your mouth is."

That was not the kind of friendly response I'd expected. "I'm not a betting man."

"Then keep your mouth shut, turkey."

"Chuck, he was being nice."

"You shut up too."

What a wonderful relationship they must have, I thought. It's true I'm not a betting man, but it's not because I don't know how. Just the opposite. I prefer more, shall we say, challenging wagers. I couldn't let the insult pass. "Okay, name the odds and the stake."

"Twenty bucks. I give you Opponent U. plus fourteen."

"You call that a bet?"

"What you looking for?"

"Give me odds, not points. Five to one."

"No way."

"I thought you had confidence in your team. And I want to bet more than the cost of a bar tab."

"Okay, fifty. Three to one."

"So, you're not really that confident they'll win."

"Hey, yeah, sure they're gonna win. Make it a hundred."

"Still not sure, I guess."

"You got a big mouth on you, mister."

"Not as big as yours if you won't back up your team."

"Okay, smartass, you name the amount. I got plenty."

Amateur. Bragging he had enough to cover his bad bets. "I wasn't thinking of money, actually."

"Huh?"

"How about betting something more, let's say, valuable. Something . . ." I pretended to be searching for the right word while I side-eyed the wife. "Priceless." He looked puzzled, as if I were trying to explain why he couldn't deduct his motor home. "Let's bet, say, our manhood."

"What the fuck you talking about?"

"I'll bet you a blow job WU loses this football game."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. We watch the game together. At the end of it the loser sucks off the winner."

"You a faggot or something? Yeah, you're hoping you'll lose."

"Not at all. I'm straight as a rail." And I had no desire for oral from this jerk, even if I liked guys. It was just my superpower pushing me to push my victim. "I just think that if a man believes in something, he should be willing to put himself on the line for it."

"Uh-uh. I'm not sucking anyone's dick."

"I thought you said you were going to win."

"I am, but . . ."

It was a conundrum he couldn't master. While I waited for him to digest the wager I looked at his wife full on. She really wasn't half bad. In fact she wasn't bad at all, the kind of woman that you hardly notice at first, but then grows on you. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She was watching her husband as if he were a bug in jar, enjoying his predicament. Noticing that I was watching her, she gave me a small smile that didn't tell me to back off.

"I tell you what," I said, "I'll make it easy on you. If you win, the bet stays the same, I do you. If I win— your wife does the honors to me."

"Man, you like to live dangerously."

"Unless you want to do me yourself. Straight odds. I'll spot you the twenty-one points my team is behind."

"Are you crazy?"

"Take it or leave it."

"Taken." He stuck out his fleshy hand. We shook. "My name's Chuck. It's going to be a real enjoyable experience, mister, watching you suck my dick."

"I hope your wife gives good head."

"You'll never find out."

"Wait a minute, big shot," his wife said. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"Shut up. This is man's business."

Such a lady's man! She fired a stare at him that could have fried his balls. I knew that, win or lose, he was in for a long, long wait till the next time he got between her lips. The ones at either end of her long frame.

He watched the game with even more intensity then, yelling each time his team gained a few yards, groaning at every decent play the opponents made. The barkeep told him he was starting to annoy the other patrons. At a commercial he hurried us up to their room. He didn't want to miss a single second of the game.

The room was much like mine except it had two doubles instead of a king. I sat in a chair while he took over the bed in front of the TV. Wife tried to read on the other bed. Were they even sleeping together? He ordered appetizers and a bunch of beers from room service, and was surprised when I refused his offer of one for me.

"I want to be fully ready for your wife," I said.

"And I'm gonna piss down your throat," he responded. And to no one, "Where's my fucking beer?"

Neither team could score in the third quarter. My team surprised his at the end by intercepting a pass in the end zone, but he still had plenty to crow about when the fourth started. Room service arrived. He drank his beers and ate buffalo wings with some kind of greasy dipping sauce and smiled a greasy smile.

Then my team scored quickly on the turnover, a long bomb and a missed tackle translating into seven quick ones. And then WU fumbled the kickoff, letting my team get the ball on WU's fifteen. They scored again in a minute. Now they were down by only seven. He started to look worried. I started to look at the wife, who was way more interesting than the game; she wasn't getting much reading done, shaking her head at her husband's discomfort and smiling at me, a smile I could easily read. She appreciated the predicament I'd put hubby in and was enjoying watching him squirm.

Which he did, literally. And soaked his shirt with sweat. And drank more beers, and cursed his team, the idiot coaches, the fat-assed linemen, even the sportscasters and the cheerleaders, who had suddenly turned ugly. WU mounted a long, slow drive that netted nothing but used up eight minutes on the clock. During the drive the wife went into the bathroom. When she came out later she had changed from the conservative tourist dress she'd been wearing into short shorts and a thin blouse. From across the room I could see that she hadn't bothered to put on a bra, because her breasts, which were in proportion to the rest of her tall frame, bounced invitingly. And she'd put on make up. She stretched out again on the bed, showing off beautiful long legs. So I knew what side she was rooting for. And wondered if she were feeling a twitch similar to mine, which had transferred down from my brain to a more operational location.

When my team got the ball, they moved it down the field adequately, making Chuck groan and curse, but they had to settle for a field goal. With about three minutes left, WU started down the field again, trying to hold onto the ball and their four point lead to the end of the game. They made a first down, staying on the ground, then another. There was a little over a minute left. One more first down would seal the win.

"Get ready to eat my come," he growled at me.

But the fullback slipped in the backfield, leaving them with a third and long situation, just out of field goal range. On the next play the quarterback dropped back to pass.

"No, idiot, don't—" he yelled, but it didn't help. A linebacker from Opponent U. picked off the pass, ran downfield, got a couple of key blocks, and went in for the winning touchdown.

He jumped up and down and cursed and yelled and hurled things at the wall. Basically, he threw a tantrum. An adult.

"Okay," he said to me when he'd calmed down a bit, "Name your price." He was a big guy, and looked bigger standing in front of me.

"I already have."

"No, no, that's off. Here." He pulled out a roll of bills, threw some hundreds on the table.

"I would have kept my side of the bargain."

"My wife don't suck other guys' cocks."

"Then you'll have to do it yourself."

He pulled a fist back to punch me.

"Chuck!" His wife had come behind him. She grabbed his arm. "Are you telling me you're going to welch on a bet?"

"It wasn't fair. He cheated. I don't know how but he did. No one can make a bet like that."

"Then why did you take it?" There was fire in her eyes. She looked so good, a big, strong, angry woman with legs that wouldn't quit. I wanted her. "I was there, big mouth, and it looked fair to me. You owe him a blow job."

"Not in a million fucking years."

"Okay then." She stood before me. Those legs were driving me crazy. "It looks like I'm going to pay off your bet. Do you mind?"

"I've been looking forward to it."

She knelt between my legs, swept her hair back, put her hands on my thighs.

"Wait one fucking minute!"

"No!" she spat back at him. "You wait. You're the one that made the bet." She reached for my zipper.

He clenched his fists, almost made to grab her, or maybe me, but stopped himself. This woman apparently had power over her husband. Maybe a pre-nup clause if he ever hit her. He turned his back. "I can't watch this. I'm going down to the bar."

"No you're not! Chuck Olds, you walk out that door now and you'll never see me again." She pointed at the bed. "You sit right there and take your medicine. I'm going to give this guy the best blow job he's ever had, and you're going to watch every second of it. You understand?"

He sat at the edge of the bed. I think he would have preferred the electric chair.

"Now then, honey," she said in a sugary sweet Southern voice as she pulled down my zipper, "Tell me how you like it. Don't be shy. Just mention your favorite things and Mrs. Charles Olds will do them." Out popped my cock. "Mm, nice."

She gave me head. Very good head. Excellent head. Not only did she know how to please a man with her mouth, she obviously was enjoying the sensual experience herself. What a delight it was to look down on the beautiful woman whose mouth I'd won, a yard away from the man who'd lost it, probably a long time before the football season.

"Come on, woman," he said, "Do him. Get it over with."

She pulled me out of her mouth. "You shut up over there. Just because you can't last, doesn't mean he can't."

"Bitch."

She sat up. "Okay, big mouth, I'm going to lay down some rules." She began to unbutton her blouse. "Rule one. Your mouth stays shut while mine is open. Rule two. Every time you open your mouth—" she threw off her blouse, exposing to my delectation a pair of tits a Victoria's Secret model could have turned into a career— "I open more of myself."

This looked like a game much more interesting than football. "Chuck," I whispered, breathless when she renewed her service, "You're a fool. Oh, ah. Don't bet, ah, ahhh, what you can't, can't, a-afford to lose," I managed, between intense tongue massages, "You can't afford to lose a woman that likes cock this much. Oohhhhh." Okay, I was playing it up a bit. But can you blame me? In case you haven't noticed yet, I may have a superpower but I'm not a superhero.

She smiled up at me. "So good to be tasting delicious cock again." The implication was not lost on me that Mr. and Mrs. Charles Olds hadn't taken pleasure in this particular intimacy in a while.

"Chuck, if you don't mind, I think I'll have your wife keep me on the edge of orgasm for a long time. I was going to be a nice guy and just let her give me a quickie, but her mouth is so exquisite, I can't resist."

He growled at me through clenched teeth. A single glance from her made him choke it down.

I'm not usually vocal during sex, but I let myself go for the benefit of my audience. Every little trick produced a sound as a reward. And those tits! How they bounced as her head bobbed!

"Chuck, old buddy, I think I'll play with your wife's luscious tits."

"You touch them, motherfucker, you're a—"

She was up off my cock in an instant. She stood up. She didn't say a word, just unbuttoned her shorts and slid them off. Still more gorgeous leg, joined by lacy underpants. Under other circumstances I would have taken a break from fellatio to try some cunnilingus on the round and firm homeypot the panties hid. I almost regretted having to settle for a blow job.

She knelt again and pulled my hands to her breasts. "Help yourself." I fondled her nipples, big and firm, while she bent to retake my tool. Squeals vibrated down my cock as I twisted them.

"Ah, heavenly. You know, Chuck, I can't tell what's turning me on more, your wife's tits or her mouth." That got him up a little, but he caught himself in time. Maybe a little more taunting would get me a look at his wife's end zone. "Looks like she has a delicious pussy, too." He clenched his fists. "She's great, Chuck. She didn't learn on you, did she? I bet she sucked a lot of boyfriends before she settled for you. Ooh, baby, yeah, I like that. Was she a hooker before she met you? She plays the skin flute like a pro." More clenching, but he'd got control of himself. Too bad. "Wanna make a bet on her pussy?" Hot hate from his eyes, but no words.

Oh well, can't have everything. Anyway, I figured I shouldn't overstay my welcome. "Chuckie baby, the urge to come in your sweet wife's sweet mouth has become overwhelming." No response at all to that. In its own way, his wife's blow job was overstimulating him as well as me. I turned my attention to her.

"Mrs. Olds, I'd like a special treat."

She gave me a questioning look in reply, almost comical in the way she nonchalantly held my cock between her lips as she made it. I would have kissed her if her mouth hadn't been occupied with more important matters.

"Do you know what a tit fuck is?" She nodded. "Ah, I like that. Have you ever given one?" She glanced at hubby and shook her shoulders. Maybe in the past but not to him. "Want to give me one?"

She sucked me hard and deep several times, bringing me to the edge of the seat and the edge of orgasm, then unplugged me. "Like I said, anything you want."

I stood. "First, take off my pants. It can get a little messy."

She did so on her knees, keeping me well sucked until my balls became exposed and she moved on to them for a minute.

"Lie on your back on the bed."

She shooed Chuck to the other bed, lay down, but got up immediately. She moved my chair to the end of the bed, in front of the TV where analysts were nor replaying the events that had won her for me. She lay back down again reversed, her head at the end of the mattress, with her hair hanging down, right in front of the chair. "Sit there," she said to him. He resisted. "Come on, Chuck. The winner's waiting to claim his prize." Still he stood frozen to the spot. She went right up to him, facing him down though he was bigger and she was almost naked. "Last chance, loser. Either you sit there and watch him come in my mouth, or you stand here and watch him come in my cunt."

I liked that. A win-win situation. I didn't know which way to encourage him. Slowly, as if he were sleepwalking, he sat in the chair. She got back on the bed and squeezed her breasts together. "Okay stud, I'm ready for you."

"Not quite." I got the dipping sauce from the room service tray, tried it. "Not bad. I think you'll like this," I said. I poured the sauce into her cleavage.

She gasped in shock, then in surprise as I straddled her chest and pushed my cock between her luscious, slippery, love fruits.

"Mm, ahh," she moaned. "Ooh, I like that." She looked back at her husband. "Chuck, don't you dare close your eyes. If I see one time that you're not looking, he gets another orgasm." She looked up at me as I humped her between her tits, spreading oily sauce all over her chest. Drips ran down her neck, along her armpits, and into a pool under my ass. She spread the sauce over her breasts and tweaked her slick nipples, grimaced in pleasure. She looked down to watch my shiny cockhead, dripping with brown sauce, moving back and forth inches from her face; she stuck her tongue out to try to taste it. I thrust further up, felt her tongue lap my slit, retracted and wiggled to get more sauce, then shifted up more to get my whole cockhead into her mouth. She sucked me clean and licked her lips. "Buffalo cock. Way better than buffalo wings. More."

How could I refuse? I extended my hands to the arms of Chuck's chair. Now I could pump way up and down her chest and then go way up onto her face and way deep in her mouth. Poor Chuck. My face was only a foot from his. He cringed away from me but couldn't avoid seeing every erotic pleasure his wife was giving written on my face; and if he looked down he had a porno cameraman's closeup of the double squeegee job she was giving me with her mouth and tits; and if he turned away (which he dared not) the squishes of my sausage and eggs slipping between her melons, the slurps she made as she tried to lick up every drop of sauce on my cock, and our joined groans of delight would still fill his ears. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

It was all too much. With effort I got out, "Make me come."

She grabbed my ass and pulled me deep into her. When I started fucking her face she moved her hands to her tits and squeezed. That did it. With a loud grunt I spurted my special sauce into her, squirt after squirt through slick boobs into squishy mouth until I was used up, and kept on pumping because she still felt so exquisite. She kept her lips in place for my continuing pleasure until, exhausted and softening, I stopped. Suddenly I felt warm liquid flood over my cock. I looked down to see that she had kept all my come in her mouth and now had let if flow all over where our flesh met. She let her head hang down over the edge of the bed so her husband could see how my come ran down her chin, over her face, and into her hair.