Okay, I’m about as much into football as I am any other sport, which is not at all. But the Super Bowl is so jammed tight with commercials that if I can wedge myself fairly close to the screen, I might have half a chance of seeing some of the better ones whenever there’s a mass exodus to the bathroom or the kitchen, which is stuffed with all sorts of things to eat and drink.
The pre-game show is amazingly dull, in spite of the cast of thousands on the field jumping around to the sound of really, really bad music, and your friends and neighbors laugh at the spectacle; we all agree that the poor slobs who pay $1000 a ticket to be in the stadium shouldn’t have to endure such torture. As the kick-off draws closer, I begin to move to the front of the crowd to sit on the floor with a few other party-goers, but you hook my elbow with your hand. You grin at me and suggest that I might want to stay farther in the back, in case things get so boring that I have to run out screaming (or at least run out). It’s as good an excuse as any, and I watch you as you wander behind the home bar to watch the start of the game from a distance. You give the workspace behind the bar’s high counter a quick look and comment that you were sure you’d seen some napkins there earlier.
Typical male! I roll my eyes…if it’s not right in front of you, you can’t find it. I join you behind the bar and try to look at you disdainfully as you grin even wider. I’ll show you – I’ll find those napkins ASAP. Again, I try to hide my true feelings as you slide your hands into the pockets of your shorts, apparently looking humbled by my no-nonsense presence; I note, however, you’ve only put your hands into your pockets so you can pull the fabric tight across your crotch. I see the outline of your cock against the cotton material, and I have to break into a smile at last. You’re far from flaccid, and I don’t think it’s because of the game.
You motion to me to stand in front of you – it’s time for the kick-off. I lean against the counter, watching the big screen, and as everyone talks and laughs, I feel you close the space between us. Your half-hard cock presses against my ass. “Oh, fuck,” I barely whisper. I know you’re the only one who can hear me, but I have to say something with words, or I know it’d come out as a groan. You chuckle, and as the game starts you begin rubbing against my ass, and I feel your erection growing. I bite my lip as I feel it wedging itself between my cheeks, and your hands make a quick inspection of my chest, very lightly stroking across my breasts. My nipples engorge fully with this barest sensation, and I murmur again. You push with a little more firmness against my ass, your cock harder to my butt.
During the first two commercials, you smoothly move to my side and we play bartender to the group. The moment the game’s on again, and the troops have reclaimed their seats, you grind your now fully-erect cock on me. I begin to worry that you’re going to start leaving wet spots on your shorts; at least the growing dampness between my legs is easier to hide.
We do the bartending gig for another set of commercials, and I notice that you’re getting flushed. I lick my lips and know this is beginning to take a toll on you.
“I need to pee,” I whisper into your ear. I quickly and silently leave the den and go upstairs to the master bedroom. There are three bathrooms in the house, and the one in the basement and on the main floor are the ones that are going to get the brunt of used Super Bowl beer today. Closing the bedroom door almost completely, I go into the bathroom and do the same, shutting it just shy of hearing the latch click. I quickly pull my shorts and panties down and off, hanging them over a towel bar, and pee. When I finish, instead of flushing, I put down the lid and begin exploring the drawers. There’s a lotion dispenser on the counter, but I hope to find something better as lubricant.
I look up into the mirror as I hear the bathroom door just barely squeak. You ease in and immediately smile to see my naked ass facing you. You lock the door decisively. “Can I take off my shorts?” you ask me.
“Yes.” I turn around and lean against the counter to watch. You have to pull the waistband of your shorts and boxers well away from your belly so that your cock can be released, and I moan to see you exposed. What felt so good looks even better. Your hard plum of a cockhead is glistening with precum, too; taking off your clothes couldn’t have happened sooner. “All the way?” I ask you as I caress my breasts through my t-shirt and bra. You nod, coming up to me, and slide your hands under my shirt…and bra. Your hands are hot, and I squirm a little to make sure my breasts fall completely into them. We kiss passionately, and your thumbs and forefingers tweak at my nipples, making me cry out into your mouth.
You pull away to take something out of the pocket of your discarded shorts.