The town slut(2)

I slip out of the concession stand where I was supposed to be selling popcorn, kick off my cowboy boots behind the chain-link fence, and duck under the bleachers like I’ve done a hundred Friday nights before.

The metal groans overhead every time ten thousand feet stomp for another touchdown. Dust drifts down like dirty snow, sticking to my lip gloss.

The defensive line is already waiting, five big boys in shoulder pads and eye black, helmets dangling from their fingers like they’re too horny to care about brain damage tonight.

Four seniors including Malik, DeShawn, Connor, and Big Travis. One freshman who just hit eighteen last week, sweet little Jonah, still got baby fat in his cheeks and a dick that could hammer nails.

They see me and it’s like dropping raw meat in front of wolves. “Damn, Kaylee,” Malik growls, palming his crotch through the tight white pants. “You really doin’ this?”

I answer by dropping to my knees in the dirt and tugging the laces on Connor’s pants. “Clock’s ticking, boys. Strip or starve.”

Pads hit the ground and their ocks spring out. They were alll hard and heavy with different sizes, they all wanted the same thing and it was to fuck me.

I wrap one hand around Malik and one around DeShawn, tongue flicking between them like I’m tasting flavors at Baskin-Robbins. The crowd roars overhead and the vibration shoots straight to my clit.

Big Travis lifts me like I weigh nothing, spins me and bends me over a crossbeam. My skirt raises up, there was no panties of course, and the cool night air kisses my wet pussy.

Jonah’s behind me in an instant, shaking like it’s Christmas morning. I reach back, guide him in, and he slides home with a whimper that makes me laugh.

“Easy, baby. Momma’s not going anywhere.”

Malik steps in front of me, feeds me his dick until my nose is buried in his pubes. Spit-roasted under the bleachers while the band plays the fight song and the cheerleaders shake their asses twenty feet above us.

Every stomp rattles my bones, every cheer makes Jonah thrust harder like he’s trying to score too. Trying to score between my pussy.

Connor and DeShawn take turns in my hands, slick with spit, while Travis films on his phone from his side angle, perfect view of my pussy gripping Jonah’s virgin cock and my throat swallowing Malik whole.

The stadium lights flicker, final whistle. The crowd goes apeshit and thats our cue.

They move like were waiting for it. Jonah pulls out and grunts pouring his cum on my ass while Malik yanks my hair and buried himself deep down my throat so hard I almost choke.

Connor and DeShawn step up together with Connor in my pussy, DeShawn squeezing into my ass beside him. Two at once, stretching me so wide i scream out into Travis’s cock and the sound gets lost under forty thousand stomping feet streaming toward the exits.

I come so hard my legs give out but tgey hold me up, pistoning, grunting, filling me from both ends until I’m dripping. When they finish with me I’m a mess, cum’s running down my thighs, mascara streaked, hair full of dirt and grass.

I lick my lips, taste all five of them, and grin up at the phone camera. “Tell Coach I helped with team bonding.”

They laugh, zip up, slap my ass, and disappear into the chaos of the parking lot before anyone notices they’re gone.

I’m still on my knees, trying to remember how legs work, when I spot him.

Mr. Perfect, Brad Whitmore, quarterback’s dad, 43, married, PTA president, khakis and polo like he’s at a country club. He’s leaning against the fence twenty feet away, one hand in his pocket moving slow, eyes locked on me.

I blow him a kiss, scoop a finger through the mess on my thigh, and suck it clean while he watches. His jaw clenches and he pulls out his phone and take a picture of me. I know because I see the flash.

I mouth: send it.

Ten seconds later my phone buzzes against my tit where I stashed it in my bra.

Unknown number: my office. tomorrow 8 a.m. sharp.

Below the text: a photo. His left hand wrapped around the fattest cock I’ve seen in Riverbend, wedding ring glinting, a bead of precum sliding over the gold like a promise.

I save the picture, name the contact DADDY WHITMORE, and text back a single peach emoji and the words: see you bright and early, sir. Bring the ring too, I wanna feel it when you’re balls deep.

I stand up on wobbly legs, wipe my thighs with somebody’s forgotten rally towel, and strut out from under the bleachers like I just won the game myself.

The stadium’s emptying, tailgates popping, country music blasting. Nobody even looks twice at the barefoot girl with cum in her hair.

Mama thinks I’m sleeping at Jenna’s tonight. Jenna thinks I’m with Mama. Truth is I’ve got a 8 a.m. appointment with the only man in this town who still pretends he’s got morals left to lose.

I lick the taste of five football players off my teeth and laugh into the night.