Page 28 of Christmas Cheer

Keira lifts her head and takes a big breath. My cock releases on the next tug of her pussy, and I have to bite down onto her shoulder just to mute my own sounds as I flood this stupid fucking condom that I want to incinerate.

She keeps making her soft mewling sounds as both our bodies vibrate, and I swear her pussy is trying to swallow me whole. She’s going to be the absolute death of me. The moment feels like it drags out to eternity before her back finally relaxes and she slumps back down into her pillow, the weight of my body helping to drag her down. I have to get off her eventually, my heft alone enough that I might actually suffocate her, but I need this minute.

I open one bleary eye to watch Thad wander by, scratching his ass, his pajamas tented dramatically. A couple seconds later, the bathroom door slams shut and the shower is turned on.

Keira sighs heavily. Her pussy ripples over my length. I bet her pussy knows what’s up. She knows that condom’s leaking like a sieve. She wants my little swimmers to go on that journey.

I lift my head just enough to nuzzle her neck, breathing in her sweet scent.

On a contented rumble, she says, “Asphyxiation kink unlocked, I guess.”

One minute, three secondson the clock.

I have one last chance to win this game.

It’s my fault we’re losing. It’s easy to say that we’re a team. We win together, we lose together, it’s never a single person’s fault when we lose.

But I fucked up big time.

It’s third and nine, dead center on the 50. They have the ball, and they’re five points ahead.

Because I fucked up with a pass interference that gave them the easiest touchdown of the day.

It’s not a great position for a field goal attempt, but they’ll go for it if they don’t get first down. They either get it and win or miss and leave us with almost no time to run back 50 yards.

If they get a first down, they take a knee to run out the clock. They win.

Our chances are slim to none, but I would rather slim.

I’m usually a dancer, burning off excess energy bouncing around deep behind the defensive line while I watch how the offense is positioning themselves. Right now, though, I’m staring the QB down hard.

I’m not a lineman. I don’t have the bulk for it. They’d eat me alive up there usually. But I’m pretty sure I could mow them down now if I was up there.

Then again, everyone’s adrenaline is riding high. Both sides know how critical this play is. Tension ripples off the linemen. The quarterback tips his head back and forth to crack his neck, and I mimic him.

He sees me. He knows my name. He knows that I’m one of the biggest threats out here, even if I was the one who put us in this bind. He knows I’m not going to touch him — I’ve gotten two sacks all season — but I will ruin his plans.

One of the running backs keeps shifting, but in my peripheral, I see the wide receiver looking twitchy as fuck.

I think it’s him.

It’s him.

Gotta be him.

The center hikes the ball. The wide receiver launches himself down the sideline.

That guy is a rabbit.

I am a fucking greyhound.

The greyhound doesn’t catch the rabbit. The rabbit isn’t even real. The rabbit’s going to run forever on its track, and the greyhound can chase it forever, or he can remember that as a greyhound, he is also a dog.

Dogs catch balls.

I need to catch the ball, but we’re on the 30. That doesn’t get me what we need. We can only win with a touchdown, and this deep? We’ll need a better miracle than just an interception.

I run down the hash marks to give myself room to shift my momentum and run parallel to the 30-yard line, finally catching sight of the football from the corner of my eye.

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