2 comments/ 18654 views/ 4 favorites It's Only a Game By: draconus_infernus "Okay, I understand wanting to make the characters more realistic looking, but did they really have to make her boobs jiggle around like that?" Sara asked her boyfriend as he played his new fighting game. Matt's character, a black haired woman wearing a skintight red body suit and wielding a pair of katanas, was facing off against another woman; one wearing what looked like part of a purple swim suit. The top of it just barely held in a gigantic pair of breasts that seemed to bounce with the character's least little movement. Sara looked down at her own chest. She was no slouch in the tits department, having a pair of DD's herself. She again looked over at Matt. He loved his video games. They had met as college seniors two years ago, and even then he was a game afficionado. When he was in the zone, he was really in the zone. Even now his face was wearing a mask of pure concentration; his green eyes locked on the TV screen and his jaw set with determination. He didn't even even seem to notice a few rogue strands of his black hair that were about to fall in his face. "Dunno, babe," he said. "I'm a little busy making sure she doesn't turn me into minced meat with that bladed whip of hers." "Oooh, a bladed whip," Sara teased. "Sounds kinky." "Sounds painful." Matt's character blocked a few attacks, and then he launched an attack of his own, grabbing his opponent and hitting her multiple times with his swords. A few well placed hits caused the well endowed game character's shoulder armor to shatter. "You can strip them, too?" Sara asked. "Are they gonna fuck at the end, or is this not that kind of game?" The thought of a video game where the characters could actually fuck after a fight was Sara's kind of game. "Play as one of the guys next, Matt. I want to see if the programmers gave them huge cocks." It may have been said in jest, but it did make Sara's pussy start to tingle. Matt shot a look over at his girlfriend. He knew that she was both joking and serious at the same time. "You can't get them naked, Sara," he said. "Have you tried?" "Yes," he added under his breath. "Perv," she said with a playful swat to the arm. "Hey! I'm in a fight for my life here," he said with a laugh. A few more blocks, parries, and hits with his swords was all it took. His enemy had been defeated. The next thing he and Sara saw was a close up of Matt's character from the chest up. "Oh look, her high beams are on." Sure enough, they could both see her nipples poking through her uniform. "Well, they are outdoors, you know." Sara quietly excused herself and went into their bedroom. She took a quick look at herself in the full length mirrored closet doors. Sure she wasn't as lithe as the virtual vixens her boyfriend was engaged in simulated combat/foreplay with, but she thought she was at least slightly good looking. She had piercing blue eyes, fire red hair, and the aforementioned big tits that always got her looks from passersby, male and female alike. Her breasts got in the way a lot, but not when it came to what she was in the mood for now. "Okay, Matt, we've seen how good you are with your controller, but let's see how you are with your joystick." Matt was about to select another opponent and combat arena when Sara came back in. "So you like to see huge knockers that bounce, honey?" she coyly asked. She was wearing only a pair of green panties. "Try these on for size." She put her hands behind her head and shook her chest, making her tits sway from side to side. She then cupped one of them, lifted it up to her face, and slowly licked her own nipple. Matt had heard about some gamers who would forego sex for their games, but he wasn't one of them. He fumbled with his controller, making sure his progress was saved before turning off the console. He stood, his now hard cock making a tent in his loose fitting shorts, took Sara in his arms, and attacked her lips with his own. Their lips parted, allowing their tongues to duel much like the combatants in Matt's game had. His hands slip down her back and grabbed the mounds of her ass, causing her to sigh. "Bedroom," she growled. "And take off those fucking clothes." She quickly stripped off her panties and crawled onto the bed. When she looked over at Matt, she saw him drop his boxers; his seven inch cock sticking straight out. Sara rolled onto her back, opened her legs, and spread her moist pussy lips. "Here's your opponent," she practically moaned. "Think you can lick her?" "You're really getting into this," Matt chuckled. "And you're complaining?" "Fuck no." Matt climbed on top of her and kissed her again, probing her mouth with his tongue. "My clit's a lot lower, cowboy," she said when they broke apart. "Fuck the teasing and just eat me." Matt had other ideas. He first planted his face on one of those glorious tits of hers, kissing it while fondling the other. He ran his tongue around the edge of of her areola, being careful not to touch her very hard nipple. She was writhing underneath him, trying to get him to at least touch her nipples. Finally his tongue brushed the tip, causing her to jump. Sara's tits were very sensitive, and Matt could get her off just by sucking on them. "Stop teasing," she moaned. "Or I'll do worse to you when it's your turn." Matt's mouth enveloped her nipple, making Sara arch her back. He grabbed it with his teeth and gently tugged, all the while pinching her other nipple with his free hand. She had started to make little mewing noises when Matt abruptly stopped. Sara gave him a death glare when she finally opened her eyes. Until she saw him heading south, that is. Matt was now face to face with Sara's trimmed red bush. He gently spread her dripping pussy lips and ran his tongue over her slit like he was licking an ice cream cone. He saw the way Sara was squirming and decided to be merciful. He sucked her clit into his mouth and began furiously licking it. "Fuck!" Sara nearly screamed. "That's what I want, baby! Ah yes!" Matt then slid a finger into her slick tunnel, quickly followed by a second. That drove Sara over the edge. She grabbed Matt's head and pressed it harder into her pussy, riding his face while a powerful orgasm rocked her body. When it finally ended she collapsed on the bed, panting like she had just run a marathon. Matt looked up at her with a smirk. "You're welcome," he said in a smug tone. "Isn't this more fun than video games?" Sara asked when she got her breath back. "I never said it wasn't." He slid up beside her and again initiated a war between her tongues. Sara grabbed hold of Matt's dick and slowly started to stroke it. She felt the sticky moisture at the tip. "You're leaking," she said in a low voice. "Let me clean you up." She pushed Matt onto his back, brought her face to her target, and licked off a huge glob of pre cum. After running her tongue around his swollen cock head, she inhaled him and bobbed her head on as much of his cock as she could take, all the while stroking what was left. When she released it there was a loud pop. Sara was done playing around. "Condom. Now," she demanded as she sat up. Matt didn't have to be told twice. He reached into the top drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a foil wrapper, which Sara quickly swiped from him. "Gimme," she said as she quickly tore it open. She unrolled the latex sheath over her man's twitching cock, and then slid herself down onto it. Matt reached up and started rolling her nipples between his fingers. Sara looked down at him like she was a predator on the hunt. Her lips were curled, her teeth were clenched, and she was grunting and moaning like there was no tomorrow. Matt loved it when she got like this, when she was like a wild animal. He released her tits, grabbed her shoulders, and pulled her down on him. Then he flipped her over, pinned her hands above her head, and started thrusting into her like there was no tomorrow. "Yes!" She screamed. "That's it, Matt.... yes!" Sara wrapped her legs around Matt and held on for dear life. She could feel the tingle starting in her clit. "I'm gonna cum, baby," she moaned. "Make me cum, Matt! Please make me cum!" Matt pumped her faster and drove her over the edge. Sara clung to him and trembled, her body quaking with pleasure. "I love you," she said in a breathy voice as she came. "Love you, too, Sara," he whispered in her ear. Sara released him after her orgasm subsided. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, big boy. How close are you?" "Pretty close," he replied. He started to move again, slowly at first but building up speed with each thrust. He could feel the tickle in his dick get stronger every time he withdrew and pushed back in. Sara took his face in her hands and held him steady, feeling another orgasm knocking at the door. "I'm gonna be so bowlegged after this," she said with a smile. "Are you complaining about that?" "Fuck no! Now cum for me, baby! I want to see a huge fucking load in that condom when you take it off. Cum for me, Matt. Cum for me......" She trailed off as the pleasure again built up to explosive levels. Matt meanwhile was thrusting faster and grunting like a wild beast. "Almost there, Sara" he groaned. "Almost..... there!" Matt's legs shook as his cock burst, sending waves of cum into the tip of the condom. When the last few shots were fired, Sara's head flew back as she came yet again. For a few brief moments their bodies shook and trembled in unison. When they finally regained control of themselves, Matt sat up and gently withdrew from Sara's still wet pussy. The tip of the condom was sagging, weighed down by a full load of cum. "Not bad," Sara smirked. "No, not bad at all," Matt said. Sara sat up. "You are so much better with your joystick than you are with that controller." "I should hope so," Matt laughed. "I'll take this over video games any day." It's Only a Game Whenever someone mentions Bill Buckner, I get an erection. Not a simple half mast salute like when one shakes longer than necessary at the urinal; I'm talking about two inches away from bumping into a vagina type of raging boner. It's not that I find him, or any man for that matter, attractive. While same the incident that befell him one Saturday night back in 1986 made him a pariah in certain sporting circles, I remember as one of the most spectacular events in my lifetime. The October nights in Harlem were cold enough for overcoats and watch caps, but I shoved open the pane of glass in the living room anyway, keeping it propped open with my girlfriend's high school yearbook. The heat inside was stifling. Between the stove still hot from Saturday dinner, somebody cranking up the thermostat in the eighties, and my anxiety; the apartment was hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock. The 1986 World Series had the Mets facing the Boston Red Sox. Could the new kids on the block make a name for themselves against the Beantown Bombers? Over 55 thousand in attendance and I couldn't score one lousy ticket. At least, I couldn't afford the scalper's prices. My own cousin wouldn't come down thirty measly bucks for a nosebleed section. When he wants something, it's all about the family. When he has something, it's all about his bills. After ten hours of shoveling ice down at the Fulton Fish Market, all I wanted was a beer and good reception on the nearest television, which placed me at my girlfriends apartment. I was extremely antsy about game 6. The Miracle Mets seemed like they were fresh out of them . Dropping the first two at home, winning them back at Fenway, just to lose another at home. The Red Sox were one win away from breaking their curse and they had our asses pinned the wall like a first-time inmate on the first day at Rikers Island with Roger "The Rocket" Clemens starting on the mound. "Raheem," called Lupe from the kitchen. "You gonna freeze me out, close the window." The smell of dinner hung in the air, remnants of rice, beans, and jerk chicken replacing what little air there was in the cramped apartment. "Y'all use to much Adobe, L," I replied as I twisted the cap off my first Miller High Life. "That shit is killing me." "Please; you ate thirds." Lupe appeared in the doorway. "You trippin." She smirked, dish towel in one hand, spoon in the other as I fanned the smoky scent out the window with an old copy of Newsday. She was an uptown girl through and through. Giant door knocker earrings, gold rope chain, hair scraped back into a perfect ponytail. She wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the Puerto Rican flag, 100% in black type stenciled at the top, set between a firm set of island grown breasts, nipples making an brief appearance from the chill. Her shapely hips squeezed into a pair of Jordache jeans, so tight I could read her driver license through the back pocket. As easily as she looked like one of the honeys on the block, on the inside, she was a girl with bigger plans, leaving the concrete jungle for greener pastures. She was born as Guadalupe, but shortened it as she grew older. Lupe in middle school segued into Lu by the time Junior year started, till everyone around the way just referred to her as L. Except her mother. Mothers will never call you by anything less than what named you. We met at a block party back in June, sparked right away, becoming a couple within a week. We hit all the local scenes; parties, movies, and the Apollo every once in awhile, but there was no real consummation. Other than kissing or a quick grope under the shirt (over the bra), she was mum on doing the nasty. She played the Catholic card constantly despite the fact that she missed Mass more than I missed away games. I couldn't blame her; both her older sisters had three kids between them, their tenement becoming more crowded by the season. She started the year at City College of New York, but was attending the University of Florida next year on scholarship. "I thought we were going out tonight." She watched as I wrestled with the rabbit ears on her family set. "Game 6 is starting." I swiveled and pointed at my cap before go back to the task of bending the metal rods and adjusting the aluminum foil on the tips till the static lessened. A commercial for the Crazy Eddie electronic store faded to black and a view of Shea stadium popped up on the screen. Vin Scully welcomed the viewers to the start of the game. I likes it when he called games. A Bronx native, he could make the blind see when describing the action on the field. He also had no fear of dead air; letting the ambiance fill in the gaps now and then. "Aw, Papi," She began the pouting routine I was very familiar with. "I wanted to go to the Latin Quarter; it's Saturday." Any other time she thrust that bottom lip out, I succumbed to her will, but nothing was changing my plans tonight. "It's only eight, we'll have plenty time for pop locking and body rocking. Chill out, Nena." She abruptly turned back into the kitchen and started banging the dirty pots and pans around to show her frustration. I sat on the couch, adjusting the stiff manufacturer plastic that has yet to be removed, taking another swig from the bottle. The static dissipated as the channel 9 signal strengthened. I adjusted my cap, shifted more in the seat so the plastic wouldn't scratch at the back of my knees or rip into the material of my new velour sweat suit as my plan came into fruition. The symphony of pots clashing lessened as she finished cleaning the kitchen. Usually she had help, but her mother dragged the rest of the family out to Saturday Mass. I knew this would be the quietest place I could find to watch the game since our set at home burnt out three days ago. L reappeared after getting a quilt from her bedroom. She threw it over the plastic before kicking off her suede Pumas and sitting down next to me. Her mother bought this couch over two years ago and never unwrapped it in hopes of preserving it. Plus, they still had a couple of payments left. As Paul Simon belted out the last notes of the National Anthem, I let out a belch, producing a giggle and slap on the arm from her. I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead before going back to the game. That was all the intimacy she was gonna see out of me until the end. She sighed, picked up a copy of Fresh magazine, thumbing through the glossy pages. She produced a Charms Blow Pop, her favorite candy, and began to unwrap it. "Want a lick?" she held it out to me only to snatch it away. "Psyche!" She giggled and began to eat it. I glanced at her sideways as she swirled her tongue around the hard red shell, before putting it in her mouth for a couple seconds, drawing in her cheeks as she ferociously sucked the flavor off. She kept repeating the action as she flipped through the magazine. I imagined that I was that lollipop, adjusting my sweats so she wouldn't see my arousal. I was already down in the dumps by the first inning. Bob Ojeda started off slow; giving up a double to Dwight Evans, bringing Wade Boggs home for the first score. I started on my second brew as I watched the Rocket barely break a sweat, taking us out three in a row to end the inning. Clemens didn't fare so well in his last outing and was pitching like a man possessed. The second inning was a repeat of the first. Sox 2nd baseman Marty Barrett hit a short line drive to right, scoring Spike Owen and I started thinking about the Yankee fans that would give me shit next week at work. The Mets are still the red-headed stepchild of the Big Apple and losing to the nemesis of the Bronx Bombers, at home, was liken to having your big brother watch you take an ass whipping in the backyard, laughing at you the whole time. I was left on the couch to my doldrums by the third; L said something about picking out some clothes. I grunted a reply, squeezing the the bottle like it was a Louisville Slugger, size 33. I saw a glimmer of hope by the fifth; we tied it up at two. Those cocky sonuvabitches from Bahstin wouldn't give us much joy, gaining a run in the seventh. Clemens left the game with a one run lead, his work completed. We tied it up again in the eighth, but clearly was out of gas. She returned by the ninth; I heard her giggling on the phone in the back with a girlfriend for the better part of two hours, WBLS blaring from the radio. Mr. Magic's rap attack program was starting which meant it was past ten already. Mets outfielder Leo Mazzilli scored on a sac fly, tying it at 3, giving me a little breathing room. The Jordache were peeled off, replaced by her old high school gym shorts, just as tight but exposed more creamy butter pecan thighs. Clearly a distraction tactic aimed a me. She leaned in the door jamb, watching me for a few minutes, before trying to sit on my lap. "Not now, L." I pushed her off. "You wack." She moved to the other side of the couch, glaring at me. I knew she was just feigning anger. Watching baseball is the only time I'm not pawing at her and she knew it. She might have been saving herself, but she was an expert cock tease. Another Crazy Eddie commercial dominated the airwaves. His secondhand TV is the reason I'm over here now. "Shit. We gonna miss the parties." I tried to keep a vigil on the screen, but felt something on my thigh. I looked down to find ten perfect toes, painted pink, wiggling inches from my groin. "What are you doing?" "What do you care," she chortled. "You only interested in the stupid game." I smirked at her pronunciation of stupid, the u replaced by multiple o's. She only resorted to ghetto dialect at home with her girls; seven years of private school gave her perfect diction, yet she hid it on the streets. "You ain't gonna do nothing, no how." I turned my eyes in her direction. "Cock tease." "Fuck you, Raheem," she spat. "You think you so cute." I blew her a kiss, wiping the faux anger right off her cocoa smooth face. I raised my arm and she crawled into it, resting her head on my chest. I massaged her collarbone, kissing the top of her head. She hummed her approval. The game came back on and I was focused again, immediately stopped with the rubbing and the kissing. It took two pitches before Sox center fielder Dave Henderson blast a home run to left field. I was crushed. My hand sliding off Lupe's shoulder, I slumped further down in my seat as I watched Boston celebrate. It only got worse as Boggs scored again on a single. I shot up to go to the bathroom, leaving the raucous celebration coming out of the TV and Lupe on the couch. I wanted to to tear my hair out, scream from the rooftops, commit murder. The game was over; we weren't coming back from two down with the 2-3-4 order. I plopped back down on the couch in a serious funk. L draped my arm over her, inches from her breast, but I didn't notice. "It's just a game," She rubbed my chest. "Don't be so sad,Papi." I gave her a hug, but my mood didn't change. The last inning was starting and I was tempted to turn it off, but I couldn't quit just now. L didn't say much, her head now resting on my lap, playing with the drawstrings on my pants. It only took three pitches for Wally Backman to pop out to left. I gave a little grunt in acceptance. L kept playing with the strings on my pants. "Do you really think I'm a cock tease?" I sat up, eyes still glued to the television. She traced patterns on my thigh with a manicured nail. "Well, do you?" "No," I sighed. "I just trip on you to watch you flare up." "I don't want to lead you on," She squeezed my leg. "I really like you, but I don't want to end up stuck like my sisters. I want to go to Florida and I can't do that pregnant." I heard but wasn't listening to her as Keith Hernandez sent one deep to center for the second out. Shea stadium was dying as the Mets' catcher Gary Carter took some practice swings in the on-deck circle. Fans were already filing out and the station broke away to commercial. She shifted again until she was facing me. "Why do you stay with me?" "Where is this going?" I looked away from the TV. "We been going out for awhile, but we ain't, you know, did anything." She sighed. "Why, you wanna?" I grinned. "Cabrón," she slapped at my chest. "Fellas round here will break out the second they gets no pinocha, but you're still here." "You really wanna know?" "I wouldn't ask if I didn't." L sat up, looking me in the eye. I took a deep breath, fixing my mouth to say the words. "Cuz, I haven't done it either." She stared in amazement, mouth agape, eyes bigger than saucers. It was easy to put on a good front. Yeah, I had a lot of girlfriends all through middle and high school but with the exception of little games of stink finger in the darkened piss-stained hallways, I was still a virgin. With L, I didn't worry about the pressure of having sex because she was so adamant against it. Sure, I walked with the swagger of a Harlem player, but I dared not risk exposing my inexperience to any of the sex veterans on the block. Reputation went a long way down 7th avenue and 19 year olds with no mileage on their fuck stick got crucified in the streets. "So, what if I wanted to do it?" "It wouldn't matter because you couldn't tell if I was good or not." That broke us up; peals of laughter filling the room. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips, reddened deeper from the lollipops. The candy only made it sweeter and I lingered for a couple seconds. "We're still not doing it." she stated when I broke for air. "I know," sighing as I leaned back. Vin Scully came back from commercial, giving me the reprieve that I needed. L lay down again, propping herself up on her elbow, right next to me. "I think about you when you're not here." Her fingers retraced patterns on my thigh. "More than I've thought about any boy." She got bolder, moving further north. I tried to tune her out, watching as Carter took two balls, putting him ahead of the count. L rubbed on my flaccid penis through the velour until it began to respond. "I see someone doesn't care about the game." She chuckled as she kept rubbing her fingers up and down against the rising bulge in my pants. I would've have been shocked at her boldness if it weren't for Carter's desperate line drive to the left for the first single of the inning. I sat up suddenly, pushing groin right against her face. "Aye, Cabrón, she hissed, pulling away for a second. My heart pounded in my chest; Kevin Mitchell was pinch hitting for the pitcher Rick Aguilera and he looked like he wasn't ready to join Hernandez in the clubhouse. I moved her head back down, so I could see the screen. She pushed against me until I leaning back on the couch again. I felt her tug on my waistband, but I was getting too caught up in the game to care. "Dios Mio," She breathed. "You ain't even hard yet." "Huh?" I finally tore away from the game to see what she was doing. Head now resting on my stomach, she had my sweats pulled up, taking her first look at what I had to work with. Reaching in, she took a grip on the firming shaft, squeezing like it was her own Louisville. She had a wicked smile, lips still shiny from the last lollipop. "Watch the ballgame,Papi." To say I had mixed emotions was a severe understatement. We were one out away from the end of the season and L was taking intimacy matters in her own hands, literally. I ran my hand down her side until I reached the hem of her shirt. Sliding my fingers underneath, I gingerly trekked upwards until I grazed the bottom of her right breast. When she removed her bra, I never knew, but it wasn't there now. I didn't hesitate, palming the warm flesh for the first time, nipple thick and firm, faint murmur of a beating heart, her life in my hands. "Your timing sucks, Chica." "Watch the game, stupid," she whispered. "Before I chicken out." I looked up to see 3rd baseman Ray Knight take a ball. I didn't even realize that Mitchell got on base with a single, sending Carter to second. I fiddled with Lupe's nipple, savoring the softness of her hand stroking me to fullness. It wasn't as much stroking as much as it was exploration. She rolled it between her fingers like a cigar, traced the vein that ran from the base with her nail, running her thumb back and forth over the top. Knight cloned another single to bring Carter home, bringing a smile to my face at the same time. The Sox called for a pitching change as Mets left fielder Mookie Wilson stood on deck. L's exploration became braze when she kissed the patch of skin between my navel and pubic hair, shaking me from my core, overheating in the frigid apartment. An upsurge of my own fervor produced a bead of precum; she used her forefinger like a brush and began to coat the head of my cock. "See, that's enough to give me babies." She said to nobody in particular, rubbing the rest on her hand, darting out her tongue and sneaking a taste. "Come on, come on," I pleaded to Mookie Wilson. I was ready for the game to end; for Wilson to make the giant red apple in right field rise in jubilation like I was rising. "Don't push it." replied Lupe, giving a firm squeeze. "Consider yourself lucky." Mookie faced a fresh armed Bob Stanley on the mound. The first pitch was foul and I gasped with the thousands in attendance and millions watching, but my reaction was from the liquid blitz of heat as she took me inside her mouth for the first time. She only put in about two inches, but it was the best two inches of wetness I ever felt. I groaned in appreciation as she suckled, her soft lips increasingly becoming a steadfast vise. I kept a handful of breast in my hand, squeezing every once in awhile, a little harder than I should when I saw Mookie foul off two more to right. The pitch count was full; the crowd on their feet, people in the aisles frozen in place. Mookie already had eight pitches thrown and they were either foul or ball. I couldn't tell who was more frustrated; him, Stanley, or me. L took another inch in her mouth, cupping my balls for stability. I banged my head against the back of the couch from the sensitivity of her swirling tongue. The open window blew in a steady stream of cool; chilling my exposed parts before they were heated up again with her mouth in motion. She pulled my pants lower for better access, turning to face me at the same time. She rubbed her saliva over parts of me that her mouth didn't reach, plying tender kisses on my places that never felt lips. I was so thankful that I showered after work. I could no longer form words; I watched the screen through slitted eyes, my hand traveling south to her round ass. She opened her legs slightly, allowing me to feel the hot crevice between her legs. She was throughly heated, humming approval as I rubbed on her mound through cotton shorts. "Si," The word hissed out as I manipulated the chocha to her liking. Bob Stanley lost the frustration battle as he let a pitch slip during his release. Mitchell boogied from second in a flash, scoring on the error and the place was in an uproar. We were tied up with the winning run on second. "Let's go Mets! Lets go Mets!" Stamping and whistling, the stadium rocked to the point of exploding. I slapped L on her ass in celebration. "Hey," Lupe wasn't watching and had no idea what I was doing. "Stop that, stupid." "Sorry, sorry," I apologized. I couldn't sit still now, twitching from the excitement on the screen and action between my legs. Mookie took a practice cut or two and stepped back in the box. Lupe took a lick or two and put me back inside her mouth. I became that candy that I was so envious of earlier; I just hoped she wouldn't start chewing. It's Only a Game She reached for my hand, grabbing it and guiding down the front of her shorts. I fought through the restrictive material until I touched the first crisp curls of pubic hair. I pushed lower until I felt virgin slit, untraversed by fingers other than her own, soaked from her libido. "No tan cerca," panic rising in her voice. " Don't put your fingers in too deep." I snatched my hand back for a second, fearful of hurting her, but like a starving mongrel, I couldn't stay away. Mookie took a foul, two more balls, and three more fouls. My heart slammed against my chest in cadence with the chanting crowd. I couldn't breathe as L took another inch into her throat, working closer to my hilt. I felt her throat constrict as she struggled not to gag. My thighs were wet with her excess saliva, soaking into the waistband of my pants. I removed my fingers, sticky and dimly aromatic, and sucked them clean. She tasted so pure; the oasis in my sexual desert. One more ball and my patience with the game waned. I no longer cared what happened to the Mets. Lupe was right in the end; it was just a game. I tugged on her shorts, getting them past her thighs. She helped, kicking them down to her ankles. She gave me room to lie down and went back to handling her business. Before she knew what was happening, I was tongue deep inside her, coarse hair tickling my chin. I heard her gasp, felt her thighs tighten around my head as I did what other guys in Harlem shunned. She spewed out a string of Spanish, words I've only heard her say in anger or in church; never at the same time. She squeezed my balls with one hand, stroked me with the other, little nips on my head at the same time. I heard Mookie foul one more time; there is no way he's putting that past the infield. It was fun while it lasted, but the Mets aren't going to give me as much pleasure as I was receiving now. L increased the bobbing on my cock as I felt the familiar pressure build up in my lower abdomen. I've felt that many times before during solo sex bouts on tenement roofs and I knew what was going to happen in less than 30 seconds. "L, Hold up." I grunted, struggling to dislodge her. "I'm bout to bust," "Shhh," She stopped long enough to acknowledge my warning. "I want you to." I tried to hold back, thinking of anything to halt the impeding flow. I stared through her parted thighs, slick with my drool and her essence, when I saw the moment that made me a sexual automaton at the mention of a certain ballplayer. Mookie finally connected, a weak dribbler down the first base line towards Sox 1st baseman Bill Buckner. I gave Wilson credit; his heart was definitely in it, but he probably took less swings during batting practice. He was worn out. I concentrated on the play, hoping I could hold out. I didn't want her to stop, but the throbbing increased, straddling the border of pain and pleasure. "Little roller along first," Vin Scully reported . "Behind the bag, It gets through Buckner!" The crowd roar was deafening. Buckner leaned down to pick up the ball to end the game when the ball hopped away from his glove like a frightened kitten. It kept rolling through his legs. An error! "Here comes Knight and the Mets win it!" Scully shouted over the crowd as Shea stadium erupted into pandemonium. Mets players piled on each other in the infield while the Red Sox plodded off the field, dejected. In an amalgamation of a cheer, cry, and groan, I shot a deep blast right into the waiting gullet of Lupe. My whole body locked up in a state of paralysis as I spurted in rapid increments similar to Morse code. Pop, blast, pop; sexual dots and dashes. I heard her gag as it was too much load for her to handle, felt the warm fluid coating my thighs, puddling on the plastic of the couch. She still had a death grip on me, pulling the remnants of seed from my pulsing organ. I closed my eyes, basking in the events that just transpired on the field, on the couch, in my universe. For a minute, the only sounds were her coughing, my panting, and the screams from the television. Then I heard the deadbolt in the front door turning. The first of many locks on the steel door. The family was home. I heard the second bolt snap open as I willed myself to move. Lupe heard it too as she scrambled off me, yanking her shorts up and bolting down the hallway, leaving me to deal with the rest. I heard the creak of the door, followed by the voices of her mother, giving instructions to the grandkids. I rolled off the couch, pulling up my pants in the process, willing my cock to deflate. I could only stare at the mess as the voices got closer and louder. There were still two unopened beers laying next to the couch in paper bags. Without hesitation, I grabbed them both, shaking them quickly and popping the tops. The yellow brew immediately foamed, spewing an alcohol fueled mess all over the carpet, couch, and coffee table. I started jumping up and down, celebrating as if I were Mookie Wilson himself and thats how the family found me. All conversation stopped as they watched my solo destruction of the living room. "Has per dido su mente?" screamed Lupe's mother as I stood there dripping in warm beer. "You like those gringos at Shea now, pinche loco?" Her three nephews laughed and pointed at me; I was a rumpled, sticky mess. But, the crime had been covered up. Their grandmother shushed them towards the back to change out of their church garb, shaking her head in amazement at my behavior. L returned wearing her Jordache, a new lollipop in place, amused at my quick thinking. "No more baseball for you, Raheem." She kissed her mother on the cheek before heading to the kitchen. "At least, not here." I grinned sheepishly as she handed me a rag and bucket a minute later. I began to clean up the mess, paying special attention to the couch. The rest of the family scattered to different parts of the apartment. L tugged at her yearbook, shutting the window. She kept stealing glances at me. "We got time to make it to the Latin Quarter, if you want to go." "Naw, you probably want to celebrate your stupid game some more." I stopped cleaning, watching her stand there, twisting the blow pop in between her lips. "Hey, it's just a game, right?" "Cono," She wagged a finger at me. "You need to change your clothes." I picked at my sweat suit, which was clinging to my chest and legs. I felt come ebbing out, quickly gluing flesh to flesh. I wiped up the remaining residue of unabashed sin off the coffee table before dropping the rag back in the bucket. "Walk me to the door?" L smiled as she set her book on the end table and grabbed my outstretched hand. We strolled past the nephews who began chasing each other around with a football. I opened the door and turned around to a smiling Lupe. "What?" "You coming back, right?" "Why wouldn't I?" I leaned down and stole another sugary kiss. "I want you to know something, though." She batted her eyes as me, before looking behind her for prying ears. "Tell me." "We still ain't doing it." She jumped up and kissed me again before shutting the door. We went out that night and true to her word, we didn't do it. The Mets went on to win the World Series two days later. I kept dating Lupe the rest of year and we did everything else except "it". By the time we did do it, The Men of October became the Boys of Summer again, but, that is another story for another time.