Game Face

In honour of today being derby day in Liverpool


I take it upon myself to be match day servant.
During the warm ups and pre-analysis I start lunch, and bring drinks. Sometimes I glance up at the screen.
“Are you winning?”
“No.” He frowns
At half time I rest my head in his lap and he absent mindedly strokes my hair but still distracted.
“I hope you win.” I say into his stomach
“Go and check on the pizza.” he replies, gently pushing me.

From the kitchen all I hear is the dull hum of the crowd, punctuated by his subdued yet anguished cries, and swearing.
When I come back in, all is quiet. My customary brief look at score gives an explanation;  2-0 down.

I look at him. He’s still frowning. He knows it’s only a game. Only it isn’t, it’s something binding him to his brothers, his father, no matter how far away they are from one another.
I look back at the screen, then back at my love, bereft.

“Oh dear.” I say, unbuttoning my jeans, and kicking them behind the sofa. I’m looking at the monitor again, almost talking to myself. I pull my knickers down and discard them too. He’s watching me now, watching as I stand before him and with only the slight deferential bow of my head, gently ease my leg over his until I am sat in his lap, knees pressed neatly against his hips, kissing his neck, my bare cunt grinding against his button fly.

I don’t say anything.

I expect him to push me to one side. To say “Not now.”

We’ve never fucked in anger, whether directed at one of us or at the incapabilities of LFC’s starting 11. I don’t believe in sex as a magic panacea that will make everything ok, either. This is an experiment more than anything.

I feel him grab my arse and push me upwards just enough so he can unfasten his flies and ease his cock out for me. He doesn’t say anything but his grip is unflinching as he works his hand over the shaft, swiping the head against my cunt, his cunt, to do with as he wishes, dripping wet because of him.

My face is still nestled in the crook of his neck, biting and kissing where the flesh is tender. The match roars on behind us and I don’t care if he’s watching it or not, only offering myself to him if that is what he wants.

At the impact of his cock, I sigh, and begin to buck, slightly gingerly, hoping I’m not obscuring his view too much but as I pull back to look at his face he focus is only on me. I ride him harder, his hips rise up to meet mine, the full force of his body within me as the game is forgotten, this is all that matters, this urgent, pleasurable thing.

“Up.” He only wants me raised a fraction so he can take control, fuck me how he needs to fuck me now, I’m braced against the sofa back, our voices raised above whatever is happening on the TV screen and he comes inside me with a white hot moan of satisfaction, riding out his orgasm with power and I kiss him and kiss him and wrap my arms around him, triumphant and smug that I turned the day around, just by being myself.

I cuddle closer, holding him within me as long as I can, and we both tune back into match as the commentator declares.

“They think it’s all over; it is now.”


More Masturbation Monday below!

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12 thoughts on “Game Face

  1. Like your man I too would have continued with the fun, but -wow- you really rolled the dice there. Some sports fans I know would tell a naked Kate Upton to GTFO if she stood between them and the screen!


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