The flight to Michigan takes an interminable three and a half hours, which I pass staring at the last text from Ellie.
Ellie: I’m wearing your jersey.
She sends a picture with the message. Her head is cut off, but she’s kneeling on her bed and her ripe tits are pushing at the top of my number as she pulls at the bottom of the jersey. Her legs are bare, and I swear I see a shadow of my favorite spot beneath the mesh. My number looks really good on her. Really good. As Matty said when he saw her in the bar, a holy mother of God smokeshow.
I lied when I said I was good at waiting. This week has felt unending. Worse? We had an away game, which meant by the time that Ellie felt better, I sat on a chartered plane to Michigan. I saw her a couple of times this past week, and each of those times left me with a hard-on the size of a log and balls bluer than a Smurf’s.
On Tuesday after dinner, I stopped over to her apartment and found her pulling out winter gear. Apparently girls have seasonal clothes. Late fall meant boots and sweaters.
“Wear this one. I like you in red.” I pulled a soft, furry red sweater from the pile.
“Since when do you like me in red?”
“Two days ago you wore a red shirt. Flowy.” I shoved over a bunch of soft stuff and sat down on her bed. Her shirt was black and had a nice V that hinted at her equally nice cleavage.
“It’s Bohemian Chic.”
“Whatever. The color looked good, but it seemed too loose. I couldn’t see your pretty tits. Plus, I like V-necks because you can do this.” I hooked a finger along her neckline and drew it down low enough to expose one lace-covered breast.
“You’ll stretch it out,” she protested.
“I'll get you a new one.” I could see one really good use of my future NFL money—buying clothes for Ellie. Sexy ones. Ones that show off her tits and ass and legs.
“I bought this a year ago on vacation and—” Her breath caught when I latched on to one large, juicy nipple, built for sucking on. “What are you doing?” Since I had my mouth full of tit, I didn’t answer. I had better things to do than form words for a question with an obvious answer.
She leaned into me, her hands dug into my scalp. Mmmm, that felt good. “I thought you were a virgin.”
“I have a good imagination,” I mumbled as I moved to the other side. Didn’t want the left breast to feel abandoned now, did I? Hell no. The T-shirt got in my way so I tugged it up and over her head. The bra clasp confounded me so I settled for pulling down the lacy cups, which actually had the added benefit of pushing the boobs together.
I shift in my seat thinking about it.
That led to more making out and Ellie rubbing herself against my leg until she came. She wouldn’t let me touch her under her clothes. But I forgot to complain when she whipped open my jeans and introduced me to ball sucking.
I take a deep breath and try to regain some self-control. I tug the bottom of my shirt down, but it doesn’t do a hell of a lot to hide my hard-on. I should probably think about something other than Ellie's hot mouth around my dick and balls.
I didn’t go home with her after the softball game on Wednesday because I wasn’t sure I could take another bout of teasing and dry humping with her. But by Thursday, my already thin willpower whittled away when she showed up for dinner with Jack wearing a short blue skirt and a tight Warriors T-shirt under a button down sweater. After dinner, I took her to my apartment where I spent a good hour becoming familiar with every patch of skin above her waist.
Her tits and I are close friends now. Best buds, really. And she’s very sensitive at the nape of her neck. I can place my hand there, and a second later, she’ll shiver. I enjoy doing that in public knowing that she’s getting turned on. That her panties are getting wet. When I took her home, I gave her my home jersey and instructed her to wear it during the game. I took all her brother’s T-shirts out of her drawer and replaced them with five of mine. I had to ask Stella to order a few replacements.
Me: If we lose this weekend, it will be because my hard-on killed me.
Ellie: I’m sorry. Whatever happened to your hand?
Me: The hand doesn’t do it for me anymore. My dick rejected the hand. It says that it’s had your mouth, your hand, and nothing else will do.
Ellie: I’m sorry (not really).
Me: I’ll be back around 11. Please say you’ll be awake.
Ellie: I’ll be awake. It’s not like it’s easy for me either. At least you got off last week.
Me: Baby, I would have done anything for you.
Ellie: We need to stop. These texts aren’t making it easier for me.
Me: Wear the red sweater.
Ellie: Not the jersey?
Me: If you wear the jersey, I’ll shoot my wad before I step across the threshold. Have a little mercy.
Ellie: Mercy isn’t what you want from me.
Me: Okay, going to the head now. I’m either going to jack off or drown myself.
Ellie: Think of me either way.