Mick is a football fan. And that means suffering through the hype of the Super Bowl year after year. I am old enough to have watched at least a chunk of all of them, going back to the days of Bart Starr, Len Dawson and Joe Namath.
Of course, the venue and the company have changed over the years. College dorm rooms; Friends’ homes; A Hotel room in the Big Apple one year, when the Redskins were still a politically correct and competitive team; our living rooms on four or five different houses.
Molly is no football fan. I have pictures of her at my alma mater’s stadium (a college football icon fallen on hard times) reading a book. At NFL games she has nodded off on my shoulder, making it hard for old Mick to follow the action when the drunks in front refuse to sit down on 3rd down.
But here’s a story about a special Stupor bowl, Mick and Molly’s first after we signed our contract.
“Can’t believe we are home alone on a Sunday evening. Wasn’t it nice for grandma to have the girls over for dinner and to watch the game…just think if the trouble we can make in an empty house, Slave.”
“Uhhh, yes Mistress. But we are going to watch the game, right?”
“Is that your priority, Slave.”
Mistress was obviously disappointed. Slave was not sufficiently focused on pleasing her.
After some lengthy negotiations (yes, I know fellow Slaves, attempting to negotiate with your Mistress is a violation of a prime directive of D/s), we settled on some rules for watching the big game:
1)If Slave wanted to watch the game, he would be naked, locked in his cage throughout.
2)Slave would prepare dinner, assure Mistress’s comfort at all times, and sit at her feet when not fetching her food or beverages.
3)Mistress would pick her “team”. (In this case she picked the Saints, for all the obvious reasons, including the fact that Mick and Molly have had some very hot sex in the French Quarter over the years, and sex is hardly on Nap-town’s calling card).
4)When her team scored, Slave would take all steps necessary to give Mistress a suitable orgasm.
5)When the other team scored, Mistress would use her wooden shoe horn to punish Slave, with the number of strokes matching the accumulated score for the opposing team.
There were some obscure side bets on the Who’s play-list. As an example of they played a chunk of “Love, Reign O’er Me” from Quadrophenia, the cage would come off, the TV would be shut down, and Mistress and Molly would revert to role playing involving a high, semi-naked Co-Ed who stumbles into her boyfriend’s roommates bed by mistake. (This apparently was based on an unfulfilled fantasy from the early 70’s, when Mick was a draft card burner and Molly was in 6th grade).
Kids out the door, we settled in for the kick-off.
I assured that Mistress’s wine glass was full.
She had on a cozy nighty and some smokey black stockings. No undies blocked access for what she hoped would be her frequent reward as the Saints lit up the scoreboard.
Sadly, the first two scores were by the Colts.
When their opening drive sputtered, I was grateful that my bottom would only suffer three strokes as a result of a Naptown field goal. Mistress had me lean over a side table and laid into me, adding a fourth stroke to compensate for her building frustration. After all, it had not been since morning, when Mistress had to “suffer” through a session with our Magic Wand.
“I thought the Saints had some type of high flying offense, Slave.”
We settled down again, but after A Saints receiver spoiled a drive by letting a 3rd down pass slip through his buttered fingers, the Colts were on the move again.
This time a touchdown. Ouch. 10 times ouch.
By now sitting at Mistress’s feet was getting a little dicey, as Slave squirmed his sore bottom on the carpet.
Fortunately for Slave’s welted bottom, the tide began to turn.
The Saints came back with a field goal.
Mistress settled back into the couch and I buried my head between her legs. She was already wet and ready for me. Was it those dorky “Go Daddy” ads, or the building anticipation that sooner or later Drew Brees would have his way with the crafty Colts cornerbacks? Mistress took her time to allow my face and tongue to build her to a proper explosion. It was well worth missing a few Budweiser commercials and the faltering Colt offense’s next drive.
After the Saints’ kicker made another long field goal before the half ended, I was back on my knees, and Mistress was feeling much better about her concession to her Slave’s desire to watch the game.
At half time I served up some of my copyrighted Green Chili Stew, and we enjoyed the Who’s truncated set. Pete and Roger looked more like aging history professors who could no longer persuade their female students to meet after class for a pint, than rock stars. But it was nice to be reminded not to be fooled again. I keep forgetting.
I was hoping for a Colts shutout in the 2nd half. When the Saints came up with that on-side kick as the half began, I knew my butt had dodged a bullet. You don’t want to set Peyton Manning up at the 50 yard line.
When the Saints took the ball to the end zone on that first drive, Mistress elected my tongue for desert.
Sadly, the Colts were not done yet. Another Manning TD pass to that guy from Haiti. Mistress made me lean over our kitchen counter and take 17 hard strokes. Double ouch.
“You really must like football, Slave.”
“This may cure me Mistress.”
“Well if they score again, you can elect to turn it off, and come to bed with me.”
Was Mistress getting tired of my tongue? Longing for the hard tool that was by now straining against the harder steel cage?
As the clock ticked down and the Colts moved into position for a TD to tie the game, I was considering my options.
Did I want to risk 24 more strokes? My butt was fully tenderized already.
Or should I turn off the TV, take Mistress to bed and Use my unlocked cock on her.
But my inner football fan geek could not pass up the chance to watch what might have been the first Super Bowl OT.
Luckily for my bottom, Manning tossed that devastating interception, putting the game out of reach.
“It’s over, Mistress. Your Saints are gonna win.”
I switched off the TV, calculating that the chances of a Colts’ comeback from 14 down with 3 minutes to go was very, very low. Plus why risk 24 strokes if the Saints gave up a garbage TD in the final seconds?
But Mistress was due some attention from that last TD, and took her final orgasm upstairs in our bed, the old fashioned way.
“I could become a football fan yet, Slave.”
Hmmm. That might not be a good thing. Not sure my bottom could handle a high scoring shootout. Maybe it’s good the season is finally over.
(OK, so this was an early April Fool entry. I made it up, but for the Green Chili Stew. We had family and friends over to watch the game. In 100 years will Super Sunday be the new Christmas? Don’t tell Jim O’Reilly I suggested that might be so).
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