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"I'll lead the fucking Skins," Colt says and laughs, "No one needs to fucking see Ethan with his fucking shirt off." Without waiting for my approval, he takes off his jersey. I watch as it slides up, revealing his 8-pack abs that start at his groin and travel upwards to his ribs, creating a chiseled, muscular mountain range. I imagined running my fingers down his abs and plunging them down still further, until …
"Are you fucking sure it's worth matching us up?" Colt asks. "I mean, I'm going to smoke the fucking shit out of Ethan and I'd hate to embarrass him."
"Do you ever shut up?" Ethan asks. "Focus on the drills." He plants his hands firmly on his hips, and his biceps flare in irritation. I wonder what it would be like to be held by those strong arms.
"That's enough—Colt, you're the captain of the offensive teams, the Skins, and Ethan you're the captain of the Defense, the Shirts. Gather your teams and meet me on the field,” I say. “We're going to start with a few warm-up drills, and then we're going to scrimmage and we won't be using our pads—this will be touch football only boys," I said with a wink.
As instructed, both Ethan and Colt gather the players for their practice teams and the men meet on the fi
eld. I begin placing a series of orange cones on the 50-yard line, bending down low enough to taunt the onlookers with a deep view down the crevice of my perfect breasts.
"Huddle up!" I shout. "We’re starting with the shuttle run." The men proceed to line up by the cones, and one by one, run through the drill. I watch as Colt stands in a three-point stance, supported by his massive quads as they stretched and quivered in anticipation under his tight pants. I can envision how large his cock must be, and if he wasn't wearing those tight pants, I bet it would stand at least a good 10 inches. I could use a good, thick cock right about now.
At the blow of my whistle, he lunges left for 5 yards, touching the turf with the tips of his fingers, and then lunges right before breaking into a sprint for 10 yards, and then lunges back to his starting point at the cones. I time him with my stopwatch.
"4.3 seconds!" I yell out. Colt winks at the team, and I watch as he takes deep breaths, causing thin rivulets of sweat to run down the ripples of his large chest.
"Fucking beat that girls!" Colt yells with enough swagger to fill a stadium.
Impressive, I think to myself, but I wonder if Ethan can beat that time. "Ethan you're up!"
Ethan jogs to the first cone and drops down into his three-point stance. I can tell he’s serious. I watched as he digs his cleats into the turf to get a good foothold. Then, at the blow of my whistle, I watch as his entire body springs into action—lunging left as his tight ass shudders under the rapid motion. He swings his arms forward to gather greater momentum, and I can't help but marvel at his strong shoulders. He sprints back, his chest heaving, and he pushes his hair and sweat back from his forehead, allowing me to get a good look at his eyes. I notice that they’re the color of a perfect summer sky. I look down at my stopwatch, "3.94 seconds!"
I’m a little surprised that Ethan won that drill, but it makes sense. Defensive ends have to be fast if they ever expect to sack quarterbacks. And Ethan was known as the QB Killer before coming to the Nailers. He’s never once used that moniker on his own – that’s not his style. He’s not the brash and cocky player like Colt. No, Ethan’s a silent alpha male. He’s calm and poised. He lets his actions speak for him. Nothing ruffles him. It’s sexy as all hell.
"Everyone line up!" I yell. "We're running the L Drill now."
Colt volunteers to go first and immediately drops into his three-point stance at the first orange cone. "Your luck just ran out, Ethan!" he yells out. "Your fucking ass is getting smoked now." He digs his fists into the turf, and when I blow my whistle, he takes off in a surprisingly fast sprint, his back and chest glistening with sweat. His neck muscles pulse every time he swings his strong arms and shoulders. I watch as he runs 5 yards forward and 5 yards backward, and then as he sprints left and around the third cone for his final lap. "3.82 seconds!"
Damn that was fast, I think. If he could run the L Drill in less than 4 seconds, I could imagine his powerful hips thrusting into me with equal speed. But I still need to see what Ethan can do.
"Next up is Ethan!" I call out.
I watched as he approached the starting cone, his brows furrowed in concentration. I can tell he wants this win. His biceps flare in anticipation as he places his hands down onto the turf. Instead of the turf, I imagine my body under him, and him placing his strong hands on top of my breasts, squeezing them. I blow my whistle again and watch him take off, sprinting between the cones with animalistic speed. I watch his tight ass muscles flex and strain into a left turn, and then finally relax as he reaches the starting cone. I watch his broad chest heave in and out with his deep, labored breaths. I watched his lips pucker and can imagine his lips locked on mine. I look down at the stopwatch. "3.82 seconds!" I call out.
I watch Ethan's shoulders sag as Colt pumped his first into the air, "You see this Ethan? This is what victory looks like." He flexes his biceps, kissing each one for dramatic flair.
“You didn’t win, you asshole,” Ethan snarls – disappointed in himself.
Shit, they're tied.
I had thought that the drills would settle the matter once and for all. I'll have to see who performs better in the scrimmage.
"Everyone get into their teams!" I command, pointing to the field. "Offensive Skins on this side, and Defensive Shirts on that side. I'm giving you four downs. If the offense scores, they win this drill. If the defense holds them scoreless, they win. Everyone understand?
I looked around at the team and see the players nodding in agreement. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to fuck the whole lot of them – letting them have their way with me as they take turns filling every hole. Then I see Ethan and Colt flex their muscles and my mind goes back to them. This is going to be fun, I say to myself. At the blow of my whistle, the scrimmage begins. I watch as Colt drops back from the offensive line, his wide receiver running out for a deep pass. Showboat. Of course, he’s going for a dramatic move. But just as Colt scans the field for an open receiver, Ethan brakes through the offensive linemen and throws his body on top of Colt's sweat-slick torso. Both men tumble down to the turf, and I watch as their muscles heave and tumble in one powerful motion.
"How do you like them apples?" Ethan winks at Colt. "You're so predictable, rosebud."
That’s it. Colt's chest flares as he picks himself up. "We'll see about that fucker," he mumbles back at Ethan.
On the next snap, Colt's muscled arms grip the football as he swiftly drops back into the pocket. Agile on his feet, I watch as he scans the field. He must know that he only has a few seconds before Ethan comes at him. I know he has three seconds max—I can feel the clock ticking.
Two seconds—maybe he’ll chance it and run the ball into the end zone himself? He has the arrogance of an angry bull. I don't doubt that he would try punching it in.
One second—I can see Ethan advancing on his right side, and there are still no open receivers.
Ethan is lunging in and only a foot in front of Colt. But wait—Colt locks eyes with a receiver 70 yards down the field.
