As Is… (a Hocey Fan Story)

Hockey Jersey

After a long day of work he came home, setting his laptop on the table, and thereby literally leaving his work at the door. While he expected to find dinner made, there was a note on the remote, as she knew that it was his second favorite thing on earth, saying, "Join me in the bedroom. I have your outfit picked out for the night."

Walking into the bedroom all he noticed was his Dallas Stars jersey. He lifted up to see what else there was to wear. It was just a jersey. She wanted him to wear just the jersey tonight? Where are we going, he pondered.

Then the door creaked open and through it she entered, with the slow walk of a 1940s film noir femme fatale, seductively wearing nothing but her Minnesota Wild jersey. They always had a back-and-forth about how the Stars were Minnesota's true team and the Wild were just imposters. She would always win, retorting, "At least you admit they are not yours." That razor sharp banter was the foreplay. Little did they know they lubricated their love making through this innocent gibber jabber.

There might be a night she looked more beautiful in their relationship, but he couldn't think of it. Her silky black hair shone, highlighted by the reddish tint. The vibe it gave off was Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model on a beach shoot. While tempted to fancy it up, she remembered what he always said... "As is." Her freckles popped behind the makeup. Not that she needed any, she balanced the thin line of using it too much and too little. And the glasses. Always the glasses. The dark horn-rimmed frames satiated his lust for intelligence and nerdiness, even if she was just a person who couldn't see, as she reminded him, in a staged, insincere self-deprecation. Her intelligence and wit were always his favorite thing about her, being able to add to any discussion about a historical topic.

Then there were the eyes. Volumes upon volumes could be written about them. Such depth, such profoundness, such wonder, such mystery and in contradiction to the mystery, such peace. He felt comfort and security looking at them. Forget 42, Douglas Adams. This was the meaning of life. To commune and bask in their glory. To always explore their depth and richness. To never finish being satisfied with their gaze. This was the most amazing quest he had ever began and he hoped to continue it as long as they both drew breath.

Beneath her jersey lay his favorite part about her. She had such beautiful curves. There were hours of fun to be had with them. He always said "it was a body made for yoga pants and leggings." Though the magazine covers told her she was too much, to him she was flawless. Her hips protruded a little bit more than she would like to, and her legs were thick enough to not fit her waist size at some mall stores, but he wanted her body exactly as it was. "As is..." the words resonated as his lust needed a seismograph.

"Tonight, she offered, "I want to be your meal." He reached the bottom of her jersey to slide it off and she scolded, smiling "As is..." She positioned herself on all fours, as if to say, you know what to do.

Slowly, he began to eat his favorite meal. As intimate as it is laying prone partaking or to be sat on one's face, there is something wildly erotic about the ass and the temple below presented. He began to eat, to tease just a little bit. He started at the lips, grabbed her ample ass, child-bearing hips, as she called them and buried himself as much as he could. He moved a little quicker, closer and just after one lick of the clit, he stopped. She moaned half in pleasure, half in anguish. For somebody that thought she had control, he very quickly took back the reins. Her master plan was in place. It was time to get fucked.

As she loved (and secretly hated), he moved his head closer and closer and closer, and then would jerk his head back just as he got close. She had a fiery rage, however could not be any more pleased with the energy he took into this. When this part of the game was done, he relented and began to dance metaphorically. Just as she would slip, so would he order her back on her fours and continuing until she was too weak and then order her back up. This was him at his most sadistic. The sadist that she had cultivated in him was now in full force.

When he had finished his master class in orgasm denial, he moved her off the bed spread her leg apart, and maneuvered his cock through her drenched canal for entry. Now, she submitted to him and gave her herself as the vessel of his pleasure. His hands moved, gradually. As he thrust, so he also explored; he moved his hands to her hips to give him more torque and a deeper thrust. Then he stretched his arms up to touch her breasts, beautiful, voluptuous, like the cover of the aforementioned Sports Illustrated Swimsuit shoot. Sensitive to his touch, as if in sensory overload, he added the twisting and pain that only he could make happen, initiating another one of her many, many climaxes of the evening. The sensation of her climax was enough to build up and cause the wellspring from underneath his cock filling her up inside, providing her with that internal nourishment she so craved. Refreshed, out of breath she arched back to hold him, stroking his face with gentle satisfaction and whispered, "End of the first period. Brats and some beer?"