A Seasoned Slut

I am perhaps the second most famous Eagles fan in all of Philadelphia—besides Birdman of course—I'm

the

Seasoned Slut!

Allow me to explain. I bleed Philadelphia Eagles green. Season ticket holder—50 yard line I might add—and after a year sabbatical, the Birds were a cinch to qualify for the playoff tournament. This season it came down to the last game, but I won't get ahead of myself.

My season tickets allow me to make friends and be surrounded by the same spirited devotees on a weekly basis. I've even gotten face time on the boob tube and jumbo screen thanks to my various states of dress—or undress! The Birds on the field aren't the only ones present when I'm in the stands; my hooters stuff into skimpy halter tops, braless mesh jerseys and pour myself into green hot pants and pleated little cheerleader skirts. Hair on my shoulders, I even wear matching little green ribbons.

The first six games proved the Eagles were out to win, but the games in between left something to be desired and by mid-season the team seemed all but eliminated. Unfortunately for us Eagles fans, we are used to this type of thing, but unlike most, I'm a fresh-faced little blonde with a sinister pearly smile, round greenish eyes and an eager little beaver. I was forced to find other ways to enjoy the game besides my thermos full of rum. I'd prefer a belly full of cum! The boozy made me feel floozy and as each game wore on, I found my blood boiling and my clit tingling. Oddly enough, when the Birds score, I can squirt; and when they suck I follow suite!

Quarter by quarter, game by game, I took good care of each and every one of my friendly neighboring fans, lifting my top behind the souvenir stand, tearing my shoe-string thong free and sucking lines of guys in the men's room dry, you know the deal. My favorite spot was a hot dog stand where the opening had little doors that acted as a shield from passersby, so it seemed natural to let an equally dedicated fan from the front row do so when he asked if he could suck my pompoms. My jersey kittens are plump and springy, and I was more than ready to give them some air.

On the way up the steps I flashed my sweater candy to our section, who cheered their approval as my guy held my hand to the secret spot. When I pulled up that sweater he buried his face and munched on my puppies until my slit dripped with stickiness. At that particular game I had worn undies, but they were around my ankles in an instant!

During the next loss I swiveled in my chair and draped my foot into the crotch of the guy next to me so I could toss up my micro mini and flash him my bald eagle pussy. PS—There's an entire MySpace page dedicated to Eaglettes that show their appreciation by buffing their beavers clean! Needless to say, I was bent over the toilet seat in the men's room in no time flat, pinching at my pink perky clit and twisting my ass against his thick cock. When I begged my halftime fuck to empty inside me so I could feel him swim, I summoned the interest of drunken fans taking a piss. I was still getting play-action when the door was kicked open and instead of stopping, I just got more sopping as I wickedly asked the big Dawkins fan if he had anything I could put in my mouth.

His ruby tip was still wet with his piss when he slapped his shiny helmet on my tongue but he was stiff and hard in one second. He commented on how his little niece had the same Eagles cheerleader outfit—mine was smaller though!

The cock for my mouth was pulled out, just a bit, so we could all watch it shoot together as he held my head firmly to keep my mouth on his dick. Like I would have let go? As I zipped him up and sent him back to his wife, he called me a little piggy and he couldn't have been more right. I was born a cum sponge and refuse to rest until all 60 minutes leave every surface of my skin caked with the salty sperm of title-starved Eagle fans!

I licked all four fingers before going back to work on my fleshy beak, pussy still packed with prick. The second guy stuffed me just right, his balls bouncing around so I knew he was close. I shifted on the toilet seat so my knee-high white stockings could brush by my ears. I dropped my clittie and picked up my legs so he could hammer toward the goal line. When he pulled it out to smack his tip on my cunt lips, I told him to use the back of my thighs as his open receiver and he did, spritzing me down to the butt cheeks with man-aise. I just wished I had a big Philly cheesesteak to smear it on!

The next guy that came into the bathroom to empty his lizard did the same with his nuts, his tattoo telling me everything I needed to know as he dropped his jeans to his boots. A big cartoon beaver on the inside of his knee, with a brown tail and flesh colored body. He went positively ape over my little hash mark of pussy hair and asked if it would be okay if he splattered all over it. When I told him I wouldn't have it any other way he grunted, "Is there anything better than bald—" but it was much too late. I reached behind my ass so he could watch me tickle my lips from underneath as he squirted all over my midriff.

When the Eagles started to turn it around, I did the same, bending over to take another hunk's gunk like a lady, spiking it into my endzone. This guy was just bursting and he double-pumped so much that it skimmed all the way down to my corked heels and soaked in—no lie!

I wore the wads well but I still wanted more, and when I heard the stadium erupt I knew I missed a score. Dammit! Now I needed more stick. The next time my miniskirt came up was in the Port-A-John, my pigskins bouncing up and down in my face while this long one laid one into me. Before he burst I wanted my pair pasted, a sticky bridge for my ditzy balloons but when he asked me to guzzle his suds, I just couldn't say no. With my chin as a rest for his yummy balls, I thanked as I drank, suddenly thirsty for goo as us Philly fanatics are for a Championship!

The latter games I was absolutely encouraging a dirty fucking. The season's over I figured—screw the pooch kick, I need my pooch licked! I even embraced the breezy-Britney look by going panty-less each time I passed through the turnstiles. Even more than I like the silky feeling of the swirly drafts of The Linc dancing up my bottoms and over my barefaced smooth pussy I like the direct approach of showing meat-packing fans I need my dose of dick. Speaking of dose, now that I became used to my game time dousing, when the Eagles picked it up and made a playoff push I still felt like my hole world would collapse if I wasn't stuffed.

As far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing as too many men on the field. One of the final games I got four die-hards to play with; a cock for each hand, one for my mouth and the lucky last with a choice of my holes, a real double-teaming. I had come to play, with my shredded cutoffs resting on my favorite green and silver glass heels (a built-in slot through the money sign, "TIP$," just in case the boys wanted to reward me for my special skills!) Before the coin toss I had tossed off two and even overfed my fingers into my maw so I could feel the pulsing head against the roof of my mouth. By this point I was feeling quite parched. When I asked for refreshment, I was instantly treated to the first of four hot loads on a cold day. I got sprayed in rotation; my boobs, my butt, tummy and cheeks absorbing the cream. Every cock was soft and satisfied with where it had emptied. My tonsies were positively dripping!

The final game of the season turned out to be moot—the E's had clinched a playoff birth and were headed to the playoffs—woo-hoo! Now I could forget the clock and focus on cock.

To avoid a riot, all of the beer and concession stands close mid-fourth quarter, and the last beefy piece of cake in section 119 that I'd been eyeing all season was the reaper of the spoils. We snuck into a closed nacho stand and he hoisted me up on the counter. As he zipped down my fly, I asked him if he sucked like the Giants!

I could taste the puss in the air the second my ratty jeans hit the floor. The hunk never responded to my question but the tongue in my pussy seemed to have all the answers. He laved my slippery labia from bottom to top and even nibbled at my asshole when I hoisted my heels up on the table. He pounded cuntmound pretty well too, and had me squealing and squirting, luckily with the cheers of doting fans that were treated to the best gift of all—another division title!

When it was my turn to get cummed on I told him it was all mine and to do it like they do in the pros—shower me with that Gatorade! He pulled out of my slick bald hole in time to hose me down then quench my thirst. Delicious! Hey, we had to celebrate the victory somehow. When he asked if I knock back that much when I tailgate, I sucked my fingers clean then told him I had taken the sperm from every guy in our section—almost all in different ways. He said I was Queen of the Sluts, but added I could swallow a mean load, and that everyone in 119 agreed. I knew something was up! Cock! Hopefully next season I can swallow the entire stadium—hey, a hungry slut can dream can't she?

"Seasoned Slut" --Reading, PA