Player Taes a Pounding

Player Takes a Pounding

By Bruce Watson

All rights reserved.

He was pounding her, really letting her have it. His muscled body, hardened by countless hours in the gym, on the field. Thrusting into her. Giving her his all.

Giving her what her husband couldn't.

He said the line, automatically. "Whose pussy is this?"

"Yours!" she shrieked. "It's all yours!"

He remembered her name was Linda and her husband's name was Jim or John or something like that. The weird thing was, he couldn't recall his own name. His face forced itself into a grin, a dreadful smirk pasted over the sour sickness he felt burrowing deeper into his soul.

The next line popped out of his lips: "Does your cuck hubby fuck you like this?"

"No!" It was somewhere between a moan and a sob, dripping with excitement and amazement and disbelief. Under the joy, the player thought he heard something else: a darker note, something that said it had never been this good before and probably never would be again. And he knew--she knew--that his cock was breaking something in her, some connection to her husband that could never be fixed.

Or maybe he was just reading too much into it. God knows he'd had more than enough time to think it over.

Once the words were out, she couldn't stop them, and they poured forth in a torrent: "Never fucked like this! Never fucked this good! Oh, my God, fuck meeee!"

He felt the familiar pull, the ache in the base of his balls that told him he was about to cum--

*

He was propping his head up on a school desk, one of those cheap plastic deals with the seat attached to the desktop. It was another team meeting. Coach Nussbaum was in front of the room, so it must have been high school. The chalkboard was covered in Xs and Os.

Nussbaum droned on, and the player once again heard the words that changed his life.

"People will tell you that champions are born. Men, that's bullshit." The coach snorted as the boys chuckled at the surprising profanity. "Champions are built. One pushup at a time. One practice. One scrimmage." He looked around the room, at the players staring at him with rapt attention. "Men, the difference between a champion and a loser isn't genes. It's determination. It's guts. It's plain old stubbornness."

Nussbaum wasn't much to look at--crooked teeth, ugly bowl haircut, bullet-shaped head and a body like a fireplug. The player figured he was pretty much indistinguishable from hundreds of other coaches yelling at thousands of boys in rooms like this around the world. But on that day, in that classroom, Nussbaum's words changed his life forever.

"For champions, there is one thing--JUST one thing--in the world. It doesn't matter if it's football or basketball or playing the fucking guitar." The players laughed appreciatively. "Whatever it is, they focus on that one thing. JUST that one thing. Until they're the best in the world."

"What if that one thing is girls, coach?" That was Johnson, the QB. A handsome kid--blond hair, blue eyes, good hands and a limitless future. A high school king.

The player remembered that Johnson's future ended when he knocked up his girlfriend in college, then blew out his knee. Last the player heard, Johnson was selling cars in their old hometown.

Shoulda spent more time in the gym

, the player thought.

I guess Johnson wasn't a champion

.

"The best at girls?" The coach guffawed. "Sorry, son, that job's taken." He puffed out his chest and the boys chuckled. But Nussbam's smile disappeared as he glared around the room. "Men, I know you're not a bunch of monks. Do what you gotta do. But remember this: the day you take up with a girl full time is the day your career starts to end. You want to be a champion? Keep the pussy on the sidelines."

The player nodded his head at the coach's wisdom. There'd be plenty of time for a wife and kids when he left the field and put on a sportscaster's jacket. Or opened a restaurant. One or the other.

*

The woman--Linda--was screaming out her excitement, and the player felt the words coming out of her mouth.

His mouth. Their mouth.

He hated this part.

"Oh, GOD! Fuck me! Fuck me so fucking HARD!" they screamed.

Then he heard his own voice coming out of the man standing behind him, saying the words he'd heard--

spoken--

so many times before: "Does your little man fuck you like this, baby?"

She didn't even hesitate. "No! Never... never fucked like this before! SO FUCKING GOOD!"

As the player said the words with Linda, he felt the thoughts going through her head.

He's so hot. He wants me. Little old me. He's good--very good! Better? Maybe not, but so good, and he wants me. Me! Big football player wants little old me! Oh FUCKKK...

The player tried to pretend he was somewhere else, that he didn't feel the cock slamming into him. The hands squeezing his hips. Pulling his hair. But he couldn't ignore the spasms tearing through his--her--body. The insult of feeling her... his... their pussy tightening around the man's cock.

It was a good orgasm, strong enough to silence the string of words coming out of Linda's mouth. It was good, but the player knew it wasn't the best she'd ever had. He felt the memories of her husband. Their wedding night. An afternoon on a beach somewhere. One time bent over a kitchen table. Times that made this orgasm feel like a piss shiver by comparison.

He felt her fighting the knowledge, rejecting it. This HAD to be the best. It HAD to be worth it. After all, the man slamming into her was the guy on the box of Wheaties, the model in the underwear ads, the guy playing football on the TV. The big man on campus.

Observing from inside her body--her mind--the player knew that she wasn't fucking him. Not really. She was fucking all her friends who looked down on her. The football players in high school who never spared her a glance. The people at her work who overlooked her day after day.

Maybe she was fucking over her husband, too. That ordinary man who dared to think that he was her equal.

Her orgasms came from her ego, from the realization that she was better than everyone else. The player's dick had almost nothing to do with it. That night, she was the princess in the fairy tale. And him? He was a minor player at best, a bit of scenery at worst.

The question popped into his mind:

If I knew then what I know now, would it have made a difference?

It wasn't the first time he'd asked it, and the answer wasn't anything new. She was fucking everyone who'd ever overlooked her, underestimated her. And him? He was fucking her husband, every husband, every man who made a different choice than him. Every man who dedicated himself to being a champion in something that the player realized was much harder than catching a football.

Harder to build. Easier to break.

He remembered pounding into Linda's pussy, reminding himself that he was still a champion, that he was the best. That he could take the crown from another man's head--from so many men's heads--and set it on his own. Fuck the aches and pains, the empty house he came home to every night--he wasn't a loser. He was a fucking champion!

"Say my name, bitch!"

"Oh, fuck me! FUCK ME, MA--"

*

The player was in a recliner, holding a handgun. It was a regular, middle-class living room in a regular middle-class home: white walls, gray plaid couch, polished oak coffee table. Blandly tasteful lamps, blandly tasteful carpet, with a few toys scattered around. Comfortably unremarkable.

The player wondered how many battles Linda and Jim (Jack? Joe?) had fought over this room. Had they argued about the bland lamps? The boring couch? Had she used her body to soothe his hurt feelings over that coffee table or the tastefully dull flower prints on the walls?

He scanned the shelves and curio cabinet, passed over the souvenirs from family trips, the pictures of birthdays and Christmases and family vacations at the beach. Pictures of grinning kids, happy and healthy. Secure in the arms of the parents that they knew loved them. That would do anything for them.

Jim and Linda's kids. Their house. Jim's recliner. Jim's body.

Jim's gun.

The player heard Jim's voice in his head. The endless swirl of thoughts grinding away in a constant loop:

I love her I hate her I love her why did she do this to me HOW could she do this to me NO HOPE but I love her what about the kids broken hopeless but I love her

The darker thoughts creeping in...

fucking his brains out cheating bitch fucker--

I'm supposed to--

I'm supposed to--

WHAT am I supposed to do?

The player saw the visions flitting through Jim's brain. Images of Linda and the player engaged in acts of athletic fuckery that strained the capabilities of all but the most limber gymnasts. Scenes of sexual excess that would make Caligula green with envy, would make Wilt Chamberlain look like a rank amateur.

The player remembered sex with many women--more than he could count--but none could compare with the visions that tortured Jim as he sat in his chair, cradling his pistol. Nobody ever had sex as good as Jim was imagining his wayward wife was having.

The dark thoughts and ugly visions slid aside when Jim heard the car drive up. The player recognized the throaty sound of his Corvette, saw the flash of its crimson paint job through the front window as it came to a stop in the driveway. Saw himself get out, open Linda's door, tip her head back in a showy kiss that demonstrated his total ownership of her. That he was the champion, at least for the moment...

What was I thinking?

he asked himself, not for the first time.

What was I trying to prove?

By now, Jim was up, his eyes glued on the scene playing out in his driveway. Gun in hand, he staggered to the door. Opened it.

*

The player was in the game. Torn, grass-stained uniform. Muscles screaming in agony. He'd strained his wrist in the third quarter, but the trainer taped it up. Offered to take him out of the game, but the player told him no way in Hell. It was the Super Bowl--no fucking way he was sitting it out.

So here he was, at the end of the fourth quarter, running on endorphins and adrenalin and just plain mean. Ready to end this thing. To bring it home.

They were down by three, with time for one more play. The snap was good and he was flying down the field, eating up the yards. He glanced back: the linemen were advancing on Harris, the QB, as he scanned the field, looking for an opening.

Me, me! I'm open!

Harris locked eyes with the player and gave a quick nod as one of the linemen broke free. But it was too late--Harris released the pass, right before they took him down.

It was a little wobbly, but nothing the player couldn't handle.

He'd replayed this night a thousand times. Catalogued every step, every reach, every muscle as he powered down the field, straining for the ball. Felt his fingers skim its leathered hide. Reached out with everything in him to catch it, grab it, bring it home.

Felt it slide through his hands. Felt greatness slip from his grasp

He remembered this moment, too. The moment when the cheers turned to boos and adoration turned to anger. The moment when the crowd knew that it was all over, and that they'd all lost. Thanks to him.

Marc LaValliere.

Marc LaValliere. That was his name. The player remembered his name.

Marc remembered it as the worst moment of his life. The time when he did his absolute best, yet still failed. When he knew that--despite the hours of conditioning, the years of two-a-days and four-a-days--he was still second best. That he would never be one of the greats.

He felt the grass under his knees and the tears pouring down his face. It was the worst moment of his life, but now he clung to it with everything he had. It was the moment where he was most himself. When he escaped from the endless grind of fuckee, fucker, cheater and cuck that filled every moment of his consciousness. When he remembered, if only for a second, who he was. Who he

had

been.

Marc fucking Lavallier.

And with that realization came the understanding of everything else. Of the cycle that he was endlessly replaying with Linda and Jim. Of the way he was reliving each of their parts over and over and over. Feeling their feelings, thinking their thoughts. Examining every fragment of the people--the lives--that he'd shattered.

This was his world now, forced to relive everything that he'd done, every person he'd broken, until he forgot himself, forgot his own name, only to be reminded of it once again as he relived the worst moment of his life. The best moment of his afterlife.

Marc had to admit: the people in charge sure knew how to run a hell.

He knelt on the football field and wept. And only he knew that his tears weren't for the ball he'd fumbled, but for all the women he'd caught.

*

Marc was pounding her, really letting her have it. His muscled body, honed from endless hours in the gym, thrusting into her. Giving her his all. Giving her what her husband couldn't...