The Spirit Girl

"Not anymore," came a muffled retort. She raised her head to speak more clearly. " I guess it wasn't enough that he's been two-timing me all along and treats me like a whore. But now he stood me up, made me miss a concert I really wanted to see, and I ruined the night for two of my closest friends because of it... no more. This time he's gone too far."

"You're hurt right now; neither you nor I know how you'll feel tomorrow. But," I checked my watch, "as for missing the concert... the opening acts are done by now, but the headliners probably just got started. We could still head over and catch the second half of the set. That's when they'll play all the big hits anyway."

She checked her watch too. "Maybe... but it's not worth 60 dollars a ticket to see maybe an hour of the show," she protested.

I patted my pocket. "I already have tickets, and they weren't sixty bucks. May as well use them. But if you want to go, we should go NOW; time's a-wasting."

Samantha was still hesitant, but Jenna helped out. "C'mon, if we've got the tickets anyway let's go! It's better than sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves," she encouraged.

"I'm not dressed... I'm not wearing makeup..." she fretted.

"It doesn't matter, because you're going to be in a luxury box where no one else can see you anyway. Do you want to see the show or not?"

"OK..." she replied, sounding more positive. She hesitantly rose from her seat, slightly wobbly.

I wondered just how much they had been drinking. "Perhaps I'd better drive," I commented.

"That would be an excellent idea," Jenna agreed with a hint of a slur.

I led the girls to my car, accompanied by intermittent giggling. I was a bit surprised that they both elected to sit in the back seat, but as I was driving I noticed in the rearview mirror that both were busy "improving" their makeup (no makeup doesn't really mean NO makeup to Samantha). We go to the show in great time, and my reserved parking space across the street meant we didn't have to park a half-mile away. We entered the arena and I let the way to the elevator. I put my key in the lock that usually prevented it from stopping at the box level, then led the way to the owner's box.

"Wow," Samantha commented as we walked in, "this box is even nicer than the others. I don't think I've ever been in this one." I wondered for a moment how she'd been in any of them, but remembered that the Spirit Team was often called upon to make peppy visitations to the big-spending customers. Just to build up excitement for the game, of course, the fact that they were scantily clad, sexy young women had nothing to do with it. Yeah, right.

Jenna agreed. "Do you know who owns this box?"

"This is the owner's box," I said mildly.

"The OWNER'S box? Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe we should use another one."

"I don't have permission to use the other ones," I commented.

"But you have permission to use THIS one?"

I shrugged. "I got the OK from the team President, and this is his box, so this is the one I have permission to use. Go ahead and watch; I'll be right back." There wasn't anyone working the luxury suite floor of course, but the bar was always stocked. Years ago one of my cousins showed me where the key was; I unlocked one of the cabinets and filled bucket with beers from the cooler. I marked down what I had taken so grandpa's account could be charged when next someone was working and hurried back.

Samantha and Jenna were already into it. They had moved aside the stools that usually sit by the countertop that rests against the plate glass window, and were now dancing and waving their hands in the air to the beat. They let out a raucous, "girls partying" whoop when the saw my bucket of beer. We all cracked one and enjoyed the show.

It was the greatest show of my life. Not the concert, mind you; I couldn't give a rat's ass about that. No, I'm talking about the show I got INSIDE the suite. These girls were professional dancers and knew how to move it, move it. Beer in hand, I raised my arms too and shook my thang, artlessly but with enthusiasm. Both girls turned to me, and we danced in a little circle, sipping beer. Then Samantha did the thing where she turned her backside to me and buffed my crotch with her butt. "Yeah baby," I encouraged like a frat boy; my pants were suddenly not quite so comfortable. Jenna, not to be outdone, bent over and did that thing where you punch one butt cheek and then the other in rapid succession, producing a sexy butt wiggle that drives the brothers inSANE. "Ooo, give me some of that," I touching her proffered butt.

"Oh yeah?" It was one-upsmanship now, and I was the beneficiary. Samantha reached behind her and tied a knot in her T-shirt; it fit snug before, but now there were three inches of bare midriff exposed for me to see. Then she started moving it, sliding her torso left and right relative to her hips like a belly dancer. As you might imagine, her amazing abs were prominently involved in this activity. I have no idea how she could bend that way without removing her spine. My dancing slowed as my eyes were mesmerized by the sight.

"Show off," Jenna teased. She did the same thing to her shirt, then put one leg between mine, bent her knees, and danced, rubbing her crotch against my thigh repeatedly. My lazy erection upgraded to a full throbbing hard-on.

"Hey, no fair touching" Samantha pretended to protest. She responded by rubbing her back and butt against my torso, arms out the way the way a table dancer does to let you look over her shoulder. Too bad she wasn't wearing a shirt I could easily look down the front of.

"Touching's cool," I murmured with a slight crack in my voice. My boner was painfully pinned inside my pants, but I was not about to make this stop.

"Do you like this, Dave?" Samantha teased.

"Oh yeah."

"Then I bet you'll really like this," Jenna challenged, and moved towards Samantha. Next thing I knew, the two of them, still dancing, had their arms around each other and were kissing--with mouths open.

Holy fuck! These girls have done this before, I thought. "Oh yeah..." I sighed.

All at once Jenna bent over, giggling hysterically, ending the kiss. Samantha giggled too, but did a quick dancer's 360 spin. Then she turned her attention to me. "So, did you like it?" she asked in a husky voice. I just nodded... and then realized she wasn't really asking me. Instead, her hand was sliding along the front of my pants. She had no trouble finding my boner, and rubbed it appreciatively through my jeans. "Hmm... yeah, I guess you did."

"I think I need a little adjusting," I croaked, grabbing my waistline and trying to shake myself free of the constricting fold that had captured it. It didn't do the trick... so Samantha did. She watched me struggle for a second, then like a flash her hands were in my pants. I felt her soft, warm hand gently grasp my penis. She ran her palm up and down its length twice, which accomplished the task. Only now that she was touching it, I was harder still.

"Whoa, whoa, not here..." I scolded, pulling my waistline out and trying to break free of her hand. Much as I liked it, I couldn't afford for pictures to make it out on the Internet of the future owner of the Jammers with a girl's hand in his pants. It's hard to see into a darkened luxury box and no one should have been looking this way, but it was still a risk I couldn't afford to take. Thankfully she cooperated and pulled her hand free.

"Did you just stick your hand down his pants and cop a feel?" Jenna accused playfully.

"Maybe," she teased. Was it getting hot in here, or was it me? Then she slowly raised her arms up around my neck. Her eyes were fixed on me, and they seemed to be interested. I felt her tugging me down gently. I put my hands on her waist, touching the smooth bared skin of her lower back. Then our lips met. Touched each other gently at first, but soon our mouths were open and tongues explored each other. Her athletic frame seemed to mold itself to my arms. Yeah she was drunk, but this didn't feel like the casual, ill-considered kiss of a drunk girl looking to party in whatever fashion presented itself. This felt like the kiss of someone who finally felt free to act on feelings she'd had for some time.

"Hey you guys, get a fucking room," Jenna teased.

Samantha paused for a second to say "I thought we already had one." Then she went back to kissing me.

"Suit yourself. You're missing the concert." She had a point there. But our kiss lingered exquisitely for many more moments before she stopped and returned her attention to the concert. But while Jenna was dancing like she was in a club, Samantha went for the slow and sensual. She pressed her backside up against me, rubbing against me while she shuffled slowly back and forth. I put my arm around her waist; she squeezed my bicep between her shoulder and her head.

We stayed that way for almost a full song. Then Samantha bent her neck back leisurely until her face was looking up at me. I went to kiss her again. Then she whispered "well?"

"Hmm?" I mumbled.

" I copped a feel," she whispered.

Oh man, what an invitation, I let my hand slide up and under her shirt. I felt the satiny feel of the cups of her bra. I rubbed them appreciatively, feeling a lump where the nipple should be. She swayed gently, pressing against me, giving no indication I should stop. So I found the bottom of the cup and slipped my fingers under it. I had seen that her breasts weren't very big, although appropriate for her athletic build, but holy shit, her nipples... they felt like the size of fucking gumdrops. Humongous! I held them in my fingers, tweaked them gently... tried to imagine the wonder that I held in my hand but could not see. Samantha pressed her head into me gently, reciprocating my touch. Her eyes were closed as her body responded to my touch. It was a moment of pure bliss. But then the voice in my head reminded me that a picture of me with my hand up her shirt was no better than one of her hand in my pants, so regretfully I pulled my hand back out. "Save some of that for later," I whispered.

"OK," she breathed. I grabbed her waist, spun her towards me again, and we kissed some more.

I'd imagine that you're thinking we slept together that night. To be honest, I was kind of feeling pretty good about my chances myself—but that's not what happened. The concert let out, and since Jenna and Samantha had been gettin' their drink for some time on they weren't ready to go home. We headed over to the 5th Quarter. What we didn't know was that some radio station was sponsoring an event there, and the place was packed. We couldn't get close to our usual seats; we were squeezed along the back wall, by the video games. That turned out to be a good place to be when the announcement came that there would be head-to-head contests at the pop-a-shot machine, with the winner of every round getting a free shot. Samantha thought that sounded like fun.

There were two pop-a-shot machines, so they put girls on one machine and guys on the other. The line for guys was pretty long, for the girls not so much. Samantha and I got in our respective lines for a chance to play. Jenna came with me, because I designated driver and I promised that if I won any shots she could drink them for me. I beat the first guy I played plus two more before getting beat. Jenna and I then went over to see how Samantha was doing, only to find that she was holding court over on the girl's machine, wiping the floor with all comers. Challengers would come and score 15, 20 points in the 30 seconds; Samantha was averaging about 40. I watched her demolish one opponent after another. She shot the ball with a sweet, effortless stroke, smooth and natural. She was probably hitting better than 50%, and putting them up at a pretty good clip too. She almost never had to look away from the rim; she would feel for the balls in the bin, find one with her left hand, and in the blink of an eye the ball was transferred and arcing gracefully toward the hoop. THAT girl has played basketball, I thought. She can shoot a sweet shot like that while totally drunk! She wasn't even drinking most of her shots, which is good because at the rate she was winning them they probably would have been enough alcohol to kill her. She must have won 25 matches in a row, not losing until she was so drunk she could barely stand.

When she finally lost, even Samantha recognized that she was well past having had enough and had better get home. I told them to wait while I went to get the car. They waited outside, laughing hysterically at everything that happened, funny or not. Of course by the time I got back there were like four guys surrounding them, chatting, hanging out in case something interesting happened because with drunk girls you never know. They moved aside as the girls helped themselves stagger into my car. Jenna crawled in the back, while Samantha slumped in the front. She was passed out cold by the time I got them home.

With a tinge of disappointment I got out to fetch Samantha. I unbuckled her seat belt, and since she only weighed a buck-ten or so, I was able to pick her up and carry her. Jenna led the way to their apartment, unsteadily opening doors. I carried her inside and laid her softly on her bed. I sure would have loved to continue what we had started in the suite, but maybe it was better this way... I think she would have been all over me, and I'd have been afraid to trust her ability to consent to anything as drunk as she was.

Jenna gave me a big hug in the kitchen on the way out. "Thanks Dave," she slurred with sincerity, "you were a real life-saver tonight."

"No, thank YOU," I protested. "All of this only happened because you told me to come find you."

"Did you see Marshall Jacobs?" she asked.

"No... but I didn't spend a whole lot of time looking outside of suite, period," I admitted.

"I bet... you got a pretty good show for free there," Jenna accused.

"Certainly made the tickets worthwhile," I sighed with satisfaction. "You saw Jacobs?"

"In the second row, like he'd promised Sam. Asshole is so smug, he wore his team jacket! It was a long way away, but there was a little black girl next to him that seemed to be pressed up against him and wiggling her butt."

"You think Sam saw?"

"I don't know--she may not have wanted to look. But if it comes up, you bet your ass I'm going to tell her," she vowed.

My concern returned. "Sam had a LOT to drink tonight. You think she's gonna be all right?"

"Yeah," she replied confidently, "I've seen her drunk lots of times, although this is right up there with the best of them. If she throws up, she won't pass out, and if she passes out, she won't throw up. But she's gonna have a monster headache tomorrow."

"As well might you. You should get to bed yourself."

"Agreed," she nodded, then showed me out, locking the door behind me as I left.

---------

I got a text at work about 10:30 the next morning. Ow. My head is exploding. AND I slept through Stats.

Do you remember anything from last night? I replied. It would be shame, after making such inroads, if they had been wiped away by an alcoholic haze.

Samantha: Yes. I remember the concert. Then I remember going to the bar. Everything after that is kind of hazy.

Me: You kept winning free shots playing pop-a-shot, then passed out in the car.

Samantha: Jen said you carried me upstairs. Thank you. Then a follow-up: Sorry to be such a pest, but any chance you can help me with stats tonight?

Me: Sure. Do you want to go to the coffee shop again?

Samantha: You know where I live now, so we don't have to go to neutral places anymore. You could come here, although Jen is a bit distracting when she's around.

Me: Want to come to my place?

And that's how it began. I picked her up and brought her to my house. For an hour and a half we did what were supposed to, with me trying to explain the next chapter in the book. She got it, but her grasp on it was shaky. Then we started talking about other things. "I was a little disappointed when I woke up alone this morning," she noted demurely, "and yet feeling that way scares me. I never used to be the kind of girl to sleep with a man on a first date. Apparently, since Marshall, I am."

I put my arm around her and gave her a kiss. "Well, if we count yesterday plus all of the times we've studied stats, we'd be on six or seven, right? Would that make you feel better?"

She touched her forehead to mine gently and nuzzled it. "You don't have to manufacture any accounting irregularities to lower my guilt—I want to. I guess I'm just saying... please go slowly with me. It would make me feel a lot better to make love to someone that made me feel like he cared about more than just my body."

I had no problem with that. For months I'd be dreaming of this moment; I wanted to savor every new touch, sight, and smell. We started kissing, and soon we were lying on the couch. The more we kissed, the more our hands travelled. Somewhere along the way she tossed aside her top. My hands lovingly explored every inch of her body... that flat belly, her navel, her breasts, those huge, tender nipples. I bent slightly to cup a breast in my hand and suckled on the nipple. It had the most amazing texture when held gently between the teeth! She closed her eyes with pleasure as I sucked on it. Somehow she managed to open my pants without interrupting me, so now I felt her stroking my cock in her hand while I sucked on her tit.

Next thing I knew, she was pleasuring me orally. Well, pleasuring was really an understatement, because when she sucked it, she made my dick sing with delight. I don't know what her secret was, but I'd have walked a thousand miles of broken glass barefoot for a blowjob like that. Maybe it was the active tongue, or the soft lips, or the way she relentlessly took it into her throat time and time again. I couldn't help but watch with wonder at how she could make me feel SO good so easily. And it wasn't that she was so practiced at it that she could do it in her sleep, like a pornstar. No, all I figure is that she seemed to really like to do it. My penis' natural reactions gave her very direct and immediate feedback, and she seemed to enjoy the feeling of empowerment she got from being able to bring about such strong reactions out of it. And she seemed to... appreciate the penis. Yeah, you have to stroke it fast to get it off, but it's still a sensitive things and it likes to be touched gently, too. Maybe that was her secret; she seemed equally adept at gentle touches and teasing as with using her mouth and throat to fuck the dick like a surrogate pussy. I remembered hearing Marshall call her a freak; perhaps I now understood why. Samantha could suck the chrome off a bumper... only it was MY dick she was sucking now! Fuck you, Marshall Jacobs!

Her oral skills were so amazing, in like five minutes I was having to hold back so I didn't nut in her mouth. And once she started sucking me, there was only so slow I could go. Fortunately, her motor seemed to be picking up speed as well. Still, I had real mixed feelings when I peeled her off my happy dick. She squeaked with surprise when I picked her up again and took her to the bedroom. I laid her gently on the bed, kissing her. We both removed all remaining pieces of clothing while kissing. Then I laid down between her legs and returned the favor. She bent and lifted her knees, and I eagerly licked her sex. She was shaved except for a neat little thatch just above her slit--I realized she would have to be to wear some of those skimpy Jammer Spirit costumes. She was glistening with excitement before I even started running my eager tongue up and down the delicate folds. She played with my hair while I ate her snatch. Her clitoris rose and became more prominent, to which I responded by dedicating more and more of my oral stimulation to it. I could hear from her breath that she was receiving great pleasure from my efforts, which encouraged me further. I peeked between her thighs from time to time; her eyes were closed and her back arched while her face wore an expression of enjoyment. It was a look that I just knew already that I would never, ever tire of seeing.