1. Statistically, February Sucks


    Date: 7/7/2024, Categories: Loving Wives, Author: byRobertaBob 

    ... noticed what was going on. It took a minute for them to recognize LaValliere

in the flesh and out of uniform. Three of them looked impressed. Jim looked concerned, then angry.

I ignored my husband, took Marc's arm, and let him lead me onto the dance floor.

The band started a sensuous slow version of Barry White's "What Am I Gonna Do with You". Marc pulled me tight. He had been taught close dancing well and knew to begin his step by sliding his knee first between my thighs before putting his foot down. It was considerate. It was sensual. Each time he straightened his muscular leg it rubbed against my cunt.

I could see in his smile that it was a trick that had never failed him.

Even though he was leading, and leading strongly, he was distracted by the way my hard red nipples peeked out of my dress top when he pulled me forward. At a foot plus taller, he was getting a good view of them. I was able to maneuver us away from the main part of the floor and into a dimmer part which was shielded by a row of tall potted ferns.

That, he did notice. His smile got wider, knowing I had led him over into the shadows intentionally. His tiny brain was no doubt thinking about caressing my twat. He laid one enormous paw on my bare shoulder and squeezed.

"Marc," I whispered. "You have great hands. Too bad you don't know how to use them."

He smirked and nodded, his mind fully occupied visualizing what was under my dress.

Then the nickel dropped. He tilted his ...
    ... head.

"In the third quarter of the divisional championship," I said. "You ran a five yard out. The safety bought your fake, took a wrong first step, and you were open. The pass was spot on. There wasn't a defender within reach. And you dropped it. Bounced right off your fucking fingers."

He looked confused.

"Now, I'll never know how that feels. Girls are too fragile to play football, I was told. I have to get my aggressions out with kickboxing. You ever kickbox, Marc?"

He didn't respond but eyed me with growing concern. He had reason to be.

I leaned back, tilted my hips, and drove my knee into his balls. His cheeks puffed out as his lungs evacuated, and he doubled over.

"That was a knee strike," I said brightly. "I hear players don't wear cups these days. Maybe you should take it up again."

He began to retch and sag. I had to put all my strength into supporting him.

"Then in the fourth quarter, you were down by two. Two! You only needed fifteen yards to give your kicker a makeable spot. You snuck out on a tight end screen. Your line had a lane open for you ten yards deep. But you bobbled the pass. You took a glance upfield and lost the ball. Oh, yeah, you corralled it, but not before the mike slipped the center's block and nailed you. Eight yard loss. End of drive."

I wound up and hit him with a palm strike in the kidney.

"End of game."

He groaned and started to go timber. I managed to guide him back onto a loveseat. He fell heavily. I jumped next to ...
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