Boy Toy

by R. R. Banks

  She reaches her hand down and takes hold of my cock, giving it a nice, hard tug. I moan and look her in the eye, enjoying the sensation of her small, smooth hand sliding up and down my stiff cock.

  “I don't have much time,” she says, her sweet Texas accent dripping like honey. “I need to get back to work soon.”

  “Don't worry,” I reply. “I'll write you a note if you're late. I'm the boss, so what can they do?”

  Sliding my hand up her skirt, I grab hold of her panties and slide them down, tossing them on the pile with her shirt and bra. She bites her bottom lip and gives me a seductive little smile. Damn, this girl is sexy.

  She parts her thighs as I step forward, positioning myself between them. Kissing her, I slide my hands up her thighs, relishing the feel of her smooth, silky stockings. She reaches over and picks up my black Stetson, putting on top of her head and gives me a flirty little look – and I have to admit, it's kind of sexy.

  “Giddyap, cowboy,” she purrs.

  “Yes, ma'am,” I say.

  I quickly slip on a condom as she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me forward. Locking her hands behind my neck, she looks me in the eye and kisses me hard, our tongues swirling together in her mouth hard and fast. She pulls back, a little breathless.

  “I need to feel you inside of me, Brady,” she gasps. “Fuck me now, baby.”

  Grabbing hold of my stiff prick, she guides me to her hot, wet little opening. With one solid thrust, I drive myself deep into her, making her cry out as I fill her up completely.

  “Yes, baby,” she says. “God, yes.”

  She is dripping wet and I thrust my hips in a hard rhythm, moving inside of her with ease. I grab hold of her ass and pull her closer to me as I start to bang her harder and faster. Kissing her neck, nipping at it, I run my tongue down to her sweet, perky little tits.

  She's moaning loudly, calling my name as I bury my cock into her again and again. I look out through the windows and see the teams are starting to come back out onto the field. She squeals and giggles as I pull her down off the bar, turn her around, and bend her over it, and then give that sweet little ass a firm smack.

  She looks back at me over her shoulder, a salacious expression on her face as I push her skirt up around her waist. I take a moment to admire the view of her firm, tight little ass, and toned legs encased in her black stockings and heels.

  “You are damn fine, darlin'” I say.

  “Thanks,” she purrs. “Now stick it in and fuck me.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” I reply – she doesn't need to ask me twice.

  Stepping up behind her, I grab my cock and slip the head of it into her opening. I grab her shoulders and pull her back at the same moment I thrust myself forward, driving my cock deep inside of her. She gasps and moans, pushing back against me as I pound her from behind. Grabbing a handful of her hair, I gave it a hard yank, pulling her head backward, making her call my name.

  I drive my cock into her harder and faster, relishing the feeling of how tight and wet she is. With one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip, I slam my cock into her again and again. Her breathing is growing ragged, shallower, and a moment later, I feel her entire body stiffen. A moment after that, she cries out so loud as her orgasm tears through her, I'm half afraid the people in the seats below my skybox heard her.

  Her eyes fill with lust and her breathing growing ever more ragged, she looks over her shoulder at me again and smiles.

  “Jesus Christ,” she moans. “That was intense. It's your turn now, baby. Come for me.”

  As if I need her permission. I thrust my hips harder and deeper into her, feeling the pressure building up low within me. I feel my balls tighten as she pushes herself back, grinding herself against me, taking me even deeper inside of her.

  The moment I feel her squeeze me hard with her vaginal muscles – making her feel even tighter – I lose all control. My body shudders and I moan – it comes out more like a growl, really – as I blow my load deep within her.

  I ride out the waves of sensation that course through me as my cock pulses and throbs, spilling my seed into the condom. A few moments later, I step back, out of breath and feeling almost lightheaded. I strip the condom off and toss it into a nearby trashcan before turning back to her.

  Pulling her close in a tight embrace, I take my Stetson of her head and put it back on mine before giving her a chaste little kiss. Her face flushed with color, she smiles up at me, her eyes wide and dreamy.

  “That was amazing,” she says, her breath a little husky. “Really amazing.”

  I nod and look out at the field, noticing that they're lining up for the kickoff to get the second half of the game underway.

  “Uh huh,” I reply, suddenly distracted by the action on the field now that the action in my box was over. “It was great.”

  “I'd like to see you again,” she says.

  I nod without looking at her. “Get dressed,” I reply. “You have to get back to work and I have to meet with Rick.”

  She looks at me like I'd just slapped her across the face. But without another word, she slowly starts to dress herself, never taking her eyes off of me. I give her a little smile, but my attention is pretty much fixed on the game going on below.

  Like I said, football is my passion in life. Always has been, always will be.

  Chapter Two

  “We really need to talk about you screwing half the hospitality staff,” Rick says when he steps into my box, closing the door behind him.

  I look over and give him an amused grin. “Why? Is the other half jealous?”

  Rick Dempsey, the current President and General Manager of the Copperheads, sits down in the plush, padded seat next to me. The large windows are open so I can hear the roar of the crowd, the popping of the pads as the players collide with one another, and soak in the ambiance of a Copperheads home game. There's really nothing else like it.

  I've visited with other owners in the league in their stadiums. Some of them like to spend their Sundays down in the hospitality suites, drinking and stuffing their faces, not even paying attention to the game. Others like to sit in their luxury box, drinking, stuffing their faces, and watching the games on the televisions that fill the suite – if they pay attention to it at all.

  Many of them just like to be surrounded by a loud crowd of hangers-on who are there to be seen rather than to enjoy a game. And that's just not my way.

  I don't understand it. You own a team and you don't even watch them play? I'm convinced that half the owners in the league – maybe more – don't really care about football one way or the other. They own a team for the status and stature of being an NFL owner.

  But not me. Football is in my blood. I played in high school and college – and if not for a blown-out knee in my sophomore season, who knows what might have happened? Maybe I'd be down there strapping them up with my hometown Copperheads too. It had been my dream at one point in time – a dream my body was unable to help me fulfill.

  Yeah, there's still a little bitterness about that in my system.

  Instead of being on the field blowing up receivers on Sundays, I'm sitting in the skybox, watching them play – the owner-in-waiting, as my lawyer, Kendrick Booth likes to say.

  The blonde I'd banged at halftime comes in with a tray bearing wings and beer. She sets it down on the table between Rick and me before giving me a flirty little wink and a smile.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” I say.

  Rick shakes his head and sighs as she turns and leaves the box. I grab my beer and take a long swallow of it. Rick grabs his bottle and holds it, watching the play on the field unfold. Our second-rate quarterback, Jake Penn, throws another incomplete pass, bringing up yet another fourth down. It hasn't been a great game for the Copperheads. Hell, it hasn't been a great start to the season.

  “The hospitality girls,” Rick says. “I need you to lay off of 'em, Brady. Not only is it unprofessional, you're opening yourself – and this organiza
tion – up to a potential lawsuit.”

  I shrug. “They're all of age,” I reply, watching with a simmering anger as the punting team comes out onto the field. Again. “What happens between two consenting adults is nobody's business. Least of all yours, Rick.”

  Rick and I have a – contentious – relationship. To put it mildly. Mostly because I forget more about football in a day than Rick is ever going to know – and he knows it. He's only in the position because after my parents died, somebody had to step into the role – and he was available. For whatever reason, he and my father were friends and he has a lot of years in the league – many of them in a GM capacity. So, to some, that gives him some credibility around the league.

  Not that his years as a GM were good years. For any of the teams he's been with.

  If anybody had asked me – and nobody did – I would have told them to steer clear of Rick Dempsey. He drafts poorly, goes cheap on free agents, and his track record as a GM doesn't include guiding a team to a single winning season. Twenty years in the league – thirteen as a GM – and Dempsey doesn't have a single winning season to his credit.

  It's something that never fails to irritate me whenever I see his face. He's terrible at his job, but somebody else always takes the fall. It's the quarterback. It's injuries. It's a poor pass defense. The most recurrent theme is, it's the coach. Nobody ever really stops to look at his track record of drafting and signing free agents.

  I have though, and it's horrible.

  And the reason our relationship is so rocky is because he refuses to listen to my advice. Refuses to draft the players I want to target or sign the free agents I think can help the team. He simply smiles, nods, and blows me off – as if I'm just some spoiled rich kid who doesn't really know much about anything other than girls and partying.

  Dempsey doesn't seem to understand that it's only a matter of time before I assume control of the team though, and will be the one calling all the shots. All he talks about is sticking to his vision and his game plan for the organization, promising that better days are ahead.

  “Be that as it may,” Rick goes on, “There is always the potential –”

  “I'm done talking about that,” I snap. “What I want to talk about – the reason I asked you to meet with me – is because of what I see down there.”

  He sighs and puts on that smug, condescending, patronizing expression that irritates me so much. I point to the field and watch in frustration as a receiver blows by our cornerback, hauling in a forty-yard gain. If not for the safety coming over to help, that would have been a score. Easily. And with the team down by two touchdowns already, it probably would have been the proverbial final nail in the coffin.

  “Yeah,” Rick says, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jawline. “It's a tough one out there today. Have to give Atlanta some credit though – that's a good squad.”

  “No, more like, we're a terrible squad,” I reply. “Did you not just see Rogers give up that forty-yard gainer? What did I tell you at the end of last season?”

  Rick shakes his head and takes a swallow of his beer. “Honestly, I don't remember,” he says. “I have a lot of things going on – as I'm sure you know.”

  “Well, let me refresh your memory,” I growl. “I told you that Rogers is a third-tier cornerback. At best. I told you to cut him and go after Bishop Mickens.”

  “Mickens signed with Minnesota,” he says.

  “Because you didn't make a play for him,” I reply. “Everybody knows he wants to come play here. This is where he grew up, for fuck's sake.”

  Rick shrugs. “The numbers didn't work out.”

  “That's a pile of bullshit, Rick,” I say. “See, I spent some time with the capologists. I know exactly how much cap room this team has. And how much more it would have if you'd cut the players I told you to cut. With the warchest you're sitting on, you could have signed ten Bishop Mickens. And I don't even want to get into the abomination that is this season's draft class. I mean seriously, Rick –”

  “Look, Brady,” he cuts me off, his tone smug and condescending. “I appreciate your passion and your enthusiasm. I really do. But I have a vision for this organiza –”

  “A vision that hasn't produced a single winning season in the two years you've been in control, Rick,” I say. “And the way this season is starting off, you're probably going to extend that streak.”

  Rick sighs and sets his beer down. A look of pure annoyance crosses his face and he looks like he wants to punch me. Part of me hopes he does – if he punches me, it might give me cause to force him out of the GM's chair.

  “I don't think I need to remind you that I'm the President and General Manager of this organization, Brady.”

  “No, you don't need to remind me, Rick,” I snap. “It's a situation I'm working to correct though. Believe me.”

  “Well, until that actually happens – if that happens,” he says, glaring at me. “I will continue to appreciate your input, but all football related decisions go through me. For all intents and purposes, this is my team and I am going to run it the way I see fit.”

  “Yeah, sticking to your vision,” I spit.

  He nods. “Exactly. Sticking to my vision.”

  “Forgive me for being skeptical,” I sneer. “But your vision hasn't exactly worked out in Buffalo. Or Cleveland. Or Miami. Or New York.”

  Rick's face darkens – he apparently doesn't enjoy having his poor track record as a GM thrown in his face. Good. At the moment, it's the only power I have. As much as it pains me to admit.

  “I think we're done here,” he says. “But just know that I will continue to do what I believe is in the best interest of this organization. And all decisions will continue to go through me – and will continue to do so unless and until you ever assume control of the team.”

  I nod. “Oh, believe me, I will,” I say. “And when I do, the very first thing I'm going to do is fire your ass, Rick. It is going to be one of the greatest days of my life.”

  He gives me a smirk. “Good luck with that, kid,” he says. “It's been a pleasure. As always.”

  He turns and leaves my suite without another word, slamming the door behind him. I know I shouldn't antagonize him the way I do, but I can't seem to help it. I really detest the guy. He's incompetent at his job and refuses to listen – always referring to his sacred plan like it's the Holy Grail or something.

  His plan is trash, plain and simple. And as I watch Rogers give up a touchdown pass to put Atlanta up by three scores, all I can do is shake my head. That will seal this game, giving us a three-game losing streak to start the season.

  “Great plan, Rick,” I shout. “Great vision.”

  Chapter Three

  Amanda

  “Mornin'. What can I get you?” I ask as the woman steps to the counter.

  “Vanilla latte, double shot of espresso, extra foam, extra shot of vanilla,” the woman replies, her tone dismissive and condescending.

  She gives me her order without even bothering to look at me, speaking as if she were speaking to one of her maids or something. And maybe, in her mind, that's all I am. Her perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, carefully applied makeup, not to mention her obviously expensive outfit, make me think she's some wealthy suburban housewife – I've seen enough of them come through here to know the type.

  Which makes the way she speaks to me make sense – the ones I've had the misfortune of dealing with certainly have a terrible sense of entitlement about them. And this one is no different.

  The woman's face is glued to her phone – of course. It looks like she's updating her Facebook – which is one of the many, many things that annoy me about people. Hey, I enjoy my social media accounts as much as anybody – but I never fail to say please, thank you, and to look people in the eye. It's only courteous.

  In general, though, people seem to be so consumed with their social media accounts that they've forgotten things like common courtesy and manners.

  Or maybe I was just r
aised differently. My parents taught me to always be courteous and respectful. If I wasn't, I always got a smack upside the head or some other form of unpleasant punishment, so I learned really quickly.

  Yeah, my folks didn't win a whole lot of parent of the year awards, but at least I learned some manners from them. It's about the only thing I can be grateful to them for.

  “Sure,” I say. “Coming right up.”

  I leave the cashier to ring her up as I make the woman's drink, all the while fuming about her lack of manners. It's stupid. I know I should let it go. It's not going to do me any good to let this woman get under my skin. She really isn't worth it and I have better things to spend my energy on.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out and try to calm myself down as I make the woman her drink. I try to focus on something else – like my upcoming test. I work part time at the coffee house to bring in some cash. It's not a lot, but I make do. I also go to school at the local junior college. I want to get all of my general education classes out of the way, so that when I transfer to a four-year school, I can focus on my major and get myself ready for my career.

  “Excuse me,” the woman snaps, her tone now irritated. “Are you done yet? I'm in a hurry.”

  “In a hurry to go bang your yoga instructor?” I mutter to myself.

  “Excuse me?” the woman asks. “What did you just say?”

  The woman's tone moves from irritated to flat out angry in the blink of an eye and I realize in that moment, that I'd spoken a little louder than I thought. Whoops. I turn to the woman and give her a small smile.

  “I said I'm almost done,” I say, putting on a smile I'm positive looks as phony as it feels. “Just be another moment.”

  The woman's eyes narrow and she stares daggers at me. “That's not what you said.”

  I shrug. “Sure, it is,” I reply. “You probably misheard me because you're staring at your phone so hard.”

  “You are incredibly rude,” she snaps.

  “Not the first time I've heard that.”

  The woman's face darkens with anger and it's all I can do to not laugh in her face – she looks like she's about to burst. I have zero doubt that her staff at home doesn't speak to her the way I'm speaking to her – and on some level know that I shouldn't either. But I can't help myself. She looks like the kind of woman who'd fire somebody for looking at her wrong – or for looking at her at all.