Chuck Harper slid the stat sheets into the last media packet in the pile and let out a long sigh.
Lord knows there are tougher jobs out there, he thought, and plenty of other South Carolina undergrads who would give an arm to take his place in the Sports Information Director's office. But it had been a long day.
Tomorrow, South Carolina would play host to Clemson in the biggest football game in the state. For the first time in forever, both teams were ranked in the Top 10. The sports writers' zoo -- always huge for the Gamecocks-Tigers rivalry -- this year included reporters from Sports Illustrated, The New York Times and The Washington Post.
Chuck sipped a bottle of water and closed his eyes. It wasn't the additional press kits that had worn him out. It was the extra pressure from his boss, Skip Carpenter, to have everything perfect a full day before the media corps began filing into the press box at Williams-Brice Stadium.
Carpenter was grouchy enough on Saturdays when the Cocks had a four-touchdown lead over Bumfuck U. The week before the Clemson game brought out demons that Chuck never knew existed.
Chuck took another sip and sighed again. Thank God, that's over, he thought. Now, bring on the Tigers.
Skip's booming voice burst Chuck's serenity.
"Got a special assignment for you," Skip said. "Come into my office."
So much for serenity, Chuck thought.
He stood up and stretched his lean frame, then walked into Skip's cluttered office.
"Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Don't know if you've ever heard of Robert Cunningham," Skip said. "Hot shot lawyer. Gives a ton of money to the athletics department. He's one of those guys we like to make feel special, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, sir," Chuck said. He knew all too well what that meant.
"Good," Skip said. "Cunningham's throwing a giant tailgate party tomorrow in one of the Cockaboose cars. He ordered some kind of special wine for the deal, but it didn't get to the States until today. It's stuck in a warehouse at the harbor in Charleston. I need you to go get it for him."
"In Charleston?" Chuck asked. "Jesus, Skip, that's two hours away. When does he need it?"
"Well, he can't exactly throw a party without wine," Skip said. "When the hell do you think he needs it? If you don't feel like making the drive tonight, I need you there first thing in the morning -- no later than 8 a.m., when it opens. Be back with the wine by 11 -- and don't be late!"
Chuck suddenly felt even more exhausted than he had before walking into Skip's office.
"Yes, sir," he said wearily.
This was shaping up to be some weekend.
* * *
Chuck's pickup truck sped down I-26 Saturday morning. Despite the week of hell, it felt good to be on the road under a clear November sky. He listened to sports talk radio and thought about the game -- the one he'd be watching soon from a press box seat on the 50-yard line for free.
Yeah, he admitted to himself, there were worse ways to make a buck.
It took about a half an hour to sort through the red tape and details, then load the wine into the back of his truck.
"Alain Jaume Chateauneuf-du-Pape Domaine Grand Veneur Les Origines," he read aloud in a mangled accent. Three cases.
Whatever, Mr. Cunningham, Chuck thought. Think I deserve a bottle myself for all the trouble.
He closed the tailgate and started the Chevy. At least I'm making good time, he thought.
Chuck rolled into the Cockaboose lot at 10:45 a.m. The Cockabooses are a line of 22 railroad cars permanently parked just outside the stadium on a strip of track bought by a developer in the '90s. They're privately owned, but occasionally leased out on game day. Chuck found the Cunninghams' carriage, decked out, of course, in garnet and black. A Hummer was parked nearby.
Subtle, Chuck thought with a smirk.
He parked his truck close to the railroad car, opened the tailgate and pulled out the first case of wine. Then he climbed the steps and walked through the open door.
A graying man in a black sport coat sat near the doorway, talking on a cellphone. He smiled when he saw Chuck's cargo.
"Hold on a sec, Don," he said. "The Chateauneuf! Buddy, I'm glad to see you. Take it all the way to the back, pardner."
The guy resumed his conversation as Chuck made his way down the aisle to the bar at the back of the car. Chuck looked around for someone to offer him more instructions, but the guy who greeted him -- presumably Cunningham -- was busy yakking.
Chuck hefted the case onto the bar, and the glasses above tinkled merrily from the bump.
A plump gorgeous blonde in a low-cut black dress suddenly stood up behind the bar.
"Whoops!" she said. "Oh, sweetie, thank Jesus, you're here. This would have been one miserable afternoon without you!"
Chuck smiled. She looked to be in her early 40s -- blonde hair, long garnet fingernails, nice big boobs jiggling slightly as she cleaned wine glasses and hung them in the overhead rack.
"Um, where do you want this?" he asked.
"Right there's fine," she said. "Is there more?"
"Two more cases," Chuck said.
"Well, thank God, Robert did something right," she responded. "I mean, I love football, but let's be adults here."
She smiled back at Chuck, and he blushed.
She was hot in a rich -- not slutty -- way. Nice legs, ass and cleavage, Chuck thought, but plenty of expensive baubles to put a fence around the property.
Chuck turned around and went back to the truck. Ol' Mrs. Cunningham is pretty easy on the eyes, he thought.
He pulled out the next case and carried it back inside.
"Give me one sec," she said, after he made his way back to the bar. She had stowed most of the bottles from the first case on one of the shelves.
"I think we can stack that one and the other case over here on the floor until we need them," she said.
Chuck carried the wine around the bar and bent down to slide the case into a corner. Mrs. Cunningham gave him another smile as his arm brushed against her legs.
"Excuse me," Chuck said, blushing again.
"That's quite all right, darlin'," she said. "Goodness, baby, you should be out on that football field today. Cocks could use a fine, strong man like you."
Chuck laughed nervously.
"I think they're gonna be all right," he said. "They've sure had a helluva year."
"Yes, they have," she replied. "Do you play ball?"
"I did in high school," he said. "Summerton. Safety on defense. A little bit of tight end my junior year."
"You played for Coach McClinton?" she asked. "My daddy coached football in Spartanburg. Daddy thought the world of Coach Mac."
Robert Cunningham walked up behind Chuck.
"Was it just two cases?" he asked, looking at the wine Chuck had unloaded.
"No, sir," Chuck said. "There's one more on the truck. I'll go get it."
Good lord, he thought. Guy's almost as bad as Skip.
Chuck returned with the final case and walked once more to the back of the train car. Mrs. Cunningham had disappeared.
Damn, Chuck thought. Where'd she go?
He walked around the bar to slide the case next to the other, and there she was, leaning over to look inside a drawer. Chuck took in a glorious view of cleavage and smiled. Mrs. Cunningham had a garnet Gamecock decal on her big left titty.
She caught his smile as she looked up at him.
"Like my show of school spirit, sweetheart?" she said in a soft voice. "You should see the rest of what he's perched on."
They both stood up, and Chuck felt a sudden rush of blood to his face ... and elsewhere. Holy Jesus. Did she really just say --
"I appreciate the help," Mr. Cunningham said from behind Chuck.
Mrs. Cunningham went back to wiping wine glasses, and Chuck looked for a window to jump through.
"C'mon out and let's talk a minute," Cunningham continued.
Oh, shit, Chuck thought. I'm fuckin' dead.
His mind raced, trying to come up with some kind of plausible story, but as they descended the train car steps, Cunningham surprised him even further by pulling out a wallet.
"Here ya go," he said gruffly. Chuck accepted a crisp $50 bill.
"Mr. Cunningham," he stuttered. "You don't have to ... I mean ... thanks!"
Cunningham held onto the bill for a few seconds.
"Now here's the deal," he said. "Game starts at 4 and probably will be over by 7:30 or so at the latest. Skip's gonna be working your tail off, I'm sure.
"My wife and I are headed to Hilton Head tonight as soon as the Cocks win this thing. I need you to do me one more favor. Come back here after you finish and load up the wine we don't drink. This shit's too expensive to leave. If you'll take it to my house sometime tomorrow and leave it in the garage, my sister will give you another $50 when you're done. Deal?"
Holy shit, Chuck thought again. A hundred bucks for something Skip was going to make him do for nothing?
"Deal!" he said enthusiastically.
"Great," said Cunningham. "Now here's an extra key to the train car, and here's my address. Thank you for doing this. Tell Skip to go screw himself."
Chuck and Cunningham shared a laugh. Then Chuck climbed into his pickup and drove over to the stadium.
* * *
Sunday morning rarely looked so gorgeous. Chuck bounced down the steps of his apartment and hummed as he climbed into the truck.
"Forty-two to seven-fuckin-teen!" he said aloud with a smile. "How bout those fuckin Cocks! About the only thing that could top this would be another crisp $50 bill. Oh, wait ... I'm gonna get one of those, too!"
He laughed and turned the key to start the engine.
Then he gunned the truck and headed toward the home of one Robert Cunningham.
* * *
A short while later, he stood on the porch, waiting for Cunningham's sister. The door opened slightly and a woman peered out at him. Chuck's jaw almost hit the ground.
It was the blonde he had met on the Cunninghams' train car Saturday.
"Are you ... I thought ... I mean ..." he stammered. "Where's Mr. Cunningham's sister?"
She laughed and opened the door a little wider. Chuck practically crash-landed at her feet.
She was half-naked -- a pink South Carolina jersey and little else. Bare legs, bare feet and an ankle bracelet. Black toenails to complement her garnet fingernails.
"We never really did introduce ourselves yesterday, did we," she said. "Robert's my brother, and I'm Roxy. Nice to meet you."
She opened the door and Chuck walked into the foyer. The house was huge and immaculate -- hardwood floors, a heavy mahogany secretary, giant plants in Oriental pots.
"So how was the ... um ... tailgating?" Chuck asked.
"God, what a bore," she said. "All those stuffy lobbyists and legislators. I don't think a single one of em knew enough about football to get their jocks on straight. My brother sure can spend a shitload of money for an incredible game that nobody but me wanted to watch."
"Sorry for my ... um ... lack of clothing," she said with a sly smile. "I hardly ever get dressed on football Sundays."
Chuck swallowed and admired Roxy's long naked legs and generous ass. From all the bouncing going on under her jersey, it was clear she didn't care to bother with bras on football Sundays, either.
She led him into the greatroom and casually fell onto a sofa, tits jiggling, legs carelessly spread across the cushions.
A large flat-screen television was airing the Panthers game. A laptop at Roxy's side was open to Stat Tracker -- a program that updated her Fantasy Football team's score in real time.
"Oh, Drew Brees," she said to the computer screen. "What I wouldn't give to show you my gratitude for all the points you've scored for my little ol' Beers and TDs."
Then, looking back at Chuck, she explained, "That's the name of my fantasy team."
"Oh," Chuck said, suddenly unable to string together more than one or two words without tripping over his tongue.
"Have a seat, hon," she said, patting the cushion beside her. "It'll be fun to watch football with someone who really knows the game."
Chuck took the seat beside her. Despite the initial awkwardness of the situation, he was quickly warming up to Roxy's idea of how to spend a Sunday afternoon.
"Now let me ask you something," she said. "You played safety, right?"
"Yeah," he said. "Safety on D and a little bit of tight end my junior year."
Roxy sat up straight, and Chuck couldn't help up but notice her nipples standing at attention under her jersey.
"So how do you like these stacked formations everyone seems to be ogling over?" she asked, innocently.
"Um ..." Chuck felt his face turn red again.
"Or are you one of those plug-the-gap boys?" she continued. "Just look for the hole and smother that motherfucker."
"Yeah," Chuck said, stumbling. "On a safety blitz, I usually just ... um ... hit the hole."
"I'll bet you did," Roxy said softly. "I'll just bet you did."
She slid a little closer to Chuck, pressing her tits against his arm.
"I'll bet you got off in that backfield, didn't you. Just gettin in that kitchen and making it all messy? Lay some wood on some fucker and leave your mark?"
"Are you ... um ..." Chuck stammered. "Are we still talking about ... you know ... football?"
"Well, of course we are, silly," she said. "What else could we be talking about?"
She drew even closer to Chuck and lowered her voice to a near whisper.
"Hey," she purred. "How 'bout those Cocks?"
Whatever misconception Chuck might have clung to about the true nature of their conversation melted like a sliver of ice in a Columbia summer. Roxy closed her smoky blue eyes and parted her lips. Chuck leaned in to kiss her.
She moaned and tackled his tongue with her own. Roxy put a hand on the front of his jeans and felt his dick grow hard in her grasp.
"Oh, baby," she murmured. "I have plans for this."
She unbuckled his belt with a rough jerk, then yanked it out of its loops. The buckle clanged on the floor as she dropped it. Her eyes were piercing his now, never looking at what her hands were doing.
She wrenched open his fly, almost pulling off the button in the process. Then she scratched his meat with her claws, smiling wickedly as he winced.
"Oh, yeah," she said in a low voice. "Now that's what I call a fuck stick."
She pulled up his polo shirt and grazed his chest tenderly with her lips. She could smell his cologne and the musky scent of his worked up cock.
"Baby, baby, baby," she said, her hands now diving into his boxers and fondling his nut sack. She found his left nipple with her teeth and slowly bit down.
"Fuck!" Chuck said, surprised by the pain.
"Oh, we will, sweetheart," she said. "We most certainly will."
Roxy pulled back and smiled. Chuck's cock throbbed uncomfortably, caught in a painful right angle by the cloth of his boxers.
He started to reach down to readjust, but Roxy caught his wrist in her hand.
"I'll take care of it, baby," she said. "You just watch."
She slowly pulled the bottom of the jersey up over her voluptuous body. The giant breasts Chuck had been dreaming about since meeting her spilled into his face. They were fat and a little saggy with big brown areolas. Roxy pulled his head into her chest and sighed. Chuck's hot breath burned her skin.
"You like those big ol' titties?" she asked. "Just wait'll I beat your dick with them."
She slipped a hand between their stomachs and into her own flimsy panties. Chuck could feel her fingers urgently fucking herself as he licked and sucked her big nipples.
Roxy pulled her hand away from her twat and slowly raised her fingers to within a few centimeters of his lips and hers. She breathed in deeply, and Chuck enjoyed the rise and fall of her bare breasts against his chest.
"I love the smell of pussy in the morning," she said. "It smells like ... I'm gonna get fucked."
Then she spread her fingers and noisily sucked one into her mouth. Chuck sucked the other one, greedily slurping her pungent juice. Their tongues met again and tangled.
"Chuck," she said, breathlessly after breaking away. "Would you please lick my pussy?"
He fell to his knees on the floor in front of the couch. Roxy slipped out of her panties, then threw her legs high into the air. Her fingers brushed through a wet, tawny mat of hair before spreading her fat pussy lips. Chuck leered at her pink, gaping fuck hole.
"Come on, baby," she said, panting. "Fucking eat it!"
He dove in -- lips, tongue, nose, face. She had him by the neck, her hungry cunt trying to swallow him whole. Chuck's cock banged into the sofa as he face-fucked her. Roxy was screaming bloody murder.
"Oh, fuckin jezus, yes!" she cried. "Fuck, that feels so fuckin good! Smother that hole, you bastard! Suck my fuckin cunt!"
Her soft pink pussy was warm and delicious. Whenever Chuck pulled away to take a breath, Roxy slowly tugged on her big thick lips and clit, her bright red nails giving him a sloppy wet twat show. A study in scarlet, Chuck thought with a smile.
"See my clit?" she said, lewdly pulling her bud. "That's the little program chip that makes me a slut. Make her happy, Chuck. Please?"
He trained his tongue on her joy buzzer. Roxy wrapped her legs around his back and pulled him closer.
"Oh, god, oh fuck, oh Jesus!" she screamed. "You make her dance so fuckin' good!"
Even with her sweaty thighs clamped tightly around his ears, Chuck could sense her pending orgasm. He shoved two fingers into her hole as his tongue shifted into a higher gear.
For all of the strength and intensity she had shown him in the previous 15 minutes, Roxy suddenly went limp. Her legs felt soft and flaccid as they fell outstretched to the couch. The fast string of vulgar commands gave way to a long, almost melodic wail.
"Oh, god," she said. "God ... god ... god ... that's sooooo fuckin' incredible!"
Chuck ceased the rapid fire tongue lashing and tenderly kissed the inside of her left thigh. Roxy's pussy smelled like a hothouse garden of lust. Chuck's boner practically screamed for relief.
He raised his head, looked at her and smiled.
Roxy's honey blonde tresses splayed luxuriously over the cushions of the couch. She opened her eyes and gave a weak smile to Chuck in return.
"Holy fuck," she said softly. "That was fucking amazing."
She slowly pulled herself up and leaned on an elbow. Her big tits jiggled lazily in the light.
Christ, Chuck thought. Most incredible body ever.
She reached down and raked her nails through Chuck's hair, slick and wet from sweat and her orgasm.
"Poor baby," she said with a chuckle. "Gave you quite a workout, didn't I?"
Chuck grinned and licked his lips. Her juices were tangy and delicious. His meat throbbed again. Good god, he was about to burst.
"I want to suck your dick," she said. "But first you have to fuck my swampy cunt. Something tells me you might be up to the challenge."
Chuck stretched, then pulled off the rest of his clothes. He got to his feet, his cock standing up like a ball bat.
"Oh yeah," Roxy said. "Definitely up to the challenge."
She stood up, too. Chuck hadn't realized how short she was. The top of her head barely reached his chin.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight. There's no feeling quite like the soft billowy glory of a plump woman's generous body, he thought. Roxy felt his raging hard-on practically tap-dancing against her belly.
"What's your pleasure, football boy," she asked. "Here's a hint: I'll go nympho on your ass if you fuck me like a dog."
"That sounds like a game plan," Chuck returned. "Let's hit it, baby."
Roxy turned around and wiggled her big fat ass.
"Think you can find the hole?" she asked with a smile.
She walked around to the back of the couch. Then she leaned forward and placed her right knee on top of the back of the sofa. She grabbed the furniture with both hands and looked back at Chuck.