Super Bowl Gamebyerossmantic©
I discovered it doesn't get bigger for a city than when its football team goes to the super bowl for the first time. I work for a company that services the aeronautical industry in Seattle, which basically means we feed off of Boeing. Our company's northwest division is primarily made up of young engineers in their mid-20s to early 30s, assigned in teams of five to ten, depending on the particular project. Our team of six has been together for a little over a year. Because of the intensity of our work and constant deadlines for each phase of projects, teams either gel fast, figuring out how to work together in the heat of high demands or they crash and burn. Ours has gelled well. We work together like a well-oiled machine.
Much of the reason for our team's success is Carl, our team leader, at the ripe old age of 35. He is a strong competitive quarterback type, committed to our team exceeding the company's every expectation. He also has his sights on a fast path to being division leader and eventually to the upper echelons of the company, at the very least securing the prestige, income and benefits of a VP office. Carl's intentionality in life is also seen in his physique. He is 6'2", with brown hair, steely brown eyes and appears chiseled from head to toe, although the nature of our work doesn't allow us to see what's under the stylish dapper clothing he wears.
In addition to Carl's detailed attention to deadlines and meeting benchmarks, he has a thing for creating side challenges that sharpen us as a team. He constantly throws out parallel colloquialisms comparing us to the Seattle Seahawks like: "Russell Wilson doesn't win games by himself," or "the best offense is a good defense," or "you're only in if you are all in." It annoys the hell out of me. I am a Broncos fan, transplanted to the Pacific Northwest.
Pete, Jim and Brad are the three other men on our team. They are all gifted fun-loving engineers in their late 20s. Pete is a 6'5" black former college football player from Oregon who secures immediate attention when he walks in a room by his muscular size, and then keeps it by his broad smile and warmth. Jim is tall and handsome from the gorgeous mixture of parent's ethnic backgrounds. His father emigrated from India to go to school and grab his own piece of the American dream. While in college, he also found a way to grab a stunning piece of Norwegian-American coed ass, got married and together produced intelligent beautiful children. Brad rounds out the three as a 28 year-old good ole boy who left the dairy farms of Central Washington where he grew up, to become an engineer and carve a different life for himself in the big city. His days growing up on the farm gave him a natural strength and tireless work ethic from the day-in day-out responsibilities. It also gives him an attractive downhome charm.
Other than me, Serena is the only other female on our team. She grew up in the punk culture of urban Seattle, enjoying the early music influences of Kurt Cobain's Nirvana and other culture-shaping bands of the Pacific Northwest. The 5'6" stunner is pale white, modestly endowed, with blue eyes and black hair accented with a rebellious nose-pierce and a dyed pink stripe in her hair. She is one of the most creative people I've ever met, illustrated by her choices in avant-garde fashion. For Serena, the more anything is outside conventional norms, the better. The best I can tell, the same applies to her sexual recreation.
My name is Sandy. I am a five-eight brunette with hazel eyes, and olive skin. Humbly speaking, my attractive face with my 36D tits, small firm ass and long legs easily garner the attention of men and women in professional and social settings. I am athletic, fit, and have been an intensely competitive sports fan all my life. Growing up on the front range of Colorado, this means I am a rabid Denver Broncos fan. One of my dreams growing up was to become a Broncos cheerleader, a dream unfortunately prevented by my professional career that relocated me to Seattle. I have no doubt I would have made it if I auditioned.
The most annoying two weeks of my life were the 14 days after the AFC and NFC championship games that determined the Denver Broncos would be playing the Seattle Seahawks in New York for the Super Bowl. Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled my boys in orange and blue finally made it back to the super bowl with the indomitable football magic of Manning and company. The drought in Denver had been too long. The feeble attempts of coaching and quarterbacks that followed the Elway years were painful. The post-season loss the year before was brutal. This year was different. The record-breaking offensive season had been orgasmic. Now the Denver Broncos (with the unmatched experience and precision of Peyton Manning) were up against the inexperienced inconsistent Seahawk offensive, with all due respect to their impressive defense. However, their defense had never met the supremacy of our regular-season offense. Everyone knew the Broncos not only deserved to win, but would handily take the championship, finally returning the Lombardi trophy to the mile high city. I certainly did, and was willing to bet everything on it -- and did. The only ones delusional enough to think the Seahawks had any chance of winning were those in the Pacific Northwest. They were too close and delirious to be objective, blinded by their team's first trip to the big dance. My competitive fire and lifelong passion for the Broncos combined to answer every pro-Seahawk comment with an equal or greater Bronco comeback. I was exasperatingly determined to let them know in Seattle that a formidable representative of Broncos country was in town.
Part of me felt badly that some of my colleagues were wagering serious money on the game for the Seahawks to win, guaranteed to lose it all. That was until their incessant smack talk the first few days after the playoffs made me want to bet them myself, all-too-easily taking their money as if it were another year-end bonus after the certain Broncos win. My competitive anger boiled from the daily rants by the other five on my team ganging up against my bold unapologetic Bronco fanaticism. They enjoyed playing pranks on me like changing my computer desktop to pictures of Wilson and Sherman, or replacing my Broncos posters and memorabilia with Seahawk décor. It was easy to take it in stride, throwing their weak attempts to intimidate me back in their faces. For all the ranting of the Seahawks and their fans (especially Sherman) before the game, the Broncos would do their talking on the field. The famous record-breaking decibel noise of the Seahawks would go deafening silent when met by the record-breaking Bronco magic. What made it worse, there was nowhere I could go during those two weeks in Seattle without being inundated in florescent green. Walls were green, streets were green, pizza was green, eggs were green, even the famous Seattle coffee was green. I wanted to puke green. I proudly risked my life wearing my orange and blue, like a soldier behind enemy lines. The game couldn't come fast enough; time during those weeks moved like molasses.
At work, our team worked feverishly the Friday before the Super Bowl to meet a Monday morning deadline for the project. Delays of crucial information from the home office held us back, making it impossible to get everything done.
"We finish this Sunday morning," Carl announced. "Every one is in," he said.
"That's the Super Bowl!" Pete complained, realizing there would be no choice.
"Super Bowl doesn't start until later," Carl said. "If we get in first thing, we will be done by game time. We can all go to my place around the corner and watch the game there. The only condition is no orange and blue allowed," he chided.
"With all due respect, fuck you," I sparred. "Just like the Hawks, all you guys are going to see is orange and blue." Everyone laughed at the good-natured humor.
We all dutifully arrived early Sunday morning and worked hard through lunch. We were done by 3:00, finishing everything for the next day's deadline. We were all spent, but excited that game time had finally arrived - no one more than me.
Carl lived alone in a spacious downtown townhouse, although his rugged looks, downtown business connections and early signs of wealth meant he rarely slept alone. The main level of the townhouse sprawled with a plush couches, chairs and a glass table in the middle, all arranged to stare at the massive wall-size HD television centered on the wall. An empty dining room table sat at the edge of the room next to a large window overlooking the city. We got there fifteen minutes before the game started. Carl called the caterer to let them know he was ready for the food to be delivered. I was famished. Carl pointed us to the refrigerator filled with beers, and to the counter with a variety of other hard beverage choices, including an assortment of Absolut flavored vodkas. I enjoyed the irony of seeing a twelve-pack of Blue Moon among the assortment of beers, a fine Colorado beer. I took the beer, popped the cap and took a swig as a sign of good things to come.
The four men in their green and blue jerseys and blue jeans surrounded me. Even Serena got into the spirit wearing a Hawks t-shirt, tied in back with a knot in a way that exposed her studded navel in front and a blue skirt with green tennis shoes. She had separate blue and green ribbons in her hair, tied up to create two tall pigtails.
"I need to get dressed for the game," I said, prepared not to be outdone. I changed into my favorite bright orange skin-tight Denver Broncos sports bra with the number 18 emblazoned on the front with a matching short orange and blue striped skirt and blue ankle boots. There was no doubt this was my Super Bowl victory outfit. There was no way for them to know I even had it down to my lucky official NFL Broncos thong underneath that my old boyfriend used to love me to wear on game days. It didn't take me long to realize it was my lucky game day thong for more than one reason.
"Holy shit!" Jim said when I walked out dressed for the game. It was probably the most revealing anyone had ever seen me dressed. It wasn't exactly work attire, but in my mind, perfectly appropriate for game day. As far as I was concerned, I was here to represent my team, and to do it in the best way possible.
"Get ready for an all-American Colorado-style ass-kicking gentlemen," I boasted with my bottle raised while some opera chick was singing her heart out with the national anthem.
I could see that my Broncos attire caught the attention and arousal from the four men, based on the undeniable movement in their pants. It looked like I may have even had it from Serena. I finished my first beer and reached for a second, keeping pace with the other five.
"Bull shit," Brad said, "although dressed like that, I could become a believer."
I blushed. "You'll all be believers by the time the game is over," I said arrogantly.
"A little wager on that?" Pete offered. We were all beginning to feel the initial benefits of the beer on empty stomachs.
"You bet," I said. "What are you willing to lose?"
"Every time the Broncos score, the five of us have to take a shot of vodka," Carl said. "And every time the Seahawks score, you have to take a shot of vodka."
"That's easy," I said. "You're on."
"That's a pussy bet," Serena said.
"You have another idea?" Jim said.
"Every time the other team scores, you take a shot of vodka, remove one piece of clothing and serve the other side by getting or doing whatever they ask -- more snacks, more drinks -- until the next score," she answered.
"Fuck, that's serious," Pete said, suddenly feeling bashful.
"I don't know," Brad chimed in agreement.
"Fine," Serena said. "We can play your pussy high school bet."
"I'm in," I said confidently, half without thinking about it, feeling less inhibited from the two beers on an empty stomach. My competitive fire was burning hot after being taunted by these five the last two weeks, and dishing it back. I had complete trust in my team. Their lack of confidence was suddenly showing when there was something risky at stake. "If I were you, I'd back out too," I said with a cocky smile. "Our offense would have all you stripped in no time, and then there is no telling what I might have you do," I said more seductively than I should.
A thick tension filled the room from my challenge, as we all watched Joe Namath in a princess coat tossing the custom made game coin in the air.
Carl's new appreciation for my physique found the challenge too enticing to pass up. "I'm in, and if we're in, we're all in," he said, signifying a double entendre. If the bet were on, it meant everyone in the room was committed. No spectators. It also meant everyone would be "all in" to the end of the game. There is no option to back out once the game begins.
Carl knew he already had Serena committed; the extreme bet was her idea. He looked over to the other three men. They each studied one another's faces.
"Once the game starts, the bet is off," I said, still confident, but having a tinge enough of nerves that would make me OK to just watch the game with shots of vodka at stake.
That's all they needed to push them over the edge. The thought of dealing with the certain ribbing that would follow them in the months to come from backing down when the stakes were high prodded their competitive pride. "I'm in," the three said in unison.
"OK," Carl said. "The bet is on. Any score counts, except for an extra point. Two point conversions count as a second scoring after a touchdown." We all agreed to the simple rules.
My stomach fluttered at the thought that the rest of the evening would be framed by the unfolding bet with every score. Even in the best-case scenario of Manning scoring quickly and often as I hoped, I would find myself in a room of my five colleagues, including my boss, stripped naked and serving me game time refreshments. Unless this game is scoreless, everything at work was about to change. I took some comfort that the Broncos would start with the ball. I couldn't think of a better way to start the bet, than watching Peyton take his time driving the ball down the field to be the first to score.
"Come on Peyton," I said as the whistle blew to start the game.
No sooner had the ball been hiked from the first snap did the room erupt in shouts of shock, awe, cheers and my gasp in disbelief. An errant shotgun snap by Manny Ramirez thinking Manning had called for it, when he was instead calling one of his famous audibles at the line, sent the ball flying over Manning's head into the end zone. Moreno dove to recover the fumble, scoring a Seahawks safety only 12 seconds into the game.
"Oh shit!" I yelled. "That's never happened. What the fuck!" I yelled.
The four men, and Serena all laughed at the unimaginable blunder on the first play of the super bowl, and what it would cost me.
"Yes!" Pete said with deep satisfaction, looking at me. "It looks like we have our first score," he said. He got up and brought the flavored vodka and shot glasses to the table in front of the couch. I could tell the team felt some pity for me, having to pay up on the bet less than a minute after the agreement had been sealed. But it was also clear they felt far more reveling than pity. I poured the drink and threw the shot back. The elixir poured down my throat, warming it all the way down. With still only two beers in my system, it didn't take long for my mind to feel the first tingle. I was ready for the food to arrive.
"I say you lose your top first," Pete said, eager for the show to start.
I reached down and untied my boots, kicking them off under the table.
"That's not fair," Jim said. "We should get to pick."
"That little rule wasn't established before the game," I said. "I'll pick what I take off," I said in a firm tone that wasn't interested in debate. "It's a minor set back, Peyton won't let that stand," I said still confident and covered. I took orders for more beer, delivering them barefooted to each of the five. That was about all I had time for.
The room with baited breath as the Seahawks drove down the field for 51 yards in nine plays. They pushed and pushed, desperate to score a touchdown. The good news is the Broncos were able to hold them to a field goal. The bad news is a field goal is another Seahawk score.
"Shit!" I said, suddenly feeling little consolation that the Bronco's defense held them to a field goal.
"Fuck yes," Brad said. Carl watched with quiet satisfaction. Things were about to get very revealing with his sexiest employee. Serena smiled at the early success of her "team building" game idea. Brad took the liberty to pour my second drink, making sure it was filled to the top.
I threw the drink back. The room watched and waited with suspense for what I would do next, or more accurately, what I would take off next. If I took off my sports bra, I would be completely bared on top. If I took off my skirt, my tiny thong would do nothing to cover anything important. My head started to buzz with a dizzying hum from the vodka. I was feeling tipsy much faster than usual. Where is that damn food? Of course, there had never been a day with greater demand for food deliveries. For all I knew, it wouldn't arrive until the fourth quarter. The suspense grew. I reached under my skirt and pulled my thong down, barely preserving my modesty, at least for the moment.
Moans echoed across the room.
"Shit, you're driving us crazy," Jim said.
"She's got nothing left," Pete answered. "Something's coming off with the next score."
"This game is turning around here," I said, my words a little slurred. "Peyton never allows this. Come on!" I yelled at the television with a mixture of frustration and loyal confidence.
The next ten minutes of the first quarter, the five enjoyed calling out requests for my drink service as if a cocktail waitress. They kept trying to find creative ways to get me to bend over, exposing what lied bare beneath my short skirt. Their pride-filled laughter and taunting words tormented me. I watched as Peyton tried to advance down the field, but kept getting stopped by the infamous Seattle defense. Shit!
Finally Russell Wilson and the Seahawk offense had their turn. With a painstaking 58 yards in 13 plays, the Seahawks found themselves again at a fourth down in field goal range. Hauschka easily kicked the 33 yard three pointer to put Seattle up a measly 8 to nothing after three scores. Nevertheless, it was a third unanswered score in the first quarter.
I found myself glad for the third shot of vodka to ease my inhibitions. "Shit!" I repeated, genuinely feeling the room moving around me. My feet stumbled as I tried to stand still. Without fanfare I dutifully reached down to the bottom of my sports bra and pulled it up over my head. My firm large tits bounced in front of the mesmerized five pairs of eyes. They all stared as if they had never seen anything more beautiful. I was certain they hadn't. They were shocked I willingly stood stripped of all but my tiny skirt in front of them. Ten hands wanted desperately to feel my smooth gorgeous breasts.
The doorbell rang. My five colleagues all looked at each other realizing the food had arrived, and I was standing there in a compromised condition. After a quick whispering consultation, Carl instructed me to answer the door and let the food delivery guy in.
I reached for my top to cover myself.
All five voices of my colleagues suddenly yelled, "No, no!" with laughter. Serena took it from my hands. "That belongs to us now," she said with a smirk.
"You want me to answer the door like this?" I asked, fully knowing the humiliating answer. "No way," I said in protest.