The MVP vs Big D
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - What happens when an avowed Suns fan, recently transplanted from Phoenix, goes up against a die-hard Dallas Mavericks fan? A bet, of course! In the tradition of "Curse Of The Bambino" and "Two Minute Penalties" comes another "real time" story, based around the Western Conference Finals. As in those stories, this one will last as long as the real-life series. Each part (hopefully) posted before the next game.
I couldn't stand it anymore. I'd been sitting there, fairly patiently considering the "heresy" spewing from this woman's mouth, waiting for her to run out of steam, but she just kept going, and going, and going. Apparently this woman, whose name I hadn't caught, although I'd heard just about everything else she'd had to say over the last thirty minutes, had previously lived in Phoenix and was a big fan of the Suns.
To say that she had no real affection for the hometown Mavericks was an understatement. Pure, unadulterated loathing might be close, but even then it wouldn't encompass the complete disdain she felt for Dallas. Frankly, her arguments were falling on deaf ears in this bar!
"You don't understand," she slurred. "Two years ago was your best chance to win. I should know, you know... I used to watch all the games on the television. But after you let Nash go... well, that was it." She hiccuped a boozy belch and looked ready to pass out. "I can't believe Mark Cuban was stupid enough to not sign him! In addition to being a two-time MVP, he has a great ass. I bet he's fabulous in bed."
As I said, I'd had enough of her taunting and finally stood and walked over to her bar stool.
"Miss," I said, trying to get her attention. The woman looked up at me, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Hey, you're kind of cute," she giggled. "What can I do for you?"
"You could shut the fuck up," I said. I was encouraged by the murmurs of agreement I heard from the rest of the bar's patrons.
"Well, fuck you, too," she said loudly. "Isn't this a free country? Isn't a girl allowed to voice her opinion anymore?" Another burp, followed by what looked like a bit of vomit and the woman finally shut up.
"Sure you can," I said. "Just don't use up all your hot air bashing the Mavericks, you hear?"
"I'll say what I want," she said.
"Your decision," I agreed. "I just think it's a waste of time."
"Yeah. Just wait until the first game. You'll see... Phoenix has no chance."
"Yeah, right." The woman actually snorted, although that might have been on account of the foam in her beer. "You don't even believe that."
"The hell I don't! Dallas is more physical, has a deeper bench, and in case you hadn't noticed, had a better record than the Suns."
"Yeah, but you don't have Steve Nash."
"And you don't have Dirk Nowitzki."
"As if that will be enough." She looked around the bar for support, apparently forgetting she was in Dallas, of all places. There was no support coming from this crowd.
"Trust me... Dirk will be more than enough against you guys. Not that I'm predicting a sweep, you understand, but this series should be over in six games, which should give Dallas more than enough time to rest up for the NBA finals."
"Wanna bet on that?"
Bet? Did I want to? Of course I did. I was confident. After all, the Mavericks had just defeated the defending NBA champion Spurs, on the road in San Antonio, in seven games. Before that we had swept the hapless Grizzlies in four games. What had Phoenix done so far? Barely got out of a first round series against a weak Lakers team and then went seven against the other Los Angeles team.
"I'm sorry, honey," I said. "If you can't demolish the Clippers, you don't belong in the conference finals. Bet? Hell yeah! What are we betting?" At my response the woman's eyes lit up and for a moment she looked almost lucid. But just for a moment.
"We're betting each other," she said. "Yeah... you're kind of cute. If... no, when the Suns beat up on your pathetic excuse for a basketball team, you get to be my personal slave."
I heard a couple of guys sitting nearby give a chortle at that.
"I'm serious," the woman continued after giving the men her best glare. "You can come over to my place and wash the carpets... you can empty out my refrigerator and straighten out my garage." Then her voice lowered. "And if you're a really good boy, I might even let you lick my pussy."
At that, there was a definite sound of amusement from the peanut gallery. I gave them my own glare - the woman was obviously drunk off her ass, so none of this would mean anything the next morning anyway - then turned back to the woman.
"Just for the sake of argument... when you're wrong and the Mavericks win the series... what then? What do I win?"
The woman thought for a moment. "Like I said, you get me."
"Yeah, well... I have hardwood floors - not carpets, I always eat out and I park on the street. What are you going to do for me?"
The woman, and at this point I have to say that aside from the complete bender she was on, was pretty cute, thought about it and shrugged. "Well, since Phoenix is going to kick your asses, it's a pretty safe bet, I suppose," she said. "You can do whatever the hell you want to."
At this there was a small roar of approval. I realized our conversation had become the focal point of the bar when a couple guys I'd never met tried to give me a high five. I shrugged them off and turned back to the woman.
"You're kind of cute, yourself," I admitted, much to the woman's delight. "In fact, at least one of your "punishments" doesn't sound too bad." At this, the woman blushed a little. "But... how do I know you won't welsh on the deal? When you lose?"
"I'm not a welsher," the woman protested, while a few of the men hooted at her discomfort. She turned and gave them the finger before turning back to me. "And Dallas is going to lose."
"You keep saying that, and I guess we'll just have to wait and see. But my question still stands.How do we know you won't chicken out? Everyone in this bar knows me. Who are you?"
The woman, almost pink with anger, reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She yanked it open and after a moment pulled out a business card and her driver's license. I looked at the driver's license quickly, just to verify that it was her. Unlike most, this was actually a good photo, and I imagine that when she wasn't completely plastered, the picture even resembled her.
It was the business card, however, that caught my attention:
Assistant District Attorney
Interesting, I thought. I handed the driver's license back but kept the business card.
"So, I suppose you're not going to be sneaking back to Phoenix anytime soon," I admitted.
"And how do I know you won't find another bar?" she asked haughtily, or at least as arrogantly as someone who's having difficulty standing upright can be.
It was time for my own reveal and I reached into the inner pocket of my suit coat and pulled out my wallet.
"Here you go," I said. I handed her my own business card and watched for her reaction.
"Bastard," she said with a gleam in her eye when she was able to understand what was on my card.
"Guilty as charged," I said with a smirk. "Although it seems kind of funny that I haven't run into you yet."
"Shit," Sandra mumbled, suddenly more sober than she'd been in an hour. "I just started yesterday."
"Well, I guess that gives you tomorrow to start preparing for humiliation," I said. "On the court and in court," I added, then laughed as Sandra searched for, but couldn't find, a comeback.
"Bastard," she said again.
"Or maybe you could put in for a transfer. Say... to Detroit or Miami?" I just laughed. This was going to be fun.
The next day - Wednesday, the day of game one of the series - I was scheduled to be in court, so I made it a point to get there early, just to scout out my betting partner. Assuming she remembered the evening before, that is.
As it turned out, she remembered, and thankfully there were only a few courthouse staffers roaming the hallway when the two of us ran into each other.
"Mark!" I heard as I turned down the hall. I looked over my shoulder and saw Sandra Thomas, assistant district attorney, stalking me from behind. I stopped and waited while she caught up. The pissed-off look on her face left no doubt... she remembered our bet.
"Sandra," I said with a smile. "What can I do for you?" I think my grin threw her off momentarily, but soon she was back on the defensive.
"What the hell did you do to me last night?" she asked loudly.
"Yes, you!" Sandra, while not exactly shouting, was definitely too loud for the quiet morning crowd. I glanced over and saw a janitor look up in concern. I tried to wave him off with another smile, but he still looked overly concerned so I took Sandra by the elbow and guided her into one of the chairs in the waiting area.
"Well?" she asked. "What happened last night?"
"You don't remember?" So this is how she gets out of the bet. I figured something like this would happen.
"I remember going to the bar, and having a couple of beers, and..."
"... And taunting everyone in the bar about how the Suns were going to kick the Mavericks' ass up and down the court. Sound familiar?"
"Oh, God. Did I?"
I laughed. "That and more."
"You don't remember our bet?"
At this Sandra got a little pale. "Bet?" she asked in a soft voice.
I explained to her what had gone on. She took it well, considering that from her point of view, an almost complete stranger was basically telling her she had put her body on the line, and all over a basketball playoff series.
"But I suppose if you don't want to..." I started. "I mean, it isn't really fair for you, if you... I mean, you'd definitely had a lot to drink, so..."
"No." Sandra cut me off with a wave of her hand. "No, this is definitely something I'd do," she said. "Drunk or not."
"So, you're saying... ?"
"Oh, the bet's on. The bet's definitely on. It's just..."
"God, I've got a huge headache. I hope I don't run into you in court this morning!"
Fortunately for Sandra, the two of us didn't run into each other. In fact, the lawyer's life is hardly spent in front of a judge. No, most of the time, especially in a busy office, an attorney will spend most of the day talking with clients, or in the case of a prosecuting attorney like Sandra, writing up recommendations for the judge. Plea bargains are the way of the world in our legal system... the TV shows, while entertaining, certainly have that wrong.
So I didn't see Sandra again until just after lunch. She poked her head into my tiny office, looked around and laughed.
"What?" I asked, a little annoyed at this point. Not at Sandra, but I'd had a "repeat client," the worst kind, flake out on me. "I'm innocent," he'd said, and when I'd tried to convince him a judge might not see it that way - because the fact of the matter was that he was guilty as hell and everyone knew it - he freaked out and demanded a new lawyer. No one in the public defender's office wanted the case - I certainly didn't - but he made enough of a stink that a friend down the hall finally took him off my hands. It hadn't made me Mr. Popular around the office, and Sandra's sudden appearance and immediate laughter didn't help.
"Sorry," she said, a bit taken aback by my surliness.
"No, I'm sorry," I said. I rubbed my fingers over my temples, trying to get rid of a nagging headache I'd had most of the day. "I'm having a bad day. What was so funny?"
"Oh, I was just glad to see that your accommodations were as luxurious and extravagant as mine are."
"Ha ha." The "accommodations," such as they were, didn't amount to much. But such is the life of a public defender. And, apparently, an assistant district attorney. "But seriously, why'd you drop by?" I was hoping she hadn't looked ahead at the docket and seen that we were scheduled at the same time. It would have been too weird.
"I was just wondering how this was going to work," she said. "Our bet, I mean."
"Yes, that." She looked peeved. What had I said? "You're taking this seriously, aren't you?"
"Of course I am." Actually, after my troublesome client had stormed out of my office, I have to admit I'd done a fair bit of imagining Sandra naked... cleaning my sofa, washing my blinds... all kinds of utterly depraved domesticity. Not that I'd tell her that, of course. "In fact, I've been thinking of all kinds of punishments I'll enjoy seeing you suffer through."
"Fat chance," Sandra huffed. Then she seemed to get a grip on her emotions. "No, I just came in to see if you'd like to watch the game with me."
"I don't think your boss and my boss would appreciate us going out on a date," I said, a bit bemused.
"Fine, then," Sandra growled. She seemed to be about ready to go off on another tantrum when I raised my hands in surrender.
"I'm just kidding," I said. "I think it would be fun..."
"What was that?" Sandra hadn't heard the end of the sentence, which I had intentionally spoken very quietly.
"What did you say?"
I grinned and went for it. "I said, I think it would be fun... to watch you vacuum my apartment in the nude."
"Ha!" Far from being offended, Sandra seemed up to the challenge. "No chance of that happening, even if the Mavericks do have home court for the first two games."
"I know, you're cocky, and I like that. It'll make it that much better when you realize how wrong you are."
"Fat chance," Sandra said. She glanced at her watch. "Oops. Gotta go. So... my place?"
"Your place," I agreed. I cut off Sandra as she started to give me directions. "I'm sure I can find someone in the building who knows where you live. Now go... don't want to piss off the judge."
"Thanks," Sandra said and hurried out of my office. I have to say I'm guilty of watching her ass the entire time.
As I said... this was going to be fun.