The Lady Is a Champ!
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Coercion, Sports, BDSM, DomSub, MaleDom, Spanking, Rough, Humiliation, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Water Sports, Exhibitionism, Slow,
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Sparks fly when the youngest General Manager in professional football meets the new even younger and even more ambitious executive of an arch rival team. All is fair they say in love and war… but perhaps not in professional football! A romantic story of ambition - and firm but loving revenge and submission!
When folks in the sports media run their regular stories about the current generation of young genius wonder kids that now seemingly run professional sports, two names constantly appear; mine, and Marguerit "Margot" Millet. At the time I was hired I was the youngest General Manager of a professional football team in the modern era, hired at the ripe old age of twenty-seven and a few years later I'm still the kid of the group, younger by far than all of my peers. Margot, on the other hand, became the Vice President of Operations for her football club, an arch-rival of mine, at the same young age, but she had a slight advantage that wasn't available to the rest of us — her grandfather owned the team.
Right from the start, the two of us seemed to be fated to have our paths repeatedly cross, and not always in a good way.
I didn't set out to become the youngest executive in the history of professional football. I would have been quite happy becoming an electrical engineer, as I had planned. Instead, I had to go show off how smart I was by nearly winning a Fantasy Football contest that was hosted by our local newspaper, while I was still in high school. I came in third, but the fact that I was only sixteen caught some attention.
No one thought too much about it though until I did it all over again the very next season, this time winning the contest beating twenty thousand other contestants. The $2000 grand prize was pretty nice, but the offer of an unpaid job as a summer intern for my home town San Francisco team was even better.
It was actually quite humorous at first. I was far too precocious and prone to correcting my betters at nearly every opportunity. I think they fired me at least four different times the first month alone but someone in the organization would call me the next day to tell me to come back to work. Apparently I was far too interesting and amusing in the front office and things were too dull without me for long. During my four years of college I again spent my summers as an unpaid intern, and I was being increasingly fascinated with the management aspects of the sport.
I made it through college with my electrical engineering degree in hand and I was actually hunting for a real job when the Director of Scouting for the club called me into his office and actually offered me a real paying job with the club. I would become an assistant to his assistant with no authority to make any kind of decisions and a pittance of a salary that would just barely keep me in my tiny studio apartment, assuming I could do without any other unnecessary expenses like eating or bus fare. I wouldn't actually have to do very much travel to watch games or evaluate players, but he wanted a geeky whiz kid to take all of the huge stacks of scouting report folders (tens of thousands of them) and cram them into a computer somehow so that they would make some sort of sense.
I'd run my loud mouth off about this topic at least a thousand times and now it was going to be put up or shut up time, but I was sure that it could be done.
They still did things the old-fashioned way (most clubs still do) and scouting talent was very much a subjective eyeball sort of business done by grizzly old veteran former players that had performed their last chop-block over twenty years ago and now constantly bemoaned the lack of talent/work ethic/savage brutality they saw in the modern era of players. They wrote long scouting reports on obscure players that nearly no one else ever heard of or saw, and then they watched miles of high school and college film to triage out the twenty to fifty best players and pretty much marginalized the rest into a fairly even midden heap. Late round talent drafting in our organization was pretty spotty as most of the coaching staff just barely even knew the names, let alone their strengths and weaknesses of most of these lower picks. My job was to improve this somewhat.
Right about that time, "Moneyball" was just entering the vocabulary of the sporting world. Although created mostly for baseball, this mathematical philosophy incorporated the idea that computers and the applied focused use of statistical data could glean out better players from other more flashy players. Even in baseball, a very heavy statistically oriented sport where nearly everything can be turned into a number, most club GM's preferred to see what the wizened eyes of their scouts saw, rather than what a computer said. This is still mostly true today, especially in football.
My job was to take years of scouting material and put it into a format that the Scouting Director and the coaches could at least utilize to some degree. It took me about two years to get it all done, and then another year to tweak it until I could be confident of my results, but in the end I found a way to obtain some fairly useful projections for how young players would develop and mature, if drafted for our team. In theory, given a choice of a hundred virtually identical marginal players, I could select the top ones that had the best potential for growth and become future contributors to our team.
Of course it wasn't a perfect system. It still isn't perfect years later and never will be ... but it provided a slight 'edge', that little 'Moneyball' edge that let us enjoy greater success drafting our late round players and selecting the better veteran Free Agent players that still had the skills to perform for us.
In just a few years we went from a laughing stock franchise to a deep talented team that was now ready to go deep into the playoffs. I received several nice fat bonuses and even a promotion to Assistant General Manager at the tender age of twenty-five, but already I was becoming slightly bored. My chances of further promotion here were about nil, since my boss the GM was an old college friend of the relatively young owners. They were also a fairly wild group, prone to rather exotic partying in the wild sexually permissive city of San Francisco. I was fine with that and had no problems with the fact that nearly all of my bosses were all wild swingers ... but I just didn't go around partying with them ... much. I wasn't really a stuffed shirt, but neither was I much into banging a girl at a party whose name I didn't even know.
My tastes in women run to a cross between 'the girl-next-door' look mixed with that of the naughty librarian. You don't meet a lot of those sorts of girls at either football games or the city's infamous Erotic Balls, or at least I hadn't so far.
Upon further review, ok I was close to be being a stuffed shirt! Too many hours playing with my player database and evaluation algorithms and not nearly enough time getting laid. My ideas about love and sex were a bit too old fashioned and I was focused upon dating and looking for Ms. Right rather than just getting my rocks off with the bimbos or the professional submissives at our rather strange company parties. I'll explain that a little better later on.
Then one day, completely out of the blue, I received an offer to become the General Manager for the hapless Texas Toro's, a relatively new expansion team playing in Houston that had an appalling record for organizational ineptitude and was a textbook example to other football executives on how to do nearly everything wrong. In four seasons, their best record yet was a miserable 4-12.
I interviewed for the job, but I didn't think I had a prayer of getting it. The owner of the Toros was insanely rich but equally notoriously meddlesome, and was constantly overruling the club's management and coaching staff. There were even rumors that he had personally selected each of their previous top first round draft picks in past seasons. That would explain much about why each of those four picks had pretty much failed. Selected much too high in my opinion for 'signability' reasons (i.e. they'd sign a cheaper contract) and then pushed much too hard in their development to become stars for the franchise, but then they'd fail miserably and end up pretty much discarded to the ends of the bench.
"What are the first three things you would do on your first day, if you were given the GM job?" The owner asked me the very first thing at our alarmingly short meeting. Since I figured I had no chance to actually get the job, I told him the unvarnished truth.
"First, I would hire a group of professional mercenaries to kidnap you and lock you away on your ranch to play with your horses and not the day-to-day running of this franchise. I'd give orders that your phone calls are to be blocked as well. You can have supervised visitation into this building on alternate Fridays during the off-season, plus one executive board meeting per month. During the season on game day your cell phone be confiscated and the direct line from your box suite to the coaching staff will permanently disconnected. And then for good measure, a large former Navy SEAL named Rocko is going to remain standing behind your seat to make sure you don't try to send semaphore signals to the coaches."
"Secondly, I demand - not just want, to have the last and final word on scouting, draft picks and player development. Our new Head Coach and Director of Player Development, after I have hired them, may provide input, but I will have the final word."
"Lastly, this franchise is in a mess and there are no quick fixes to patch it up fast and get us off to playoff glory this coming season or even next. Heads around here are going to roll; lots of them. Every single player, coach and operations staff member is going to be evaluated and a bunch of them are going to be out on the street looking for jobs. In fact, my goal for our first draft pick, the #1 pick in the draft overall, will be to trade it off for as many other draft picks as possible, to start the rebuilding the club from scratch with new talent that wants to win."
"Give me four years to rebuild this team from the bottom up — without interference, even if we go 0-16, winless the entire time for each of the first three seasons. I can and will build you a winner, but it will not happen overnight!
The owner was stunned into speechless near catatonia and that pretty much finished up the interview and I flew back to San Francisco convinced that I had no chance for the job whatsoever. Instead, I found a phone message waiting for me from the owner asking me to return so that a four year contract offer could be made. Apparently no one had ever talked to him the way I had just done in his entire life ... and he found it interesting and quite refreshing!
At the ripe age of twenty-seven I now had one of the top thirty-two jobs in professional football. The owner was willing to back off and give me full carte blanche over everything, even offering a penalty clause in my contract if my decisions were ever overruled by him. They never were. We actually got along wonderfully right from the very start and he had my back 100 percent every time I had a problem or I needed him to write a fat check for a key free-agent player signing.
With my skinny ass now in that big fat executive leather chair in my fancy corner office, I copied my player evaluation program into my nice new company laptop and started to get down to business. I fired a lot of people, starting with most of my upper staff on downwards and I spent the next three weeks interviewing all of the eager 'Young Turks' I knew of that shared my interest in sports sabermetrics until I had an aggressive young crew willing (and hopefully able) to do my bidding. I had to have geek statistical analysts that I could trust since I was going to now be way too busy to maintain and update my computer databases ... and I found them.
Finding a new Head Coach was almost the simplest part. I wanted an older coach with a reputation for being both a 'teacher' and a strict disciplinarian. Years of constant losing had given our existing roster of players some rather bad habits that needed to be shed. Some players could learn, but many others wouldn't. I found a crusty 'old school' coach with a loud voice that would peal paint, but was peerless at motivating and teaching young players ... probably in brutal ways that would violate even Army regulations for training soldiers, but I carefully didn't want to know. That was going to be his problem now and I gave him permission to terminate the contract of any player who didn't take the new regime seriously enough. I let him pick his staff and agreed with his selections of promoting two aggressive former college head coaches to become our offensive and defensive coordinators and a few weeks before draft day we were finally in business, evaluating what little cream we did have and separating it out from the rest of the sour milk.
We all learned on the job, made mistakes and tried not to repeat them, and slowly we started to figure how to build for the future.
True to my word to the owner, I worked the phones to my other thirty-one counterparts over the last two weeks before the annual draft and made it perfectly clear that our top pick, which would undoubtedly be used for the consensus top draftee in the nation, a 'once in a decade' talent running back, was up for auction for the most and best draft picks. Eventually, at the very last moment, one of the New York clubs made the final top offer giving us their slightly lower first pick and their other second to fourth round draft picks this year, and the same picks the following year, conditionally, if the New York Club made the playoffs this season. They did.
Sure I was sorry to lose what would probably would have been a Hall of Fame caliber running back, but it was an obvious fact that our current offensive line players were all well below average and would be unequal to the task of opening up good running lanes, even for a star running back. There would be frustration, anger and maybe even injuries. It was far better to rebuild completely from the foundation up, getting a solid player infrastructure of linemen in place that could enhance the ability of star skill position players later. Accordingly, we drafted the six best offensive and defensive linemen that first year that we could get our hands on.
Then to the surprise of everyone I also traded that lower first round pick (#13 overall) for another lower first round pick (#27) plus an additional second and third round pick this year, and a conditional second round the next year, which we did receive. This gave us a nice solid first year draft of thirteen very decent support players, most of which we appraised as being already better than what we currently had on our team and this started to give us a little bit of talent depth on the bench for the first time.
As for that #1 overall pick we traded, he had two great seasons that almost made me regret trading his rights away, until he badly blew out his knee at the start of his third season and now he might never play again. That's another reason in football why you should never put all of your eggs into one or two baskets. It's really better to have a team full of above average players instead of a mostly mediocre team with one or two stars trying to carry the load by themselves.
This gave us a foundation to build for the future, and even make a few trades for players that would help fill in several especially bad weaknesses. It was while trying to make a few deals during the late pre-season, I managed to have my first professional conversation with that other wonder child of professional football, one Marguerit "Margot" Millet, and our rather odd relationship began.
Margot was the only grand-daughter of billionaire Lloyd Ross, the famous and infamous auto dealer tycoon of the deep south, arch-reactionary Dixiecrat, mega Texas rancher and Louisiana Oilman, and proud husband to a former Miss Louisiana and Miss America, who was still the undisputed Queen of New Orleans society. Lloyd's only son died as a teenager in a motorcycle accident and his daughter, after winning a few beauty pageants of her own, married into old New Orleans money and settled down to the hard life of being a top socialite. Margot has two older brothers, of which neither cares much if anything about football; instead one took over the Louisiana oil business and the other handles the family ranch in Texas. Both are fairly estranged from their grandfather. Margot, who did apparently love football, wanted (and will eventually get) the full ownership share of the football team, the jewel in Lloyd Ross's crown, and probably his single most profitable business entity. None of the grandchildren apparently want the auto dealerships very much, so I suppose they'll be sold on Lloyd's death, if not sooner.
So, Margot was set to inherit the San Antonio Coyotes football team, and probably quite soon, given Lloyd's history of having heart attacks while in the saddle with various mistresses (twice so far) and habitually drinking far more whisky than was good for him.
I had first met Margot at a league meeting in New York about ten years ago, just awhile after I had been hired to my first permanent position at San Francisco. I was just twenty-two and pleased as punch to have been brought at all to the meeting to meet all of the owners, general managers, coaches, and whatnot. My duties were simple; sit in the corner behind my owner and GM and keep my mouth shut, unless they needed me to run a message, which they needed done fairly often. It was worse than grade school with all of the top brass writing and passing notes to each other while various other folks were talking.
Margot was barely nineteen and already serving two different masters. While attending college at Louisiana State University, she also had an internship with the league's main office in New York and at this meeting she was assisting her father, the notorious Lloyd Ross, sole owner of the San Antonio, Texas team the Coyotes.
I only really remember two things from this weekend of meetings, other than the rather nice shape of Margot's breasts. First that Lloyd had been censured (a slap on the wrist) by the other owners for an obscenity ridden tirade after one game that was carried live on national television (Fuck was one of his favorite words and he used it a lot) and for loudly (and drunkenly) using the 'N' word in reference to the race of a player he was unhappy with and suggested that 'the monkey' get his ass in gear. In other words, just another normal week in the life of this unrepentant good-ole-boy of the deep south. As a nickname, many of the other owners called Lloyd 'Archie', after the famous bigoted TV character Archie Bunker. At least he didn't seem to have a fondness for Hitler and own a huge collection of Nazi memorabilia (like former Cincinnati Reds owner Marge Schott).
On the other hand, his lovely grand-daughter appeared to have a slightly more modern approach to things, and while gracing his presence she managed to keep herd over him and (mostly) kept him on his best behavior.
Bracing myself up to my most confident mood, I made a vague effort to chat-up the lovely young lady but she shot me down fast and cold, with a dismissive sniff that would have better suited a college lesbian lady from Smith College, instead of one of the loveliest coeds to ever grace LSU. She pointedly ignored me for the rest of the weekend, which was too bad since we were the only two young folks around under the age of thirty. We ought to have been dancing the night away somewhere, or at least enjoying a pizza together ... but it was not to be. She smoldered in my dreams for the next year or two.
Now that I was a full General Manager and quite resplendent with tyrannical powers and chock-full of manly authority, one of my first phone calls was to the Coyotes and no one was more surprised than I was to find that Margot answering the phone instead of their own GM. Since her graduation from LSU she had mostly worked over in the sales and marketing side of things, but she was apparently now doing a rotation over at the player development side so that she could learn every part of the business. She was acting as the assistant GM that summer, to nearly everyone else's amusement. This provided my first hint that our lovely Margot, albeit smart as a whip, was just a tad bit lacking in her communication and interpersonal relations skills.
"Hello Margot! This is Jeff Leeds of the Toro's, I was wanting to talk to Frank about a minor trade deal. Can you speak for him or do I need to call him back later? I'd like to get this deal done fairly fast and get my roster finalized before training camp starts up in three weeks."
"Oh. Well I don't think we are interesting in doing any trades." Her voice was so bland that I'm not sure she hadn't stifled a yawn. Besides, everyone was always looking to do a trade or two this time of year!
"What? Nonsense, of course you are. It's right there in the Assistant GM job description in the handbook I'm sure they gave you. You're supposed to find under-evaluated talent on other teams, jewels in the rough waiting to be plucked, and finding ways to steal them to make your own team better. If you're not already plotting one of twenty different ways to rob my team blind, then you're sleeping on the job and you'll never make a good GM!"
"I don't want to make GM. I'm going to be the next Executive Vice President of the club in a couple of years."
"That's nice. Today, and we are talking about today, you're dipping your big toe into the wide and deep world of player development. Yes, I know ... it's dark and scary and it's a lot easier to shut your eyes and just say no. But sometimes, when you say yes, and the right sort of yes, good things can happen ... for both of us."
"Meah." She mumbled while trying to get her thoughts organized. "Jeff Leeds ... didn't you just become GM of the Toro's? Awful young for that sort of job." She muttered, more to herself than to me, as if she was thinking out loud.
"You should talk! I'm a full three years older than you are, and I was offered my job out of ability and as the result of over a hundred thousand hours of hard work when I should have been sleeping, or annoying pretty young women ... not as a graduation gift from PawPaw. Shall we discuss players now or would you rather that we continue to discuss each others inadequacies?"
"Ok, I'll play. What players did you have in mind?" She sounded confused and off of her script ... now I had her!
"Great. The deal I have in mind is trading your Tight End Eric Rogers in return for my Offensive Guard Adam Winstead. It's actually a good deal for both of us if you think about it. Both players are fairly low on our own depth chart, but fill in for weaknesses on each others rosters. I need a Tight End that can come in from off of the bench and you need at least one more offensive lineman for your rotation to replace injuries. I predict that when you open the binder with your latest depth chart you'll see that Rogers is ranked at least third for his position, and he might later drop to fourth if Lenny Lewis, your 6th round draft pick has a good training camp. In other words, your boss Frank probably has a written comment in ink or highlighter mark notation written next to Rogers name to remind him to get rid of him, ASAP. So this is your lucky day, what do you say?"
"Well ... I don't know. I'll have to get back to you."
"I thought you were the 'go-to' woman, ready and able to make an instant decision? Ok, you drive a hard bargain ... how about Henri LaCross instead of Winstead? As an extra added bonus, he's from LSU too, so he has some of that homegrown Cajun flavor Frank is always looking for marketing games in your Louisiana network affiliates."
"Well ... maybe. Let me think about it for awhile."
"That means no, sweetheart. You know you're getting the better of this deal, robbing me blind in my weakness to get a backup player that might not even touch the field this season, except during garbage time, so put on your big-girl panties and make an executive decision! Make Frank proud of you!"
"Well ... ok, I guess."
"Nicely done! You'll become the terror of the ownership meetings yet! I'll fax the paperwork right away! And I still think we should have nipped out from the league meeting a few years ago for that pizza."
So much for my first professional dealing with Margot. I didn't quite rob her blind, but in my evaluation Winstead was a better player than LaCross. Eric Rogers was exactly what I needed, a veteran guy who was an above average blocker and who ran exact precise pass routes and had good hands. Despite less than stellar speed he was wily, and often managed to find a way to get open and catch the ball. Last season the Coyotes used him nearly exclusively for run-blocking, but I was pretty sure that he'd be an asset in our more pass heavy offense. He wasn't a starter for us that season but he performed a very valuable role off of the front of the bench, backing up our more talented, but young and inexperienced starting Tight End. LaCross got some playing time for the Coyotes too, but only due to several injuries to better linemen. Frank cut him from the roster at the end of the season.
I'd like to think that Margot learned a lesson about player evaluation, the give and take of good old-fashioned horse trading, but she probably didn't. The next year she was back in charge of sales and marketing, and doing an outstanding job by all of the accounts that I heard. Still word slowly spread through the league grapevine that she was 'very challenging' to work with and that she didn't manage people very well or make any friends with her counterparts at the main league office or the other thirty-one teams. Still two years later she got that expected promotion to Executive Vice-President, managing all non-football operations for the team. She was now virtually the owner of the club in all but name.
Time Magazine ran a cover story on her, discussing her youth, business and management strategies, her youth, and her love of color-coded notes in her monstrous sized daily schedule organizer book. Oh, and they discussed her youth some more. Aged twenty-seven and the world (or at least the Coyotes) was her oyster. The news story also made it rather clear that the lovely and talented Ms. Margot was a serial first dater, rarely if ever giving a man a second chance with her. Her philosophy was clear; work came first in her life and romance fell somewhere around 29th place.
I felt a bit left out that the Time article had made no mention of me whatsoever, but then again I had just turned thirty, so I guess that meant that I wasn't a wonder-kid anymore.
Still this was a bit of a wakeup call for me as well. I started to hit the player's gym everyday to work out until I was nearly as buff as they were. I also made a mental note to start doing some more dating myself and found a few worthy of regular attention, but none of them were quite Ms. Right. At least I was now having some fun for a change.
This fourth season was my make-or-break year. We had been awful my first season (as expected) and used our plethora of nice high draft picks at the next draft to start loading up on skill positions, including our quarterback of the future. We kept him on the bench all of the next season so that he could slowly learn the faster pro-style game without being tossed to the wolves right off the bat. Besides, I still hadn't forged an offensive line skilled and tough enough to keep him alive and healthy yet. Our owner had a few white knuckled moments, but he kept his word and his hands off.
We only mostly sucked that next year, but I could tell that most of the main pieces were now assembled, we just needed time, training and experience. Now it was up to coaching. The players hated my disciplinarian slave-driver, but they either learned to execute the system or else their folder appeared on top of my desk to be traded off ... usually for someone at least as good and talented.
Last season we nearly made the playoffs, but our inexperience hurt us in several ways. Too many penalties and dumb rookie mistakes, but at least these were only mental mistakes that coaching can eventually correct. After yet another promising draft of youngsters to provide more bench depth and plug a few last remaining weaknesses, I felt that we were about ready to contend, and be a force to be reckoned with for years to come.
This was my final promised fourth season to rebuild the team and it was going to be playoffs or bust this time around!