Chapter 18

March signalled the start of the AFL season, although the opening game was nearly four weeks away. However, there were plenty of preseason games and intraclub trials before then. When these preseason games are held, the clubs typically invite the sponsors to attend, and as part of the event, past players are often asked to host the sponsor boxes.

Of course, this means plenty of work for someone like me that’s popular with the players and sponsors. Hosting these boxes doesn’t pay a lot, but they provide plenty of networking opportunities, as well as chances to indulge in some light flirting and teasing with the sponsor’s wives and daughters. I was constantly surprised by how many male sponsors seemed not only to acknowledge that some flirting between their wives and a sports star was inevitable, they seemed happy to witness it and often encouraged it.

I’d kept most of the money I’d earnt playing football. We’d chosen to live frugally on Vanessa’s nursing salary during my playing career, and taking advantage of the friendships I’d made among the sponsors, I’d learned the intricacies of the stock market and had wisely invested my earnings. My one indulgence was my 1996 Maserati Quattroporte, or ‘penis extension’ as my wife called it. My Maserati was the only genuinely gauche purchase I’d made.

That meant that after my fourteen-year career, I no longer needed to work, assuming, of course, that I didn’t go nuts and blow my savings on fast cars, fast women, gambling, drugs and alcohol. Therefore, I didn’t need the money these events gave me. I needed the ‘inside knowledge’ of what the next big thing would be on the stock exchange and to listen for any rumours of expanding or imploding companies, so I knew to either increase or decrease my holdings in those companies.

The above isn’t ‘inside trading’ as it’s legally defined. It’s merely gathering information being freely discussed in a public place and sifting it to guide my investments.

In the final trial match before the AFL season proper began, I hosted a box at ‘The Gabba’ that a very attractive, tall, slender daughter of one of our club’s major sponsors attended. Amy White was her name, and no sooner had she sat than she began hard-core flirting.

In a sexily sultry voice, she demanded a glass of Zinfandel wine. Doubting that the young woman was old enough to drink legally, I asked to see her I.D ... Pouting, she produced her driver’s licence and handed it to me. Checking it out, I saw her birthdate was March fourteenth, 1979, meaning she’d been old enough to drink for eight days. As I checked her photo against her looks to ensure the licence was hers, I first noticed that she appeared incredibly well-endowed for such a slender woman. Or maybe, she looked incredibly well-endowed because she was so slender. Then I noticed just how beautiful the young woman was when she smiled.

Those twin thoughts made me think, ‘If she’s legally been able to drink for eight days, she’s been legally able to... ‘ Shutting that thought down, I coughed, handed Amy her I.D. back, and poured her wine.

As I handed Amy her wine, she glanced around quickly, then whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not a virgin. So if you’d like to go somewhere after the game and fuck, I’m up for it.”

‘Eight days, how much... ‘ But I shut that thought down, too, as it was none of my business.

Fortunately, the box that day was one of those atypical drama and prima donna free ones. The men drank, but none to excess, and no one became rowdy or obnoxious. The women also drank, but mostly they sipped wine and chatted among themselves, and there was none of the typical cattiness women can display evident.

That left plenty of opportunity for Amy to flirt with me. Amy’s flirtations were blatant and obvious and lacked any subtlety at all, but they were enthusiastic and eagerly delivered, so in the end, I thought, ‘Why the fuck not?’

“Do you have somewhere we can go?” I asked.

“You’re the rich AFL star,” Amy countered. “Don’t you have somewhere?”

“I’m rich and married. That doesn’t bother you?” I questioned.

“A throbbing cock knows no commitments,” Amy responded.

Swiftly looking around, I asked, “Two or three hole slut?”

“Three,” Amy confirmed.

“What will your daddy say?” I asked, looking at the older gentleman she’d arrived with.

“Fuck knows who he is,” she replied. “But if you’re worried that one of these old geezers is my father and will protest if I leave with you, then don’t worry. I came with the Johnsons,” she indicated a mum, dad, boy and girl, the girl being approximately her age, “They won’t even notice I’m no longer with them, and Grace (their daughter) won’t dob me in.”

“I need to call my wife,” I stated.

“So you can get permission?” She sneered. “Or to make some lame excuse about why you’ll be home late?”

“To tell her I’m going to fuck all three of your slut holes for twenty-four hours,” I answered as I hit the ‘speed dial’ for my wife.

“Sure, sure,” Amy continued to sneer. “You guys are full of...”

Holding my hand up to indicate she needed to shut up, I said, “Hey, babe. I need a pass. Yeah. Nah. Nah. Just overnight. Yeah. Thank you. May I give the phone to her so you can talk to her? Nah, I don’t think she believes me.”

I handed Amy my phone. Amy looked at me disbelievingly before she said, “Hello?” She listened intently before saying, “Eighteen. No.” Then she shook her head and added another, “No.” Then, “Yeah, I think it will be.”

Handing me my phone and her lips suddenly dry, Amy said, “Twenty-four hours if I want them? What does that mean?”

“It means I have one full day to fuck each and every one of your cum holes until this time tomorrow, or you beg me to stop. I’m betting you’ll beg off way before twenty-four hours, though.

“Challenge accepted, Mister Shephard,” Amy retorted. “But, I’ll bet you another day of unbridled lust that you cave before I do!”

“Done,” I grinned as I opened my phone and booked us into The Sheraton, Brisbane, for the night.

“We’re leaving?” Amy asked.

Looking around and indicating that only the family she’d arrived with, she and I were still in the box, I answered, “Well, unless you’re chickening out already?”

“You talk a big game, Mister Shephard,” Amy growled. “You’d better play one, too!”

“More than two hundred and fifty first-grade games,” I chortled. “And I fuck way better than I play footy!”

As expected, Amy begged off way before I was ready to, so afterwards, we slept cuddled together until I woke her around 8.00 am. After we shared a shower, where I used my fingers to gently stimulate her sore cunt to a final orgasm, we parted. As I helped Amy into a cab, she pleaded for another date.

“If we’re in a corporate box together again, you can ask me,” I noncommittedly said.

“But I’ll want you again soon,” Amy protested.

Writing down Ness’ number, I replied, “When you’re ready, call my wife and ask if she’ll give you another pass. If she will, then we can fuck for sure.”

I knew that after I’d described my night’s activities, Ness would never give Amy another pass, so saying that I’d bang Amy again if my wife gave permission was like the Inland Revenue Department saying they wouldn’t screw you.