Chapter 6

Francine found herself somehow holding Brady's hand. She lifted it and, despite the noise and furor that was going on all around her, noticed that the hand she held was his left one ... and that the ring finger was not wearing a ring.

"Where is your ring?" she yelled, automatically.

"I'm divorced," he answered back, tersely. He was looking ahead of them, pulling her through the throng. She was glad of that, actually, because the noise and crush they pushed into was insane. She couldn't reflect on what he'd just said, so it got tucked away in the back of her mind. Music blared from speakers and, combined with the shouts and laughter of celebrating men and nervous women, it was overwhelming. Her eyes registered naked women in various places, some up on tables dancing, and others in the arms of some of the men in the room. Then she realized some of those men were also naked. Pieces of football uniforms littered the floor.

A hand appeared from nowhere and groped her right breast. She jerked and Brady turned, his eyes wide with shock. Then thunder appeared on his face and he shoved the offending hand away.

"Knock that shit off, Harris!" he yelled.

"What's your problem?" yelled a grinning man, who was wearing only a jock strap. "Share the wealth, coach!"

"She's mine!" shouted Brady, and he pulled Francine into his arms, crushing her against him in an embrace that welded her front to his. She struggled as, in her peripheral vision, she spotted a young woman who looked exactly like Kendi Himura, except that she was wearing a leopard suit. Or at least part of a leopard suit. The front gaped open, and modest breasts thrust out. Hands were all over those breasts, and the woman's mouth was open wide in what, to Francine, was clearly a scream of fear. With shock, she realized it was Kendi!

"Over there!" she yelled, trying to get Brady to move in the direction of Leopard Girl.

"What?" he yelled back.

"Over there!" she shouted again. "I think that's one of my girls!"

They made it to Kendi just as the top of her suit was pulled completely down. Her elbows were pinned behind her, and Francine gaped as two men pushed their faces against the girl's breasts, each capturing the tip of a breast in their mouths.

"Help!" squawked Kendi, jerking her forearms ineffectually, trying to get her hands clear of the cloth they were bound up in.

"Let go of her!" yelled Francine. "She's just a girl!"

Her hands went to the hair of one of the men and she pulled viciously. His yell caused the other man to pull back from Kendi's chest and Francine pushed them both away. In truth, it was only her habit that got them to move, but once they did, the current of moving bodies swept one of them away away as Francine grabbed Kendi and pulled her into an embrace.

Francine looked at Brady, whose jaw had dropped as he saw his former lover raging like a lioness protecting her cub. "She is one of my students. I don't know what she's doing in this outfit, but we have to get her out of here!"

The other man who had been sucking at one of Kendi's young, tender nipples had resisted the surge of humanity around them and now complained.

"Hey! She's mine. I saw her first!"

Brady didn't know anything about Kendi, other than that she was one of Francine's students. But she looked about fifteen, so that's what he went with.

"She's fifteen, Phil. You want to go to prison for her?"

Phil hadn't stopped to drink champagne. He'd gone for a girl first. His mind was working just fine, and the horror on his face showed it.

"She told me she was eighteen!" he said, automatically, defending himself.

"I did not!" yelled Kendi. "You didn't give me a chance to tell you anything!"

"Beat it, Phil," yelled Brady. The man did. Brady stood on tiptoes and looked around. Whether he had noticed that Kendi was Oriental or not, we'll never know. The reason he chose Randy Nakimura wasn't because Randy was also Oriental. It was because he knew he could trust the man to act honorably.

"Randy!" he yelled. Francine looked and saw a young man, dressed in slacks, a shirt and a team windbreaker. He looked like he might be nineteen. He looked confused, as if he'd never seen anything like what was going on around him, but turned his head when Brady called out his name. "Over here!" yelled Brady. Randy started pushing his way toward them as Francine pushed Kendi toward him, sandwiching the girl between the two adults. When Randy got there, Brady pulled him close, inadvertently crushing the young man against Kendi's naked shoulder.

"Get this girl out of here. Find her something to wear. Stay with her and don't let anybody near her. She's not supposed to be here. Got it? I'll call you when I figure out where you should take her."

"Got it, Coach!" said Randy, who was an intern, and had been placed in charge of Gatorade for the game. His excitement level was almost off the charts. Finally, he was being given a job worth doing. He looked at the almost naked girl. Her Oriental ancestry was obvious to him, as was the fact that she was of Japanese extraction, just like him. She was cute. She looked scared. His eyes lingered on the pink nipples that were protruding from her breasts, and then he jerked his eyes up to her face. His mother had taught him manners, and even if she wasn't there, he tried to behave himself most of the time. He took off his windbreaker and held it out to the girl. The nun (!?) who was holding her helped her drape it over her shoulders, and she pulled the sides around to cover her body.

"Come with me," he said, leaning toward her.

"Sister?" said the girl, looking at the nun.

"Go with him," said Francine, who was looking around, trying to find the other girls. Then, as Kendi started to move, Francine reached to stop her. "Are the rest in here too?"

Kendi nodded. "We were just supposed to dance. I mean it was just for fun."

"We'll talk about it later," said Francine. "Go with him now."

Randy put his arm around Kendi and started shoving his way toward the entrance to the locker room.

He wasn't prepared for the reporters and cameramen waiting for him in the hallway, waiting to get in. When he saw them, he knew it was a bad idea to try to get her through them.

He turned her around and went back toward where Brady and the nun had disappeared into the crowd.

Bob stared down at his naked daughter. Ten feet away the party was still going on unabated, but there was a circle of clear space around the tangle of two naked girls on the floor. The men who had been tangled up with them were used to getting out of a tangle on the ground, and the tone in their head coach's voice had motivated them to scramble away from the girls quickly. Tiffany had been abandoned first when the head coach had roared. Then things in that part of the locker room got quiet as one of the naked girls addressed their head coach as "Daddy".

"What the fuck?" came the clearly audible voice of the winning coach.

"It was just for fun, Daddy!" complained Judith, who knew she was in the most trouble she'd ever been in, ever. "I mean we were just going to dance." The buzz of the alcohol was beginning to fade.

This made no sense to Bob. What intruded on his consciousness, quite suddenly, was how grown up his little girl looked. In fact, he realized, it would be impossible for him to ever think of her as a little girl again. His eyes flicked between her legs, where, oddly, she did look like a little girl! It occurred to him that a couple dozen of his team members were looking at exactly the same thing.

"Somebody get her a jersey!" he barked. One landed on his shoulder within seconds. It was number 43.

Judith managed to stand up. She reached down to help Tiffany up too.

Stress, mixed with excitement, alcohol and fear can produce odd reactions in otherwise normal people. Judith was no exception. Her father had met Tiffany before, had taken the two of them out to eat several times, in fact.

So she introduced Tiffany to all the men staring at her.

"This is Tiffany," she said. "She's my best friend, and my roommate at school." The strangeness of the introduction overcame the last of the alcohol in her system to cause a giggle to burst from her lips.

Another jersey appeared from somewhere, flying over the crowd around them. It landed on Tiffany's head. Nobody had to tell her to reach for it and shrug into it. This one was number 86. Only Bob himself noticed, as the shirts slid down over both girls' hips to cover them, that both numbers belonged to tight ends.

He had the insane urge to laugh at the connotation.

Monica was scared. That was because she was watching Janice, and expected what was happening to Janice to happen to her any second now. At the same time, part of her was elated ... because Janice was obviously having the time of her life.

What that involved was being pressed against the cold, hard tile wall of the shower room, by the hot, muscled body of a huge black man. She hung as if she was weightless, but Monica knew she was actually suspended on the thick, stiff penis that belonged to that body. Monica had seen it slide into her friend's pussy, and then her feet had lifted to bounce in the air, as her body slid up and down, making squeaking noises against the wet tile.

It looked very violent, but Janice wasn't trying to get away. Her hands didn't push at the man. Rather, they were sliding all over his wet back, digging in, as if she were trying to pull him closer. Her arms and legs, both wrapped tightly around him, completed the picture of a woman who was quite happy where she was. She was screaming, but it wasn't a scream of anger or refusal. In fact, nobody could possibly mistake her mantra of "Yes! Yes! Yes!" for anything other than acceptance of the fact that she was getting the (happy!) fucking of her young life.

Monica, whether by design or instinctive empathy with her friend, also barked "Yes!" as a thick finger speared into her pussy. It belonged to the man on her right, who was sucking her right nipple. There was another man on her left, who was sucking her left nipple. Her Bat Girl costume hung on her in tatters, which was why the two men had access to those parts of her body. What they were doing to her nipples seemed to have created zinging pathways to her pussy. One of them suddenly stopped making those zings happen, and spoke to the other.

"Me first," said the one on her right.

"Fuck you," said the one on her left.

"No, fuck her," said the one on her right. "But me first."

"Why the fuck do you get her first?"

"Because I caught an eighty yard pass," bragged the other.

"Well I sacked the quarterback twice."

Perhaps it was the culture of violence the two men lived with in their chosen profession. Or, maybe it was simply the muscle memory from the game they had been playing not long before. Whatever the reason, Monica was suddenly abandoned, as the two men grappled and all the stimulation that had been making her brain rattle disappeared. She was conflicted about that. It was loud in the shower room, but over it all she heard the man fucking Janice roar. She looked to see his regulated, even metronomic bouncing of Janice on his prick had changed to something jerky and violent.

"Cummin' in that pussy!" he screamed.

"Get some!" yelled another man, somewhere. There were hoots and hollers generally.

Then the thundering music stopped, cut off as if someone had jerked the plug from the wall. Overcompensating by shouting was no longer needed, and everyone's instinctive response was to pause speaking. Quite suddenly, the only noise in the room came from the cascading showers.

"This party is over!" came a male yell from the entrance to the room. People turned to find Coach Tanner standing there, still in his game jacket. Beside him were two of his assistant coaches. "Get these women out of here!" he yelled.

The men objected. Strenuously. Until Bob yelled, "Half of these girls are underage, and the cops are on the way. If these women don't get the fuck out of here, we're all going to jail. They might even take the fucking trophy back and give it to the other team!"

The whole statement was full of lies. Half the girls were not underage. Only four of them were. Janice was eighteen, and the fact that semen was running down the insides of her thighs wouldn't put anybody in jail at all. Not unless she said it was put there non-consensually. Tyrone Washington, wideout for the Ocelots, and the donor of this particular semen, turned quickly and wove his way between other players, abandoning Janice. She was still catching her breath, standing on shaky knees, and didn't notice. The cops were not on the way. At least Bob hoped not. Finally, while there might be a scandal, the trophy was already awarded, and the entire world knew who had won the game.

But Bob Tanner knew how to motivate his team.

There started a flow of female bodies towards a door leading to the therapy room that was being held open by a man Bob had assigned to do that. There was another exit to that room that led out of the locker room complex, and the idea was for the women to leave that way, rather than face the media that was trying to get into the locker room from the hallway. The reporters were being stalled by a knot of players who were quite willing to stand there naked, knowing that nobody would push past them or even take their pictures unless they at least wrapped a towel around their waist.

Even so, the exodus was sluggish. Part of that was because some of the men were with women who were clearly not jailbait. Relationships, albeit temporary ones, had already begun. Some of the girls were better at controlling difficult situations - and difficult Johns - than the others, and quite a few deals had already been struck. Neither the hookers nor the johns were happy about the party being truncated.