Come on you reds!
The crowd roar and sway as one, a sea of bodies. “Come on you reds!” we sing together as we all surge forward, booing and whistling angrily, as Spurs are awarded a dubious penalty. “The-ref-er-ee’s-a-wanker!” we scream together. “Same old Tottenham, always cheating!” our army of pointed fingers chant angrily.
We roar and jump in shared joy, in an almost telepathic unison as they miss.
You stand in front of me, my arms around you, the crowd pressing in against us from all sides, lovingly crushing us. You lean back and whisper, “Make me come.”
“Make me come.”
“No, on the fucking pitch, you dickhead. Yes, of course, here.”
I slip my hand inside your coat and down inside your skirt and panties, feeling your warm dark glow, and I start to caress you with the tip of my middle finger. You are soon wet and hot and you lean back into me, feeling me stiff and pressing into the cheeks of your butt. You rock slightly rubbing against me and I rub a little harder and faster and run my fingers down your glorious soft pussy, pushing two fingers up into your dripping redness, the chanting of the oblivious crowd drowning out your moans of pleasure.
As you start to come, we score and the crowd erupts, echoing the explosion of your orgasm. “Yes!” you scream, as the ball hits the back of the net, “Fucking Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh fuck Yes! Oh my fucking God, that’s good!” The guy next to you smiles at your enthusiasm.
“Bloody good goal, eh?” he grins.
“Fucking hot too!” you tell him. He looks a little puzzled at this, but smiles back, and we all join in with a chorus of “Come on you reds.”
We win five – nil and go home happy and satisfied.