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alliecat8Okay, I'm gonna tell y'all a story, but I need to make a disclaimer first. See, I do this thing that I kinda keep secret on LJ because I don't want anybody to judge me as being a Holy Roller religious type. I go to a Methodist church. I go there because 1) when I first moved to town it fascinated me because it's the oldest church in town; it was built right before the Civil War and the sanctuary is set up so that the townspeople could sit in the pews on the ground floor and there was an upper gallery that was meant for their servants to sit. My town and one other in Mississippi are the only ones that weren't pillaged and burned, though there were battles nearby, and before the church ever opened its doors as a church it served as a hospital for wounded soldiers. (Remember, I'm in the Deep South and we're talking about the slavery days, which were very much a part of this town's culture at the time, to our shame), and 2) I was born a Presbyterian, I rebelled and joined the Baptist church when I was 11 (and sorta became a Holy Roller religious type for a while, got dunked in the baptismal pool and saved and all that hoo-ha), then in high school I came to my senses and joined the Methodist church because they are by far the most open-minded of all the major Christian churches. "Open doors, open hearts, open minds." There I have the freedom to be me, and I am not religious. I believe that "God" is a manifestation of the good in all of us. My beliefs run more toward the pagan, because my true "religion" is based on the Wiccan rede, "If it harms none, do as you will." Total freedom, as long as its done with good intentions and an open heart.
So that's my disclaimer. Now here's my story. I sing in the church choir, 'cause we've got the COOLEST choir director in the world. So anyhow, there I was yesterday, sitting in the vestibule in my robe and vestments, trying to look angelic (our service is broadcast on TV and has a wide audience outside the church, which also has a large "live and in person" congregation, too), and the preacher starts telling a story. Sam is a born storyteller, which is what makes a great preacher, I think, 'cause it draws you in...anyway. Since it was Super Bowl Sunday he starts telling a story about football players. Here's how it went:
Way back when Terry Bradshaw and Tommy Spinks (who got hurt and never played much in the pros) were playing football together at Louisiana Tech, they became best friends. Tommy was married and living in married student housing, and Terry was living in a big old house in the middle of nowhere. One night Tommy got a frantic call from Terry, telling him that someone was trying to break into his house. Still in his pajamas, Tommy jumped in his car and raced to Terry's house. When he opened the door and stepped inside he was tackled by Terry, who was wearing only his tighty whities and holding a .45 pistol.
Ok, slasher girls, WHAT WOULD YOU DO AT THIS POINT? Even if you were sitting in the vestibule wearing your angelic garments and knowing you were on live TV? Would you automatically start writing slash in your head? If you could've seen my face when the preacher got to that part of the story.... OMFG. Anyway, I barely heard the rest of the story, which had something to do with Tommy and Terry going to the police station still dressed in their sleeping garments, and getting the police to come and arrest a vagrant who was trying to find a place to sleep for the night. BUT, this is what *I* was hearing inside my head:
disclaimer 2: I am not a Terry Bradshaw fan, and I don't even know who Tommy Spinks is, so no infringement intended. I mean, hell, THE PREACHER STARTED IT!
It was late at night, and Tommy Spinks had had a long, hard day of practice, practice, practice on the football field. Bradshaw had lobbed the ball to him so hard that his hands were numb, and the rest of him was still buzzing from all the adrenaline that being a college football athlete (and a damn good one, if he did say so himself) required. He went to bed soon after his wife did, but all he could do was toss and turn and feel guilty for disturbing her sleep. She woke up suddenly, though, when the phone began to ring. She answered it, then handed the receiver to Tommy. "It's Terry," she mumbled, managing to convey her displeasure in her quiet tone. She'd always been jealous of Tommy's friendship with Terry, but Tommy had no qualms about having a best friend as well as a wife. And if he had to pick one over the other, well...he shouldn't think about that. He answered the phone.
"Spinks, get your ass over here NOW," came Terry's urgent voice. "Somebody is trying to break into my house!"
Tommy was alarmed, because Bradshaw usually saved his dramatics for the football field, and was cool and laid back the rest of the time. "I'm on my way," he said, and didn't even bother to put on shoes as he ran to his car, still wearing his pajamas.
Terry's house was completely dark, and Tommy couldn't see any danger, but if his friend was scared then he was certain there was good reason for it. He tried the front door and found it unlocked, which seemed strange if Terry was trying to ward off an intruder. He opened the door, but as soon as he stepped over the threshold he was enveloped in a giant tackle, and felt cold metal against his temple. Bradshaw was packing a pistol, and knowing him, Tommy figured he was prepared to use it. "It's me," he gasped, and felt Terry relax as the gun fell to the floor.
"Somebody's been at the windows," Bradshaw said in a shaky voice. "He tried the back door, and I figured that if I unlocked the front door maybe I could set a trap for him and make a citizen's arrest."
Still on the floor with the weight of Bradshaw's body on top of him, Tommy said, "Go on and arrest me then, big man...I was breaking and entering."
"The only thing I want to break and enter is you," he said, and Tommy was shocked to hear pure lust in his voice. Then Terry pressed his mouth down on Tommy's, hard.
He tried to push Bradshaw off and couldn't - something that was status quo for them on the football field. Nobody broke Bradshaw's tackles. Even though he was a quarterback he was also a powerhouse, and since Tommy was the one on the bottom he was at a disadvantage when it came to dislodging his obviously insane friend. "What the fuck?" he panted, nearly suffocating under the other man's weight.
"Fuck is right," Terry growled. "I wanna fuck you into next week." His mouth came down on Tommy's again, and this time he managed to powerhouse his tongue into Tommy's mouth. He thrust several times and Tommy's sensibilities were so stunned that he opened his mouth and let him. As soon as he did he felt Terry, who was clad only in his underwear, begin to grind his groin against Tommy's.
"Holy shit," Tommy thought, because it felt so damn good. He hadn't been with his wife in weeks; practice had left him either too keyed up or too exhausted to give her what she wanted from him, so he'd left her alone. Now he realized that he was horny as hell. But this was Bradshaw, his buddy and teammate, not his wife...Terry thrust again, both above and below, and Tommy forgot entirely that he had a wife.
He knew Bradshaw could feel how swollen he was, just as he could feel Bradshaw's hardness sliding against his own. The two thin layers of fabric between them didn't seem to matter as Tommy met Terry thrust for thrust, and it was good, almost too good. Afraid he was going to come in his pants like a teenager, Tommy tried to lift his hips to tug off his pajama bottoms, but Terry raised up at the same time and pulled Tommy's cock through the slit in the thin material, muttering, "This'll do just fine."
He freed his own cock from his tight white shorts and fisted them both, hard. Hard, like he did everything - Bradshaw never did anything gently; even when he relaxed, he did it hard. The friction went straight from Tommy's groin to his head, and he ground out a loud, "Oh FUCK" as Terry began to pump them both in earnest. He was on the edge; damn, he'd been on the edge since Terry first started to grind against him, but he and Bradshaw were warriors, they were supermen, they were trained to hone their bodies to a razor's edge. He wouldn't come, he wouldn't, not until Bradshaw gave some sign that he was there too. He'd even mustered up the presence of mind to look forward to it, to finally experience the Great Terry Bradshaw losing control...but god, it was so good, it was all he could do to focus on his own control.
He was leaking now, or maybe that was Bradshaw making them both slick, making Terry's hand glide over them now, up and down, the sensitive undersides of their cock heads moving together in tandem, just as their bodies moved in tandem on the field. They were meant to move together, they'd been doing it for so long that this just seemed like a continuation of what they did every day, only better. He'd never heard Terry breathe like this, not even in their fastest sprints; how he was moaning on every breath and the movement of his hand was becoming erratic, losing control to Tommy's utter amazement, then Terry grunted almost angrily, "Come, damn you, come on man, I need you NOW."
It was a quarterback call, and nobody disobeyed their quarterback. Something in Tommy's brain exploded as down below his cock erupted in streams, and now Terry's hand was slick and wet and he was crying out - the great Terry Bradshaw crying out in blissful agony as he lost control of his senses and Tommy felt him jerk hard against his own still-pulsing cock. Suddenly Tommy felt warm wetness spreading against his stomach, soaking through his pajama top, as Terry yelled out his pleasure in curses and unintelligible syllables, until it was done and he collapsed onto Tommy, forcing all the breath from him once again. He lay there, replete and boneless even as he tried to draw air into his body, and Terry breathed in near-sobs as the aftershocks abated.
Finally he rolled over onto his back and said, "Goddamn, Spinks, that was good."
"Uh," Tommy said senselessly as he tried to catch his breath. When he was able to speak he only wanted to know one thing. "Bradshaw, was there really an intruder?"
"Yeah," Terry said. "I cornered the bastard and hauled him off to the sheriff's office before I called you."
Tommy frowned, aware that Bradshaw couldn't see his face in the darkness. "Then the trap you set was for me."
"Yeah," Terry admitted without a trace of guilt in his voice. "That was one fine quarterback sneak, too."
Tommy could envision him grinning, proud of himself, but he could feel the wetness on his pajama top beginning to cool, just like his brain was finally beginning to cool, and he said, "What the hell am I going to tell my wife?"
Terry laughed in the darkness. "Illegal contact," he said. Then, picking up on Tommy's worried silence, he added, "Put it in the laundry and if she asks, tell her you had a wet dream. Oh, and be sure to tell her it was about her, not me!"
That made sense to Tommy, and, having settled that matter, he backtracked to Terry's first comment. "Illegal contact, huh? Does that mean I get to penalize you?"
"Go for it, ump," Terry said, and reached to slide down his tighty whities. This was only their halftime break, Tommy realized. They had a whole second half left to go.
End
Jeez, I haven't written slash in a coon's age. THIS IS ALL MY PREACHER'S FAULT!!! *giggles and runs away*
So that's my disclaimer. Now here's my story. I sing in the church choir, 'cause we've got the COOLEST choir director in the world. So anyhow, there I was yesterday, sitting in the vestibule in my robe and vestments, trying to look angelic (our service is broadcast on TV and has a wide audience outside the church, which also has a large "live and in person" congregation, too), and the preacher starts telling a story. Sam is a born storyteller, which is what makes a great preacher, I think, 'cause it draws you in...anyway. Since it was Super Bowl Sunday he starts telling a story about football players. Here's how it went:
Way back when Terry Bradshaw and Tommy Spinks (who got hurt and never played much in the pros) were playing football together at Louisiana Tech, they became best friends. Tommy was married and living in married student housing, and Terry was living in a big old house in the middle of nowhere. One night Tommy got a frantic call from Terry, telling him that someone was trying to break into his house. Still in his pajamas, Tommy jumped in his car and raced to Terry's house. When he opened the door and stepped inside he was tackled by Terry, who was wearing only his tighty whities and holding a .45 pistol.
Ok, slasher girls, WHAT WOULD YOU DO AT THIS POINT? Even if you were sitting in the vestibule wearing your angelic garments and knowing you were on live TV? Would you automatically start writing slash in your head? If you could've seen my face when the preacher got to that part of the story.... OMFG. Anyway, I barely heard the rest of the story, which had something to do with Tommy and Terry going to the police station still dressed in their sleeping garments, and getting the police to come and arrest a vagrant who was trying to find a place to sleep for the night. BUT, this is what *I* was hearing inside my head:
disclaimer 2: I am not a Terry Bradshaw fan, and I don't even know who Tommy Spinks is, so no infringement intended. I mean, hell, THE PREACHER STARTED IT!
It was late at night, and Tommy Spinks had had a long, hard day of practice, practice, practice on the football field. Bradshaw had lobbed the ball to him so hard that his hands were numb, and the rest of him was still buzzing from all the adrenaline that being a college football athlete (and a damn good one, if he did say so himself) required. He went to bed soon after his wife did, but all he could do was toss and turn and feel guilty for disturbing her sleep. She woke up suddenly, though, when the phone began to ring. She answered it, then handed the receiver to Tommy. "It's Terry," she mumbled, managing to convey her displeasure in her quiet tone. She'd always been jealous of Tommy's friendship with Terry, but Tommy had no qualms about having a best friend as well as a wife. And if he had to pick one over the other, well...he shouldn't think about that. He answered the phone.
"Spinks, get your ass over here NOW," came Terry's urgent voice. "Somebody is trying to break into my house!"
Tommy was alarmed, because Bradshaw usually saved his dramatics for the football field, and was cool and laid back the rest of the time. "I'm on my way," he said, and didn't even bother to put on shoes as he ran to his car, still wearing his pajamas.
Terry's house was completely dark, and Tommy couldn't see any danger, but if his friend was scared then he was certain there was good reason for it. He tried the front door and found it unlocked, which seemed strange if Terry was trying to ward off an intruder. He opened the door, but as soon as he stepped over the threshold he was enveloped in a giant tackle, and felt cold metal against his temple. Bradshaw was packing a pistol, and knowing him, Tommy figured he was prepared to use it. "It's me," he gasped, and felt Terry relax as the gun fell to the floor.
"Somebody's been at the windows," Bradshaw said in a shaky voice. "He tried the back door, and I figured that if I unlocked the front door maybe I could set a trap for him and make a citizen's arrest."
Still on the floor with the weight of Bradshaw's body on top of him, Tommy said, "Go on and arrest me then, big man...I was breaking and entering."
"The only thing I want to break and enter is you," he said, and Tommy was shocked to hear pure lust in his voice. Then Terry pressed his mouth down on Tommy's, hard.
He tried to push Bradshaw off and couldn't - something that was status quo for them on the football field. Nobody broke Bradshaw's tackles. Even though he was a quarterback he was also a powerhouse, and since Tommy was the one on the bottom he was at a disadvantage when it came to dislodging his obviously insane friend. "What the fuck?" he panted, nearly suffocating under the other man's weight.
"Fuck is right," Terry growled. "I wanna fuck you into next week." His mouth came down on Tommy's again, and this time he managed to powerhouse his tongue into Tommy's mouth. He thrust several times and Tommy's sensibilities were so stunned that he opened his mouth and let him. As soon as he did he felt Terry, who was clad only in his underwear, begin to grind his groin against Tommy's.
"Holy shit," Tommy thought, because it felt so damn good. He hadn't been with his wife in weeks; practice had left him either too keyed up or too exhausted to give her what she wanted from him, so he'd left her alone. Now he realized that he was horny as hell. But this was Bradshaw, his buddy and teammate, not his wife...Terry thrust again, both above and below, and Tommy forgot entirely that he had a wife.
He knew Bradshaw could feel how swollen he was, just as he could feel Bradshaw's hardness sliding against his own. The two thin layers of fabric between them didn't seem to matter as Tommy met Terry thrust for thrust, and it was good, almost too good. Afraid he was going to come in his pants like a teenager, Tommy tried to lift his hips to tug off his pajama bottoms, but Terry raised up at the same time and pulled Tommy's cock through the slit in the thin material, muttering, "This'll do just fine."
He freed his own cock from his tight white shorts and fisted them both, hard. Hard, like he did everything - Bradshaw never did anything gently; even when he relaxed, he did it hard. The friction went straight from Tommy's groin to his head, and he ground out a loud, "Oh FUCK" as Terry began to pump them both in earnest. He was on the edge; damn, he'd been on the edge since Terry first started to grind against him, but he and Bradshaw were warriors, they were supermen, they were trained to hone their bodies to a razor's edge. He wouldn't come, he wouldn't, not until Bradshaw gave some sign that he was there too. He'd even mustered up the presence of mind to look forward to it, to finally experience the Great Terry Bradshaw losing control...but god, it was so good, it was all he could do to focus on his own control.
He was leaking now, or maybe that was Bradshaw making them both slick, making Terry's hand glide over them now, up and down, the sensitive undersides of their cock heads moving together in tandem, just as their bodies moved in tandem on the field. They were meant to move together, they'd been doing it for so long that this just seemed like a continuation of what they did every day, only better. He'd never heard Terry breathe like this, not even in their fastest sprints; how he was moaning on every breath and the movement of his hand was becoming erratic, losing control to Tommy's utter amazement, then Terry grunted almost angrily, "Come, damn you, come on man, I need you NOW."
It was a quarterback call, and nobody disobeyed their quarterback. Something in Tommy's brain exploded as down below his cock erupted in streams, and now Terry's hand was slick and wet and he was crying out - the great Terry Bradshaw crying out in blissful agony as he lost control of his senses and Tommy felt him jerk hard against his own still-pulsing cock. Suddenly Tommy felt warm wetness spreading against his stomach, soaking through his pajama top, as Terry yelled out his pleasure in curses and unintelligible syllables, until it was done and he collapsed onto Tommy, forcing all the breath from him once again. He lay there, replete and boneless even as he tried to draw air into his body, and Terry breathed in near-sobs as the aftershocks abated.
Finally he rolled over onto his back and said, "Goddamn, Spinks, that was good."
"Uh," Tommy said senselessly as he tried to catch his breath. When he was able to speak he only wanted to know one thing. "Bradshaw, was there really an intruder?"
"Yeah," Terry said. "I cornered the bastard and hauled him off to the sheriff's office before I called you."
Tommy frowned, aware that Bradshaw couldn't see his face in the darkness. "Then the trap you set was for me."
"Yeah," Terry admitted without a trace of guilt in his voice. "That was one fine quarterback sneak, too."
Tommy could envision him grinning, proud of himself, but he could feel the wetness on his pajama top beginning to cool, just like his brain was finally beginning to cool, and he said, "What the hell am I going to tell my wife?"
Terry laughed in the darkness. "Illegal contact," he said. Then, picking up on Tommy's worried silence, he added, "Put it in the laundry and if she asks, tell her you had a wet dream. Oh, and be sure to tell her it was about her, not me!"
That made sense to Tommy, and, having settled that matter, he backtracked to Terry's first comment. "Illegal contact, huh? Does that mean I get to penalize you?"
"Go for it, ump," Terry said, and reached to slide down his tighty whities. This was only their halftime break, Tommy realized. They had a whole second half left to go.
End
Jeez, I haven't written slash in a coon's age. THIS IS ALL MY PREACHER'S FAULT!!! *giggles and runs away*
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-09 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-10 04:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-09 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-10 04:46 am (UTC)And I must say, what a perfect icon you have there!
I can't believe I just slashed two dudes I don't know from Adam...but I should get some stars in my heavenly crown for at least listening to the sermon, don't you think?
Thank you for reading my crazy-ass porn, you devil you! ;)
no subject
Date: 2011-02-11 10:56 am (UTC)We are gonna have fun in slasher hell!
You definitely get stars for listening...
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Date: 2011-02-11 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-11 04:22 am (UTC)