What really happened on Super Saturday

I wrote this post several months ago, back when The Chap and I were still together. Since August I’ve been debating whether or not to publish it, but in the end I wanted to share a wonderful memory of a wonderful day.
I hope he’s thinking of me, and of this day, when Wales take to the pitch at Twickenham later.

I’m English by birth, but Welsh on my mother’s side. I support Wales first: loudly, indignantly, and, when they’re playing England, with extra cheek. Today’s pool match will be no different.

Back on the last day of the Six Nations, when the title could have gone to one of four teams, I missed the last five minutes of the tone-setting – and clearly most important to me – Wales-Italy match, and a sizeable chunk of the first half of the Scotland-Ireland game, because of The Chap.

He’d said he was going to arrive “between matches”, so we could watch the less important of the three games together while “chatting”, as he put it.

Except he arrived not long into the second half of the Wales-Italy game, the one I was most interested in, just as it was getting exciting, and shucked off his jeans straight away.

I had tea, cold feet, and nowhere near enough of a winning margin to appreciate that at that precise moment – but after another two tries, when my roars of delight had turned into less adrenalin fuelled but still gleeful squeaking and clapping, he seemed to realise it’d be safe to interrupt.

“Keep looking,” he said, motioning to the TV as he slid off the sofa and positioned himself between my legs. “Watch the match.”

Have I told you how much of a tease The Chap is?

He kissed, blew, nipped and nuzzled my knickers, homing in on my clit frequently enough to make me gasp and blink and shiver, and tip my head back and close my eyes. I find it difficult to deal with that level, that type, of stimulation and with visual signals as well. He knows this. That was half the fun for him, knowing that between him and a rugby game, I’d have little choice but to focus on the greater sensation, that he could distract me completely.

When I gazed down, he was looking at my belly, my knickers, my thighs, anywhere but up at me – but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

He slid his hands under my rugby shirt, brushing my stomach and hips, then back down, pulling my knickers with them, looking smug.

“Keep watching,” he insisted, teasing, before burying his face in my pussy again.

At some point Italy scored a try, but my moans had little to do with that.

Then he was pulling off my shirt, reaching around me to undo my bra. Pulling my bum further down the sofa, so that, kneeling on the floor in front of me, he could plunge his beautiful cock into me. Lifting one of my legs up his body, pushing my other knee wider so he could thrust deeper. My arms wrapped around his neck, my fingers running through his hair, somehow managing to keep my balance on the edge of the sofa as he drove into me, my whimpers joined by his long satisfied groans as he pumped his load into me.

He left me to go and clean himself up – me, now prone on the sofa, his come dribbling from my cunt – as the Scotland-Ireland match kicked off.

It was inevitable really. That match turned out to be something of an anticlimax – so we retreated to the bedroom to start our own second half.
Now that was a beautiful match.


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