Taking One for the Team Read Free

allowed to come.  She did twice.  Once when the left-side tower was pounding into her, hard, and the other time when one of the runners pushed her legs apart and then knelt between them, and cleaned off what the rest of the team had left behind— come, and probably a little blood, and sweat—first with a washcloth, and then with her tongue.
    Raven had never felt anything like that before, and when the runner was done, and left with a sway in her hips and a lightness in her step, Raven felt dreamy, peaceful.  Then the blue wing, who had her suck him for a little while, then plunged into her ass, which hurt like anything, but which didn't take too long.
    And then the center tower ambled out to where she'd been left.  Big in more ways than one.  He was patient, working into her cunt slowly, letting her adjust before he started to move in earnest, but it still hurt, how big he was.
    When he was done he left, like the rest of them had, but he came back with a bowl of broiled rabbit and venison with sweetcorn and peppers, and he sat next to her, and fed it to her by hand.
    "Thank you," she said, when he was done, and he gave a slow, grave nod.  "Born, is it?"
    Another nod.  Then he pointed at his throat, shrugged, and then patted her on the head and headed back to the rest of the team.
    Coach came out last, with one of those old-world nylon and aluminum folding chairs that they still made somewhere out on the coast.  He pulled it open, and sat down next to her.  "Coach Langdon made a hell of a start with you," he said.  "If you'd been born in Hold-Your-Cards, we'd have won our bet and kept on rolling.  But that doesn't mean you're ready to play for us just yet.  First off, start working on off-hand throws—every single goal you made was right-handed.  Tomorrow morning, before we go, I want to see you get a hundred goals lefty.  And every morning after that, until you can count on your left hand, when the angle needs it.  Born'll help with the practice; he can use the workout himself."
    "Yessir," said Raven.
    He walked around behind.  He was holding a hand-lamp, and there were sudden darting shadows as he played it over her.  "Holding up well, looks like."  There was the sound of a zipper, and then he pushed in to her bruised, sore pussy.
    "Yessir," she said.
    He wasn't as big as some of them—nowhere near as big as Born, but there were horses who weren't as big as Born—but he worked her harder than any of them, slowing down when he got close, then speeding up again, and again, and again, until finally he came, pulling out as he finished, so the last spurts landed across her ass, and the back of her vest, and her thighs.
    "Good," he said when he was done.  Then he unhooked the prickle catch, unwound the chain, and let her get dressed as he headed back to the stormer camp.  There was a bedroll for her when she got there—Born had laid it out next to his tent, and put her helmet on it, and new gloves.  Raven tucked herself in, and was out like a light.
    Next morning, she was up before just about everyone.  Went out on the pitch, and started working on left-handed tries.  Coach Langdon had wanted her to work on that too, but there was always something else that needed doing.  Five balls.  Grab, throw, grab, throw, and so on; dash to the nearest rebound, start it up again.  She'd planned to limber up a bit, wait for Born to get up before bugging him to help, but he started setting himself up on the center stump almost as soon as Raven caught the first rebound.
    And he was a damn good tower.  Better than he'd been during the match.  Could be they'd been keeping things close on purpose.  Tradition was tradition, but stormers were still strangers, and if they'd shut Longacre down the way it seemed like Born could've, could be they wouldn't have slept so easy.
    Made it hard to get the hundred goals Coach wanted, but it was worth it.  Coach Langdon had said, "a loss is better than a lecture" maybe ten