Taking One for the Team Read Free Page B

marking things down in a little book.  Coach Langdon hadn't been one for speeches, and neither was the stormer coach—Coach Alvas.  Just, "Keep it clean, let 'em stay close, but not too close; doing fine."  And then, "Have to pick your tries if you want to make your target," to Raven, as she was getting her gear back on.
    She did her best.  Passed a few times when she probably could've scored, positioned to take a loose ball on a miss, instead of setting herself up for the shot, only tried when she was sure she'd make it.  Got three out of three, but that wasn't going to get her numbers up fast enough, and since it'd be years before the stormers happened back that way, she wanted Hold-Your-Cards to remember her right.
    She went seventeen for forty-three in the second half, for a personal best thirty-six.  Final score was 109-55.  Over 40% accuracy, twice as many assists as scores.  And since that was less than her target, they tied her to the center tower's stump after the game, and then each and every member of her team fucked her, one after the other.
    Talked a little, too.  After making Raven stick her tongue all the way up into her cunt for what felt like hours, Katy let her know she'd been telegraphing tries—support hand always went forward when she was going to try for it, but she kept it close if she was going to fake or pass.  Raff, the wing who was quitting, had more to say.
    He'd pushed her down to her hands and knees, and then tightened up the chains so she couldn't move even if she wanted to.  And then he fucked her ass, hard, thighs slapping against her with every thrust.
    When he finished, he sat up on the stump and watched her for a bit.  It had been a hard game, and she'd been used by five of her teammates already.  She bowed her head, breathing slowly, trying not to collapse.
    "It'd be easier," he said after a while, "if you were worse than me.  Fifteen years in the game, and . . . hell, I've had better games than that one; the quadruplets have enough of an advantage that the rest of the team was lazy.  I went twenty-two for forty against a coastal league team, Raven; beat that if you can.  But there were tries you made that I never could've.  Ever."
    He got up, walked behind her, and started massaging her bruised and sore cunt.  Despite everything else, she started to move as he touched her.  "And you're fitting in pretty well."
    Raff pulled his hand back, then slapped her pussy.  Not that hard, but hard enough to make her jump.
    "Doesn't mean I have to like it, or you," he said.  "But hell.  You'll be fine.  And don't tackle with your arms so much; arms'll hold them, but use your hips and your shoulders to pull them down once they're held."
    Then he pissed on her legs, the stream of urine hot and wet, playing across her thighs and her ass and her pussy, dripping down to the dirt.  He buttoned up and walked away as Raven gasped, tried to figure out how to breathe again.
    Next was one of the runners, Rache, the team captain, who made Raven lick her out four times before she went back to the camp, then another runner, who didn't say anything, just pushed in to her ass, and fucked her like someone was holding up a stopwatch.
    And when he was done, it was Born.
    He'd brought her food again, and he sat next to her as she ate, one big hand on her shoulders, the other holding up the bowl of soup so she could drink it, keeping it perfectly steady.
    When she was done eating, Born knelt between her legs, sniffed, and left.  He was huge—it had hurt so much the last time—but Raven was disappointed when he left, and at least a little happy when he came back, with a bucket of water and a rag.
    She was tired, and the chains hurt where they cut into her, and her skin was so sensitive after what she'd gone through that the wet rag hurt when used it to wash her down.  But she moaned under his touches, and maybe it hurt a little less when he pushed in, slowly, carefully.
    Once she'd adjusted, it