Bonus Chapter - Super Blow Sunday

You're already swallowing your tenth load by the time kickoff sends the ball sailing through the air. Your body is adorned with the tattered remains of a costume cheerleader outfit, stained with cum and torn so that your hard nipples and glistening pussy peek through. The thick leather collar stamped with "CUMSLUT" and a sheen of sweat from effort complete the look.

There's never been this many men in the clubhouse before. Not even when they were planning for the 6th last year. Despite the abundance of sofas and recliners, plenty of them are left standing in the margins of the room, and you know instinctually that they are your lowest priority to service. If they aren't even worthy of a folding chair, they have little claim to the club cocksucker.

That doesn't mean you'll be ignoring them, of course. You have explicit instructions to take every man in the building between your lips. Not that you need the encouragement – sucking cocks is the reason you get up in the morning – but the sheer number of dicks in the room is daunting. Luckily, you've been given a motivating stick to go along with all the mouth-watering carrots. If you fail to swallow even one man's load by the time the final whistle blows, there's a punishment waiting for you that even your pathetic pain-loving mind recoils at the thought of. You still haven't gotten the smell of piss out of your hair after last time.

So, you focus on your monumental task. Even with your impressive skills, you'll need to work hard and get a little lucky to pull it off, just based on sheer math. How many minutes in a game? How many minutes to draw the gushing reward out of each hard cock? How many cocks in the room? Math was never your strongest subject, so instead you keep your attention on delivering the best possible service, and putting on a show while you're doing it so the next man in line is already hard and leaking for you by the time you get him in your mouth.

Fortunately, the first batch of men you attend to, the ones sitting on the couches and chairs closest to the TV, are the club elite. Men you're all intimately familiar with, and know exactly how to get off. Eric never lasts long when you massage his balls while teasing his slit with your tongue. Lou likes to take charge, hooking one long hairy leg behind your head and beating on the back of your skull with his fist. The pain is dizzying, but you allow the spasms of your screaming throat to massage the cockhead buried in it, pulling the cum out in no time. He looks almost disappointed when he releases you from his leglock, scowling down at your panting face, shining with tears and spit.

Herb is a challenge, as the protruding mass of his gut and the odd curve of his dick mean you need to get creative with angles to work his length down your throat. Brandon is curiously sentimental for this crew, and you know he wants plenty of eye contact as you gently suckle him, your hands massaging his chest and toying with his nipples. On the other end of the sentimentality scale is Travis, and you go straight for his taint when it's his turn. You take the opportunity to get the next batch of dicks excited for you, wiggling your ass as your tongue wiggles inside Travis's asshole, working his cock in your hands and taking his load over your face to a chorus of cheers.

For halftime, you give the gathered men a show, standing on the table in the middle of the main seating area as you strip off your pathetic excuse for clothes, revealing the ultimate prize of the day. At the beginning of the playoffs, a lucky fan of each team was chosen, with the supporter of the big game's winner promised one of your holes. Your bush is dyed with Rams blue and yellow, while your asscheeks are painted with Bengals orange and black tiger stripes. After the game, the winning fan will pound the hole of the losing team in front of the raucous crowd, and then take you home for the night to do whatever they want with you. The thought is exciting: it isn't often that you get out of the clubhouse.

After halftime, you get to work on the remaining men, moving among the outskirts of scattered folding chairs and those left standing. The beer is flowing freely, and it's definitely starting to affect them. Some of it spills in your hair and over your naked form. You don't mind, as it helps to wash off the snack crumbs and globs of dip that earlier men had spilled on you. You especially don't mind when the shower of beer and snacks is accompanied by nasty, demeaning insults. The more they call you a stupid antifa whore, the more they mock your hair, the more they simply laugh at your pathetic position below them, the more you want their cocks in your mouth.

The inebriation does start to affect the dicks you're sucking, though. This means you need to start working even harder even as you become sore and lose energy yourself. You haven't had any time to eat or drink since before the game started, and as much as you crave it, cum isn't the most nutritious meal. Growing faint from hunger and effort, you feel your mind drifting off in a sea of submissive oblivion. Your only purpose is to pleasure these men who destroyed you.

The feeling is almost euphoric.

As the game nears its end, the crowd starts to get more into the action on the screen. You have to start pulling dicks out of pants yourself, wasting time getting cocks hard, digging deep in your experience for tricks to get these guys off when they're barely paying attention to the mouth slobbering on their hardness. By the two minute warning, you're starting to get ****. All the men are fully invested in the outcome of the game now, and you find yourself crawling, mouth open, tongue reaching, begging for a cock in your mouth before it's too late.

You start to imagine failure, imagine how much the punishment will grind you even further into the mud of your irrevocable surrender. What if I just let myself be destroyed again? Giddy thrills shudder through your body as memories of last time flash through your mind. Darkness. Pain. The sharp impact of hot streams over your shaking form, a pungent reminder that you are less than nothing, that you should be grateful for every sticky ounce of their semen they squirt into your abused holes. How good would it feel to dissolve into that again?

Something in the twitch of the cock in your mouth reminds you of something else. The warm satisfaction of serving your betters. The knowledge that you can do whatever it takes to please these men who own you. They set you an impossible task, but you've already become something you could never have imagined you'd be. Achieving a superhuman feat of cocksucking is nothing compared to that.

The final whistle blows just as you feel the last cock in the room spurt sticky jizz down your throat. You did it. Just barely, but you made it. You made it through your very own super bowl, the championship of taking dick, and now it's time for your prize. You don't even know what the final score is. As you feel hands grab under your shoulders and drag you to the center of the room, you're left to wonder which of your holes is about to be brutally taken. Your pussy gushes, your tight ass clenches, and a whorish moan passes between your smiling, cum-stained lips. It hardly matters at this point.

You can take absolutely anything.