Julianna
What time is it? I grab my phone from the nightstand and swipe it on. Shit. It's already after 7 am, and I have more email and text message alerts than I dare to count right now. What's happening to me? I've always had a morning routine that kicked ass and took names later. Now my mornings are slipping through my fingers faster than water through a colander and I have a man tangled in the sheets next to me that make my heart leap. I've grown soft.
I try to sneak out of the bed, and just when I swing one leg off the mattress, I feel a strong hand wrap around my thigh.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I smile. Seeing Colt's bed hair makes me laugh and I try to smooth it down with my fingers. He runs his hands down the small of my back and grabs my ass—two firm squeezes. We do not bother wearing any clothes from the night before. I enjoy nuzzling my bare ass up next to his cock as much as possible. It is easy to make him hard. Even now, I feel his cock growing underneath me. I kiss his neck and run my tongue down his chest, and continue a path straight to his cock.
"Oh fuck, " he moans. He knows exactly what is coming. I grab his shaft and place his cock into my mouth. Just the tip at first, tapping my tongue delicately underneath his dick, and then I take him in deeply and his moaning intensifies. I'm already wet and all I can think about is shoving him inside me, so I straddle him as he lays there, still tangled in the soft white sheets of my King-sized bed. I have him under my spell, just the way I like it. I flash him a hungry grin.
"I want you so fucking bad," I purr.
He pulls me into him, and sucks on my breasts. The force of his mouth around my nipples sends shivers down my body from head to toe, and I buck my hips. My entire body is electrified as I grab his cock and shove it into my pussy, grinding my hips. I rake my nails across his chest, and with the motion of my relentless gyrations I know I'm going to cum. I don't hold back and let it overtake me, my pussy throbbing with each muscle spasm. Colt senses it is his turn and he thrusts his cock into me with greater speed. I urge him on, "Fuck, cum for me," I moan. And as if on command, he dig his strong hands into my hips and I feel his dick pulse, shooting waves of cum deep inside of me. I eagerly take him in. We rest together for a moment like that, inside of each other, until the current of desire subsides, and I unhook my legs from his body. Then my mind drifts back to Ethan. I enjoyed fucking Colt. It is great, but there is something missing. An unmistakable void.
I think back to my phone. There were a lot of missed messages, and I hadn't bothered to look to see whom they were from. I wonder if there are any from Ethan? I swipe it on again and scroll through my texts. I exhale sharply when I don't see anything from him. Why won't he answer me? What does it mean?
Colt stands up and walks toward the shower. "You can join me if you'd like."
"You go first. I'm going to see what SportsNation has to say this morning."
"You're more sadistic than I thought," Colt laughs. "If there's anything that can ruin a perfectly good day, it's that fucking trash TV. Good luck with that."
I shrug him off and press the power button on my 70-inch flat screen television. The screen glows to life, and I navigate to the station I am looking for. The show is already in full swing. A banner flashes across the screen that reads, "Elite football players rumored to be gay: hot athletes Ethan Blake and Colt Stackford exposed in secret same-sex love affair."
I hear the first analyst speak. "Ethan Blake and Colt Stackford shouldn't be allowed to play in the NFL. Not only are they the kind of role models that we don't want young men and boys to emulate, but you know, another issue is that I don't think it's safe for NFL players to have to share locker rooms with gays."
"You're absolutely right, Bob," agrees the second analyst.
"How do we know that they aren't coping secret feels on the field? During a tackle it would be easy for them to say, oops, didn't mean to grab you there. How can they stay focused with so many men around them during the game?"
The second analyst chimes in, "Instead of Man Crush Monday, Bob, I say we start a new trending search on social media called No Gay Thursday." Both men laugh as if it is the funniest jab they had ever heard.
How the fuck are these men getting time on National television to talk such hateful trash? It just seems unfathomable. I can feel my blood reach the point of boiling. I have to take a few deep breaths to quell the burning rage building within me. Keep it cool, Julianna, I remind myself. I can't let the media get away with this, especially not when they are trashing the two men I love most. It is now clear to me that everything I've been told is wrong—the lawyer, the consultants—everything. How can I throw Colt and Ethan under the bus, further empowering this idiotic media? That's what they want, isn't it? They love it if I can help them spill more blood. The answer is I can't. I won't. But what I can do is bring out the gloves. If the media wants to keep dragging them through the mud, they are fucking with the wrong people.
Julianna
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, the press conference will get started, J. Henry Edgar states into the microphone as I stand to the side. “Once started, Ms. Heaton will deliver a prepared statement and then take your questions.”
The press folks sit down. I’ve invited literally every major media outlet this afternoon for a major press conference to finally address these questions once and for all. By myself, I can take whatever slings and arrows that the media might throw at me. But when they go after Colt and Ethan, that’s when they cross the line and need to face my wrath. There’s no way this is just sports story anymore. I’ve invited The News of the Times, as well as all the major news sources in the country. Word got out that I was having a press conference and all of a sudden the Nailers Press Office started getting requests from even more. Now, I have journalists from at least 10 different countries sitting in the Press Room at Nailers Arena - what the media has started to call Julianna’s Sex Dungeon - looking at me as I take the mike.
“Thank you everyone,” I say and look out and then back at my notes. “I will have a prepared statement that I’d like to read before I take your questions.”
There’s a few flashes from cameras and it quiets down. I’ve never seen it so quiet. Everyone wants to hear what I’m going to say.
I clear my throat and begin, “I want it to be clear, from the very beginning, that I’m not here to apologize. I don’t believe that I’ve done anything that merits me having to stand here and apologize, nor will I entertain a discussion on doing so.” There are a few uncomfortable shifts in the audience and the cameras start up again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Commissioner standing there. He’s come over also and he’s watching me - getting a pulse on the situation.
There’s nowhere to go but forward, and I plunge ahead. “However, I believe that it is possible that I have not been as completely forthright with the public as I should have.” Good. That gets everyone’s attention. “And that is the following. I intend, going forward to aggressively litigate against any future breaches of my privacy or the privacy of anyone within the Nailers franchise.”
There are camera flashes now as I continue. “And I will personally respond to any maligning of character that occurs based on these invasions of privacy as I view them as a direct assault on the New York Nailers. If you choose to ignore me, or if you choose to test me, then please be prepared for the full weight of the New York Nailers to come down upon you.”
Again, it’s quiet as I finish my last sentence. “Thank you,” I say and the entire floor erupts.
The reporter from the Chicago Sentinel has the loudest voice and I turn my head to his question, “Ms. Heaton, do you believe that you’re a role model for young girls across the country and that you should therefore temper your actions?”
I look the reporter straight in the face, “I never wanted to be a role model, but I’m flattered if someone thinks of me as one. And I try to live my life every day the way my father wanted me to. And that’s to be true to what I believe in,” I say. “And I believe in myself. I’d want young women to follow those words the same way I have.”The reporter seems mollified by this answer but I know there’s more coming.
It starts getting harder with the next question.