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A costume reveals a whole new woman. And leads to a risky bet.

This story is an entry in the 2010 Literotica Halloween contest.


Being a Washington Redskins fan in Dallas is not the easiest thing. And when you find a kindred soul, you’re quick to strike up a conversation, finding out where they’re originally from, how long they’ve been a transplant, and reminiscing over the good old days of Super Bowls and NFC East domination.

I found a local bar/eatery that had about 20 TVs and carried most of the games. There were several Redskin fans that showed up regularly, in spite of having a less than stellar season. We started sitting generally together. There was a table of mixed high-school kids, that had a couple of Redskins fans, a Steelers Fan, and a Green Bay fan, that were there 90% of the time. There was another table with a ‘Skins fans couple, who always showed up with their neighbors who were die-hard Dallas fans, and they just busted each other’s chops regularly. Then there was my table.

I was a fixture as long as I was in town. The place was only a mile from my house, and they had pretty good hot wings and Guinness on tap, which was all I needed to know. Derek was a lawyer, young, married, no kids yet, who lived in the same neighborhood as me. Bob was older, in his late 40’s, and had lived in the North Dallas area for over 20 years. He didn’t talk much about his personal life, but I knew he worked for Frito-lay, and lived just a few miles away. Lori had shown up with her boyfriend one week, and without him the next. She was a tall, skinny, loud, ardent ‘Skins fan, the loudest at our table. She was the oldest of 6, with four brothers, and a single sister, who was their youngest and about 12 years younger than her, still living at home and in middle school.

We all wore our Redskins jerseys, and the four of us, along with a couple of out-of-state friends, started up our own fantasy football league.

The first year that we all started going there we usually had no problem getting our table, and we took the ribbing from all the Dallas players in stride. Then one week we showed up and the game wasn’t being shown. Asking the manager, he told us that the plan they had only carried a certain number of games, and that week there were more games played at noon than he could carry. As you can imagine we were a little irritated, since we were pretty good customers, showing up regularly, and eating and drinking our fair share (or maybe just a tad more). We had to drive halfway across town to catch the second half of the game, and we weren’t happy about it.

My second season in town I decided to get the NFL ticket, so I’d never miss another game, but I still went to the same place, mostly for the camaraderie. During the third week it happened again, no Redskins. I suggested we head over to my place since it was so close, and my entire table of four transplanted ourselves.

“Damn, Jack, this is a nice setup!” Derek said, looking over my media room. The room was large, covering most of the area over my 3 car garage, and serving as my office, and a home theater. I had a 54″ big screen TV that was razor sharp, with a Bose surround-sound setup. I hadn’t splurged for the theater seating yet, so I had a single couch, and a lazy boy recliner. I wanted to build terraced seating, with a row of three theater seats in front, and four more in back, but that wasn’t in the budget yet. A small refrigerator built into the wall unit that surrounded the TV meant fewer trips downstairs for refills.

“What the hell are you doing coming into our dive for the games, with this kind of setup?” Lori asked me, stretching out in the recliner she’d commandeered.

“I like watching the game with you guys. It’s more fun than sitting here alone,” I confessed.

“Well you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Lori laughed. “My ass is going to be parked in this chair for every game, and it’s going to take a forklift to get me out of here.”

“Ditto,” said Bob. “But you’re going to have to stock something other than that black oil you drink.

“There a beer fridge in the garage. I’m pretty sure whatever you want you’ll find down there. Unless you want the hard stuff – that’s in the bar in the dining room.” I told him, grabbing a Guinness from my stock, and parking myself at the end of the couch.

The game was a good one, with lots of scoring by the good guys which required jumping up, giving high-fives all around, and pulling out our cellphones to either share or gloat.

Before they all left, we’d planned the next week’s get together. It was Monday Night Football, and even though anyone could have watched it at home, we all agreed to watch it at my place.

After the fourth week, I think we all started noticing that something was missing. The obnoxiousness, the give and take, the shouting at other tables. It was kind of hard to admit it, but we missed the dive.

The fifth week we were back, but at least now we had an option. We could afford bahis firmaları to be a little pickier. We’d walk into the place, and if our game wasn’t on one of the 4 super-sized screens, we’d just turn around and head around the corner to my place. And save a few bucks as well. Ok, maybe I didn’t save anything, but I still probably broke even, and they ate and drank free.

It was about midway through my third year of occasionally hosting the game that things took a decidedly different turn.

Derek was now a father of a bouncing baby boy, and starting to do better in business. He worked in the legal department at one of the big companies down off Legacy, and had survived a cut of outsourcing which had him nervous for a while. He joked that it was the first time he was really happy to be black, a subject which had never even come up – sports are remarkably color-blind. Bob, we had found out over time, was a confirmed bachelor and private pilot, and who had decided that women in his life just weren’t very understanding when it came to how much time and money he pumped into his hobby. He actually lived in a hangar at a local airport, with a nice little two-bedroom apartment upstairs, and his RV6, his hunting jeep, and a nice sized boat parked in his hangar. All the best boy toys. And nobody to give him grief when he spent $2000 on new headphones for his plane, or dropped four grand on new tires.

I’d had a pretty serious girlfriend for a while. She’d moved in and back out again by the time the third season had started. I was not an easy person to live with, working long hours, traveling a lot during the week, and pretty set in my ways. I’d also dated several more women over the years, but none had stuck yet. I was currently between skirts, and caught a good bit of ribbing over it. I owned my own consulting business with two other guys, and we’d grown from three employees when I’d first met this crowd, to more than 30. Things were going well for me, business wise. I’d even upgraded the TV to a 60″ HDTV which was appreciated by all.

I was surprised that Lori was still single. She was attractive, but made no effort to emphasize it. Her game apparel was consistent, one of her three authentic NFL Redskins jerseys, and jeans. The jeans were not form fitting, though they fit Ok; the huge jerseys, on the other hand, fit like a burlap sack. She dated a lot, but never for more than a month or so it seemed. Her hair was shoulder length, and often unkempt, and as far as I could tell she had never worn makeup. She’d played competitive college volleyball, and was a real sports nut. At around 6 feet tall, she towered over Bob and Derek, and I only had her by an inch or two. If she had ever worn heels she’d have looked down on all of us. She worked in sales for a publishing company, and spent most of her time on the phone.

The honest truth is we didn’t think of her as a woman very often. She was one of the guys, a true fan of the game, and a mouth that could make a drill Sargent blush. When it came to teasing and rough-housing she could give as good as she got. I liked her.

It was the day before Halloween and our favorite hangout was holding a costume contest with prizes for most original, most authentic, best costume, etc. We decided to dress for the game, and each of the guys decided to go as a Redskin Hall-of-Famer. With 20+ guys in Canton, we had plenty to choose from. Derek claimed Charley Taylor, Bob chose Sonny Jurgenson, and I had to go with Riggins, one of my all time favorites. Lori was being wishy-washy, torn between Slingin’ Sammy Baugh, or going as Joe Gibbs. We gave her so much grief about making up her mind that she finally told us all just to shut-up and she’d surprise us.

It looked to be a great day for football, and we were planning to stick around for the whole double-header, with the Redskins playing the 49ers first, and then the Giants vs Denver. We still felt pretty good about our season, after starting 3-0, even though we’d lost the last two games. Dallas was sitting at 4-2, ahead by one in the win column, so we needed this one to keep pace. The Giants and Philadelphia were both tied with us at 3-2 keeping the whole conference knotted up at the top. It was a big week, with Dallas, Philadelphia, and our beloved skins all playing early games.

Lori had already called, saying she was running late. I was in full regalia, wearing authentic NFL gear head to toe, including a John Riggins signed, game worn Jersey from 1982. Part of my collection. Not his best year, but a nice shirt none-the-less. I met the guys out front, and was furious to find out that once again, the Redskins weren’t going to be shown on any of the TVs, never mind the big four. It put a damper on our costume plans, and we finally said fuck-it, and headed to my place, telling Lori the problem, and encouraging her to meet us there.

Of course she blew up, saying it was no surprise, just one more thing going horribly wrong that day. She could be a little neurotic, all highs and lows, and nothing in between, so kaçak iddaa we figured it was just one of those days.

I’d been the only one to go in full pads, and that was the first thing I shed in the media room, putting my jersey back on, grabbing a Guinness, and getting ready for the big game.

Within a few minutes we were enjoying a dominating performance by the Skins over the bottom-dwelling 49ers. By the time Lori showed we were 10 minutes into the first quarter, leading 14 to nothing, and San Francisco had yet to get the ball past their own 40. I had a second TV set up next to the first, monitoring the Dallas-Seattle and Philly-San Diego games. Both were still sitting on goose eggs.

She came tearing up the stairs, cursing a blue streak. She’d had to listen to the Dallas game on the radio, looking for score updates, and hadn’t heard a single one.

“What’s the score?” she shouted up the stairs.

“14-zip,” Derek informed her. “We’re killing them.”

“Shit, shit, SHIT! I can’t believe I’ve missed this much,” she announced as she entered the room. Coming through the door she tripped on my pads, skidding across the floor, another scorching burst of profanity pouring forth from her.

I hit a complete double-take, as I watched her tumble and pick herself back-up. She looked great! She had passed on her original plans, and shown up as a Redskins cheerleader! I would never have guessed she had the figure to pull it off, but there was no denying what my eyes were seeing. She had makeup on, and looked so different from the way we’d seen her the last 3 years, I could barely believe it. She dashed over to the fridge, pulled out a Sam Adams, and plopped down in the middle of the couch, between Bob and I.

“When I find out which one of you freakin’ dickwads left that booby-trap at the top of the stairs I’m going to tear him a new asshole.” Yep, she was in exceptional form.

Seating was always an issue. After every break, three of us fought for the seats. Bob always sat at the far end of the couch, and the rest of us pretty much let him have his way. The other seats had a clear pecking order. The recliner was everyone’s first choice, with the end of the couch directly in front of the TV second choice, and the sofa middle seat the loser’s throne. Sometimes we even had side bets, with the stakes being the seating preference. As the late comer, Lori was stuck in the middle.

Anyone who got up was taking their chances. If you stayed in the room, you were pretty safe, but if you hit the head, or went outside, you stood a good chance of losing your place.

Lori was clearly upset, more than seemed reasonable for being a little late for the game, and even after her less than lady-like tumble. She should have been ecstatic over the score, but hardly seemed to register it.

I was stealthily checking her out every chance I got. Knee high boots, low cut skin-tight shorts, and a white, burgundy and gold halter top that showed something we might never have guessed at. The girl had bodacious ta-tas. Cleavage, even! Of course I could never let her know I even saw her as a woman. She’d tear my nuts off.

“The Dallas game is still knotted at zero, as is Philadelphia,” Bob told her, “but Dallas is driving.” He waved at the smaller TV, where we could see Dallas was inside the Seattle 20.

Lori just drank heavily from her bottle, not commenting on the game, not even complaining about her seat. Finally she turned to me. “Do I look like some kind of dyke to you?”

“Not today you don’t,” I told her frankly looking her over.

“What’s that mean? Not today?” she asked, peevishly.

Whoops. Probably not the best choice of words.

“I mean you never do. Not really. I mean you dress pretty casually most of the time, but today you look all woman.”

“That asshole, Frank, asked me to pick up that bitch from New York, and take her to breakfast before taking her to DFW for her 12:30 flight. It was bad enough I had to go to dinner with all of them last night, but shit – a seven day work week is not part of the deal. Then I’m stuck with chauffeur duty. Shit.”

I didn’t know if the “shit” was about having to dress up, or from seeing Dallas push the ball into the end-zone. Dallas 7, Seattle 0.

“C’mon Ref! He pushed off!” She yelled at the TV as San Francisco completed a long pass to get into field goal range. “God, this morning sucks. As soon as I show up the games go to pot.”

She’d already finished her beer, and got up and grabbed another one. She stood almost directly in front of me, scowling and bitching at the TV as we were flagged for a penalty. “Great! You call that ticky-tack shit, but let the other one go. Fucker!” From behind she looked amazing, her round ass barely contained by those hip-hugging shorts she was squeezed into. Her long legs seemed to go on forever. Wow.

She turned and faced me, “That slut hit on me. I mean bad, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Do I look like a carpet-licker?”

“Lori, you look 100% heterosexual. You’re kaçak bahis too skinny for my taste, and no ass to speak of, but other then that, it’s a pretty fair impression of woman. Definitely doable.” I didn’t dare say what I really thought. She was gorgeous, and could turn on anything with a pulse.

“Asshole,” she murmured, kicking out at me, but blushing a little all the same. “Don’t tease me.”

“He ain’t teasing,” Derek piped in. “Hell, if I wasn’t married, and if I didn’t know you, I’d be all over that shit.”

“What do you mean, ‘If you didn’t know me’?”

Ha! Now he’d stepped in it.

“You know, I mean, you’re one of the guys. You’re not some piece of tail to us.”

“Damn straight I’m not,” she growled, plopping down next to me again. “Damn it!” This last comment appeared to be directed back at the game, as the 49ers scored, making the game 14-7.

Her attitude improved a bit through the second quarter as we piled on the points. Three consecutive touchdowns had us up by 28. Seattle even scored a field goal to narrow the gap between Dallas. The only bad spot was when Philly went up by seven.

We had plenty to cheer about, lots of high-fives, and quite a bit of beer was getting put away. Lori was definitely drinking more than usual, as were we all. There had been a different feel to things when Lori had first showed up, but as our team rolled along, we were soon back to normal.

At half-time I heated up some queso for chips, and brought out a big batch of chili I’d started the day before, just in case. No beans in my chili – and definitely three alarm. The way we all liked it.

“Jack, you got a Jersey I could wear? I don’t want to chance spilling something on this.” Lori asked me, after I set the food out.

“Sure, I’ve got a closet full.” Which was no exaggeration. I bought a few every year, for whoever our QB/RB/WR du-jour was. I headed downstairs to my bedroom and she followed me.

“Wow,” she said, looking at my closet. I had a typical Dallas walk-in, huge by almost any standards. One entire section was Redskins and Mavericks. “Pick out something nice for me. Something for good luck.”

I had just the item in mind. I don’t know what I was thinking; I hadn’t had it out of plastic in 10 years. I pulled the end shirt off the rack, lifted off the plastic and held it out to her.

“Number 44 – John Riggins. I can go for that.” She smiled.

“Game worn, January 22nd, 1982 against Dallas, in the NFC championship. Signed certificate by John himself. PSA certified. I won it at a charity auction. He got 140 yards and 2 touchdowns. A week later we got our first Super Bowl and he was MVP.” I proudly told her its history.

“Shit! I can’t wear this.” She looked at it like it was made of solid gold.

“Go ahead. Please, I’d like you to. If you don’t mind the tear.” There was a rip in the side, where he’d dragged some poor Cowboy for half-a-dozen yards, as the loser hung on for dear life. That wonderful tear probably upped the value of the thing by 50%. People who collected game-worn liked the emphasis on worn.

“What’s something like this cost?” she asked, looking it over.

“It was a bargain back then, a little over $900. Now? I don’t think I could touch it for five grand, maybe even double that, there’s no telling.”

“Amazing,” she murmured. “Here, hold it.” She passed the shirt back to me, and within seconds had peeled her cheerleader halter off, standing before me in a simple sheer bra, looking like a piece of heaven fallen to earth. She reached in and pulled out some padding from the sides, explaining the cleavage. I was staring, but I don’t think she noticed.

“Damn thing’s too tight. I could barely raise my arms. Should have bought a size larger,” she explained.

She took the shirt from me and carefully slid it over her head. She looked good in it. She’d looked better just a few moments earlier.

“Let’s go. There’s no way we’re losing now.” She had a huge smile that I was happy to see.

We were in the living room when she stopped. “I can’t wear this.”

“Why not?”

“I was taking off my shirt so I wouldn’t spill on it. So I’m going to spill chili and queso on a museum piece instead?”

“Just a sec,” I told her and disappeared back into the bedroom. I appeared a few seconds later with a plain t-shirt in hand.

“Wear this over it while you’re eating.” I gave her the over-sized tee. That seemed to settle that, and she put it on before heading upstairs.

Chili and beer made up our lunch, while we watched the half-time highlights. As we all eased back from our chow bowls, Lori stood and removed the t-shirt she’d been wearing. During her effort, the jersey underneath pulled up almost to her armpits, exposing her bra to all of us for a few moments, before it settled back down onto her body. And again I was reminded what a nice body it was. Too bad she’d kept it hidden so successfully throughout the years.

After the kickoff, the Redskins looked like they were going to get back to their patented smash-mouth football running game which Joe Gibbs has always liked so much. Portis had a couple of nice runs, one of which was nullified by holding, but then they tried a couple passes that ended incomplete.

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