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Bret Bielema's Borderline Erotica

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A happily ever after.

He leapt into the air and so leapt my heart. Henre had just won us back the ball. His powerful legs springing his chiseled body from the earth like a rocket headed for exploration of deep spaces. The ball, appearing ever soft yet turgid with air, fell gently into his strong, waiting hands. A sudden sound of leather scraping his sticky gloves stirred my loins.

We took the field with quiet confidence. I had a 24 point lead and a hard-on suited for hydraulic fracking. All we needed was one first down, a slight penetration compared to the press we put on those Longhorns all night long.

I handed the ball to Jonathan but they resisted our advances as best they could. We tried again. Deeper. The defense was sweaty and breathless. They had enough and then some. We gave a final push to assert our control. We could not hold on any longer. I took the ball, kneeling on the mussed turf once.

Twice.

Three times.

That's when the horn blew all over the stadium.