"Do you play football?" Ted asks slyly. "You could definitely be on the team."
"No, not really. I'm not really into football," you say nervously. You're kinda sweating a little - you don't even want to think about how you'd look in just a t-shirt.
"Really?" Ted asks, befuddled. He backs up and takes a seat on the large tan sofa. "Here, have a seat," he says, gesturing to the spot next to him as if you were in HIS house.
You nervously, and slowly, lower yourself onto the seat next to him. His hand creeps dangerously close to your leg, his knuckles are just about touching the edge of your lower thigh.
"I'm sure you'd do great at football. A guy like you could do wonders for the team," Ted said enthusiastically. He slid his left hand onto the peak of your swaying belly. Is it a friendly gesture? Or was he being a little more than friendly?
He continues talking like a buddy but his gestures say more. He keeps chatting but it's to hard for you to listen. Every once in a while he gives your flesh a tight squeeze as he talks about the team. You start feeling nervous and your mind goes blank - you don't want to think about what Ted's, well, intimate actions might mean.
After Ted has blathered for another minute, you...
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