Soccer Mom Ch. 01

Two years! That's what it had been. Two years since Roger left me for that floozy ... that jezebel. What's a 46 year-old (now 48 year-old) woman supposed to do at that point? It's not like I could really start another life. I was smart and had a good education. I went to a great college—which is where I met Mr. Right, who turned out, over the next 25 years, to be so wrong. But a quarter-century old degree in English literature—even from UCLA—wasn't going to open any career doors for me now.

I didn't need a career for the money. I'd been a stay-at-home mom for my entire adult life, while Roger rose in an aerospace engineering company from engineer, ultimately to Chief Operations Officer. He made a ton of money and the judge decided half of everything we owned and half of everything Roger made for the rest of his life should go to me. I was in fine shape financially.

And it wasn't really that I'd lost such a prize. Over the years, our relationship had not just cooled; it had gone into a deep freeze. To tell the truth, there were times when I couldn't stand Roger—when just the sound of his voice or the noise he made when he brushed his teeth made me shudder.

It wasn't a great marriage; it wasn't a great life. But it was my marriage and my life. And now it was gone. And there was nothing to put in its place. I tried getting involved in community groups, reading groups, church groups—all of that. But most of the people bored me to tears. After a while my time and attention gravitated to gardening. I could have paid some undocumented alien to do the yard work. He would have done it better and faster than I could. But I had to fill my life with something. This seemed as good as anything else I'd found. So, with the exception of mowing the lawn, which I was happy to subcontract out, I took care of practically everything. I planted the annuals, pruned the roses, trimmed the trees (at least the short specimen trees) and raked the leaves.

It was pleasant enough. My house, which used to be our house, was a large one, on a hill overlooking the local community college campus. There was often a pleasant breeze to refresh even on a warm summer day. And, through most of the year, I enjoyed watching the students walking to and from the school and mingling around the public areas of the campus.

As time went on, I began to enjoy my gardening and watching the students. And my enjoyment grew in the early spring when the track team and the soccer team would work out. The soccer fields were just down the hill from my house. And both the soccer team and the track team had a running course through the neighborhood that took them right past my house.

I got to know the individual athletes—not by name, of course, but I recognized them. I started to take what was probably an unhealthy interest in them. In my mind, I named them—sometimes for some actor they looked like (a 'William' for a William Hurt look-alike, an 'Owen' for one who looked a bit like Owen Wilson), but sometimes just randomly. They noticed me noticing them. Some of them started waving to me. At first, I thought they were mocking me. Maybe they thought of me as that crazy old lady on the hill who's always out in her yard puttering. But as I got comfortable enough to wave back to them, I came to think that they were really just being nice.

When it got warmer in the late spring, I began setting up for them a large pitcher of ice water and glasses. I'd put it on the low stone wall at the front of my property and invite them to stop for a second and get a drink. I didn't know if this was somehow breaking their training, but they certainly appreciated it. They were always grateful and very polite, "thanks, mam," "that was great, thanks," and so forth. We never exchanged more than a few words, but it was a pleasant time of my day.

I won't pretend that my interest was purely altruistic or maternal. I liked looking at these young, hard bodies. What woman wouldn't? It reminded me of when I was young and made me think of the boys I'd dated before picking my Prince Charming, who turned into a frog. I especially liked it when the guys were sweaty. I'm not sure why. I was never really into muscle types. But their bodies glistened with fresh sweat and I found that very erotic.

One day, after the guys had already gone by, I was out trying to trim a tree with one of those cutters on the end of a telescoping pole. I shouldn't have been trying to trim this tree myself. Even with the pole cutter, it was a hard reach and branches I was trying to cut were big enough that it was really difficult for me to exert enough force to make it through the branch. I was standing on my tiptoes, trying (without much success) to push up on the pole while pulling down on the rope, when I heard a voice behind me.

"Would you like some help with that?"

It startled me and I spun around, letting leaving the pruner dangling in the tree. It was a guy I'd dubbed 'Tom' because he bore a passing resemblance to Tom Hanks. He had the same friendly, folksy smile.

"Well, sure. If you can spare the time." I was grateful for the help. I'm not sure I could have gotten through the branch on my own.

Tom, as I still thought of him, stepped up to grab the pruner and made remarkably short work of lopping off the branch. Unfortunately, the branch twisted as it fell and the rough end of the branch scraped a long scratch down the inside of his left leg. It didn't look too bad at first and Tom tried to shrug it off. But within a few seconds, there was a line of blood down the entire scratch and it was actually dripping from the scratch in a few places.

"Oh, we've got to get that cleaned up," I said. I felt terrible that Tom had hurt himself trying to help me.

"It's okay. It's only a scratch. It will stop bleeding soon."

"No," I said resolutely, the maternal instinct in me coming out. "We've got to get that cleaned out. It won't take but a second. And I won't have you going home bleeding from helping an old lady."

"You're not ...," Tom seemed stymied. "You're not old," he finished weakly.

"Well, 'old's relative. I'm old enough to know that you need to get that cleaned out and the sooner the better." I could tell that he was relenting. "Come inside. It will only take a minute."

As we walked to the house, I learned his true name: 'Mark'. I wondered whether it would be hard for me to start thinking of him as a Mark after having thought of him as Tom for so long. He followed me into the kitchen and I sat him down in a chair while I gathered a washcloth, some hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls, and some liquid Band-Aid stuff that I had in the bathroom. (It's cool stuff. You just brush it on and it helps stop bleeding and protects the wound without any bandaging.)

I knelt down in front of Mark's chair and pressed his knee outward to get at his wound. I wiped it first with the warm washcloth, moving it gently over his calf and thigh so as not to cause him pain. As I moved the washcloth from the bottom of the scrape, up Mark's leg, to his knee, the action suddenly changed from nursing ministrations to erotic sensualism. I tried to stop my mind from going there. "He's like 20 years-old," I told myself. "You could be his mother." But the reminders seemed to have just the opposite effect. It was as if the angel sitting on my right shoulder whispering these reminders was being drowned out by a devil on my left saying: "God, his body is so firm and smooth!" "He's so incredibly hot!"

As I began to clean up his thigh, I pressed his knee outward even more. I wasn't trying to look up his shorts; it just happened. Barely inside the leg opening of his shorts, I could see his jockstrap protruding slightly down his thigh. I tried not to be obvious, but I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The angel on my shoulder was gone—or maybe she had switched sides. Now my internal dialog was distinctly one-sided: "God, his cock is right there!" "I'll bet it's smooth and sweet. I'll bet he gets really hard when he's excited. And I'll bet it doesn't take much to get him excited." And then all I could think about was what it would be like to see Mark's cock get hard and to feel it in my hand.

I don't know whether Mark sensed the change in me. I don't think I was doing anything overt to show what I was thinking. I was still wiping the blood off the scratch in his thigh. But I could tell that something was happening in Mark, too. After all, I was staring transfixed at the barometer of male arousal. And the barometer showed that the pressure was rising.

There was no need to rush cleaning up Mark's wound, I decided. I moved the cloth gently up and down his thigh—more up than down each time I made a pass. (I guess 'made a pass' is particularly apt.) I could observe the effects of my ministrations directly and graphically. The pouch of Mark's jock strap was swelling noticeably. Because I was looking down, I don't think Mark could see the smile that spread across my face. What a remarkable discovery! My touch could still arouse a man. I reveled in the thought.

The wound was clean. There was no reason to keep rubbing Mark's thigh with the washcloth. No nursing reason, that is. There was most certainly an erotic one. So I kept on rubbing his thigh. I dropped the washcloth, though. No need for the pretense now. Mark and I both knew that this wasn't about cleaning his scratch anymore.

I slid my hand up inside his running shorts and felt the heat and humidity of his crotch. My hand was between the pouch of his jock strap and his thigh, with his swelling package pressing against the back of my fingers. Even with the back of my hand, I could feel Mark hardening. I touched the tender skin next to his scrotum with the tips of my fingers and I felt Mark shudder.

For all of this time, I hadn't raised my eyes above Mark's crotch. Now I looked up and I liked what I saw. Mark's head was thrown back and it looked as if his eyes were closed. He was completely focused on the tactile sensations I was causing him.

I readjusted my hand so I was cupping the pouch of his jock strap. His growing erection was pushing the end of the pouch down below his shorts now and he was hard enough that I could stroke him through the material of his jock.

Then I reached inside and touched his hot, hard cock. A jolt of electricity reverberated through my body. What a sensation! I hadn't felt this powerful in ... I didn't know how long. Decades, it had to have been. It was marvelous.

I pulled the cup of Mark's jock down and pushed it over to the side, releasing his now hard cock and his balls. When I pushed up his shorts as much as I could, I could see him clearly. Mark's cock was about average in size. It was very smooth, with a nicely pronounced helmet. Now, released completely with his shorts pushed up, it stood proud at an angle up from his legs. Below his beautiful cock were two wonderful apricot-sized balls hanging down in their sack. His hair was dark brown, like that on his head, and very soft.

For a long moment, I just took in the visual sensation. And, then, when I became aware of it, the scent of a young man's crotch. I've heard men talk about "the scent of a woman." There was even a movie by that name, right? I'm not into women, so I can't speak about the allure of the scent of a woman. But as a middle-aged very heterosexual woman, I can assert with confidence that it can't have anything on the scent of a man. I inhaled deeply and the scent swept me back to my youth.

I was suddenly aware that Mark was now looking down toward me. I looked up and gave him a slight smile. He smiled back. I didn't take my eyes from him as I gently reached under his balls and cupped his warm ball sack in my hand. As I did this, he was still looking down at me but he closed his eyes and breathed heavily.

This was, I guess, sort of a tease. Not aimed at manipulating Mark but at extending and enhancing the pleasure for both of us. When I moved my hand so that I was holding Mark's cock, I could feel it throb with energy and desire. I stroked it gently for a few moments while I watched Mark's face. Once or twice, he opened his eyes. When he did, he had a glassy, distant look in his eyes. I could see the desire burning in them.

The feeling of Mark's warm, rigid rod in my hand drew my attention away from his face. I looked at his beautiful cock, just inches from my face now. It was pointing directly at me, with a small drop of clear pre-cum glistening at the slit. I could resist no longer. I moved my mouth closer to touch that sweet pearl with the tip of my tongue.

Though it was only a tiny drop, the taste quickly filled my mouth—filled my senses. How long had it been since I'd tasted a man like this? Too long, I decided.

And then, without any further conscious thought on my part, my lips were around Mark's shaft. And suddenly I was a woman obsessed. Like riding a bike, I guess, once you've sucked a hard cock, you never forget how. It was like I was swept back to my twenties, consumed with lust, wanting nothing more than to fill my mouth with this hard cock and feel it shoot its sweet seed deep in my throat.

For just a moment, I worried that the enthusiasm with which I was undertaking this effort would frighten Mark. I wasn't doing this with the tentativity of a teen. But he wasn't stopping me and I let go of my self-observing thoughts and just lost myself in the power of the moment. And, God, what power it was! I felt the raw power of Mark's erection. And I controlled that power. I controlled Mark's pleasure and I was determined to take him to a level of sexual pleasure he'd never experienced before. But I was just as focused on my own pleasure—and not just the pleasure you get from causing your sexual partner pleasure. I mean the pleasure of the feel of a hard cock sliding between your lips, the pleasure of cupping a man's warm balls in the palm of your hand, the pleasure of pumping the shaft of his penis as you feel it fill your mouth.

I'm not sure how long this went on. That's the nature of being lost in the moment, after all. But at some point, I could tell that Mark was nearing an orgasm. For me, it was at exactly the right point—though I suppose I would have thought that no matter when he started building to an orgasm.

I focused all of my attention on the feelings I was anticipating. I wanted to feel his balls tighten up against his body. I wanted to feel the jet of semen as it shot up his cock, past my hand. I wanted to sense every individual shot of cum that filled my eager mouth.

Mark didn't disappoint me. Just as his cock was ready to explode in my mouth, it hardened even more and I felt the spurt of cum shoot up the shaft. And then my mouth filled with jet after jet of hot, salty cream. Mark thrust his hips up so far that I had to pull back away from him to keep from being impaled.

As he slowed his motions, I gripped his cock even harder, working my pressure from the base of his cock to the tip to milk him of the remnants of his seed. I held his sweet gift in my mouth for a second, savoring the tangy taste. It had been so long since I'd tasted a man's cum. The flavor and texture seemed at once familiar and brand new. I swallowed and put my lips around Mark's cock again, gently suckling on his softening shaft.

But it was clear that his cock was so sensitive that he didn't really find this pleasant now so I pulled off. And then, there I was—a woman almost 50, kneeling at the feet of kid who was barely out of his teens. I'd just given him the blowjob of his life, I was sure. (It may have been the blowjob of my life, too.) But what now? He'd been consumed with sexual desire all this time. Now, would he look at me with disgust, wondering how he'd ever gotten himself into this situation? Would he feel awkward and just want to get out of here as soon as possible? For that matter, I didn't know how I'd feel about this once I looked up and thought of Mark the 20 year-old kid instead of just focusing on his gorgeous, young, hard cock. I decided the best way to handle this—the best way to avoid awkwardness—was to lighten the mood.

"There," I said cheerily, backing away a bit, "does that feel better?" I paused for a second. "The scrape, I mean." And I laughed lightly as I got up.

"Yeah," Mark said haltingly. "It feels ... fine." And then he began fishing for something to say. "You know ... I ... " He felt like he needed to acknowledge what had happened and he didn't know how.

I decided to save him, in part because it made things easier for me, too. "Hey, it's okay. It felt good to you. And it felt good to me. What's the problem?"

"It did?" Mark couldn't just let it go. "I mean ... it felt good to you?"

"Wonderful! You can't even imagine." And that was the honest truth.

Mark got up. "Well, I should be going now." He was standing next to me, close enough that I think he was wondering whether proper protocol required him to kiss me.

I decided to put him at ease. I took his hand and started walking him toward the door. Just inside the door, I stopped and turned toward him, being sure to stand far enough away so he knew I wasn't looking for a romantic ending to the encounter.

"Yes. You should go," I said in a definitive tone. "If you want to forget that this happened, that's alright. I would understand. But, Mark, if you ever want to do this again, I'd be very happy to see you." He was quiet, like he didn't know what was on offer. I decided to clarify. "I know you have your friends and probably a girlfriend, maybe several. I'm not talking about a relationship, Mark. I'm just saying ... I liked it ... and if you liked it to, we can do it again, anytime you want. I live here alone and you can stop by anytime I'm here. You understand? No strings, no relationship. Just a few moments of shared pleasure. Where's the harm in that?"

"Okay." And I couldn't tell if that meant, "okay, I understand" or "okay, I'll be back. But I would find out in the days to come.

As it turned out, Mark became a frequent visitor. And, in a development that I wouldn't have believed I'd have allowed to happen if I hadn't experienced it, so did some of his friends on the soccer team. But that's a story for another time.