Confessions of a Soccer Mom

I was shaking as my hand worked the scissors.

I had to focus on not cutting myself.

I had never actually done anything like this before. I had fantasized about it, thought about it while I masturbated, but until now never actually tried it. My hair was piling up around us, it seemed so wrong, I knew there was no going back, and yet I couldn't stop myself. I wouldn't stop myself.

We were sitting together in an oversized chair in front of her floor-length mirror.

Candles flickered, soft music played, and two half-empty wine glasses sat on the floor, several empty bottles beside them.

She held the vibrator between my thighs, smiling and looking at our reflection. I thought it was the most erotic encounter I could ever remember. I looked at her eyes, they were the deepest green I had ever seen and they seemed to look right into my deepest desires.

I bit my lip as electricity rose and surged through my body, she knew just where to focus the tip of that wonderful tool and make me completely and utterly compliant.

Maybe I had always been that way I just didn't know it. Maybe she was the key that opened that door. All I know is that everything began to change when I met her and I know I never want to go back.

The fire crackled and she kissed my neck softly, nothing else around us seemed to exist or matter.

Both naked our bodies and legs wrapped around each other, each about the same size we fit perfectly into this chair. My eyes seemed aware of everything; no detail was too small, the reflection of her body, her delicious curves, the light sweat on her skin, the ever-present sparkle in her eyes, and our shared arousal as gaps appeared in my long blonde hair. The clippers, razor, and shaving cream sat quietly on the table beside us ... waiting.

She lightly kissed my now exposed neck and shoulders never taking her eyes off the reflection of my own eyes.

At that moment I was completely hers, she knew it, I knew it, and I would and was doing anything she asked.

It seemed like I had always known her, but we had only met a few weeks ago.

How could this have possibly happened to me, so completely and so quickly?

Was I really so frustrated with my life and the routine that went with it, that I would change so much?

With each snip of the scissors, more blonde hair fell to the floor, I knew the answer.

"Yes."

At different times over the past few weeks, I had played out the events in my mind. Almost as if I was at some sexual type of confessional, I thought of what had occurred as if it was a movie flickering in front of my eyes. Those green eyes blazed, sparkled, and those lips smiled, "snip, snip," she must be magic because I was under her spell and was under it quite willingly.

Ironically, I laughed to myself that everything that happened my husband unintentionally instigated. He couldn't have possibly imagined that by making one small, but significant suggestion that he freed me from a prison I couldn't see until I was outside of it.

He said he wanted to encourage me to get out and to meet new people, although I am sure this is not what he had in mind ... me submissively naked, cutting off my hair while a woman almost half my age massages my pussy, drinking wine, and about to shave my head.

I shivered with anticipation as more hair fell away, I could feel my pussy actually dripping, and the sweet fragrance of my sex lingered in the air as powerful as any perfume. She smiled, adjusted the vibrator, and nodded for me to continue.

I remembered his words that night, "Nancy, you need to get out of the house, I can see that you are in a rut."

"Rut!"

"Fuck!"

"Yes, I was in a rut he helped to dig."

I had been doing it so long, that it seemed like I had always begun my days at 5:30 each morning.

Get up, workout, shower, wake up the boys, make breakfast, eat breakfast, get Dean out of the house, get the kids off to the bus, get ready myself, and go to work. Work all day, fight the rush hour traffic, then make supper, do soccer or hockey practice depending on the season for both kids, somewhere find time for housework, laundry, and then collapse into bed like a dead person.

Not helping my self-confidence was that for as many years as I can remember. Dean constantly teased me that I was just a "soccer mom," and that was my mission in life. Pretty but not beautiful and certainly not sexy. Adding to that image was that I was increasingly frazzled, and was growing very tired and frustrated because I had no time for myself.

My weekend routine didn't include "work," but was almost always even busier than my weekdays. Saturday and Sunday were just a blur of house/yard work, sports tournaments, groceries, laundry, and other tasks that suburban families do. No time to catch my breath and my only "me thing," was drinking wine alone late at night, after everyone had gone to bed, too exhausted to think about anything else.

Sex was rare and never what I wanted. Occasionally Dean would pay a little attention to me. He would always tell me how hard I worked out and slap my ass making comments that I was still pretty sexy for a "soccer mom." His friends, when they came to watch the game, would snicker that I was their favorite SMILF, and occasionally one of them would comment on what a great ass I had or how perky my boobs were. Dean would laugh and imply that he was fucking me regularly, but in truth, the only satisfying parts of my sex life were spent by myself using my well-worn vibrator.

The only actual sex I was getting from Dean came maybe once or twice every few months. It seemed increasingly rarer but it was always the same. He would kiss me, and awkwardly hint he wanted to make out. Ever the optimist I would suck his cock hoping that maybe once he would return the favor. Sometimes he would cum in my mouth and I would swallow everything, and then he would fall asleep or I would bring him almost to the point of coming then he would stick himself into me, pound me like a jackhammer for about two minutes and then he would roll over and snore for the rest of the night.

I always hoped for more but that's all he wanted to do. Dean never wanted to go down on me and I didn't dare suggest anything wilder because he would completely shut me down. I realized years ago that I liked being submissive but even that has its limits.

When he came inside me I used to get up and clean up right away, but lately, as few as times as it happened, I started to enjoy the feeling of cum slowly leaking from me. Some of the erotica I read was about women who liked to do that and I was fascinated, I wanted so badly to try bold sex, sex that was adventurous, sex that was against the rules. At forty-one I was afraid I was trapped and running out of time.

My one escape was reading and watching porn, usually late at night on my phone, by myself. The more I felt trapped, the more I read and watched porn. I read about things I had never even heard of before, but with an increasing sense of hopelessness, I felt that with each passing day, my life was slipping away as were my chances of ever being satisfied.

I promised myself, if I ever got another chance I wouldn't waste it, but I didn't see any hope, I felt like a sexual Cinderella.

Some nights I would lay beside Dean while he snored, imagining being fucked by him and his friends, or my boss Brooke, or sometimes a complete stranger. All the while quietly fingering myself or very quietly using my vibrator to orgasm before falling asleep myself. On those rare nights when we had sex, I would lie there mixing his cum with my own juices and that seemed as close as I would get to the sex I desired.

Dean's attention was welcome, it was not frequent enough, and it was so vanilla. My vibrator started to become a more common visitor and before long, a several times a day visitor.

A few times I fell asleep without putting the vibrator away and Dean always got upset, somehow the older he was getting the more prudish he was becoming. For some reason, it was okay for me to suck his cock, and let him pound me until he came, but it wasn't okay for me to masturbate. Far from discouraging me his attitude only seemed to ensure that I was using it more and more.

The last time had only been a few nights ago, "What if the boys find out?" he said.

"Dean, they're 18 and 19 years old, I'm pretty sure they are masturbating like crazy already," I replied.

Dean seemed shocked that his boys would masturbate, I said, "Dean, it's perfectly natural, they're both big strapping young men, I know that they are both having sex with their girlfriends too."

"How do you know that, did they tell you?" he said actually raising his voice as if somehow I was lying or hiding something from him.

"They asked me if I would buy them condoms, I said, "Sure," I replied matter-of-factly, "I was happy to do that and we talked about some things I thought they should know."

"You encouraged them to have sex?" Dean said actually turning red as he spoke.

"No, but when I had "the talk," when they were each thirteen, I had said, I would rather buy condoms than have grandchildren and I had repeated it several times since."

"Well, I don't think it's a good idea, you're just encouraging them," his phone rang and fortunately he walked away to get a better signal and I just shook my head wondering how we had grown to be so different.

I felt torn. I knew I needed more, I wanted sex desperately, I wanted to feel sexy, and I wanted to be more than just a soccer mom. I would alternate between feeling guilty about my lustful feelings because, on one hand, Dean and I had a nice house, a nice family, and were financially secure. Other times, I felt so overwhelmed and anguished by the endless routine and the complete lack of fulfillment. Many nights I couldn't sleep I was frustrated.

I was completely miserable.

A few days later he seemed to have regained some of his sense of perspective and must have realized I was getting close to snapping. That night at supper out of nowhere, he suggested I take a night course at the college.

He was right, maybe getting out and meeting some people other than my coworkers and family would help, to do something that was just for "me."

My boys thought it would be a good idea too. When I flipped through the local college guide, the book almost fell open to a drawing course. I was registering for it before I knew it.

The first night, Dean and the kids had said they would take care of themselves so when I got home I grabbed a sandwich and changed. None of them were at home and I took off my work clothes and put on my jeans, a flannel shirt, and at the last minute decided to not wear a bra which always felt liberating and somewhat risqué. My hair was up in a perky ponytail, and I had taken a moment to put on just enough makeup to accent my features. For me, this was getting dressed up. I was excited.

I felt slightly nervous but I knew I needed this.

I rushed out, locked the door, and ate in the car.

As I got closer to the college I felt a little guilty, but not enough to change my mind; Dean and the boys would survive. When I got to the college, I was early, like I am normally, found a parking spot, and started looking for the classroom.

I found the room and I knocked on the door. Inside was a young woman; she looked about eighteen, attractive, and very perky. She said her name was Michelle and she was teaching the course. We started to chat and during our conversation, she told me she had just graduated from University and this was her first-semester teaching.

She laughed when I said I thought she was a student, she said that happens all the time but that she was actually 24. We talked for about twenty minutes and she asked me lots of questions about myself, I have to admit it felt nice. I talked to people all of the time in my job, but this was different, Michelle was asking me about me, not my job, not my family, not my kids, me.

When I asked about her, she explained taught fine art during the day and was doing this course to gain extra experience and as a favor to the dean because the original instructor had canceled at the last moment.

Although Michelle looked younger than she was, her eyes, her attitude, and the way she carried herself all seemed much more mature, much sexier, and much more exciting. Her energy and self-confidence were infectious. As we talked, her green eyes seemed to sparkle and totally captivated me, that time and every time since. I found myself saying and talking far more than I would normally. Sadly, soon other students arrived and she had to excuse herself to get ready.

I walked away and found an easel to work at. The excitement I felt earlier was only heightened now because of Michelle.

After everyone introduced themselves, Michelle said tonight she wanted to see how well we could all draw to get a feel of where the class was and what our skills were. She apologized to the class because she had arranged for a model to come in tonight, but unfortunately the person canceled for tonight so she said that she would pose for the class.

Michelle simply sat in a chair in the center of the easels and told us to do our best and not to worry about how good or bad we drew. When asked, she answered questions and really made everyone feel comfortable.

Michelle was about the same size as me, 5.2. If I had to guess, I figured maybe 110 to 120 lbs, her body was trim, and as I drew, I imagined she was likely a 34 x 22 x 34 but it was hard to tell because although her clothing was stylish, the loose fabric of her oversize sweater and long skirt only teased what lay beneath. I tried hard to capture her sense of fun, spirit, and her sense of being very feminine. As I drew her I found myself increasingly and unexpectedly excited, in fact, several times I noticed my heart beating faster. More than once we locked eyes and some kind of energy passed between us.

The class worked quietly, I focused myself on drawing, something I really hadn't done since graduation more than, fuck, eighteen almost twenty years ago. I didn't realize I must have said, "Fuck" aloud until the 50'ish lady beside me looked up and smiled.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to swear," I said to her.

"Don't worry about it honey, not much bothers me and it is one of my favorite words," she laughed, smiled, and then went back to her drawing.

I just smiled and returned to drawing as well. After that, several times, I thought I noticed her eyes not so subtly checking me out which made me a little self-conscious. Earlier as the other students arrived, I felt several of them checking me out as well, but I just thought I was imagining it, as my husband said, I was good-looking for a soccer mom, but I never thought I was worth staring at. I do have to admit that it did feel nice that people noticed me for me, and not just as someone's mom.

The more I drew, the more I concentrated. I kept coming back to Michelle's eyes and I became less and less aware of everyone around me, except her. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed drawing. It was like riding a bicycle; my techniques and skills returned to me almost as if I hadn't stopped drawing after the kids were born.

I focused on watching Michelle's long blonde hair, the curve of her neck, her full lips, the litheness of her body, the grace that she carried herself even just when sitting in the model's chair, and her nice ankles, and I lost myself in my drawing. My fingers and hands worked the paper translating what I saw into the movements of my pencil.

"Time's up," Michelle said breaking me out of my trance, she must have said it twice because when I looked up everyone else had stopped drawing but me.

Then she added, "I'll come around and see how you've done, why don't you all take a fifteen-minute break and I'll check out your drawings."

The class was mostly older women with one or two even older men. They seemed to be retired teachers and professionals judging from the bits and pieces of conversations I could hear. They were all nice and many of them introduced themselves to me during the break. It seemed many of them had taken courses like this before and most knew each other.

I left the room to use the washroom and when I returned I watched Michelle speaking to some of the class about their drawings. Watching her I couldn't help but notice my heart beating a little faster again, there was something about her eyes, her smile, and the way her body moved that was different, it was then I noticed that my pussy was getting wet. It took me several seconds to realize that it was happening. It was a surprise and it felt really amazing, I couldn't remember the last time I had felt this way that didn't involve reading or watching porn.

I felt a little guilty, she was my teacher and she was almost the same age as my kids, but I couldn't help myself.

The break ended before she got to the last five or so people, including me. She asked those of us she hadn't spoken to yet if we minded staying afterward so she could finish. She seemed to only be talking to me as she said that and I nodded my head as her eyes seemed to mesmerize me.

For the rest of the class, we listened to Michelle teach about technique, and the last hour or so just zipped by. I caught myself staring at her several times and once or twice, she caught me. We locked eyes and in those moments, it seemed like she could turn on the sparkle. I blushed but she just smiled at me, there was definitely something about her. I also caught the woman who had heard me swear to look at me several times along with both of the men. I smiled each time and never really gave them much thought, other than thinking, everyone seemed friendly.

About ten minutes before the class was scheduled to end, I saw Michelle pick up her phone, read a text, and then those amazing eyes suddenly turned dark and stormy. Michelle took a deep breath and announced her model had just texted her and had abruptly quit leaving her without a model for our course. This was a big problem because the focus of this class was drawing the human form.

"I can't be the model and help each of you," she paused as if wrestling with alternatives, "Are any of you interested in modeling, it's not hard and we could rotate a few people to make it easier," she asked hopefully.

Silence hung for more than a minute and then one of the men asked, laughing, "Would we have to pose nude?"

Michelle was quick and without missing a beat, she fired right back at him, "Only if you would like," she paused for a second and then added, "Quite often we have nude models for some of my classes, would you like to volunteer? She asked playfully.

The man turned about fifty shades of red and stammered, "No, no thank you."

Seconds passed with just silence.

Everyone in the room looked around at each other and then the woman who caught me swearing, blurted out, "I think she would be great," pointing at me.

Both men nodded as did several of the other women.

Michelle looked at me and smiled, "I was hoping she would volunteer too," and everyone laughed, except me, I suddenly felt like everyone was staring at me, but I would be lying if I didn't feel suddenly very turned on by the strange turn of events. Under the flannel shirt, I felt my nipples hardening as if the room had suddenly turned ice cold and I could feel that growing dampness in my panties again.

Michelle waited for the chatter to stop and then said, "Seriously, if anyone is interested in modeling, please see me after the class."

I can't remember a single word that Michelle said after that, suddenly it was the end of the class and people were leaving. Only those people whom Michelle hadn't spoken to were left, there didn't seem to be anyone interested in modeling, nude or otherwise. One by one, each of them left after she to them talked about their drawings. I took advantage of the time to try to finish mine.