Game Day Glory

I don't know what came over me, but I pushed her aside, taking Mr. Jenkins' pussy-flavored cock into my mouth, sucking even more cum out of him as he moaned loudly. I felt like a voracious whore, unwilling to stop, and I loved it, loved that feeling, still crave that feeling, still sometimes wish to be a whore.

—

In the days afterward, Anna was quiet with me. I asked her if her mother had said anything or was acting oddly, and she told me no, but that her father was acting shy. That meant, obviously, that her father had said nothing to her mother, and he knew it was us on the other side of that gloryhole that night, not her mother and some 'friend' named 'Candice'. I'm sure Anna and I both knew he knew it was us, even when it was happening. That look in his eyes, when he saw I was there, in her bedroom before the game, when he said, glancing at me, that my father was going to be there. Looking back on it now, with the benefit of hindsight, I feel like that's the moment when I knew he knew. I'm pretty sure Anna knew it then, too, because she knew his eyes, and his looks, way better than I ever did.

But it was just Mr. Jenkins alone who knew our secret, I'm pretty sure of that. My father didn't know. That's what I tell myself, anyway. My dad was just blowing off some steam, 'going along with the guys', using the gloryhole as a drunken excuse to get his rocks off with slutty Mrs. Jenkins and her mystery friend. I should have been mad at him for cheating on my mom, but I wasn't mad. I felt strangely warm and loving to him in the days after; days, and even weeks, when I could tell he was feeling guilty, feeling sad that he had cheated. I wanted to tell him that it was all right, that I understood. It was a secret place, that game room, that gloryhole. A secret that was safe.

So why am I telling you this story, all these years later? On my thirtieth birthday, just last week, I received a card from Anna's mother and father. Her mother signed it Happy birthday Megan! Hope you are happy and well. We miss you!

Mr. Jenkins wrote this little note: 30 years old? That can't be true. To me, you're forever nineteen. Have a wonderful birthday.

Anna called me that night. We live in different cities now, and always call each other on our birthdays. I told her what her father had written, and how reading it had given me goosebumps, the memories of that night in her basement still so vivid in my mind. She told me that she hadn't been completely truthful about what had happened in the days following that night, all those years ago. She told me, during that phone call, that her father had left the note in her room the next day, the note that she'd forged in her mother's handwriting. He'd written his own little note on it: Your mother shouldn't find this. No one knows but me. It didn't surprise me, when she told me, because I was always sure he knew, but it was certainly interesting to hear the full story of how things played out afterward.

"But, he never said anything to you? Just wrote that little note?" I asked her.

"Never said a word," Anna said, her voice getting bashful, the way it used to when we were younger. "I feel...like I need to confess something to you," she said. "I did it again, without you." Anna paused, and I didn't speak. "I did it lots of times," she said. "If Dad was down there alone, watching a game, I'd sneak down. If it was during the day, sometimes Mom was out, but lots of times she was home, right upstairs, watching her own TV show. I'd go down there, take off that panel in her craft room, and knock on the wall as quietly as I could. The next few seconds, waiting there in the quiet, was always...almost better than drugs."

"And he'd just...do it?" I asked.

"Yeah. You remember what it's like. His cock, through the hole, all hard. God, I'm getting horny just thinking about it."

I kept my voice calm, not judgmental in any way, because I was horny, too. "Did you just suck it, or...fuck him?"

"Both," Anna said. "Lots of times."

Anna's confession stunned me, and it made me a little mad at her, but I didn't say anything. I felt mad because I wish that she'd told me, back then, what she was doing. I'm sure I would have been there with her, in the flickering light of a single candle, breathing its heady scent, hearing her knock on that wall, feeling that excitement again.

The End