My Wife's Big Mouth

When our ten year-old son joined the Rockets, the local youth hockey team, my wife, Cindy, and I had no idea how it would change our lives. We didn't know how expensive his equipment would be and how quickly Sam would outgrow it. We didn't realize how much time we would spend driving all over the state to attend practices, camps, clinics, scrimmages, games and tournaments. We didn't understand that the youth hockey season lasts for eight months out of the year. And we definitely didn't anticipate just how crazy hockey parents can get -- ourselves included.

But if there were some unforeseen inconveniences that came with raising a young Rocket, there were unexpected benefits, too. Those crazy hockey parents were now our friends. We carpooled to games together, cheered for our kids together, and, on occasion, celebrated a big win together.

That's what I hoped we would be doing later tonight. This was the last game of a seemingly interminable season and, with a.500 record, our kids needed a win to secure the last spot in the playoffs. While the team was perfectly mediocre, Sam had played consistently well. He was tied with another boy, Ricky, for the most goals on the team -- despite playing defense on most shifts.

As Cindy and I settled into our seats, the rink was so cold that we could see our breath, but we were too busy greeting friends to notice. After watching dozens of games over the course of a long season, Cindy and I had grown close to the other hockey parents, and we were happy to see all the familiar faces in the crowd. Or perhaps I should say that we were happy to see most of them -- there was one big exception. Ricky's father, Rocco Sarducci.

Rocco is a single dad, about 55 years old -- twenty years older than Cindy and me -- and he looks it. At 5 feet 9 inches, and probably 200 pounds, Rocco has a squat, thickset physique. He isn't ripped with muscles, but he isn't flabby either. He has a slightly protruding stomach and a broad, hairy chest that he adorns with an Italian horn necklace. His body might pass for a younger man's, but that craggy face, graying beard and receding hairline betray his age.

Rocco is the epitome of an asshole, a walking repository of every toxic personality trait that Cindy and I can't stomach. He is loud, uncouth, outspoken, egotistical and opinionated. His language is frequently vulgar and although he is superficially friendly and charming to most of the other parents, especially the husbands, he has been known to give the wives backhanded compliments, subtle put downs and sarcastic nicknames. He seems to take particular pleasure in picking on Cindy and she hates him for it.

Maybe the loathing is mutual, but I never got the impression that Rocco dislikes my wife. Quite the contrary, in fact. I think she just intimidates him a little and the teasing is his way of compensating. At 5 feet, 8 inches, Cindy is nearly the same height as Rocco. In heels, she is taller. And she is certainly more attractive. In stark contrast to Rocco, a stocky balding guy with a half-century of lived experience carved into his face, Cindy is cute and yourhful-looking, with plump, ruby lips, a perfect little nose, a flawless complexion and long, wavy hair the color of honey. And although Cindy dresses conservatively, never trying to flaunt her figure, she has a spectacular pair of breasts that are impossible to hide. Even now, when she is wearing multiple layers to keep warm inside the chilly skating rink, those huge tits are tenting the front of her cableknit sweater, making the frosty blue wool strain to contain them. The way the sweater sets off the blue in her eyes makes her look positively radiant.

Not that she would ever say so. Cindy tries to downplay her looks in order to be taken more seriously as a professional. She is a pediatric psychiatrist who put herself through medical school and went on to earn an advanced degree. Every step of the way, from her undergraduate work as a premed and psychology double-major to her graduate studies, Cindy had to work twice as hard as her peers in order to overcome the stereotypes and social expectations that come with being a buxom blonde beauty.

None of Cindy's academic and professional achievements impressed Rocco. He used to make snide remarks about Cindy being a nerd, but lately he seemed not to mention her intellect at all, as if he instinctively knew that to really hit her where it hurts, he needs to focus on those voluptuous tits she is always trying to hide. So, a few games ago, Rocco nicknamed my wife "Chesty," to the amusement of the other dads who wouldn't dare call her that themselves. Even a few of Cindy's fellow hockey moms seemed to take a little pleasure in seeing their bright and successful friend treated like a bimbo.

Cindy hated that name, but she had learned that objecting to it only encourages Rocco to think up even more degrading alternatives. It was better, she figured, to ignore his immature fixation on her breasts rather than feeding into it. That helped ease the tension between Rocco and Cindy for a brief time, but I dreaded seeing him today after what went down at last week's game.

And sure enough, the foul-mouthed lout brought it up right away.

"Mike, good to see you," Rocco called out to me. He obviously saw Cindy, who was blowing into her hands right beside me as we sat down on the cold metal bench, but he waited a beat before acknowledging her.

"Chesty!" Rocco boomed loudly. "Good to see you too! Hey, no hard feelings about losing that bet, right?"

Cindy winced for a split-second before flashing the hairy old vulgarian the best fake smile she could muster.

Things had gotten a bit out of hand last week. We had "pregamed" with some friends in the parking lot, then kept the party going by sneaking a flask of fireball whiskey into the rink, which we had passed around as the game got underway. By the time the third period rolled around, we were feeling no pain, and that was when Cindy and Rocco started jawing at one another. Rocco had been bragging about Ricky, as usual, heaping immodest praise on the boy and calling him the best scorer on the team. Anyone but Rocco would have been embarrassed by such a showy display of self-regard. Even still, Cindy could normally have ignored Rocco's braggadocio, but she was too drunk to fully conceal her contempt for the man and before long she was loudly snapping back at him. The whiskey made Cindy feistier than usual and soon she was drunkenly breaking Rocco's balls, asking him why Ricky, who is a forward, has one fewer goal than Sam, who plays defense. From there, Cindy proceeded, tipsily, to predict that Sam would score the next goal and extend his team lead.

Rocco hadn't hesitated for a second to turn that into a wager. It was if he had been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Cindy knew better than to let Rocco goad her into gambling. Rocco is nowhere near as book smart as Cindy, but she knows he has a certain low cunning and it makes her wary. If she hadn't been liquored up, Cindy would have ignored this bet as just another of Rocco's annoying antics. But the fireball whiskey lowered Cindy's inhibitions and loosened up her tongue, and before my own booze-fogged brain could register what was happening, my wife had accepted Rocco's bet. She had been so quick to take the wager, in fact, that she hadn't even asked for the terms.

The bet had given me a pit in my stomach. Call me a pessimist, but I just had a gut feeling that betting with Rocco would be a fool's errand.

Not two minutes later, Ricky had proved me right, scoring what turned out to be a game-winning goal. That had brought him even with Sam for the team scoring lead, where they still stood going into today's game. As the puck hit the net, I had seen Cindy's shoulders slump and her eyes go wide with shock.

Now, however, my wife's beautiful blue eyes were narrow with impatience as Rocco began needling her about losing the bet at the last game. Cindy wasn't drunk this time, but Rocco's teasing seemed to be getting to her, especially when he began calling her "Chesty." I could tell by the flush in her cheeks and the glare in her eyes that she had had enough of this egotistical old misogynist.

Rocco could see it, too, but that only made him tweak her more. "Come on, Chesty," he said, dragging out that degrading nickname while staring directly at my wife's huge tits. I'll let you go double or nothing."

That must have been Chesty -- er, Cindy's final straw, because the scorn in her tone was audible when she spat back to accept the offer. "Fine," my wife said, "you're on."

This time, however, Rocco made a point of explaining the terms of the bet. Loudly enough for our entire group of friends to hear, Rocco told Cindy what she was getting into. "If your kid" -- I rolled my eyes, realizing that all this time Rocco had apparently never bothered to learn Sam's name -- "ends the game with more goals than Ricky, then you owe me nothing for last week's bet. But if Ricky ends the game with more goals, then you have to come to my after party and sit on my lap...."

"Sit on your lap?!" Cindy cut him off, outraged. "Keep dreaming, old man."

If my wife's biting reference to his age had bruised Rocco's ego, he didn't show it. Remaining stoic, he finished setting out the terms. "...for thirty minutes, while you wear Ricky's hockey sweater. What do you say,

Chesty? You can still back out if you don't believe in your baby boy."

Rocco's suggestive bet caused a murmur in our cheering section. All eyes turned to Cindy -- and, no doubt, to her large, firm tits -- to gauge her response. The pit in my stomach was back. It was bad enough that Rocco had been taunting her as "Chesty," but now that he had demeaned Sam, my wife's pride and joy, I knew she wouldn't back down from the bet.

"All right," she said, seething, "but I want something more. When Sam wins the scoring title," Cindy continued with a trace of condescension, "you will never call me by that vulgar name again. Going forward, you will only call me Mrs. Rosen."

I had a bad feeling about all this. My wife was so blinded by her disdain for Rocco that she was playing right into his hand.

The surrounding crowd applauded Cindy for her boldness in accepting the bet and even upping the ante, but the applause got even louder after Rocco's retort.

"if you win; I will call you whatever you like, Mrs. Rosen," Rocco addressed my wife with exaggerated politeness, before twisting the knife one last time. "But if I win, since you'll be wearing my son's jersey, you can call me Daddy."

I could just barely make out my wife's response over all the whistling and clapping. "I think I'll be calling you Loser," she said, but a hint of anxiety crept into her voice. She didn't seem quite as arrogant as she had a moment ago. I felt a familiar dread creep over me.

The first period restored some of our confidence, however, as Sam scored on a wrist shot from the blue line, giving the team a 1-0 lead and pulling one goal ahead of Ricky for the scoring title. Cindy was ecstatic and couldn't resist rubbing it in Rocco's face. "Have fun at your little party," Cindy cooed. "Such a shame that I'll be missing it."

I expected Rocco to have some demeaning comeback and he didn't disappoint. "The only thing you'll be missing, my dear Chesty, is my lap. After half an hour, I bet you'll be begging me to let you stay longer," he boomed, pronouncing his words slowly and deliberately as he locked eyes with my wife.

The crowd oohed and ahhed, but at half volume, as if trying not draw more attention to the sexual tension exploding between Rocco and his big-titters adversary. There was an erotic electricity in the air and our friends buzzed with aroused anticipation. Would my cute wife with the huge rack end up on Rocco's lap? I got the feeling that the crowd was rooting for that and it made me nervous.

"If you're willing to bet on that, you're a fool, so name your terns." Cindy shot back at Rocco, silencing the hoots and hollers. My anxiety shot through the roof. From the beginning I worried about how this wager would end, but the more Cindy tempted fate by letting Rocco drag her down to his level, the more worried I became. The rink was near freezing but I could feel sweat dampening the hair at my temples.

"That's mighty white of you, Mrs. Rosen," Rocco intoned with mock sincerity.

Who the fuck would say such a thing? I cringed at his casual racism. But a strange feeling overtook me. Even as I remained nervous and unsettled, I also began to feel a creeping sense of shame, like I was subconsciously rooting for Rocco despite my burning hatred for the man. That kind of shame feels hot, and it made my cheeks and ears turn red, but it weighed heavy on me, too, making me stay silent even while this stubby little troll got increasingly bold with my wife. I just couldn't find the right words to say. It was all that I could do to ride the waves of shame, dread and lust that crashed down on me as this gross old guy continued to provoke my wife.

"I'll tell ya what, college girl," Rocco drawled. I was surprised he even remembered Cindy's intellect, after fixating on her tits for so long. "When I win this bet, and you spend half an hour on my lap, wearing my son's sweater and calling me 'Daddy,' you'll beg to stay. If you don't, then I will pay for...," Rocco started stuttering and stalling for time, before finally coming up with my son's name, "Sam's hockey expenses next season. A new stick, new gear, his sign up fees, everything. What do say to that, Chesty?"

My wife should have said hell no! She should have told this perverted asshole to go fuck himself. At the very least, she should have asked what Rocco would expect if he somehow won this part of the bet. But Rocco's constant disrespect had my wife seeing red. Without thinking, she accepted his new terms. "Then get ready to pay up," Cindy said as a haughty look flashed across her adorable face.

It didn't last. As the first period came to a close, Ricky stole a pass in front of the opponent's net, which he flicked through the goalie's five hole for an easy score. Our cheering section let out a full-throated roar, except for Rocco, who stayed oddly silent. He just turned to look at Cindy, then glanced down at his lap with a smirk on his face.

The boys were tied and it stayed that way through the second period. The game was 2-0 heading into the third, with one goal each for Ricky and Sam.

The final period seemed to take an eternity. Penalties and injuries conspired to repeatedly stop the game clock and I spent the extra time on the edge of my seat, riveted to my wife, desperately hoping to see signs of confidence. Somehow I convinced myself that if Cindy wasn't worried, then everything really would work out okay. But seeing her only made my anxiety worse. She stared grimly at the game while gently rocking back and forth. As a psychiatrist, Cindy would have instantly recognized the behavior as an outward manifestation of her inner turmoil, but she was in no condition for self-reflection. All she could think about was winning this bet and putting Rocco and his big mouth in their place.

With about two minutes to go, it looked like she might get her wish. Our team scored a fluke goal when Sam flipped the puck in front of a crowded net and it somehow found its way past the keeper. But who cares if it was a soft, seeing-eye goal? Sam scored!

My wife and I cheered lustily, but I noticed that our friends could only muster scattered, polite applause. Those fuckers really did want to see my cute little wife snuggled up on Rocco's lap. The soft sounds of their halfhearted applause made it clear where the crowd's allegiance lay.

So when the referee announced that the shot had deflected off someone's stick, and that Sam would be credited with an assist rather than a goal, I knew from the crowd's deafening roar just who had deflected the shot into the net. It was Ricky.

There were only two minutes left in the game and Ricky Fucking Sarducci held a one goal lead. My stomach felt like cast iron. Rocco stopped hiding his smirk as the clock ticked down to zero. Everyone around us was ecstatic. The team had won, securing a playoff berth, and the after party at Rocco's promised to be very entertaining. But their joy was my misery. A vacant stare came over my face as Cindy and I trudged in silence out of the rink and into the parking lot.

Outside, a crowd had gathered around Rocco's vintage Corvette as he held court, clearly in a jovial mood. I braced myself for the barrage of insults and innuendos that he was sure to hurl at Cindy, but to my surprise, nothing came. Rocco didn't even mention the bet. Instead, he complimented Sam on a great regular season and said the team would need him even more in the playoffs. I had never seen this man show any class, so I was stunned into disbelief. I could feel Cindy's relief when it became clear that Rocco was more interested in celebrating the end of the regular season than in lording a lost bet over her head. He didn't even pressure Cindy to attend the post-game party at his house. He mentioned it once, and that was it.

If that was designed to make Cindy let her guard down; I must admit that it worked perfectly. Somehow Rocco succeeded in making it seem that this party would be fun, not a humiliating ordeal, and against all odds, Cindy was actually smiling as I drove us there.

Rocco had let Cindy slide on last week's bet, so I tried to convince myself that maybe all his bets were just for fun and he had no intention of making Cindy actually go through with it.

It was a short drive to Rocco's house, which was merciful considering that Sam spent the entire time describing in detail how he deserved to get credit for the goal on that play and how the puck had never even touched Ricky's stick. Cindy showed her hurt for just a split second before recovering her poise. When I parked, she was the first one out of the car, but whether she was eager to get to the party or eager to get it over with, I couldn't tell.

As she walked ahead of me, I was blown away by Cindy's beauty. She's my wife, so I know I'm biased, but who could deny that she is super cute and fuckable? Her jeans perfectly framed her perky little ass and her blue sweater sported a massive bulge from the bountiful tits beneath.

Dusk fell as we climbed the walkway to Rocco's house. Seeing Cindy's sinful body silhouetted against the red sky gave me a chill as we entered through a wooden gate into Rocco's back yard, where about ten other couples were lounging around a large swimming pool. A few of the kids were jumping in, while Rocco mixed drinks for the adults.

"Hey! Mike and Cindy! Glad you could make it!" Rocco greeted us warmly. I must say that the man could be charming when he wanted to be. Using Cindy's actual name was a stroke of genius and I could see her relax her shoulders as she thanked him for the invitation and asked for a drink.

"Coming right up!" Rocco said with a smile as he began sloshing together the contents of several brightly colored bottles. He poured the concoction into a big red plastic cup and handed it to Cindy,

"How about you, Mike, what are you drinking?" he asked me. I declined.

"Nothing for me, thanks," I said. "I'm the DD tonight."

"I thought Cindy was the DD every night," Rocco shot back with a wink, his familiar obsession with her breasts finally showing itself. But with a drink already in hand, Cindy just laughed off the comment and began to mingle with some of the other hockey moms.

For the next few hours, the kids took turns pushing each other into the pool, a few of the parents ventured into the hot tub, and Rocco kept the drinks flowing from the pool house. As the night grew darker, the lights in the pool flashed underwater, bathing the patio area in the reflected green-blue glow.