It was another hectic, typical day for Mrs. P, working mom with three middle- and high-school aged boys. She worked nights while her husband worked days, and that meant that her days were filled with errands and shuttling back and forth to games and camps and practices and tryouts and parties and...
There just never seemed to be enough time for her.
Somewhere along the line she'd also lost her own name ... at first being referred to as one or another boy's "mom," now everyone in the small community knew her as "Mrs. P."
Today was no exception to the frantic rule. After working late the night before, she had gotten up early to finish the laundry, gas up the car and do some shopping before taking the two eldest boys to basketball camp.
More shopping after dropping them off meant no time to change before she picked them up from the end-of-camp party. That meant she'd be wearing the same shorts, sweatshirt, and sneakers she had thrown on this morning after grabbing a quick shower, tying her dark hair in a ponytail, and dashing out ... she hadn't even had time to put on a bra.
As she drove her mini-van from the house to the gym, she admitted to herself that not wearing a bra wasn't so bad. The inside of the sweatshirt was soft and fuzzy; it tickled her nipples and made them stand at attention. And her shorts were loose enough that she could let her fingers sneak up her legs and touch herself while she waited at an extra-long traffic light.
As she looked down at the two college age boys in the car next to her she wondered if they ever imagined that under her "soccer mom" exterior there was a very naughty lady. A very naughty lady who at this moment was fantasizing about what the two young men next to her were hiding in their pants while diddling herself nearly to orgasm behind the wheel of the family mini-van.
When she got to the gym she did a quick double check to make sure that there was no trace of her wetness showing through, and dashed inside just in time to see the first awards announced. She stood against the back wall with the other moms, applauding for all the boys and shouting encouragement for her sons as they received their awards. She could smell her wetness on her fingers, but didn't have time to wash.
Several times during the ceremony she noticed Mr. Johnson, one of the main instructors at the camp and a former NBA player, smiling and looking at her. "He probably looks at all the moms that way. He's just being nice," she convinced herself.
But her body wasn't accepting her mind's rationalization. She felt herself blush and instinctively gave him a coy smile and a sideways glance with her head tilted down. Then she scolded herself for flirting and tried to avoid eye contact for the rest of the ceremony.
After the ceremony there was pizza and cake and she spent some time talking with the other moms (all the while hoping they couldn't smell her sex on her fingers) and catching up on all their family issues. She saw Mr. Johnson mingling with the players and their parents ... he always had to sign autographs for the dads, and they seemed to ignore when he was extra friendly with their wives. She pushed her own dirty thoughts to the background.
As the crowd was starting to thin out and her own sons made plans to go home with another friend after the party, Mrs. P figured she should pack up and go. Maybe she would have time to take a hot bath and finish the fantasy she started in the car, since her kids wouldn't be home until late.
She felt a gentle, strong hand on her shoulder as she turned to leave. "Can I talk to you for a few minutes in my office, Mrs. P? It's about your boys; I think they have real potential." It was Mr. Johnson. The way he looked at her made her blush again. She felt a little flustered, a little nervous.
She also felt foolish for imagining that this man, maybe 15 years younger than her, who could (and from all the rumors, did) have his pick of any single, attractive, young woman in the tri-state area, meant anything suggestive at all by his otherwise innocent remark.
He couldn't be interested in a disheveled housewife, after all. And even if he was, in her current state she certainly didn't feel like one that he'd favor, not compared to the others, younger, prettier, better dresses and more openly competing for his attention. Some of them even went as far as to wear "date-night" make-up, dresses and heels for this casual event.
.... There is more of this story ...