Odessa, Texas.

Permian High School.

Home of the Panthers.

The Mojo.

In Texas, high school football isn’t a sport. It’s a lifestyle. And if you wanted the mansion on the hill instead of the trailer in the field, Permian was it.

Or at least it once was. But the last several years have seen lackluster performance out of the boys.

But that’s all changing. Darryl Artman, a member of the 2008 Panthers, is the new head coach. He’s guiding his quarterback, Jake Smith, to return the Mojo to their former glory.

Mojo Rising. That’s their mantra now.

Thirty-five teenagers milled about, moving in and out of the shower room, in various stages of undress. Locker room banter melded into a constant din, echoing off the tiled walls and metal lockers.

The stench of grass and dirt and sweat permeated the locker room, amplified by the steam billowing from the showers.

“Smith!” Mr. Fairchild yelled across the locker room. “Get your butt in here!”

Jake hurried from the shower room, a small white towel wrapped around his trim waist. He ran to his locker and quickly pulled a pair of boxers over his muscular legs, up his thighs, before hastening toward the coach’s office.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, standing in the doorway, water dripping down his well-defined, hairless chest. He brushed errant locks of hair from his eyes, wiping his hands on the damp towel.

“Got a few new things for you, Mr. Smith,” Coach Artman intoned in a slow drawl. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the scarred desk.

A relieved smile spread across the senior’s face. “Oh, yeah?” he asked. His body relaxed; he had been ready to be dressed down following his poor performance during double sessions that day.

“Yeah. Mr. Fairchild and I conjured up a few ideas over the last coupla weeks. Actually, some stuff we used to run here years ago, just ... updated.”

Jake’s eyes shifted from Coach Artman to the offensive coordinator, Brendan Fairchild. “I’m all ears, Coach.”

Coach Artman laughed softly. “I’m sure you are, Jake. I’m sure you are. Tell ya what, though. It’s late. It’s hot. You had a rough practice. Swing by the house later. Pick up the additions to the playbook.”

The eagerness on the sixteen-year-old’s face was apparent.

“Now, don’t go gettin’ all excited. We’ll start runnin’ some of this new stuff tomorrow and see how it works out. No promises. We gotta see if you can make it work.” Darryl Artman paused and then swung his legs off the desk. “But stop on by. Mr. Fairchild and I’ll be there, got somethin’ goin’ on out back. Get the pages. Review ‘em tonight. We’ll talk about it in the mornin’.”

Jake nodded and then retreated to his locker and finished dressing, slipping into a pair of tan cargo shorts and a white polo shirt. On the way out to his pickup truck, he passed by the Permian band practicing “Alma Mater,” the school’s fight song.

The August sun was on its downward slide to the west, receding but no less intense for it.

After running a few errands for his mother and getting his truck washed, Jake met Katie, his love interest, at the local Dairy Queen and they shared an ice cream, a few laughs, and a kiss. “Sorry, but I gotta stop by Coach’s and pick some new plays. Call me later?”

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the Artmans’ driveway and shut the engine off. Pushing the door open, he dropped from the cab and casually made his way toward the front door of the ranch-style home. He punched the doorbell as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back.

A few moments later, the door swung open and a gust of cool air surged from behind the screen and caressed his clean-shaven cheeks.

“Hi, Mrs. Artman,” he announced with a crooked grin. On the other side of the screen, she stood barefoot with her hips cocked to one side. One hand held the door, the other perched at the top of her hip.

“And hello to you, Mr. Smith,” she welcomed him, snow-white teeth gleaming from between wet, shiny lips, set off by the healthy tan that highlighted high cheekbones and classic beauty.

“Uh, Coach asked me to stop by and pick up a few inserts for the playbook.” Jake swallowed hard. Melanie Artman was a sight to behold; she never failed to bring a lump in his throat. A sleeveless white cotton blouse hung loosely on her upper body but still failed to disguise the ample chest that lie beneath.

“Did he now?” Coach Artman’s wife asked rhetorically, a sly smile creeping along the features of her face. She leaned into the screen door and pushed it open, stepping aside to allow the young man to enter. “I think I know just where he left them.”

“Um, is he here? Coach Artman, I mean?” The older woman smelled vaguely of lilacs and the scent hung around him as he stepped through the doorway, squeezing by her. The bicep of one of his arms brushed lightly against a jutting breast; the short blonde hairs along his forearm stood on end and his skin tingled.

“Course he is, Jake,” she responded, her bright blue eyes showing amusement. “He and Mr. Fairchild are out back finishin’ the patio. Let me just get those papers for you from the den and then you can go on out and say hi.”

Jake waited in the foyer for Mrs. Artman to return. When she did, she directed him through the kitchen and out a screen door that led to the backyard. Jake stepped outside and found Mr. Fairchild using a wet saw to cut a brick paver in half. Coach Artman knelt fifteen feet away, gently tapping an already-cut paver into place with a rubber mallet.

“Coach, Mr. Fairchild,” he said, announcing his presence.

Both men looked up from their tasks. “How you doin’, boy?” Mr. Fairchild asked, tapping the “off” button and raising the protective goggles from his eyes.

“Awright. Just came by to pick up the extra pages for the playbook. Mrs. Artman said y’all were back here workin’. Thought I’d say hi.”

Coach Artman stood and shook the boy’s hand before calling out to his wife. “Mel, honey, would ya bring the boy a Coke or somethin’?”

“Sure thing,” they all heard from somewhere in the house.

As Coach Artman explained his plans for the patio, Mrs. Artman leaned out the back door. “Need a glass, sweetie?”

“Nah. Can’s just fine,” he called over his shoulder. Behind him, the screen door clattered shut.

Mrs. Artman padded silently across the yard, still barefoot, and handed him the can.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he offered, taking the drink from between long, slender fingers painted the same bright red as the can.

“My pleasure,” she said before turning on her heel. Her ash blonde tresses, gathered in an invisible rubber band, whipped around. As she sauntered back toward the house, Jake’s eyes locked on her figure. Long, tanned legs, lightly muscled, disappeared beneath a khaki skirt that was wrapped loosely around her firm butt.

His longing stare was broken by the small laughter of the two older men.

“Don’t go gettin’ any ideas, son,” Coach Artman warned him lightheartedly. “Been mine for over a decade now. Will always be mine.”

His words floated to Melanie’s ears as she crossed the yard. She felt herself flush. Not from embarrassment, but frustration and resentment. She married Darryl soon after college. He had a promising career ahead of him and was going to get them out of Odessa. All the way to Dallas, or Houston maybe. They never made it that far, but a few years in Austin had sat well with her. But now, years later, here they were, back in Odessa.

‘Goddammit,’ she thought, purposely putting a little more sway in her hips as she approached the screen door. ‘I hate this fuckin’ town. Hate the summer, and the fall even more. Hotter than shit out here.’

She pulled the screen door open and stepped inside. She wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow that had formed during her brief sojourn outside. Her nipples thickened against the cool contrasting air inside.

‘And then football season comes. Double sessions during the summer ... practice and planning once school starts. A football widow if there ever was one.’

Yet every weekend, there’d she sit, the prim, doting wife, cheering for the Mojo.

Mrs. Artman made herself busy in the kitchen, cleaning up.

‘I didn’t sign up for this shit,’ she lamented, wiping down the island. ‘I didn’t sign up for football. I signed up for the big city, glamorous restaurants, and fucking on the balcony of our high-rise apartment while the nanny takes care of the kids. Not this go-nowhere town, Olive Garden, and no sex from July to December.’

She stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes – Darryl had promised to fix the dishwasher two weeks ago but it wasn’t done yet; football season, he had explained – her gaze directed through the window above the sink, toward the patio where the three boys stood talking. Her focus was somewhere in the middle ground as she fumed over the cards life had dealt her.

‘Always be mine,’ she thought. ‘If you only knew, Coach.’ Her mind bit on the last word.

A laugh broke her from the conversation she was having with herself and she focused on the trio. Jake had his back to her, the middle of his shirt darkened from sweat. She wondered briefly if his little teenage ass was as firm and tight as the rest of his sixteen-year-old body. She smirked at the wickedness of it and her imagination conjured up an image of a thick, sweaty cock packed tightly in the boy’s shorts.

Her distended nipples throbbed at the thought. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself on dimpled knees before the kid. He was wearing his football uniform, shoulder pads and all. He smelled of wet grass and heavy sweat. Black, anti-glare strips were affixed below each of his eyes. But his pants were undone at the waist and his thick cock bobbed up and down before her quivering lips; a thick strand of pre-cum dripped from the end of it. ‘Suck it, Mrs. Artman,’ she heard him say. She salivated and her soft lips eased apart and closed over the head of his shaft and he moaned above her. ‘Yeah,’ he grunted. ‘Coach’s wife’s a helluva cocksucker.’ Then he laughed.

The laughter from outside shocked Melanie from her daydream. She had been scrubbing the frying pan so vigorously that when she jumped, it fell from her tightly gripping fingers into the sink, splashing soapy water against her stomach and chest.

“Ugghh,” she groaned. She reached for a towel and a trickle of wetness threatened to release and ease down the inside of her thighs. She was dabbing at the soft flesh of her inner thigh when she caught movement from the kitchen window. Her husband and Mr. Fairchild shook hands with Jake and the young man ambled back toward the house while the two older gentlemen went back to work on the patio.

The screen door creaked open and Jake stepped inside.

“Got everything you need, hon?” she asked sweetly, rubbing the towel over the sodden fabric covering her chest.

Jake stopped short upon seeing Mrs. Artman rubbing her breasts. She dropped her hand and set the towel on the counter. The soaked, white cotton had plastered against her chest, accentuating the size of her breasts. The swollen state of her nipples, though ensconced in a bra, was apparent to his feasting eyes.

“Uh, yeah. I do. Thanks, Mrs. Artman. And thanks for the Coke.”

“My pleasure, young man.” She shot him a coquettish smile and turned back toward the window above the sink.

“Well ... uh,” he began.

“They ‘bout done out there, sweetie?” she interrupted.

He paused and chuckled. “Dunno about that, ma’am. Looks to me like they got quite a ways to go.”

Melanie stood staring out the window. “Seems like that patio is takin’ a long time to get finished. Been workin’ on it for weeks now.” She reached out and pulled a grape from a colander and popped it into her mouth. It was cool in her overheated mouth and she swallowed slowly.

Jake wandered over to the counter and stood next to her. “Maybe, but it’ll sure be nice once it’s all done.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin against her closed fists. Her diamond engagement ring dug into the soft underside of her chin. “I sure hope so.” She paused. “Look at those two. You’d think it was rocket science or somethin’. The way they agonize over cuttin’ those bricks and tappin’ ‘em into place.”

Jake leaned closer to her to get a better view of the men through the window. Mr. Fairchild was bent over the wet saw, his goggled eyes focused intently on the paver he was guiding against the blade.

Mrs. Artman warmed as the heat of the teenager’s forearm pressed against her bare shoulder. She shuffled her soft thighs against each other and felt a small stream of vaginal fluid escape from between her dew-coated labia.

“They must enjoy it, though,” he responded, his voice low. “Me, I’d rather be standin’ over center gettin’ ready to toss the ball.”

“Yeah,” Melanie murmured, her muscles relaxing. Her trim hips swayed slightly and the hem of her skirt tickled her lithe thighs as it lightly brushed across the warm flesh.

After a moment, she stood and reached across her supple body, gently tapping him on the arm. “Speakin’ of standin’ over center, why’nt you move around me so you can get a better view of these two? It’s funny to watch these two morons work together.”

‘Odd,’ Jake thought, but nonetheless stepped back and around Mrs. Artman. His gaze fell on the loose skirt covering her tight bottom but he quickly averted his eyes. He was careful to keep a few inches between his swelling cock and Coach Artman’s wife’s sexy butt.

Outside, Mr. Fairchild dropped a cut paver on the ground next to the coach. It rolled once and cracked against another paver waiting to be set, then broke in half. Mr. Artman looked up at his offensive coordinator in mock disgust. Mr. Fairchild appeared to laugh.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Artman chuckled softly. “What’d I tell ya’? Dumb and dumber,” she mumbled. Twisting her torso slightly, she turned her head to look over her shoulder and caught Jake’s eyes locked on her swaying ass. She put the brakes on the movement and Jake’s eyes shot up toward the window, then down to the smirk that creased the features of her beautiful face.

He knew he’d been caught staring. He blushed red, and then stammered, “Uh, sorry, Mrs. Artman. I ... uh ... I meant no ... no disrespect.”

She laughed lightly and turned her head back toward the window. “None taken, big boy,” she purred at the same time as she jerked her lush hips against his before settling back on her elbows.

The sudden contact between his groin and Mrs. Artman’s gorgeous butt sent blood coursing into Jake’s cock. As it swelled and extended down his thigh, he became uncomfortable. Surreptitiously, with a hand in his pocket, he adjusted himself, pushing his shaft to a more natural, vertical position within his shorts.

Melanie felt his movement behind her and her eyelids fluttered; she knew she had caused his discomfort. She gently pushed her hips backward until her ass cheeks again pushed into the sixteen-year-old. She wiggled briefly and nearly groaned aloud as the thick shaft nestled between her upturned cheeks.

“God, I could watch this all day long,” she intoned blissfully.

‘Though I’d rather feel this kid’s cock against my ass all day long,’ she thought.

Slowly, Mrs. Artman pushed herself upright, her open palms against the countertop. The rotating of her hips as she leaned back against Jake sent his cock sliding against the small of her back. As she swung her head around to look him in the eye, her ponytail swished across his face. He leaned away but kept his crotch up against the married woman’s back.

“How ‘bout you?” she drawled with a lascivious grin, her voice soft in the quiet kitchen. Lust nearly dripped from her bright, smiling eyes.

Jake was nervous. His body trembled ever so slightly. “Uh ... um ... yeah ... I guess,” he faltered, his eyes flitting this way and that.

She leaned down over the counter again, resting her chin in the open palm of her hand. “So tell me, Jake. You started thinkin’ about college yet?”

“Uh, yeah,” he responded, his heart rate slowing again. “I mean, I got a year or so before I need to really start worryin’, you know?”

Outside, Mr. Fairchild brought the saw down against an uncut paver. Halfway through, it disintegrated and he hit the “off” button in frustration. Mr. Artman looked up as the whine of the saw abruptly ended. He stood and motioned to Mr. Fairchild to switch places with him.

Mrs. Artman laughed again. Her sinuous body shook lightly. “You thinkin’ about the Horns, aren’t ya?”

She gently ground her tight bottom against Jake’s groin.

“Yeah,” he squeaked. “My number ... number one choice.”

“Mmm ... Think you’ll get in?” He couldn’t see it, but Mrs. Artman’s eyes hooded over when she felt the thick mass press against her ass cheeks.

“Hopin’. And if this season goes well, hopin’ for a scholarship.”

A moment passed before Melanie responded. “And what about that pretty little missy I see hangin’ on your arm all the time?”

“Holly? She’s not sure yet. She applied to UT but isn’t sure if her grades are good enough.”

Outside, Mr. Artman faired no better with the saw. As he brought the blade down to touch a new paver, the paver twisted slightly and broke apart. On his knees a few feet away, Mr. Fairchild laughed. His lips moved but, inside, neither Jake nor Mrs. Artman could hear his retort.

Mrs. Artman merely shook her head, the tight ponytail brushing across her trim back. Behind her, Jake watched it move. Deep down, he wanted to grab hold of it, use it like the reigns on a horse as he impaled the sexy woman on his cock. Do all the things he’d seen done in the porn he occasionally watched online. The things Holly wouldn’t let him do.

“Well, that’ll be a shame for you, now won’t it?”

“Whaddya mean, Mrs. Artman?”

“Well, you got a nice little cutie hangin’ on your every word. Go to UT without her and you’ll have to find a new one.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Don’t think you’ll have all that much trouble, though,” she muttered with a wiggle of her hips. Jake’s cock rolled along the firm cheeks of her butt. “Do you?”

“Hope not.”

“Matter of fact, probably have the pick of the litter.”

Jake didn’t know quite how to respond to that, and so he didn’t.

“I know if I was your age, I’d be hangin’ all over you.”

“I ... uh ... well ... thanks.” Jake gulped. “Thanks, Mrs. Artman.”

A sensuous laugh escaped Mrs. Artman’s slender throat. She righted herself and reached behind her, found Jake’s strong, and pulled his arms around her waist.

“Uh ... Mrs. Artman...?”

“C’mon,” she chided softly. “Something else you’d rather be doin’?”

She turned her head back toward him. She leaned slightly to one side, twisted her torso a little, and let her full lips brush against the young man’s chest right above the open collar of his polo shirt. She felt him tremble and chuckled inside before swiping his salty sweat from her lips.

As Mrs. Artman pulled her face away, her eyes floated to his, amused to see the uncertainty on his face. “Would you mind?”

His eyes clouded in confusion. “Uh ... mind what?” he muttered.

Softly, almost in a whisper, she clarified. “If a woman like me hung all over you. Would you mind?”

“I don’t think...” he began before she interrupted him with a manicured finger on his lips.

“Shh.” Turning toward the window, she released her grip on his hands and bent forward over the counter again, resting on her elbows.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, he allowed them to fall to his sides. But he remained with his aching cock buried against Mrs. Artman’s ass.

“Watch with me?” he heard her inquire.

Jake did not move to leave or separate himself from the older woman.

“Hands on my hips, please,” she directed, wiggling her hips slightly to gain his attention.

“Mrs. Artman,” he squeaked. “I really don’t ... think...”

She again interrupted the teenager, her voice low and breathy. “Leave the thinkin’ on the football field, young man. Here, just do as you’re told.”

Jake raised his hands from his sides and began to lower them, away from her, unsure of himself. Lust took over, however, and he rested his large open palms gently on her pliant hips.

Mrs. Artman rewarded him with a quick jab of her firm ass against his waist. He groaned from deep in his throat. Unseen by the young man behind her, she smiled and dragged her soft pink tongue across her bright red lips, wetting them obscenely. “You like that?”

“Mm-hm,” he muttered in response.

Melanie pushed off her elbows and curled her fingers around the edge of the countertop and into the well of the sink. The heels of her palms braced herself and her bright red nails clacked lightly against the stainless steel.

“Hold me tighter,” she commanded and was rewarded as Jake increased his grip on her narrow waist. His strong fingers sank into the soft flesh and she ground her ass against him. Another reward. “Good boy,” she whispered.

Mrs. Altman shuffled her feet apart slightly and peered over her shoulder at him. The sixteen-year-old’s quivering was obvious. So was his growing lust: the heat of his thick shaft penetrated his shorts and her skirt and she felt it in the cleavage formed by her taut butt cheeks.

“Bump against me,” she smiled, the hunger in her eyes apparent to even the novice standing behind her.

A squeak escaped his throat but his hips moved against her and then withdrew. Again. “Like this?” he inquired after a moment, his eyes nearly rolling up into his head.