“Hi, Mrs. Hollins. Andy around?”

It’s Steven at the door, my son’s teammate -- ex-teammate, actually, as he got kicked off for attitude.

“Still at practice.”

The kid gives me a grin, not a particularly friendly one. “I know that. Just you here. Actually it’s you I came to see.”

“What about?”

“Gonna ask me in?” to which I have no choice.

He closes the door behind him, latches it, and eyes my top. “Nice.”

This is most uncomfortable. “I’m really busy,” I tell him, at which without a by-your-leave, he picks me up and deposits me on the couch.

“How ‘bout we do it right here?”

I’m confused, but whatever he’s thinking, it’s not OK. “Andy’s on his way home,” I lie, suddenly aware of what this creep’s thinking.

“Practice goes till 6:00,” as he lifts up my blouse.

I slap at his arm away but to no effect, and he pushes up my bra. “Bouncy jouncy. Mrs. Hollins”.

“Get out!” trying to cover myself.

“Now these,” tugging at my jeans.

I use my fingernails on his arm, but they’re too short, and he upends me to finish removing them.

I fight as best I can, but he just grins. “The more a mom says not to, the more your penis ought to, what we say on the team.”

I tell him he’s not on the team and he says, so what?

My panties follow, me not even knowing until it’s a fact. He laughs when I again try to cover myself, “Bushy tushy. Mrs. Hollins. Totally mommish.”

“Pig!” One spouting offensive poetry, at that, but his rhymes aren’t my worry. He’s a pig that’s trying to rape me.

“Andy want a little brother?” unbuckle his jeans.

I’m about to be raped right here on my own couch by a kid the age of my son!

“Please don’t,” my last resort

He stops, again laughs, and pulls me onto his lap.

“Eager beaver, Mrs. Hollins?” forcing his hand between my legs, and inserting a digit.

“Pig!” all I can think to say, but I know he’s trying to make me respond physically, not verbally.

“Pretty tight for a mom. Must not get used much. Want me to tell Andy what he’s missing?”

His finger does its thing, maybe why I’m becoming wet. Most boys wouldn’t have a clue.

An old mom, how the creep sees me, red as a beet, bouncing on his lap, making little sounds as she does it.

“Don’t!” I tell him, but I orgasm.

He’s pleased with himself and I’m a wreck. The couch is a mess.

He stuffs my panties into his pocket. “Milky silky.”

“Pig!” I tell him

“You know, Mrs. Hollins, why I used my finger? If I can make you come that way, you’re going to super come with my dick, next time I stop by,” pressing my hand across f his jeans to make his point.

“Rub her berry, pop her cherry, the way I do it,” as if I’m impressed with his penis poetry, “except with you moms, your cherry’s already popped.” which gets him thinking. “Except not maybe for you, Mrs. Hollins. Maybe you’ve been dry so long, yours has grown back. An urgin’ virgin, again. Should be fun,” and warns that if I tell, he’ll not wear a rubber.

Tell whom? The police? Is there a law against masturbating an ex-teammate’s mom? There’s probably a law against stealing her panties, but he’d say they were a thank-you.

“Now I’ll let go and you keep doing it,” he ordered, to which I’d no choice but to comply

The pig! A pig that can make you orgasm is still a pig.

Maybe it’s good, though, that he succeeded, as otherwise he’d have raped me.

When Andy gets home, the couch is back to normal and I ask him how practice went.

From now on, I’ll keep my foot against the door when checking who’s there.

It makes you pay more attention to your blessings.

Andy’s a sweet kid, but maybe doesn’t always know that I think so. He needs reminders about his homework. Being on a team -- though he hardly ever plays -- looks good on a college application, I keep telling him. Where the application asks about community activities, put Methodist Youth Fellowship. Why he needs to go. There’s cleaning his room, practicing his trombone, mowing the grass, things a boy needs to be reminded about. A mom has to stay mommish.

To remind him that he’s special, though, she can be a little less mommish in certain situations.

In the morning, for example, maybe more it’s than just a mommish peck and he brightens up and gives me one back. When I say what a nice way to start the day, he lifts me up and I flutter my eyes like in a silent movie. Not mommish at all, though I suspect he thinks I watched them as a child. Disney.

I put a Hershey’s Kiss in his lunch bag.

I change blouses in the living room. Unmommish, to be sure, but he wouldn’t be watching if he saw me as just his mom.

When I head out the door, he swats my behind with a magazine with a “Don’t be late for the filming, Miss Pickford,” and I remind him to not to forget his appointment with the counselor regarding application deadlines.

I’m better at not being so mommish after dinner when he stretches out on the couch and I flop in front and wrap his arm around me so I won’t fall off and lift my arm just enough for him to slip under.

It’s the same couch where that jerk Steven was, but he doesn’t know that. I’m mad at myself for climaxing, but it couldn’t be helped.

It rarely takes long for Andy to start feeling me up, him thinking I think it accidentaI. He’s just a boy maybe seeing his mom as a little less mommish, only that she can’t know it.

When a movie gets to a bedroom scene, Andy will tell me to close my eyes and I’ll say the same. Films aren’t silent these days, though. Maybe my nipples emerge. Maybe my backside notices something in return, but it’s not as if anything’s happening.

We should probably choose different videos, though.

I just wish we weren’t on this couch, though, with its associations.

I don’t always have to be totally mommish.

Andy’s at Scotty’s overnight. It’s for the best, perhaps, us taking a break, as maybe I’ve recently been too non-mommish, getting in my PJs before a video, for example.

He needs to start dating. I’ll make sure she’s from church, and set a curfew. A dose of mommishness is always required to manage a boy of his age.

Andy at his friend’s leaves me without much to do, but there’s time for a walk.

I pass a group of girls chatting in a front yard and recognize one of them from Andy’s school. Not one I actually know, but it doesn’t go both ways. “Hi there, Mrs. Hollins. Wanna party?”

I’m not sure what she’s asking -- me old enough to be her mother, literally -- and I say thanks for asking, but need to keep moving.

She says that maybe I could join their girls’ club. I wouldn’t have to be a student because they don’t meet on campus, and of all things, plants a kiss on my mouth.

“Maybe later,” she says, “but there’s somebody here who’d love to see you.”

I repeat that I need to go, but the girls grab me, one of them rubbing my butt, another unbuttoning my blouse, another unhooking my bra.

“Snagged him a mom,” they announce at the door, to which I hear cheers.

This isn’t OK.

I’m propelled into a back room -- hands on me everywhere, boys’ and girls’ -- where they finish stripping me, tape shut my mouth, put pillowcase over my head and pin me on a mattress.

The door opens and even without seeing the face, I know the voice -- Steven’s.

“My, my, what a lovely surprise, Mrs. Holllins. So pleased you wanted to come,” emphasizing the last word, which others seem to find humorous.

There are more hands on me. Definitely some erections. It’s as if everyone wants a piece of me.

“Two, four, six, eight,” Steven chants. “Team moms fuck really great,” thinking he’s a rally boy.