The Coach's Wife
Copyright© 2023 by INtrinSicliValud
Chapter 23
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 23 - The initial story in The Wandering Man series introduces Hiram Boetticher, III. A young black man struggling to survive in the Southern United States of the 1980s, he’s hired by his football coach for an impromptu interlude with the man’s wife. But as emotions spiral higher and relationships twist, Hiram begins the journey that will make him a legend. NOTE: Contains references to “rape,” although all interactions are consensual, as well as racial slurs and play.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Fiction Sharing Wife Watching Rough Interracial Black Male White Female Anal Sex
The Friday before Veterans Day was the longest half-day of school in modern history. Most kids had skipped. The only reason I hadn’t was to avoid pressing my luck with momma. Since I’d lied to her, asking to attend a special football training camp over the weekend in Atlanta. To this day, her expression, as she’d agreed, gets my heart stuttering. She’d realized I wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
And no, at that point, I had mentioned nothing about Las Vegas. As much as I’d felt I was gauging her, the reality was I was concerned she’d say “no.” Although I was eighteen, she couldn’t ban me from going. And yes, I was well aware she wanted me to leave Alabama. However, before graduating from high school? Nope. Heck no. She was adamant regarding education. Oh, and leaving prior to the end of the football season would mean abandoning that path, slim though it may have been, for good.
So, Friday morning dragged. Guilt over lying to and keeping things from momma. Visions of traveling with Mrs. Jenkins. Moving with Chanelle to Vegas. They all tumbled inside my skull. What was supposed to be only four was more like a million hours, ticking a sluggish, mind-numbing second at a time.
At last, the bell clanged. While driving towards Coach’s house, I skimmed my palm over my freshly cut hair. At least it was a clear day. Beyond clear. There wasn’t a cloud in the brilliant azure sky. Crisp and dry, a breeze wafted through the open truck windows. Along every street, trees loosed fluttering brown and russet leaves.
Even as my heart raced faster with every mile closer to the Jenkins’ home, it staggered. The night before, I’d called Chanelle at DiGrigio’s. As soon as she’d picked up, words flew from her before I could speak.
“Hiram! I talked with Trish. She, uh ... Well, she and some of the other girls have a pad up in Anniston. She said it’s pretty nice.” Her voice grew hushed. “They, uh ... They, um, meet guys, uh, there. It’s not far from the movies. She said we could, um, use it. I’ll cancel my Saturday night shift.”
As my mind reeled under the stream of words, the pit of my stomach plunged. At my silence, her lips smacked, and fingertips tapped the receiver.
“I mean ... We don’t have to.” Tinged with disappointment, her voice was low, “It’s all a bit fast, huh? It’s only that ... Well, after the truck ... I wanted to find some place special. Just the two of us. But, um, it’s okay.”
“No. No, that’s not it. Not at all. It’s just”—should I lie? At the image of momma’s face glaring at me, I inhaled and shook my head. I’d lied enough—”I’ve got to go out of town this weekend.”
“Really? Where you going?”
Truth or lie?
“Atlanta. That woman from the restaurant. She wants to take me there.”
“Oh.”
The slow-motion shearing of a massive vertical slab of blue-white ice from a towering glacier replaced momma’s visage. Because the absolute quiet while waiting for her to continue was so long, the image’s cold chilled my bones. The second hand on my watch ticked backwards.
“Are you getting paid?”
When her voice cut through the silence, I’d jolted. In my shaking fist, the avocado plastic slipped, almost dropping to the kitchen floor.
“Yes. Probably.” After a sigh, I shifted my sweaty palm on the phone. “I mean, I never know until her husband pays me afterwards.”
“She’s not making you pay for the trip, right?”
“No. She’s—they’re paying for everything.”
“Well, okay. Just business then?”
“Yes.”
Even as I nodded while replying, my heart twisted, aching as it tightened. Only business? Really? In the end, I’d lied anyway. Since Chanelle had been called away to serve her tables, we never continued our discussion. I could’ve phoned back later. But I didn’t.
So, yeah, that was also spinning in my head as I pulled onto Coach’s street. While his truck was in the open garage, a bright red 1981 Ford Mustang was in their driveway behind it. One side of the driveway was empty.
As I drove closer, an anxious snort escaped me. After what I’d done to his wife on his desk, Coach and I hadn’t talked. In fact, he’d ... Well, I guess avoided was too strong a word, but he’d sorta drifted around me at Thursday’s practice. Okay, perhaps he’d been avoiding me.
In any event, as I pulled to a halt, Coach stepped from the shadows beside his pickup. In loose gray cotton shorts and with a faded blue polo hanging off his belly, he motioned me to the open side of the driveway. As I slowed, he walked up to the truck window.
“She’s, uh”—he glanced over his sweat-soaked shoulder towards the house—”still, um, getting ready. Go ahead and pull into the garage. Uh, she’s gonna drive her car.”
After pulling inside and halting before a disheveled, crowded workbench, I swallowed. No “Hello, Hiram,” or “How ya doin’?” A grin slid onto my face. Mrs. Jenkins drove a ‘stang, huh? And fireball red. That was fitting. After lugging my bag from the truck bed, I walked towards Coach.
“Just toss it in the trunk,” he said while stepping out of my way and mopping the back of his neck with a rag. “Cindy’s case is already in there.”
While I strode to the sports car, Coach tossed the rag into a bin. Just as I dropped my bag, he gasped. After straightening, I followed his gaze. The whole universe blurred as his wife click-clacked atop open-toed black sandals from the garage into the sunlight. In a tiny, black with red roses sundress that flared around her hips as she walked, Mrs. Jenkins’ bare shoulders gleamed. With red metal clips holding thick blonde hair behind her ears, she wore glistening crimson lipstick.
That time, Mrs. Jenkins wore no diamonds. Instead, thick golden disks swayed from her earlobes, and a jade-encrusted circlet hung from a glittering gold chain around her neck. Correction, she had diamonds. When she dragged her fingers through her hair, her wedding bands twinkled. After a glance at her husband, she stopped and flashed me a smile. Hungry, her emerald pools flared.
Just as I was about to greet her, that weird time slowing thing happened. As the world sorta dimmed around us, my heart thundered in my chest. The stretching of the lipstick strands at the corners of her shimmering red lips when she breathed had my body tensing.
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