It was a Tuesday afternoon, which meant my life was reduced to a schedule on the refrigerator door. Tuesdays and Thursdays were soccer practice. Saturdays were games. It was a rhythm I had lived with for ten years, but lately, the rhythm had changed.

My husband, Chris, was usually working late. He was a good provider, a decent man, but our marriage had become utterly functional. We were roommates who occasionally had missionary sex in the dark to prove we were still married. I was 44. I spent my days managing the house, doing laundry, and feeling invisible.

I was upstairs getting ready for the “shuttle run,” as I called it. My son, Justin, and his three friends needed a ride to the varsity practice fields.

I caught my reflection in the mirror on my way out and sighed. I wasn’t the woman I used to be. I was 5’4” and carrying 195 lbs. I was heavy. There was no polite way to say it. I was soft everywhere. My belly had a permanent roll, my hips were wide, and my ass was massive.

But the real issue, or the real tragedy, depending on the day, was my chest. I was a 40HH. My breasts were comical. They were heavy, pendulous things that seemed to have a life of their own. Finding a bra was a nightmare; finding a shirt that didn’t look like a tent was impossible.

I looked at myself in the grey yoga pants and the oversized V-neck t-shirt I wore. The pants clung to my thick thighs and dug into my waist. My ass looked like two exercise balls fighting for space. And my tits ... even in the minimizer bra, they projected out like a shelf. I felt like a cow. A milky, soft, invisible cow whose only purpose was to drive teenage boys around.

“Mom! We’re gonna be late!” Justin yelled from downstairs.

I rolled my eyes. “Coming!” I yelled back.

I grabbed my keys and my purse. I checked the mirror one last time. I looked frumpy. A “Good Mom.” I grabbed a bottle of water and headed down.

Justin was in the hallway with his friends: Parker, Ethan, and Mike. They were all juniors this year. All 15 years old. They were the opposite of me. They were all lean muscle, hard angles, and boundless energy. They stood there in their athletic shorts and training jerseys, laughing about something on a phone.

“Let’s go, guys,” I said, ushering them out to my oversized SUV. I needed the big car just to fit their gear bags and their egos.

They piled in. Justin rode shotgun, he controlled the music, while the other three squeezed into the back.

“Hey Mrs. C,” Parker said. He was the polite one, the captain. Tall, blond, built like a runner.

“Hi Parker,” I said.

The car smelled faintly of boys, deodorant, old gym bags, and snacks. I started the engine and backed out. For the twenty-minute drive to the complex, I was part of the upholstery. They talked about school, about girls, about the game on Saturday. I just drove.

I kept sneaking glances in the rearview mirror. I watched Ethan stretching his legs, his knees spread wide. I saw the way the muscles in Mike’s thighs flexed as he shifted. They were so firm. I shifted in my seat, feeling the friction of my thighs rubbing together. I was old and married, but I wasn’t dead.

We pulled up to the complex. It was a sprawling set of fields on the edge of town.

“Thanks Mom,” Justin said, already jumping out.

“I’ll be out front at 6:30,” I called out, but the door slammed before I finished.

Usually, the moms dropped the kids off and went to Starbucks, or sat in the bleachers in a gaggle, gossiping about the PTA and complaining about their husbands. I used to do that.

But not lately.

Lately, I had a headache. Or at least, that’s what I told the other moms if they saw me.

I drove the SUV past the main lot and parked in the overflow section on a small rise overlooking the varsity field. It was far enough away that no one would wave at me, but close enough that I had a perfect view.

I turned off the engine but left the battery on so I could crack the windows. It was a humid late-summer afternoon. The air was thick.

I reclined my seat just a few inches. This was my secret. My indulgence.

I watched them jogging onto the field. They started their warmups. High knees, lunges, stretches. I watched my son, Justin. I knew it was wrong to look at him, but he was a man now. He was tall, his legs powerful. Then my eyes drifted to Parker. He pulled his shirt off, revealing a washboard stomach and a chest lightly dusted with hair.

“God,” I whispered to myself.

I watched them run laps. The sweat started to shine on their skin. They were thoroughbreds. And here I was, sitting in my climate-controlled box, a soft, heavy spectator.

I shifted my hips. The dampness in my panties was undeniable now. It was a physical betrayal I had grown used to. I knew I shouldn’t be getting turned on by my son’s friends. I was their taxi. I was the lady who brought the orange slices.

But my hand moved on its own.

I scanned the parking lot. Empty. No one was looking. The tint on my windows was dark.

I reached under my T-shirt and unhooked the front clasp of my bra. The relief was instantaneous. My heavy breasts swung free, slumping against my ribcage. They were massive, pale, and covered in blue veins. My nipples were the size of pepperoni slices, already hardening.

“You’re disgusting,” I whispered to myself. “You’re a pervert.”

But I didn’t stop. I cupped my left breast with my right hand. I couldn’t even hold the whole thing. It spilled through my fingers like warm dough. I squeezed, feeling the weight of it. I imagined what it would look like to those boys. Would they be disgusted? Or would they be fascinated?

On the field, the whistle blew. They were doing sprints. I watched their legs piston up and down.

I slid my left hand down my yoga pants. I didn’t bother taking them off. I just shoved my hand into the waistband, past the elastic of my panties, and found my clit.

I was soaking wet. Thick, slippery juice coated my fingers immediately.

“Fuck,” I hissed.

I started rubbing my clit in slow, rhythmic circles. My eyes were locked on the field. I watched Mike tackle Ethan playfully. They rolled on the grass.

In my mind, I wasn’t in the car. I was on the field. But I wasn’t running. I was on my knees in the grass. I imagined Parker standing over me.

Look at Mrs. C, he would say. Look at those giant tits.

In my fantasy, they didn’t care about my belly or my wide hips. They just wanted my softness. They wanted to bury themselves in it. I imagined them pressing their sweaty, dirty faces into my cleavage, suffocating me with their musk.

I rubbed faster. The heat in the car was building. I was sweating now, perspiration gathering between my breasts and rolling down my stomach. I liked the stickiness. It made me feel like them.

I pictured Justin watching. In the fantasy, he wasn’t my son. He was just another man. He was holding me down while his friends used me.

“Yeah,” I moaned, my head falling back against the headrest. “Use this soccer mom. Make me your soccer slut.”

I pinched my nipple hard, hurting myself. I needed the friction. I watched them line up for a final sprint. As they took off, I drove my fingers into my pussy. Two fingers, pumping deep, matching their stride.

The tension coiled in my belly. I imagined them surrounding the car. I imagined the doors opening.

We need a ride, Mrs. C. But first you have to take care of us.

“Oh, god,” I gasped.

My hips bucked off the leather seat. I clamped my legs shut around my hand, squeezing my muscles tight. The orgasm hit me hard, a crashing wave of shame and pleasure that made my toes curl inside my sneakers.

I stifled a scream, biting my lip. I pulsed around my fingers, my body shaking, my heavy breasts jiggling with every spasm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I panted.

I lay there for a moment, breathless, my hand still jammed in my pants, my shirt pulled up to my neck. I looked at the dashboard clock. 6:25. They would be walking off the field in five minutes.

I quickly pulled my hand out. My fingers were glistening, coated in my own juices. I wiped them on the dark fabric of the car seat, a dirty habit I’d developed. No one ever sat in the driver’s seat but me.

I fixed my bra, wrestling the massive mounds back into the cups. I pulled my shirt down and checked the rearview mirror. My face was flushed red. I smoothed my hair back and grabbed a tissue to dab the sweat from my upper lip.

I started the engine and cranked the AC, trying to cool the car down before they arrived.

I drove down to the pickup circle just as they were walking off the field.

They looked totally different now. The clean, energetic boys from an hour ago were gone. They were drenched. Their hair was plastered to their skulls. Their shirts were transparent with sweat or removed entirely, tucked into their waistbands. Their shins were covered in grass stains and dirt.

The side door slid open and the smell hit me like a physical wall.

It was heavy, pungent, and earthy. It smelled of onions, dirt, and raw male pheromones. It filled the cabin instantly.

“Hey Mom,” Justin said, climbing into the front seat. He smelled the strongest. He was dripping.

“Hey guys,” I said. My voice was a little shaky, breathless. “Good practice?”

“Brutal,” Parker groaned from the back. “Coach killed us.”

“It’s so hot,” Ethan said.

“Mrs. C, can we crank the AC?” Mike asked.

“It’s on max,” I said, my eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.

Normally, the smell would be gross. It should be gross. But sitting there, still throbbing from my orgasm, my panties soaking wet and clinging to my clit, I found it intoxicating. I breathed it in deep through my nose. It tasted like life.

I looked at Parker in the backseat. He was wiping sweat from his forehead with his jersey. He caught my eye in the mirror.

“You okay, Mrs. C?” he asked. “You look kinda red.”

My heart skipped a beat. Had he seen me? No. Impossible.

“Just ... it’s hot today,” I lied. “Even sitting in the car.”

“Tell me about it,” Justin said. He stretched his arms over his head, his triceps flexing right next to me. The smell of his armpits wafted over me.

I shifted in my seat, feeling the wet spot on the leather beneath me. I was a 44-year-old mother of a teenager, driving a minivan full of sweaty boys, sitting in a puddle of my own arousal.

“Let’s get you boys home,” I said, putting the car in gear.

As I drove, I didn’t listen to their conversation. I listened to their breathing. Heavy, recovering breaths. The windows started to fog up slightly from the body heat radiating off of them. The car felt like a locker room. I felt small, despite my size. I felt surrounded.

And God help me, I couldn’t wait for Thursday.

Thursday came with a suffocating humidity that turned the air into soup. I was sitting in my usual spot on the rise overlooking the practice fields, the engine idling, the AC blasting against my face but doing nothing to cool the core of my body.

I had done it again.

My hand was still resting between my thighs, tucked under the waistband of my denim capris. My panties were soaked. I had spent the last hour watching them run laps, watching their shirts cling to their torsos, watching the way their shorts rode up when they stretched. I had rubbed myself raw to the image of Parker wrestling my son to the ground, fantasizing that it was me beneath them, being crushed by their hard, youthful weight.

I felt that familiar cocktail of shame and exhilaration washing over me. I checked my face in the rearview mirror. My cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, and my hair, usually kept in a sensible “mom bob,” was frizzed and messy from me running my hands through it while I came. I looked wild. I looked used.

I quickly reapplied my lipstick, a neutral beige because mothers shouldn’t wear red, and tried to compose myself. I adjusted my top. Today, I was wearing a cheap, white tank top with a built-in shelf bra under an unbuttoned chambray shirt. It was low cut. Too low cut for a woman of my size, really. My 40H breasts spilled out of the top, creating a cleavage that looked like a butt crack. Usually, I pinned it shut or wore a scarf.

Today, I had “forgotten” the pin.

I drove down to the pickup circle. The boys were waiting.

If Tuesday smelled like sweat, Thursday smelled like a locker room that hadn’t been cleaned in a month. They piled in, bringing the heavy, musky scent of exertion with them. It was thick, tangy, and overwhelmingly male.

“Oh my god,” I said, wrinkling my nose but secretly inhaling deep. “You guys reek.”

“It’s the humidity, Mrs. C,” Parker said, sliding into the backseat behind me. “We’re dying out there.”

“Justin, crank the air,” Ethan said.

Justin, my son, sat shotgun. He looked exhausted. His hair was wet, dripping onto his forehead. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Just drive, Mom. Please.”

I pulled out of the complex and onto the main road. The windows immediately started to fog up around the edges from the difference in temperature—their body heat fighting my air conditioning. It created a weird, intimate cocoon. We were sealed in.

For the first ten minutes, they were too tired to talk. I just drove, hyper-aware of every movement in the car. Every time Parker shifted in the backseat, I saw it in the mirror. Every time Ethan sprawled his legs, his knee bumping the back of the passenger seat, I felt it.

Then, the energy started to return. The recovery time of teenagers is a miraculous thing.

“So,” Mike said from the back middle seat. “Did you see Stacy Williams at lunch?”

“Dude,” Ethan laughed. “Everyone saw Stacy at lunch. She was wearing that yellow top.”

“I think she got a boob job,” Parker said. “No way those are real.”

“They’re real,” Mike argued. “I bumped into her in the hall. They’re real. She’s gotta be like ... a double D or something. They’re huge.”

“They were bouncing all over the place during gym,” Ethan added. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s smuggling grapefruits.”

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Stacy Williams. I knew her mother. A stick of a woman. Stacy was a cute girl, sixteen and built, probably a size 4.

“She’s totally smuggling grapefruits,” Parker agreed. “Best tits in the entire class, hands down.”

“My mom’s right here, guys,” Justin mumbled, clearly embarrassed. “Can we not talk about Stacy’s tits?”

“What?” Parker laughed. “Your mom knows what tits are. She’s a woman.”