I listened to the beat of the tires on the seams of the road, tapping rhythmically like bored fingers on a table. The voices of Frank and Billy Boy in the front seat droned on. Names, batting averages, memorable games, draft choices, questionable decisions, an endless stream of mind-numbing facts that meant nothing at all to me. How can a person put so much information, of no practical use, in their head? And why? I usually had to ask one of the soccer moms what my own team's record was. For me, the exciting thing in sports is how the kids I coach are playing the game we're in right now, or how we will play the next one. It was going to be a long night.
The bodies on either side of me lay motionless under the blankets we shared. These two wives had heard this for many years, until all this talk of sports rumbled in the background like the sound of the waves to a person who lives on the beach -- a part of the unnoticed background, neither inspiring nor annoying.
The shape on my right shifted. The audible breathing told me that she was awake. I felt her eyes in the dark. I turned my head toward her and our eyes met. She was hidden below eyelevel by the blanket we shared. The assistant pastor's wife Doris was looking at me, thinking. Her eyes told me that she was smiling.
She always smiled. She was athletic and upbeat. Every time I saw her, always in her crisp cotton blouses, shorts, tanned legs, blond hair in a ponytail, she radiated sunlight, health, and optimism. She was a confident one.
I didn't really know Doris that well. She was always at the practices where her kid was on the soccer team I coached. One time, a few weeks earlier when a surprise shower interrupted practice, she invited me into her Suburban to wait out the rain. Sitting alone with her in the front seat, I couldn't help noticing that her white cotton blouse had become almost transparent from the water. She obviously wore a bra, but there was something stimulating about seeing something I shouldn't see; underwear in broad daylight. My glance rested a little too long, and she caught me.
At this point, most women I have met would be uncomfortable, and would cross their arms to cover themselves, pull on a jacket, or try to distract me with conversation. Doris surprised me by simply smiling, with an accepting expression that seemed to say, "I'm as comfortable with your appreciation as a tree would be comfortable letting a passerby view its fruit." The look was not sexual, at first, but simply accepting. We talked about the kids (who were doubtless driving someone else's mom nuts in another car) – about the kids' social life, funny things they did, their athletic development, and the school.
As we talked, Doris frequently looked out the front window as she spoke, giving me the opportunity to glance down. I felt drawn to those tits. They were perfect. About the size of grapefruits. I began to wonder if she was modeling them for me. Her fingers would run under the buttoned edge of the blouse absent-mindedly, drawing my attention that I fought to focus elsewhere. Something about the way she moved was fluid and sensual, like a fruit tree slowly blowing in the breeze, so that by the action of the movement, you can tell the size and shape of the fruit. You can imagine its heft, what it would feel like in your hand as you brought it onto your lips. What it would taste like.
Chattering musically, she absent-mindedly shifted position in the driver's seat, leaning against the door, drawing her right leg up to lie bent on the seat, its ankle resting under her left knee. Her loose khaki shorts (the same ones she was wearing now, I realized) opened as she talked. I suddenly became terrified that I would look at her crotch. That I would give some sign of my growing arousal. That by a look or a sound in my face I would betray myself. That I would spoil the moment and she would cover up. That she would avoid me from then on, forever. A married woman, not for you, buddy, not even to look?
She gave me a break. She sighed musically, placing her palms on top of her head, and leaned her head back facing the ceiling, stretching lazily like someone completely contented, at home, thrusting her chest toward me. Oh, she was marvelously sexy, and so skilled at this game that I couldn't be quite sure whether she was doing this for my benefit. She held this pose for a long moment, giving me the opportunity to drink in the rising swell of her breasts, stretching the buttons of her blouse as she arched her back, a moment to watch them rise and fall with her breathing. To see the exact size and position of her nipples. To get just a little peek at the pink and yellow floral pattern on her cotton panties through the loose leg of her pants. To see one arm fall casually, the finger resting inside the leg of her shorts and absent-mindedly move up and down the material. Absent-mindedly pulling it back, improving my view. To see her look expectantly back at me, half smiling, catching me watching her languid motion. She continued this teasing up and down movement with the leg of her shorts as if unaware that she was doing it.
A sudden banging on the window behind my back brought a startling conclusion to this wonderful moment. "Hey, coach! My mom wants to know if we're gonna practice or if she should go home or what." As if startled from a dream, at the same moment in the dark back seat, driving down the road at night with Billy Boy and Frank blathering in the front seat, I felt a hand touch mine. Doris's hand.
She smoothed the back of my right hand and then went searching for the other. She found my left hand, the one farther from her and cupped her fingers around it. I sat shocked as she lifted it. Brought it quietly, slowly across my body under the blanket we shared. Brought it directly to her right breast and covered it there, palm over the nipple, watching me all the time with questioning eyes.
Wow! I could feel the blood in my temples. Hear it in my ears, like the sound of an elevated train. I smiled at her. Then grinned and began to slowly massage her breast through the fabric of the blouse. Through the bra. She lowered the blanket enough that I could see her bring a finger to her lips, making the silent sign of "Shh!" She was looking past me at Lisa, seated to my left. I quickly glanced to my left, but Lisa had already turned away. She was looking out the window.
Lisa is tall, very thin and a bit timid. She's attractive in a Shelly Duvall sort of way, but has never said two sentences to me at the same time. I think she and Doris must be good friends.
Doris leaned her head back and closed her eyes as I moved my hand in very gentle circular motions around each of her breasts, palms barely resting on the surface as I rubbed. She arched slightly, trying to get more pressure. At this, I stopped my gentle massage, and worked my way to the buttons. I opened the two buttons closest to her breasts and slid my hand inside to resume my slow circular rubbing. With her eyes closed, Doris smiled as one whose suspicions have been confirmed. She arched her back even further, and I recognized the invitation. With my free right hand, I reached up behind her and with only a little fumbling, I managed to release the clasp.
I stretched and lifted the bra fabric between the two breasts and lifted the bra up out of the way, at the same time sliding my right hand down to cup the edge of her marvelously tight little ass. My left hand molded itself to Doris's wonderfully firm little breast with her hard little nipple between my thumb and forefinger, which I used to stroke and pull the nipple gently like a tiny little penis. With this, Doris's eyes widened and she took a sudden gasping breath, which she stifled by biting the blanket and pushing it over her wide-eyed face.
