If you hate it when a cheater isn't burned at the stake and love NFL football, please don't read this.
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I got burned out playing football (American style that is, not what Americans call soccer but the rest of the world calls football). I started in Pee Wee when I was eight, played in High School, then college, and then in the NFL for six years. When teammates around me started getting concussed on a regular basis and I read all sort of things about CTE, I decided not to put my future health in jeopardy any longer and even though I had at least a half a dozen good years left in me (I was just one year removed from second team All-Pro), I retired.
Being in the NFL had not done wonders for my marriage to my wife Michelle, either. The travel and time commitments associated with it, plus my wife's distaste for violence of any type, led to our breakup. We only lasted through my second year in the NFL before she left me. I really loved Michelle; she was the love of my life. I didn't even know enough to agree to quit football then -- she may have stayed -- but for whatever reason I didn't. She wasn't vindictive because she actually loved me too, so she didn't even try to get any of the money I made playing football (she was self-sufficient monetarily because she was really smart) and the divorce was as amicable as that type of thing can be so it didn't completely ruin either of our lives. Once I gave up football, however, I regretted not quitting after my second year; maybe it would have saved our marriage.
One good thing about football is that it let me earn a lot of money at an early age (I was 28 when I retired), and I handled what I made very well -- much better than most of my teammates. When I retired I moved to Crimson Court in a suburb of a city more than a thousand miles away from the city where the NFL team I played for was located. Since I have a common last name -- Moore -- and since I now went by my middle name -- Alan instead of my distinctive first name of Ezra -- and usually wore glasses with plain glass when I went out the vast majority of people I came across in my new city didn't recognize me. This was also due in part to the fact that I was a safety, so I'm "only" six feet two inches (188 cm) tall and 205 pounds (93 kg), so my looks don't immediately scream "football player" as they might if I were an offensive or defensive lineman, or a tight end.
I had wisely invested in a startup company that was now doing well and I worked for it part time in public relations, I handled my own investments, I did a significant amount of charity work, and I had no interest in football; my life was good. Well, it was good except for one thing -- I was finding it hard to find rewarding sex. I wasn't coming across many available females that I was interested in perhaps still pining for Michelle, and I was in the longest dry spell of my life.
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When I moved to my new suburb I bought a nice house on Crimson Court located in an upscale community where obviously most of the people were significantly older than I was, and many had kids. Most of the neighbors were friendly; the friendliest was Sarah Hawkins.
Sarah lived next door to me. Sarah was married to Jerry Hawkins and they had two boys, Brett, 11, and Aiden, 9. While Sarah was friendly Jerry was not; he was a pompous asshole. I was amazed that Sarah always had an upbeat attitude despite the fact that every time I saw Jerry interact with her he was demeaning. Jerry apparently worked for a Fortune 500 company in marketing and Sarah ran an Internet business from home, typically working about thirty hours a week according to her.
The kids were kind of between Sarah and Jerry in demeanor, and I really hoped that they didn't start to take after him more as they got older. Jerry had been a college offensive lineman and unlike me still loved football, and seemed to relive his past glory days rooting for the home NFL team, and his boys followed his lead.
When I talked to neighbors -- including the Hawkins family -- I never, ever mentioned that I was a football player. I told them that I had made enough money to buy a house in the neighborhood by working at a hedge fund. No one on Crimson Court (as is true of most places) knows what the hell a hedge fund is, and could care less, so they never asked questions about it.
I found out in talking with Sarah -- who was often out gardening -- that she had many of the same interests that I did, including classical music, certain authors, cooking, cycling, and stage plays.
Sarah is likely about eight to ten years older than I am, and when I first met her while she certainly wasn't a hard body who lived for exercise she was in good shape. Her face isn't beautiful but definitely is pleasant; her body though certainly not model-like appeared to be really nice including substantial mammaries (which I tried not to look at when talking to her); and her friendliness and outgoing personality made her much more attractive than she otherwise would be.
I moved to Crimson Court in the spring. I got to know some neighbors enough to go on outings with them -- including with Sarah and two couples, although Jerry didn't come along, to a play -- and went cycling with some guys and gals from work, including twice with Sarah. We didn't do really arduous trips, but Sarah was able to keep up even though most of the participants were younger than she was.
I was now so non-plussed by football that when the season started I didn't even notice it. That is until on a Sunday when I was out gardening -- as was Sarah -- when she walked over to me and asked "Aren't you watching football?"
"Why do you ask that?" I chuckled.
"I thought all guys did. I can't get Jerry or my kids away from the boob tube when or home team's NFL games are on, even if -- like today -- they don't even count."
"You mean pre-season games?" I chuckled.
"Yeah -- I guess that's right," she snorted.
"No, I'm harvesting some herbs from my garden because I want to try a new recipe; that's what I'll be doing for the next hour or so, with no TV on but classical music in the background."
"You're kidding," she chuckled. "I don't suppose that you'd invite me in to watch, so I don't have to listen to banal announcers in the background."
"Come on it," I smiled, "although I have to warn you that I might put you to work."
"I'll take my chances," she smiled, and followed me in.
Sarah and I had a great time for the next two hours experimenting with three different recipes. At one time she asked "Are you making these for your girlfriend?"
"I don't have one of those yet," I snickered.
"Tell me that a stud like you isn't gay," she laughed, then realized that she might have offended me, and said "Sorry, that was inappropriate."
"To set your mind at ease, Sarah, I'm completely heterosexual," I laughed, finding her blushing face to be humorous.
After some more talk about my new recipes she said "You'll have to invite me and the boys over for dinner the next time that Jerry goes out of town."
"I definitely will," I replied. I did try out one of the recipes on them four days later. I knew that Sarah would like it -- in fact she loved it -- but to my surprise the kids liked the food almost as much as Sarah and I did. That buoyed me up almost as much as a hard tackle did in the old days.
I admit to taking an interest in Blake and Aiden just to be sure to steer them away from their Dad's influence. I showed them exercises to improve their strength and stamina in my well-equipped home gym, let them play video games on my top-of-the-line system as long as they had Sarah's approval, and gave them baseball tips (the sport I was best in besides football). They seemed to like me.
The next two Sundays after the recipe conclave Sarah and I did things together while her husband and boys watched football. It was the third Sunday -- when the first regular season game was on TV -- when things changed.
Sarah and I were looking through some books on plants to see what we might want to try in our gardens come spring when I made some comment about how her family seemed to abandon her when football was on. Her snarky reply was "Yeah, I could walk in front of Jerry completely naked and he wouldn't even flinch -- he'd just tell me to get out of the way of the TV."
I guess my response was Freudian because I certainly never would have said it if I actually thought about it: "That wouldn't be my reaction if you were naked in front of me," I chuckled.
When I realized what I had said and that Sarah had reacted to it there was an uncomfortable silence; I don't know how long the awkward silence was, but it seemed to be several minutes, during which we just made eye contact. Finally with a look on her face hard to interpret she said "I've got to see your reaction," and she pulled her tank top over her head and quickly discarded her bra.
I suddenly was staring at two really nice large mammaries; maybe even double Ds. They had enough sag to prove that they were real but were still perky and flawless with nice protruding nipples.
I'm sure that I stared at her tits with my mouth agape while she stared into my eyes. Whatever task I had been engaged in suddenly was now meaningless. As I stared she started removing her shorts while saying "Tell me when to stop."
I probably didn't really want her to stop, and I was too stupefied to say anything anyway, so I watched undoubtedly with my mouth still agape while she removed her shorts and stepped out of them and then pulled down her panties and stepped out of them, revealing a pussy with sparse pubic hair, large labia, and a prominent clitoris.
Naked (except for her flip-flops) Sarah put her hands on her hips and got a diabolical grin on her face. While I was still mesmerized and was not thinking because all of the blood had gone from my brain to my cock, after some period of time she asked "Is that what your reaction would be; just to stare?"
I guess that my DNA test was right -- I did have some Neanderthal in me -- because at that point in time I grabbed her, smashed her lips into mine, squeezed an ass cheek with one hand, and a tit with the other. She not only didn't resist, after a few seconds she returned my kiss and after a few seconds more she stroked her hand over my crotch and moaned when she couldn't help but realize that my cock was at full mast.
When I broke the kiss I picked her up, carried her into my bedroom, and threw her on the bed, causing her flip--flops to go flying. I undressed in record time. I then quickly got on the bed, gave her pussy two licks, and then stared into her eyes as I said "I should give you a couple of Big O's with oral first but my cock needs immediate attention," not only because she looked so hot but also because I hadn't been laid in months.
