***Any character involved in any sexual activity is above the age of eighteen. This is a pretty raunchy tale, inspired by a rather silly title. I hope you enjoy it.***
1
I'm sick...
Sick in the head...
It's crazy how this has happened. Completely fucking crazy. How did I even let it begin? More to the point, why am I still doing it? Why didn't I just stop it all a long time ago?
I've lost my mind. I've lost control. The things I'm doing are beyond belief. The things I'm doing with
him.
It's madness. Total madness.
God help me, I can't stop. I want this too much. I want
him
too much.
Yes, I'm sick...
One sick mother...
Literally.
***
Fuck me, it was cold. Freezing cold.
The wind was whipping along the wide, seemingly endless expanse of land, almost cutting through me like a knife. You know, I've been told on more than one occasion that Kansas is
not
the flattest state in the Union - apparently that honour is held by Florida - but I don't believe it. Not for a second. You wouldn't too, if you had been stood in my shoes that day, no matter what it says in any book, or even on
Wikipedia.
You can see for miles round here, the horizon stretching off into the far, far distance. No hills or mountains, barely even a molehill, to block or hinder the view. And not just the view. There's no shelter or protection from the chilling weather of this time of year. The sky is clear and blue. Crystal clear and brilliant. And, like I told you, it's cold. Oh so cold. Bitter and remorseless.
I was stood by the side of the soccer pitch, near the town's main elementary school. Not just me. There was a small group of adults milling around, as a group of young children played in front of us. Due to their age - not one of the kids was older than eight - they were only using half the field. It was a five-a-side game and no physical contact was allowed. The team coach said it was aimed at improving their skill-set more than anything else.
What a peculiar sight they made, these little children who barely understood the rules of the sport they were playing. There was no real sense of shape or formation, just ten young kids, eight of them running round, chasing the ball like a pack of feral animals. Their little legs pumping away, their cheeks flushed, their knees dirty.
Every so often, the coach would bark out an order - c
oncentrate! attack!
- and that order would mostly then be ignored. One or two of the parents might offer encouragement or support, but mostly they looked on with a sense of bemusement or baffled indifference. This was America. We don't like soccer. We don't understand it. But the kids were loving it.
I was barely paying attention at all. I was there in flesh, but not in spirit. My thoughts were far away from here and this little match of little players in the cold early Spring air. I remained on the sidelines, my mind running away from me. My body playing its own tune, despite the frigid weather.
I'm wet, I
thought to herself,
my cunt is wet.
It was true. My panties, a tiny little black thong I would never have even dreamed of wearing a few months earlier, at least not on an occasion like this, were almost soaked through. Only the fact I was stood out in the fresh air, the crisp wind recycling the local atmosphere, stopped the odour of my most intimate parts from wafting under the noses of those near by. An embarrassing, potentially humiliating admission.
I'm wet because of him, and my nipples are hard too. It's all down to
him.
The sexual nature of my thoughts were entirely hidden by the mundane, unremarkable sight I imagined I displayed to all and sundry. I'm not going to bullshit you, I know I'm an attractive woman, but I was hardly dressed up for a show. My strawberry-blonde hair was drawn tightly into a ponytail, the occasional escaped lock had to be brushed back behind my ears.
I was fresh-faced, without any makeup, my skin flushed by the cold weather, my nose dripping a little due to the low temperatures. I was wearing a t-shirt, sweatshirt and thick jacket; all of which hid my - pretty killer - body from view. Only my black leggings hinted at the marvels underneath. I have long, shapely legs and they were almost impossible to disguise.
So, I was stood there, bobbing from one foot to the other, my whole body twitching and shaking; partly to try and fend off the cold, partly due to a growing sense of excitement.
Finally, the referee blew his whistle and the soccer match drew to a close. I had no idea what the score was, or indeed if anyone had even been keeping score. Like a small swarm of locusts, the young players jogged over to the side of the pitch, each child seeking out his or her parent.
"Hey, Mom! Hey, Mom!" A little blond-haired boy shouted out as he approached me, "did you see? I scored a goal, Mom! I scored a goal!"
"That's great, champ, really great," I replied, a little absentmindedly.
The young boy was Calvin, my second child. Yes, named after the cartoon character, which wasn't my decision, if I was being honest. It was his father's idea. He was eight years old and adorable in the way only eight year olds can be. Earnest, loving, full of excitement and enthusiasm. I loved him so much.
But, God help me, he wasn't my favourite son. Oh no. Not anymore.
"Shall we go get your sister and go home?" I asked him. "You look like you need to have a shower."
"Okay, Mom," he said, "it was a great goal. I hit it from outside the box. It took a deflection, but I'm counting it as my goal..."
Off he went, trudging through the muddy field, heading towards the car park. I followed him, carrying the bag containing his clean clothes. The kids usually got changed at the school, in the locker room, but would then go home in their kit. We had to pick up Ava, who was being looked after by one of the teaching assistants.
My youngest child had zero interest in watching her older brother play soccer. She was in the playground near the school building, along with some other kids. A young woman - the teaching assistant - kept a mostly watchful eye over all of them, making sure no one got hurt. Although she was occasionally distracted by her cell phone. Ava was on one of the swings when she saw us come into view.
"Mommy! Calvin!" She hollered, scrambling down off the swing's seat and running towards them.
She practically jumped into my arms, as if she hadn't seen me in years. Ava was five, the youngest member of the family and my only daughter.
