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I’m not usually like this, I swear. But as his hand journeys upwards from my knee, I suck down air anticipating what’s to come. I’m attuned to his touch, aware of every contour in his fingerprints as they describe gentle circles on my thighs. With each swoop and swerve, he grows bolder, dancing closer to my heat. His trepidation teases me. I can see it in his face, his excited nervousness, that frightened little boy look, reaching for something he knows isn’t his.

The point is only further driven home by that silver wedding band that someone else placed on his finger.

I don’t discourage him, don’t make any moves to stop him, to push his hand away, and that alone should be encouragement enough. But is he gonna do it?

I met him last month, out on the sidelines of the grassy soccer pitch. I was cheering and clapping, watching the pack of children swarm the ball, rooting for the blue-and-yellow jerseys. They were displaying more enthusiasm than talent. I’d been glancing downfield when I caught his eye — the dad standing just down the line from me.

He’d been checking me out, his eyes on my ass, on my tight green yoga pants. A smirk bloomed on my face as a blush did on his. He turned deliberately back to the game and called out to his son, pretending that’s what he’d been doing all along.

He was cute, in that ‘dad’ kind of way, and his embarrassment at being caught charming on someone I’d’ve wondered too old for that nonsense. And he was wearing a wedding band. So of course I was intrigued.

I sidled closer. “Which one’s yours?”

He tensed, stiff and awkward. “Number fourteen. Defense.”

“Cool. I’m here for Noah, forty-five over there, the forward.”

His gaze swept over me, very brief, very perfunctory, and his brow furrowed. “Are you…?”

He left the question unfinished, but I knew what he was asking. I’d gotten the same quizzical frown before. I laughed and said, “No, I’m not some teen mom. He’s my big sister’s oldest. I’m just a supportive aunt.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean–” his son took control of the ball, “Liam! You got this!”

I watched the blue-and-yellow jerseys make another attempt on goal, only to get rebuffed the red team. The red goalie was top-notch.

“You a big fan?” I said.

He blinked. “Well, it’s my son’s team–”

“I meant of yoga pants.”

He blushed again. “Look, I’m sorry, it was just a momentary… what?”

I was laughing at him. “I’m just giving you a hard time. I wasn’t offended. I’m Kelsey, by the way.”

“Peter,” he said gruffly, almost a grumble.

“Well, Peter. You’re cute. I like you.”

He said nothing.

I’d forgotten about the whole thing by the next week, when I was again on the sidelines of another field. The morning sun picked the dew off the ground, wafting it upwards until the odor of freshly-cut grass saturated the air. I sipped my coffee, cheering on the team, standing over the cooler, when I sensed someone arrive next to me.

“Kelsey,” he said by way of greeting.

“Oh! Hey,” I blinked, the memory of our first interaction flashing back into my consciousness, “Peter. You wanted to check out my ass some more?” I was again wearing yoga pants — I frequently do — these ones maroon, with a waistband high up around my belly. I had a tanktop on above, the matching maroon sportsbra peeking through around the edges.

“You said you didn’t mind,” he chuckled. Through his new-found confidence, I could still hear a trace of his nerves, like he expected me to scold him.

Instead, I giggled and stuck my tongue out, making a goofy face. My long, auburn hair was tucked into a cap, and a strand slipped loose. I pushed it behind my ear.

A kid broke away from the pack, dashing down the field with the ball. The parents around us roared. Peter clapped and cheered while shaking his head. “You’re trouble, Kelsey.”

“Trouble excites you.”

The whistle blew, and the players lined up in front of me. I distributed orange slices.

Peter watched. “How’d you get roped into that?”

“It’s my week,” I said, “Well, technically, my sister’s week. But she’s home with the baby, and her husband’s with their daughter at … somewhere. Gymnastics? I don’t remember. But I don’t mind helping out.”

“Oh, I, uh…” he trailed off.

I’d bent over, ostensibly to reach into the cooler for another bag of oranges. I knew his gaze was on my butt.

When I’d served out the line, and rubbed Noah’s hair and sent him back to his coach for the huddle, I turned back to him. With play stopped, the other parents were mingling, chatting in small groups, and so far as anyone would be able to tell, our conversation was as banal as theirs.

“What’s the deal, Peter? You not getting enough attention at home?”

His eyes widened. “Err–”

“Or am I just so drop-dead gorgeous, you can’t stop yourself from flirting?”

“I’m not flirting!” he protested.

I grinned. “Is that so?”

He tried to look innocent. “I’m not!”

“It does make coming to these matches a little bit more interesting, no? Having a cute girl to chat up.”

“Kelsey, you’re not–”

“Cute?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous, of course you’re cute. It’s just that–” But he just couldn’t finish a sentence, this time getting interrupted by the whistle, the referee resuming the game.

The kids kicked off the ball to a chorus of cheers, and I smiled at Peter, biting my lip. “You’re cute, too, you know.”

He sighed, pinching his eyes closed. “That’s not what I meant. You’re just teasing me now.”

“So what if I am? Maybe teasing guys is my kink, the thing that turns me on.”

He turned to his head fully towards me, giving me a look like he couldn’t believe I’d just said that.

I grinned at him, laughing.

The next week, I made sure to wear particularly tight yoga pants. Nothing scandalous, mind you. But, heather gray with a mesh pattern on the side, showing off my contours to anyone who cared to look. The game hadn’t begun yet, and Noah had dashed off to join his teammates when I walked up to Peter, hugging him like he was an old friend.

“Kelsey!” he said, startled.

“Back for more teasing, eh?”

“Teasing? What?” said a pretty blonde woman.

“Kelsey,” Peter glared at me, wide-eyed, “This is my wife, Penelope. Penelope, Kelsey.”

Was I thrown off? Maybe, but not long enough to make me stumble. “Penelope!” I said, shaking her hand, “So great to finally meet you, Peter’s told me all about you.” A lie. “I’m here for that one–” I pointed at Noah “–but since meeting Peter, I’ve been cheering on your Liam as well.”

“That’s so nice of you,” she said, but her expression contained doubt. She knew she was missing something, even if she couldn’t understand what. She added, “Our other son’s around here somewhere, probably looking for a snack.”

I smiled at her, doing my best to keep my expression wholesome and bland.

When the game started, Peter stood between his wife and me. His arm was around her, a loving embrace. The players rushed past us, chasing the ball, and I made a big show of cheering and whooping and clapping, determined to be the team’s biggest fan, determined to ‘accidentally’ brush up against Peter.

He discretely pushed me away from him, and I discretely moved back.

After three or four times of this, something amazing happened. Peter’s hand, rather than pushing me away, it slid onto my butt. His fingers wrapped around my ass cheek and dug in, groping me hard, a fingertip pushing in and, through my pants, brushing against my asshole. And with his wife right there next to him!

I gasped, then tried to cover it by forcing a swallow. I choked on my own spit, coughing, as his hand returned to wherever it came.

“Are you ok?” Penelope leaned around her husband to ask.

I looked back. Peter was glaring at me. “Yeah, sorry,” I said, covering my mouth, “I just need a sip of water.”

I slinked away. And when I returned, water bottle in hand, I stayed a respectful distance away from Peter. I didn’t know if his grope was an admonition or a warning or what, but I couldn’t focus on the game. My mind kept replaying the feeling of his strong fingers digging into my muscles, sliding up into my crack. The memory of his forceful grip was making me flush with heat, and I needed it to happen again.

When Penelope took off somewhere with their other son, I seized the opportunity, and moved in close to him. “Do that again,” I hissed.

“No,” he hissed back.

“Please,” I begged, “It was so hot.”

He turned his head, looking down at my butt, which I was flexing for him. He whispered, “You’re going to be the death of me.” His hand found my ass, digging in, getting a proper fondle.

I leaned into his grasp.

Only when we saw Penelope returning did he pull his hand away.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked.

“Nope!” I said cheerfully.

Later, towards the end of the game, Penelope was chatting with another mom on her far side, and I leaned in close to Peter. “When you go home today, Peter,” I whispered, “I want you to set the kids up with a movie or something, anything that’ll distract them for an hour, and take your wife to your bedroom. Lock the door and bend her over your bed. Grab her ass, thinking of mine. When you fuck her, close your eyes, imagining it’s me. When you cum, visualize your hands tangled up in my red hair, holding my mouth down on your cock. Can you do that for me, Peter?”

He wore a look of shock, and didn’t even say ‘goodbye’ as he left.

Which brings us to today. We’re the visiting team, and this field is nice enough to have a small bleachers for the smattering of parents to sit on. They’re looking into the sun, though, and set back from the field, so most of the others line the sidelines like ordinary, and Peter and I have the wooden risers to ourselves.

“Did you do what I asked?” I said. I haven’t bothered with the tank-top today, and I was reclining on the seat in nothing more than yoga pants and sports bra, my arms propped up on the row behind us. My hair I’ve left unclipped, and it drapes down over my shoulders, splaying out over my chest.

“Kelsey, I…” he paused, “I don’t think I should chat with you anymore.”

“And yet,” I say, “You followed me over here, where we could have a nice quiet time together. And no Penelope this week? Interesting.”

“It’s not like that.” We watched the kids go running past.

“There’s something you should know, Peter,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not wearing any underwear.”

He gasped, sucking down a breath, his gaze automatically finding my crotch before her forced it to my face.

I was waiting for him, grinning mischievously, spreading my legs.

“I– I– I–” he stammered.

“Or are you strictly an ass guy? Not so interested in pussy?”

His chest was heaving, his teeth gritted, his hand trembling.

“Well, if you’re not interested, maybe I’ll go find myself another dad down there–”

His fingered curled around my knee.

I moaned in appreciation.

It only takes a few minutes for his hand to draw closer. The other parents roar and shout, something is happening on the field. Peter and I are distracted, both his and my attentions focused on his fingers, on their slow progression towards my crotch.

I truthfully don’t know what he’s gonna do, how far he’s gonna take this. He seems frightened of his own actions, liable to pull off at any moment, walk away, never speak another word to me.

So when he does bring his hand up and, through my pants, strokes my pussy, it’s with a shockingly firm grip. I grit my teeth, determined not to draw attention. I’m so wet for him, though, his touch so much what I’ve been desiring, I can’t help but moan.

He watches me with this intense determination, his finger massaging my clit, rubbing my sex. I suck down breaths, knowing my cheeks are red and blushing, my skin damp with sweat, my eyes locked on his. He grows bold, pinching a nipple through my bra, and it’s all I can do not to yelp.

He rubs and rubs, his touch exacting and authoritative. I wiggle and squirm, his fingers following me, giving me no reprieve.

It bursts in me out of nowhere, the climax, and I convulse, leaning into Peter. He catches me without letting up, the bliss he’s driving into me making my eyes water, my lips curl into a grimace.

“I should go,” he says, “This isn’t something I do.”

I’m panting, trying to catch my breath. The crotch of my pants is soaked through, a sheen of sweat coats the rest of me. Distantly, I hear the whistle blow, and I wipe the streaks of tears from my cheeks, knowing I need to compose myself. I hardly even notice as he walks away.

NSFW: yes

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