Coach and Dolly: Play Ball!

On most youth baseball teams, the first half of the boys are selected because they actually have talent or athletic ability or, perhaps, are just big or strong or fast.  Then you have the political favors, such as your golfing buddy's son or your nephew or the child of the coach's wife's friend.  The last few spots are determined by things like which boy's father might underwrite better uniforms, has access to a box at the stadium, or is someone the coach wants to do business with.  Perhaps the most unspoken qualification is that the boys with really hot moms get selected far higher in the draft than their talent would justify.  My son is a terrific young man, but as a 10- or 12-year-old, he couldn't hit a baseball to save his life and didn't throw the ball as hard as his grandmother could.  But he was typically a first-round draft pick.  Hi, my name is Dolly, and I am a former world-ranked triathlete and am generally referred to as a MILF. 

 

It isn't news that it is hot, damned hot, and muggy in South Florida in the summer, when the boys are playing "All-Stars.”  Yep, my boy would make the All-Star team every summer at the end of the pleasant little park-league schedule.  The All-Stars would travel to different tournaments around the Southeast, where it was always sweltering, but I was on the receiving end of what could only be referred to as icy stares from the other moms.  The dads, on the other hand, would be as welcoming as they thought they could get away with and not wake up to the John Bobbitt treatment. 

 

I could lie and say I never had sex with any of the dads on my son's teams.  Or any coaches.  Or I could brag about the tennis mom I hooked up with.  My standards are really very high on looks for women I have sex with.  Tennis Mom was hot, had flat abs after three children, legs about as powerful as mine, and a deep tan that, unlike mine, had lines that followed the style of her tennis skirts or short tennis dresses.  I was kissing all up and down those tan lines after three Cosmopolitans each at the Chili's near the youth baseball complex in Vero Beach.  She was married to an airline pilot and said she knew he fucked around, but he was a hunk, had family money, and every so often brought a flight attendant home to share.  Yep, that sounded worth staying with him. That was what I whispered into her ear when I leaned in, smelled the lilac fragrance in her hair, and then added, "So, if you let him play, does he return the favor and look the other way when you do, too?"  I think it was when I bit her earlobe, sucked softly on it for a second, and felt Tennis Mom shudder, yes, I think that's when she surrendered to the heat between us.  Her hand slid over to my thigh, where she dragged that great French manicure across my flesh and said, "Let's go upstairs.  The boys will be at practice for another hour.”

 

Tennis Mom was wet from the get-go and as aggressive a kisser as I am.  That actually took us a couple minutes to adjust to—a pair of Alpha Female kissers.  The minutes passed quickly, as trial and error with our lips and tongues continued, while we both freestyle stripped each other and ourselves … a back zipper on her skirt going down, my bare midriff workout top getting tossed aside, sneakers getting kicked off without being untied, and groping that would put a high school boy to shame.  Women in their 30s, unlike those young hormone-enraged boys, know exactly how hard to squeeze and twist a nipple to produce stimulation and pressure without going (too far) over the line to pain. "Oh God, you better fuck me with those fingers as well as you feel me with them," I said.  Her tits were enhanced, and the C cups were just right for her firm, hard body.  A landing strip gave directions to the men she took as lovers, but Dolly doesn't need directions.  Tennis Mom twiddled me but good, and I came in moaning glory on her hand three times, twice muffling my cum noises by suckling her nipples.  I like to lick a woman to climax, at least for round one, and then rub my protruding lubed-up clit against hers, using each other's sex for tender stimulation.  It allows my pussy-coated lips to be deeply kissed and sensually appreciated by the very lady whose flavor was all over my face.  We went at it again in the shower, twiddling each other off while standing there, a finger up her ass to see if it would help make her weak in the knees at my touch (Bingo!  It did).  We giggled as we tried to catch our breath and put the sweaty outfits back on.  Given the humidity, no one caught on enough to say anything that we heard (or heard about).  We played some more ladies singles from time to time that summer.

 

The summer my son was 11, and Coach Billy was just a perfectly relaxing comfort fuck.  He was divorced and didn't have a son on the team, as his own boys had already moved on to junior high and then high school.  But he really enjoyed working with the boys, helping them improve their skills, and he didn't have a wife to get home to or nag him about all the hours at the ball field, so he willingly gave his time.  He said he was 53.  I guess he was probably 30 pounds overweight.  He wasn't blind, so I could catch him eyeing me, but I've long since accepted that's just part of having the body that I've worked for.  He didn't blush when our eyes would meet; he'd just give this nod of approval, as if he were saying, 'thanks.’  He was a perfect gentleman right up until the tournament in Fort Myers. The team hotel was next to a complex with a movie theater and upscale shops and restaurants.  Good Italian reds were to be had at Lombardi's, which I didn't initially realize was co-owned by the original Lombardi’s from Brooklyn, one of those "first, original pizza in America" type places with an old coal oven.  Gradually, the other parents called it a night, until it was just Coach Billy and me.  We'd been swapping stories that had nothing to do with sex.  It was so much fun to exchange "bizarre things that have happened to me as a parent" stories.  So when the restaurant was closing up as midnight approached, it just felt natural, like old friends, when he said, "The nice part about these suite hotels, Dolly, is the kitchen—I've got some wine upstairs if you're not quite ready to call it a night."  Knowing we were alone made it so easy to just move my lips forward and kiss Billy and say, "My boy is spending the night in his friends' room.  They have sleepovers all the time at home.  So I don't have a curfew, Coach Billy."  My hand on his thigh, dragging my nails on his flesh, caused a tent to pop in his shorts.  Billy settled the check, and we walked out, hand in hand, fingers interlocked like we were going steady in junior high.  We dropped our hands to our sides as we entered the lobby, in case any curious eyes might be there, but we were the only ones.  When the elevator door closed, we spontaneously started making out, again like teenagers.  He was an excellent kisser, passionate and sensitive—which made me wet because, most of the time, great kissers eat my pussy oh so well.  SPOILER ALERT--He did.  And I loved licking my fluid all over his face after I'd drenched him with two orgasms courtesy of those sweet kissing lips.

 

But before Billy licked Dollyville good and clean, I got face to cock with his "Billy Club.”  It was maybe 6”, but stout and fat, with a big, bulbous head, the kind that just flat out feels great to ride, cowgirl and then reverse cowgirl.  I pushed him onto the couch in the sitting area, dropped to my knees, and undid his belt while he hunched over and felt my breasts as we kissed some more.  He helped me lower his shorts and boxers over his erect cock, and then he held my hair away from my face as I deep throated his cock.  I teased the head, teased his balls, big ones that matched the cock, sure enough, with my tongue, just lightly running my tongue over each pelota, torturing Billy to the point where I knew he needed to cum.  But, first, I needed some steel to ride.  I left a thick coat of saliva on his tool while my fingers stroked him, and then I let the spit string connect my bottom lip to the pre-cum oozing tip of his cock for a minute before I asked if he thought he'd be able to cum more than once. 

 

"There's no wrong answer, Coach.  I just want to know how far to take you so that we both get all the pleasure we want--and all the KINDS of pleasure we want, too."  His eyes grew wide as I realized that Billy must not have ever hired an escort or hooked up with a serious nympho before.  Not that there are too many like me out there, but I know there are others.  Apparently none of them, however, had ever fucked Coach Billy in a full PSE for hours at a time.  "I'm pretty sure I can.  I can't imagine you couldn't make me hard again in no time."  Poor huggable dear man sounded a bit scared!  "Relax, I want this inside me, so I'm not going to swallow your man goo just yet.  All good things to those who wait."  I love that last line.  It sounds like I'm hinting at sexual treats to patient lovers.  Never mind that I learned to love the line listening to Anthony Hopkins say it in 'Silence of the Lambs'!

 

I took him back in my mouth, listening to him gasp, as I cupped balls.  Just when I sensed I was about to get a mouthful of heat, I backed down, then stood and dropped my clothes.  His lips—those lips!—were on my nipples in a second, and we embraced.  The feel of his hands on my flesh so intense.  I finished stripping him.  He seemed shy about his belly.  I told him he was my lover and to take me to the bed.  Sure enough, that soothed all doubts he might have had.

 

I did pause long enough to open my bag and grab a strip of three condoms in connected foil wrappers and my tube of lube.  If Billy had any inkling about my Dolly-Date expertise, he didn't say anything, though he might not have had enough blood in the big head to think about that, anyway.  Mostly, the little head had taken over.  My favorite way for a man to think!

 

Some men have a thing about going down on a woman after their cocks have been busy fucking her pussy.  This can happen with or without a condom, as I have found in both Dolly-life and Civvie-life.  I got on the bed, onto my back first, and he laid down on me as a lover, kissing and nuzzling, my hands clinging to him, grabbing his ass, pulling him against me.  "Anywhere else you'd like that tongue to explore, Coach?" I asked him.  I swear he had the smile of a 10-year-old on his birthday when I opened my knees and nudged his shoulder south after asking him that.  I let him know where to touch, what needed to be harder or softer, but really, it was just a few directions.  Between a naturally skilled tongue (just because he hadn't had porn sex didn't mean he hadn't eaten pussy, he later said in his own defense!) and how worked up I was, multiplied by the slight buzz from the wine, yes, cum and cum again.  In the afterglow, he told me how hot he found my degree of muscle tone and the feeling of power in my legs when I clenched then around his head during the trembling after shocks of my orgasms.  I did do some damage, I'm afraid, when I was on top, doing some Asian cowgirl and then regular cowgirl, and I got into a good angle to thrust my hips and grind my clit against him while he held my ass and fucked his cock up into me.  At some point, as I turned my head letting the pleasure seep through my neck bones, I saw my tube of lube next to the bed.  "As if I were going to need that!" was my thought. We were both sweaty when he finally came during my reverse cowgirl while he sat at the foot of the bed, his hands alternating between supporting my ass and reaching around to twiddle my clit while I slammed my body down onto his Billy Club (okay, my name for his cock, not his.)

 

It was past 1 a.m.  We were drenched in sweat and my pussy's excitement juice.  I tried licking Billy back to life—if we've met, you know my competitiveness and ego kicked in—and I licked up and down that shaft, tried every stroke, suck, and lick trick I knew, but Billy's estimate proved to be overly optimistic.  No worries, I assured him.  We'd both had a fabulous evening.  I usually am careful, but I was going back to an empty room and everyone else was either asleep or at least wasn’t roaming the hotel.  So I did my walk of shame without showering, since all my shower selections were in my room and I didn't want to smell like hotel soap.

 

My son actually improved his playing skills that summer.  He liked Billy, as Billy was a good coach.  Billy improved some of his own skills, too.  I guess Dolly was a good coach as well.

 

THE END

Purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

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