Coach Kristen - Sex Stories

Coach Kristen

... no idea what was going to happen; or even if anything was going to happen at all. It was a change of pace though; an outing (or inning, I guess would’ve been the correct term) with someone that wasn’t family. It was 6:55 when I pulled into her neighborhood. Small brick houses built back in the fifties lined the streets. Small yards, some manicured, some not, greeted each curb of the narrow streets. They were houses owned by people who were either just starting out, or about to die. I muttered to myself the address over and over, hoping that I wouldn’t forget it; even though the paper with her address and phone number sat safely on my dash. I pulled onto her street, Clemson Avenue, and I started to look at each house for the set of numbers that I was mumbling to myself. When I finally saw them, my heart skipped a beat. When I pulled up to her home, I was not surprised by the shape that it was in. The yard had toys strewn all over it, and the grass definitely needed a good cutting. There were some weeds in the flower bed but all in all it was a house that looked like it belonged to a single mother that probably didn’t make a lot of money. The house itself was small, maybe a thousand or so square feet. It was red brick like the rest, and it had white shudders. There was a small porch with three white, plastic lawn chairs on it. A large black ashtray sat on the railing of the porch and it was full of butts from light cigarettes. Before I got out of the car, I made sure that I had ...

... the right house. “515,” I said aloud. This must be the place. I shut the car engine off and I grabbed the two bags I had in the passenger seat. One bag contained a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of vodka; the other: a six pack of my favorite beer. ‘I hope that she has something to mix this liquor with,’ I thought to myself as I walked up to the door. I nervously jumped up the three steps, onto the porch and I was startled by the sudden flash of the porch light coming on. I heard the click of a lock, and then a door knob twist. It swung open and Kristen’s short, voluptuous silhouette stood behind the storm door. “Come in,” she said excitedly and I obliged. She opened the storm door to let me in and I walked through the threshold and into her small home. The first room I walked into was the living room. It was small, and there were pictures of her kid all over the eggshell-colored walls. The living room floor was hardwood, and the sound of clicking heels caught my attention. I looked over to Kristen, and my eyes nearly bugged out of the sockets due to the sight before them. Gone were Kristen’s usual baggy softball team shirt and loose-fitting “mom jeans.” Gone were the sensible sneakers and the dark sunglasses. And gone was any inclination for Kristen to hide her assets from judgmental moms and ogling dads. In front of him now was a woman who was showing off more assets than a dealer at an estate sale. She was wearing a jean skirt that came up to her mid-thigh. Her shaved, tan ...