The coach Kristen

My niece plays softball in a little league that is sponsored by the town we live in. Her coach, Kristen (not her real name), is really the only fun thing about the games.

Kristen is on the thick side. She has a kind of thick face that she wears make-up on and lips that are the same dark red color as her long curly hair. She’s not what I’d call a classic beauty, but she’s definitely “doable.” And if I had to guess, I’d say he was probably in his early to mid-30s.


Kristen also gives off the vibe that when she’s off the court, she’s wild as hell. In fact, I’d bet that when her daughter isn’t around (and she’s on the team), Kristen is probably having a good time drinking, partying, and spreading the legs for the guy or girl she brought home from the club that night.

Kristen and her beautiful body

However, that’s not what Kristen stands out for… Kristen stands out for her huge, perky breasts! They are glorious, even when enveloped by her she loses the shirts she is forced to wear. If I had to guess their size, I’d probably put them in the F or G range. They’re big… And I imagine they probably have quite a bit of sag when not encased in bras that I’m sure are custom-made. I really don’t care. Saggy breasts aren’t something I’d be particularly concerned about if I stuffed my lubed cock between them.

One day, after practice was over, Kristen approached me. She said she thought it was really nice of me to step up and take my niece to her games like I do. I told her it was my pleasure and she shouldn’t miss out on things like this because her dad is a deadbeat and her mom works so hard. She smiled at me and said again how nice it was of me.

There was a pregnant pause that probably lasted about ten seconds, and I glanced at her chest as she thought about what she was about to say. Thank God for sunglasses, I thought to myself.

“I know this is kind of bold but… I don’t have my daughter tonight so… if you don’t have your niece tonight how would you like to come over and have a few drinks with me ?”

I was a little surprised by her question, but I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “Sure,” I said. “What time do you want me to go?”

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“7 o’clock sounds good,” she asked. A smile crept across her face that said it would definitely be worth it if I said yes.

“Seven sounds good. Do you want me to bring something? Food? Beer?”

“Beer is fine… Or liquor if you really want to party.” I had a feeling that if she hadn’t been wearing sunglasses, I would have seen her wink at me.

“Okie dokie,” I said, immediately regretting that choice of words. “See you at seven!”

She pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her purse and wrote down her phone number and address. She handed it to me and said with a smile in her voice, “I look forward to seeing you at seven dear.”

I pulled away from her and the ballpark sweaty, excited and eager by 7. I had no idea what was going to happen; or even if something were to happen. It was a change of pace though; an outing (or inning, I think would have been the correct term) with someone who was not family.

It was 6:55 when I arrived at her neighborhood. Small brick houses built in the fifties lined the streets. Small courtyards, some neat, some not, greeted each curb of the narrow streets. They were houses owned by people who were either starting out or about to die.

I muttered the address to myself over and over again, hoping I wouldn’t forget it; even though the paper with her address and phone number was sitting safely on my dash. I got to her street, Clemson Avenue, and started looking in every house for the set of numbers I muttered to myself. When I finally saw them, my heart skipped a beat.

When I got to her house, I wasn’t surprised by the shape she was in. The yard had toys strewn all over it and the grass was in dire need of a good cut. There were some weeds in the flower bed, but overall it was a house that looked like it belonged to a single mom who probably didn’t make a lot of money.

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The house itself was small, maybe a thousand square feet. It was brick red like the rest and had white chills. It was a small porch with three white plastic chairs. A large black ashtray sat on the porch rail and was filled with cigarette butts.

Before I got out of the car, I made sure I had the right house. “515,” I said out loud. This must be the place. I turned off the car engine and grabbed the two bags I had on the passenger seat. One bag contained a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of vodka; the other: was a six-pack of my favorite beer. I hope he has something to mix this liquor with, I thought to myself as I walked over to him.

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