Soccer mom

The hotel air conditioning was humming, a weak attempt to fight the thick summer heat that clung to the windows. Down in the lobby, the noise was a different beast entirely—the chaotic symphony of a dozen hyped-up twelve-year-old boys fresh off a win, mixed with the tired but cheerful banter of their parents. I was right in the middle of it, a cold Polar beer in my hand, laughing at some story Carlos was telling about his son’s epic miss of an open goal. My son, Miguel, was already upstairs, probably glued to some Fortnite battle with his roommates. My wife, Maria, was back home with our daughter, and that familiar, dangerous feeling of freedom was starting to itch under my skin.

That’s when I saw her. Lisa. The soccer mom. Not just any mom, man. This one was different. She was from the other team, the one we beat this afternoon. She had that whole effortless American mom thing going on—fitted yoga pants that hugged an ass that just wouldn’t quit, a loose tank top that slipped off one shoulder, and her hair piled up in a messy bun with a few blonde strands sticking to her neck. But it was her eyes. She had this fire in them, a spark that said she was more than just minivans and packed lunches. We’d been trading looks all day on the sidelines, little smiles, that unspoken thing that happens between two people who recognize the same hunger in each other. A few of us parents had gone out for a late dinner, and the flirting over cheap burgers and fries was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Now, back at the hotel, the crowd was thinning. Kids were being dragged to bed, and goodnights were being said.

I caught her eye from across the lobby and gave a slow, deliberate nod toward the elevators. No words. Just a question. Her answer was a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head and a look that made my blood heat up ten degrees. Game on, pana.

I took the stairs two at a time, my heart already starting to drum a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I waited by my door, leaning against the frame, trying to look cool, like I wasn’t about to combust. The elevator dinged softly down the hall. And there she was. She walked towards me, her hips swaying in a rhythm that was pure sin. She didn’t say a word. Just slipped past me into the room, the scent of her perfume—something clean like citrus and warm like vanilla—washing over me. My mouth went dry.

She turned around as the door shut, and my heart was beating so hard I was sure she could hear it. She just looked at me, a little smile playing on her lips, and then she reached up, never breaking eye contact, and slid the security lock into place with a firm, final thunk. That sound, man. That was it. That was the point of no return.

Looking over her shoulder, she seductively bit her lower lip, turned, and floated towards me with her eyes locked on mine. My heart was pounding in my ears, a deafening drumline with every step she took. Her hands rose up to my chest, feeling the hard muscle underneath my thin t-shirt, and mine found her hips, my fingers digging into the incredible curve of her ass, pulling her closer until our bodies were almost touching.

“I can feel your heart beating,” she said softly, her voice a husky whisper.

I slid my hands around her body, taking her fully into my arms, and slowly moved my lips to hers. “It’s beating like that for you,” I whispered back, so close I could feel her warm breath mixing with mine.

And then the tension, the whole day of stolen glances and electric hints, just snapped. Our lips connected. Softly at first, a tentative exploration. I kissed her, broke away, kissed her again, let the anticipation build. Our foreheads touched as we looked into each other’s eyes, and damn, the desire there was raw and completely unchained. We drew in a deep, synchronized breath, smiled like two kids about to get into the best kind of trouble, and then crashed together again. This time it was all fire. Our tongues tangled instantly, a hot, wet dance that tasted of beer and mint and pure want. My hands slid down over her ass, squeezing, kneading, pulling her tight against my body so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me. I was already rock hard, straining against my shorts.

Her hands dropped from my chest, sliding down my stomach, and her fingers brushed against the thick bulge in my shorts. She let out a little gasp against my mouth, a sound of pure approval, and then ran her hand over me a couple of times, feeling me throbbing under the fabric. “Dios mío,” I muttered into her mouth, my hips pushing forward involuntarily. She just smiled wickedly and slid her hand up under my shirt, her nails scraping lightly over my abs and chest before she quickly pulled the shirt over my head and tossed it carelessly aside. My turn. My hands ran up under the back of her shirt, feeling the smooth, warm skin of her back. I didn’t waste any time. I slipped my fingers under the waistline of her shorts and her panties, cupping her bare ass. It was perfect, firm and round, and I groaned, grabbing two handfuls of it. I pulled her shirt off and tossed it away. She was standing there in a simple black bra, her breasts full and beautiful. I snapped the clasp open with one practiced move, she wiggled it off and threw her arms around me, pressing her bare chest against mine. The feeling of her skin on mine, her hard nipples digging into my chest, was almost too much.

I kissed her neck, sucking on that soft spot just below her ear as my hands explored her body. “You have no idea how badly I wanted this desde que te vi en el campo,” I breathed, my accent thickening with desire.

“Show me,” she challenged, her voice trembling with need.

That was all the invitation I needed. I spun her around gently and pushed her towards the bed. She fell forward onto the crisp hotel sheets with a little laugh, looking back at me over her shoulder with eyes full of lust. I grabbed the waistband of her yoga pants and her panties and pulled them down in one smooth motion. And fuck, the view. She was completely bare, her ass up in the air, and she was already so wet I could see the glistening heat between her legs. “Mira esa cuca,” I growled, running a finger through her slick folds. “Esta mojadísima para mi, pana.” She shuddered and buried her face in the pillow, a low moan escaping her.

I kicked off my shorts and boxers, my cock springing free, finally. I didn’t wait. I got on the bed behind her, positioned myself, and guided my tip to her entrance. I pushed inside her slowly, inch by incredible inch, and she was so tight, so wet, so fucking perfect. She cried out into the pillow, a sound of pure relief and pleasure, and pushed her hips back against me, taking me all the way in. “Yes… oh God, yes…” she moaned.

I started to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm at first, each thrust making her whole body shake. My hands were on her hips, holding her in place, then sliding up to grip her waist. I leaned over her, covering her body with mine, and whispered in her ear, “You like that? You like how my cock feels inside you?” All she could do was nod and whimper, her words lost to sensation. I reached around with one hand and found her clit, circling it with my thumb, and she screamed, her inner muscles clenching around me like a fist. “That’s it, mi vida,” I coaxed her, my breath hot on her neck. “Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

The combination of my thrusts and my fingers on her clit was too much for her. Her body went rigid, and she let out a series of sharp, breathy cries as her orgasm ripped through her, soaking me, her whole body trembling uncontrollably. The sight and feel of her coming undone beneath me pushed me over the edge. I fucked her through her climax, my own rhythm becoming frantic, losing all control. “I’m gonna come,” I grunted, my voice strained. “Where do you want it? Tell me.”

“Inside me,” she begged, her voice ragged. “Please, I want to feel it.”

With a final, deep thrust, I buried myself as far as I could go and let go, my own orgasm exploding out of me with a guttural roar I couldn’t contain. I pulsed inside her, filling her up, my vision going white at the edges. I collapsed on top of her, both of us a sweaty, breathless mess, my heart still hammering against her back.

After a few minutes, I rolled off her and we lay side by side, trying to catch our breath. The room smelled of sex and sweat and us. She turned her head to look at me, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. “So,” she said, tracing a finger down my chest. “What happens now?”

I grinned, that familiar post-coital clarity mixing with the thrill of the risk. “Now,” I said, pulling her closer. “We rest. Because round two is gonna be even better.” And as I held her, my mind was already racing, thinking of the text I’d have to send my wife later, and the perfect, dangerous lie I would tell.