Rigor

A short story by G. Bonhomme

This story contains: her and her, queer, contemporary romance, enemies to lovers, public place, cunnilingus, toys, BDSM/kink, femdom, quickie, forbidden, extramarital 

Last year, Helen's son was a little out of his depth. Sometimes, when Timmy got the ball, he'd look over to her on the sidelines for encouragement: "You can do it, buddy!" When he got knocked down, he'd cry, and he'd get pulled off the field and run to Helen to crumple into her arms.

Obviously, he wouldn't be caught dead doing that now. The fires of soccer ambition have awoken. He never looks for her on the sidelines anymore. He has eyes only for the ball, and for Coach Bob, whom he reveres. He no longer wants to leave early; Helen has to drag him away from orange slices and Pokemon duels and roughhousing.

Which gives her nothing to do, behind the snacks table on the sidelines, except force herself not to look at Celeste.

They're the same age, and Celeste has two kids—Liam and Lucas, who, given their mother’s personality, you'd think would be bullies or showoff wingers or prima donna strikers, but who instead are easygoing, friendly, reliable utility fullbacks. Despite having had two kids, Celeste is a vision of pristine beauty, while Helen, after only one, feels chunky and frazzled. 

Not flabby—she works out. She has a solid foundation from her own soccer-playing days. And yes, having a kid made her tits bigger; and yes, maybe after a spa day and dressing up for date night, she's pretty sure she could still turn heads. (Date night would have to actually happen, ever, to test this hypothesis, which would require Brandon to fucking ever come home before 11 p.m.). 

But at the soccer field on Saturday morning, in a ponytail, Helen feels like she's all frizzed hair, flushed cheeks, crow's feet, and sweat. 

Whereas: Celeste.

Celeste's hair is a mane of lush, abundant dark ringlets. Her skin is some kind of glowing confection, olive in shadow, golden in sunlight. Her lips are a perfect dark moue. (Is that the word? High school French was a long time ago.) Her figure is slim and graceful but somehow also nurturing and motherly, and her tits—Jesus, Helen, can you not look at her tits right now? Helen, stop, just unwrap the brownies, for fuck's sake.

Then Celeste is before her, with a cool smile—not exactly welcoming, but not uncomradely—and she takes a brownie and takes a bite. 

Her brows come together, disapproving, and a nervous shiver goes up Helen's spine.

"Oh, yeah," Helen says, trying to laugh it off. "They're a little—hard? I mixed up baking soda and baking powder in the recipe. You know how it is!"

Celeste does not know how it is. Celeste inspects the brownie like it's a dead snake.

Helen looks over to Janet and Teresa for support. Teresa is cheering for her kid, not paying attention. Janet, who is jovial and buxom and says things like "I'm just joshing" and "for Pete's sake," looks wryly sympathetic, and also like she's glad she's not the one whose baked goods are being glared at.

Celeste wraps the brownie in a napkin. "Helen, can you come with me to the supply closet? I think Coach Bob may need the green mesh vests."

This makes no sense. The green mesh vests are for practice, and this is a match, against Eastmont. But Helen numbly follows Celeste across the field, and into the multipurpose building, and down the hall, and into the supply closet.

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