Copyright 2003 Frank Downey. All rights reserved. Any use other than personal archiving requires the permission of the author. Do not repost.

This story contains adult material. If this is illegal where you reside or if you are underage where you reside, begone.

By Frank Downey

This story was inspired by the song of the same name, by the group Fountains of Wayne

I have to say, sometimes being a stud gets trying.

Yup, stud. Jimmy Elliott, 17-year-old pussy-poundin’ machine; that’s me. Hey, what can I say, I like pussy. And since I’m a big football dude at school, and a good student, and damn handsome—well, I get all the pussy I want.

And yeah, most of the other guys at school hate my guts. Hey, who cares? The girls love me, that’s all I care about.

It’s been like that ever since I first realized why my dick got hard. I lost my virginity at 12. And she was 15. That’s right, my first time, an older girl—and she oohed and aahed like I was the second coming. Even back then, I could wow ‘em. Hey, when you got it, you got it.

And I had it. Any time I wanted it, all I had to do was snap my fingers. A different girl every weekend—or repeats, whatever I wanted. The girls knew the score—I was out for sex, and not anything else. There were plenty, believe me, that’d go right along with that. Understand something, I’m not the kind of guy who just wants to rip off a piece. The girls I was with enjoyed themselves—I made damn sure of that. And, believe me, that reputation did not hurt when it came to adding to my total. Girls talk. When they talked about me, if they were talking about sex, they were saying good things.

However, at this point in time—being 17, towards the end of my Junior year, I was, frankly, getting a little bored.

Like I said, I’m a good student. I’m no dummy. I wasn’t the stereotypical football jock that can’t string two coherent sentences together. There are football players with brains. Especially quarterbacks, which is what I was.

Which meant, as much as I liked sex, an intelligent conversation before—or even after—was a good thing. And I wasn’t getting much of that. Despite my grades and intelligence, what I was known for was for being The Quarterback. And, because of that, what I got in the way of female talent were the brainless bimbo cheerleader-types.

Oh, sure, that’s another stereotype—but that’s what my experience was. The girls that mooned over the stud quarterback were usually cheerleaders (or wannabes) and almost always dumb as rocks. Yes, there were smart girls in school. And, yes, I might’ve even gotten a date with a couple of them. But—the ones I knew, anyhow—that’s all I was gonna get off of ‘em. And, like I said, a good rutting is still number one on the list of priorities.

What I figured was I needed a new playing field.

And that’s when I thought about Stacy.

No, I wasn’t interested in Stacy, herself. We’d been friends forever—she only lived a few streets over—and she was fine as a friend. But as a lover? Nope—she was a cheerleader. Blonde, blue-eyed, big tits, prone to mooning and giggling, especially around me. I’d had enough of that.

But I’d been around Stacy’s house a time or two, and there I’d gotten a glimpse at the real prize—Stacy’s Mom.

See, the way I figured it was this: I was an experienced cocksman, right? My talent was getting wasted on these high school bimbos. It was time for me to graduate to the Major Leagues.

And Stacy’s Mom had it goin’ on, believe me. This chick was seriously HOT. Yeah, she was older, late thirties or so—who cared? She looked 25, which was fine by me. With all those football muscles, I didn’t figure I looked 17, either. And her husband, Stacy’s dad, had taken off some years before. I figured she needed a good lover. That’d be me.

So, that spring, the end of Junior year, I became more receptive to Stacy’s invites. She always wanted me to come over. I’d do it anyway, in the warm weather, since they had a pool. Now I had another reason.

Stacy tried, of course. I could tell the (feeble) attempts at seduction. I just laughed ‘em off. Finally, Stacy asked me point-blank, "With all the girls you’ve dated, how come you’ve never asked me out?"

"Ah, c’mon, Stace," I told her, "just wouldn’t feel right. I mean, we’ve been friends since second grade." I love using that one on chicks—because chicks do it all the time. I’d bet Stacy had used the ‘I just wanna be friends!’ line a thousand times. They all do. And they know it’s a slap—but, since it’s their favorite slap, they can’t say anything about it! And Stacy was no exception. She made grumbling noises a bit, but then backed off. She still kept inviting me over, probably nursing the flicker of hope. And I kept going, lusting after her mother while I was there!

Mrs. Gregory seemed to finally notice me after a while—but not in the way I had planned. She knew me, of course, but didn’t seem to pay much attention to me. Until a day a few weeks before school got out for the year. "James," she said, "I have a proposition for you."

"Yes?" I said, hoping.

She blew that hope right out of the water. "I need some help around here during the summer. Lawn mowing, cleaning the pool, trimming the hedges, that kind of thing. You’re a strapping young man, you shouldn’t have any problem handling the tasks. I’ll pay you, of course."

Not the kind of proposition I was angling for—but, still, I eagerly accepted. It was another excuse to hang around the house, right? Plus, I could use the money, and Mrs. Gregory promised a generous rate.

So, I spent a lot of that spring, and into the early summer, at Stacy’s house. I’d hang with Stace, do the yard work, and ogle Stacy’s Mom. The pool was always available, too, a good thing after I worked up a sweat doing yardwork.

And Stacy turned out to be cool, after she stopped flirting with me every seven seconds and started acting like an actual person. She must’ve taken that ‘we’re good friends’ crap to heart, because she started acting like a friend. And when she did that, she turned out to be good company. We talked a lot—about a lot of different stuff. Stace had a brain in her head, surprise surprise. We even talked about football. I had said something, and she went right with me.

"You know that much about football?" I said, flabbergasted.

"Of course," Stacy grinned. "Why do you think I’m a cheerleader?"

"So you can shake your pom-poms," I grinned.

"Not hardly. You’ve got me confused with the rest of those twits. I’m a cheerleader because I love football!"

"You learn something new every day," I laughed. I found I enjoyed talking to her. Yeah, she still had a tendency to wear the skimpiest string bikini around me, to entice me. Frankly, I didn’t mind. Of course, I didn’t tell Stacy that her mother wearing a sharp business suit was sexier!

So, things were good. Stacy was all right, I was making some money, I had a pool to swim in, and I got to ogle Stacy’s Mom.

Now, I just needed to find a way to fuck her.

I didn’t have a set schedule for the yardwork. You know—if the pool was dirty, I cleaned it. If the lawn was getting long, I mowed it. I was over there so much it didn’t seem to matter.

One day, I went over, and there was no answer at the door. But I took a look at the lawn and noticed it needed to be mowed. So, I went into the shed—I had a key for it—and got the riding mower out and started doing my bit.

I was in front of the house, when I noticed a motion. I looked up—and there stood Stacy’s Mom—wearing nothing but a towel! Jesus Christ, I thought I was going to fall right off the mower!

She waved, and I turned the mower off. "Hello, Jimmy," she said. "I was coming out of the shower and heard the noise, and was just making sure it was you."

"It’s me," I grinned. She stood there on the porch smiling at me. The towel covered the important places—her boobs and her snatch—but just barely. I popped a boner in record time. And I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it.

She noticed. And then did something weird. She lifted her right arm, pointing. The motion made the towel slip—and I got a glimpse of her right nipple. "You missed a spot over there," she said, laughing, pointing to a spot across the yard. I didn’t even see where she was pointing—I was too busy looking at her nipple peeking out over the towel! She lowered her arm—slowly—and very nonchalantly readjusted the towel. Then she smiled at me, turned, and headed back through the door—sashaying her hips as she did. The bottoms of her ass cheeks peeked out from below the towel—and she made sure I saw ‘em. She turned back over her shoulder and grinned at me—and then she was gone.

Man, what a tease!

I like that in a woman.

How on earth I finished the mowing that day, I’ll never know.

After that, Mrs. Gregory got more, I don’t know, free around me. I’d be doing the yardwork and she’d be lying around the pool in a bikini, grinning at me. Not around Stacy, mind you—never around Stacy. But if I were there doing stuff and Stacy wasn’t, she’d tease me.

I guess she was interested. I also guess she was flattered by my attentions—because I’d stopped trying to hide them. She’d be out in the bikini, and I openly ogled. She didn’t seem to mind.

And, in hindsight, I guess she was waiting for something—Stacy’s departure. Every year, at the end of July, Stacy went away for two weeks, to visit her father, who lived a couple states away. Stacy, I had found out, adored her father.

A week after Stace had left, I went over there, to check things out. The hedges were getting wild, so I decided they needed a trim. I got out the hedge trimmers and went to work. It was an awfully hot day, so I was just wearing a pair of shorts—my shirt was off, in a ball at my feet, it was too damn hot to wear it.

Remember, I’m a football player. Muscles, I got.

Stacy’s Mom came home while I was in the middle of it. She was wearing a pair of short shorts and a tank top. Damn, she looked good. "Hello, Mrs. Gregory," I said.

"Jimmy," she smiled, shaking her head, "we’re friends. You can call me Sharon."

"OK, Sharon."

"It’s a hot day for doing this," she said, pointing to the hedges.

"That’s OK. I don’t mind."

"Well, OK, but you’re all sweaty," she said, grazing her hand over my (sweaty, she was right) shoulder. I shuddered at that, believe me! "When you’re done, come on in. I’ll fix you some lemonade."

I quickly finished the hedges and scooted inside. Sharon had the lemonade all ready. She handed it to me and I sipped at it gratefully.

"My, my," she said, "look at all those muscles. Now I know why my daughter is after you." I just chuckled, and she went on. "Have you slept with Stacy?" she asked.

"No," I told her, truthfully. "Stacy and I are friends."

"She doesn’t see it that way," Sharon chuckled. "And from what she tells me, she’s one of the few you haven’t slept with."

"I’m tired of them," I said. "Silly teenaged cheerleader types. I’m ready to move up." There it was—she had to know what I was talking about.

"Oh, you think so?" she said, grinning.

"I know so."

"So you think you can handle more, do you?" she said. Before I could get a word out, she had reached for the hem of her tank top—and had stripped it right off. "You think you can handle this?" And she wasn’t wearing anything under the tank top.

Oh my fucking head! She was magnificent!

I only allowed myself a second to goggle—the lady had asked me a question, after all. "Yes, I think I can handle that."

She gave me a wicked grin, and waggled a finger at me in a ‘come-hither’ motion. I followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom. When we got there, I pulled her into my arms and gave her a kiss.

"Hmmm, you’re not shy," she said with a chuckle.

"At my age, if you’re shy, you don’t get any," I told her.

"Good point," she said, and pulled me back into the kiss. We made out for a while, sitting on the bed, while my hand fondled those magnificent tits. After a few minutes of that, I reached for the waistband of her shorts. She helped me get them off.

Hot damn, she shaved!

I took my lips off hers, and started working my way down. I looked up at her, and she was looking down at me, a question on her face. "I need a taste," I chuckled, and moved in between her legs.

"Hmmm. I didn’t expect that. Most men have to be trained into that."

"I was trained young," I chuckled. "Besides which, I’m not selfish in bed. One good way to make sure the reputation spreads." She laughed at that, and I dived in.

I’d seen trims before. Hey, I dated cheerleaders, and they tend to like things neat and clean—short skirts, tight panties, and a lot of jumping around were involved, and they didn’t want pubes showing. But completely shaved? Hadn’t seen that. This was the smoothest pussy I’d seen since I was 14 and bagged a 12-year-old. And this on the oldest woman I’d ever been with! I dove right in.

I got my whole face buried in that bare pussy, and started lapping at her labia with my tongue. Then I went for the clit, dragging my tongue over it with every upstroke. Sharon started yelping.

Then, I zeroed in, taking her clit between my lips and sucking on it, tickling the top of it with my tongue. She howled! Damn, this woman was old enough to be my mother, and I was making her cum up a storm!

Shit, I’m good.

I let her come down a bit, and then I did it again. After the second screaming cum, she tried to pull me up on top of her—by my hair. "Dammit! Fuck me! Fuck me now!" she howled. She didn’t have to ask twice! I got my hair out of her death-grip, and started climbing on top of her. Remembering myself, I stopped, reached down to my pants, and grabbed my wallet.

Realizing what I was doing, she said, "You don’t need that, Baby—I’m on the pill."

I shrugged. "I sleep around," I told her. "As far as I know, I’m clean, but why take chances?"

"Oooh, smart and considerate, too," she purred. "Fine. Gimme." She took the package out of my hand, and opened it. Then she took the condom herself and started working it onto my dick.

Well, that was a first. And a hell of a nice one, too!

She got it on, grinning at me, and I got into position between her legs. I aimed, and plunged right in.

Jesus! This woman was in her thirties, had had a kid, had been married—and was as tight as any teenaged virgin I’d ever been in! It was amazing! Her muscle control was astounding. Now this was fucking!

Considering what a pussyhound I am, I’d managed to build up a bit of stamina—and it was a good damn thing. The way her pussy was milking me, any normal 17 year old would’ve been able to last about seven seconds. Luckily, I was able to last a good deal longer than that. I knew she’d cum twice, but I was going for three. I got it—and damn she got loud! I loved every fucking second of it. Of course, her going off, with all that howling and spasming and pussy-clenching and all was more than enough for me. I poured myself into the condom with a mighty roar.

Afterwards, I slid down next to her, and she wrapped her arms around me. "Baby, that was magnificent!" she purred.

Damn. I’m the fucking King of the World.

It didn’t last.

The first crack of the armor came two days later. I went over there, ostensibly to mow the lawn, but I had other motivations. I got shot straight down. "It was fun, and you’re incredibly good for a boy, but I think I need to stick to men." Blah blah blah.

Hey, I knew what the score was. She was embarrassed that a mere ‘boy’ made her cum three times. Of course, I was disappointed—I was hoping to fuck her brains out on a regular basis. Hell, moving in looked appealing! I got shot right down.

Ah, well, I figured—she’ll come around. She hasn’t had it that good in years, and she knows it. She’ll come around.

It was exactly a week later that the walls came down around my ears.

I was home, and the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there stood Stacy. And the next thing I know, I was getting clocked right in the kisser!

"You BASTARD!!" she howled. "You slept with my Mother! How could you DO that to me???"

"How do you know?" I gasped, rubbing my throbbing jaw.

"She told me!"

"Why would she do that?" I asked, confused.

"To rub my nose in it! Why do you think she let you fuck her in the first place? Jesus!" She glared at me. "Since you’re obviously a fucking idiot, let me explain the facts of life to you. My mother and I hate each other’s guts. If I could live with my Dad, I would. And my mother particularly hates that when I go visit Dad, I come back much happier than I am living with her. She loathes my Dad, and really hates that he and I are so close. So, this was her little revenge. Knowing how I felt about you, she figured she could lure you into bed, and then put it in my face!"

She looked at me, completely disgusted. "And you fell for it. My mother is a complete asshole, Jimmy. She uses people. Then again, you do too, don’t you? All those girls, you’re the king of the fuck and run. Maybe you and my slut Mother deserve one another." She stomped off.

I walked around the next week or so in a complete fog. Sharon used me? I just couldn’t believe it.

I probably should have—because what Stacy said was right—that was my M.O., wasn’t it? Fuck and run. I’d had the tables turned, and good.

But, Jesus—fucking me to get back at her daughter? That was just cruel. I might be a pussyhound, but I’d never done anything like that. I mean, that was beyond the pale. I mean, how could you do that to Stacy? Stacy was nice. She was sweet. She was smart, and a lot of fun. Why did her mother hate her so much? I just didn’t get it.

That’s when I heard it—the nagging voice in the back of my head. It said, ‘It wasn’t just Sharon. You hurt Stacy, too.’

But I’m not her mother!

‘You know how Stacy feels about you,’ the voice said.

But Stacy just wanted in my pants, like the others!

‘Are you really that full of shit?’ the voice asked. ‘The others would’ve given up with one rejection. Stacy never gave up. She was content to be your friend, if that’s all you wanted—because she really, really likes you.’

Shit.

As this spun around in my brain, I had other things to worry about. Football practice, mainly. It was August, and it was time for two-a-days. I was a senior now, and it would be my third year as the starting quarterback. We had a lot of returning starters from a good team, so I figured this year we could really go places. Hopefully, we’d see some of that from the early practices.

Well, most of the team looked good. There was, however, one exception. Me. I sucked. I couldn’t throw, I kept fumbling, I couldn’t keep my mind on the practices. I mean, this was bad. This was my senior season—this was my chance at a scholarship. And I was stinking up the joint.

It was bad enough the first week. It got worse the second week. Why? Because that’s when the cheerleaders started their pre-season workouts. Stacy was, of course, there. And every time I looked at her, she was glaring at me.

Classes started the next week. We still had practice after school, and I still sucked. On the Wednesday of that week, the practice proper had ended, but I was still on the field, throwing to Dan, my favorite wide receiver. I was in big trouble—if I had any kind of backup, my starting position might be in jeopardy. I was trying to figure something out, and Dan stayed behind to help.

I was throwing to him—badly—when I heard an evil chuckle. "Boy, do you suck." I looked, and it was Stacy, sitting in the stands, in street clothes. Cheerleader practice had ended, and she had obviously decided to taunt me. "I mean, that’s just horrible," she continued. "You really suck."

She was trying to get me going. I didn’t take the bait. "I know," was all I said. Her eyes bugged out. "I just can’t get it together," I continued.

"Well, you’d better. I told you, I don’t stand out on that field in that ridiculous cheerleader getup to watch you guys lose."

"I know." I threw another one. It barely reached Dan.

"Jimmy, your elbow’s flying out on your release," Stacy said.

"Is it?"

She came clomping out of the stands. "Jesus, Jimmy, what is wrong with you?"

"Stacy," I said, "go home. Please."

"Not an chance. I’ve been watching you all week. Your head is up your ass. You need to shake it loose."

"Maybe I can’t. Maybe I don’t care." I turned to Dan. "Hey, Danny, thanks. I’m all done." Dan waved, and headed out. I started tromping off the field.

Stacy recovered quickly. "Hey, Jimmy, wait! What are you doing? I mean, what is your problem? You could be all state this year!"

"Why do you care?" I asked, stopping and turning to her.

"I told you. I like football, and you’re the QB of my team."

"Is that all?" I said. "I suppose it is now," I continued, answering myself. "It just doesn’t seem to mean anything anymore."

"Jimmy, I just don’t get it," she repeated. "What is the problem?"

I turned, walked over to her, and let it all out. "Stacy, you are the problem! Well, more accurately, what I did to you is the problem. It keeps me up nights."

"You mean what my Mom did to you is the problem," she said, chuckling evilly. "She pulled on you something that you’re used to pulling on girls. That’s the problem."

"No. If that were the problem, then I would’ve said so," I told her. "I meant what I said. You’re the problem."

"Oh, what’s this? Jimmy actually has a conscience?" she sneered.

I just looked at her, then clomped off the field, leaving her calling my name in the distance.

I got to school the next day feeling like shit. I stumbled through the morning, then headed for lunch. As I emerged from the line with my food, I felt a hand on my arm. It was Stacy. "Come with me," she said, tugging me to a small table in the corner. She pushed me towards a seat, and then sat across from me. "We have to talk."

"About what?" I snorted.

"A lot of things. First of all, my mother. She wants Round Two."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me. She slept with you for exactly the reasons I thought. However, she admitted to me last night that you blew her mind. She can’t believe you’re only seventeen. She wants another go."

"No way," I said immediately. "I like to think I’m smart enough to not make the same mistakes twice." I glared at her. "And why are you telling me this?"

"To see how you’d react," she said sheepishly.

"So you made this all up?"

"No, not at all," she said. "Mom really did say that stuff, and that she wanted another round. So why are you turning it down?"

I looked at her, exasperated. "You really think I don’t have a conscience, don’t you?" I blurted. She started to say something, but I cut her off. "OK, I’ll admit that the parameters of my conscience can be variable." She smirked at that. "But I do have one."

"Are you sure that’s it?" she said. I just looked at her. "I thought you were just offended that my mother treated you as nothing more than a warm, available dick."

I surprised myself and Stacy with my answer. "Who doesn’t?"

"Excuse me?" Stacy said, wide-eyed.

"Who doesn’t treat me as a warm, available dick? Come on. Do you think I use girls?"

"Yes," she said emphatically.

"Ever think it might be mutual?" She just stared at me. "Come on, Stacy. Think about it. You know some of the girls I’ve been with. I mean, think—Marina Kelly? Shannon Everson? Janine Garrick? What do you think I am to them? You think they wanted anything more than I wanted? They didn’t. I wanted to get laid. They wanted to get laid. So we got laid. There might have been one or two that weren’t using me as sure as I was using them, but I can’t think of any off hand.

"So, no, your mother using me didn’t bother me. It was slightly disappointing, but for two reasons. First, you’d think an older woman would be beyond those games. I guess not."

"Not my mother," Stacy smirked.

"Apparently so. Anyhow, the second reason was that she deliberately did it to hurt you. And that bothered me. I thought that was low. Furthermore, though I didn’t deliberately try to hurt you—me doing what I did did hurt you, and I should’ve known it would. Unfortunately, I can be clueless, especially when my dick is doing my thinking for me. I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’ve lusted after your mother for years."

"I guessed that," she said. "So why the conscience attack?"

"Because I realized something. Too fucking late, but I realized it." I took a breath, and spilled the beans. "I realized that the only girl around here that treats me as more than a live breathing vibrator—is you."

I quickly walked out of the lunchroom before either of us could say anything more.

She was waiting for me after football practice.

"So," she said, grinning, "we’ve been friends since second grade and you’re finally figuring it out now?"

"No," I told her, "we’ve been acquaintances since second grade. We’ve been friends since this past spring. I didn’t really know you at all until the last four months or so. And you spent a year before that fawning over me, so I figured you were just another Marina Kelly fuckbunny cheerleader bimbo type. I didn’t learn otherwise until recently."

"Fair enough." She sighed. "I did that because I thought that’s what you liked."

"At the time, you might have been right," I agreed.

"And I knew that. So I was trying to play the part. Which was futile. Shit, I’m still a virgin," she admitted. "Seducing’s not my thing, despite the cheerleader façade."

"Good," I told her. "So—there’s a game tomorrow night. But what are you doing Saturday night?" I asked.

"Going out with you," she beamed.

"Good!" I laughed. We started heading off the football field. She wrapped her arm around mine.

"So, are you going to be able to handle this?" I asked tentatively.

"What, that you went to bed with my Mom?" she laughed. "You think you’re the first guy I brought home that she seduced?"

"WHAT?"

"Nope, you’re the fourth, I think. Like I said, she’s an asshole. She took Benny Collins to bed when we were in eighth grade."

"JESUS!"

"That’s Mom. I was surprised you went for it, though. The other ones—well, they weren’t getting any—and, as I said, I wasn’t putting out, yet—still haven’t. But I was surprised you went for it, since you don’t have any problems getting any."

"Well, that’s kind of a common fantasy—older woman, I mean," I said. She nodded. "Plus, it was an ego thing. I was the stud, right? I figured I had outgrown high school girls."

"You still feel that way?" she asked softly.

"Well, I’ve outgrown trying to fuck every girl in the place, that much is for sure," I admitted.

"Well, I’m available. But only if you’re serious. You can fuck me, but I don’t share," she said.

Jesus! "Didn’t you just tell me you were still a virgin?"

She shrugged. "Somebody’s got to be the first, right? Considering I had you pegged for it about a year and a half ago…"

I just stared at her, shaking my head. "I had no idea," I said.

"Now you do."

"You wanted me that much?"

"Jimmy, I’m in love with you that much," she admitted. "I always knew there was more to you than the football stud. Was waiting for you to figure it out."

"Wow," I said. We started walking again, our hands meeting. "I’ve really been stupid."

"You weren’t ready," she said.

"Probably," I agreed.

"You had wild oats to sow. Including, God help me, my mother. But I’m good at being patient."

"That you are," I agreed. My admiration for this girl was increasing exponentially. Could I? I mean, one girl? Just me and Stace?

I could try. "I think I should reward your patience," I said. She giggled. "However, you know what? I think we should work our way up to that."

"Really? OK," she said happily.

"We could start with a kiss," I suggested.

"Yes, we could," she giggled.

So we did.

--fin—