Greg and Darleene got married right out of high school. Hard to believe, but they'd just had their 15th high school reunion (and 15th wedding anniversary). At the last reunion, they reconnected with Miller. (Miller was his last name, but every since high school everyone just called him Miller.) He and Greg played football together in high school, and Miller was Best Man at their wedding. He was a couple years younger, a Sophomore when Greg was a Senior. Miller always looked up to Greg. Greg had been the football star, and had literally married the Homecoming Queen.
Queen Darleene. It rhymed. Darleene loved when they announced it at homecoming. She loved to say it in her mind. Queen Darleene. Sometimes she'd say it in frustration. Over the years, marriage wasn't easy. They had a nice house, and they had a baby. Then another. Things were pretty good, but over a decade, had sort of fallen into a routine of work, childcare, cooking, chores, driving.
Greg always thought Darleene was hot. She was the dream girl to be with in high school, and compared to some of her other classmates, she was still foxy. Even after two babies, she was still in good shape. He knew, in his mind, she was hot. But somehow their sex life just seem to dry up after 15 years, and the babies, and the poopy diapers, and the sleepless nights, and his back acting up from his old football injuries, aggravated by his work as a utility lineman.
So when Miller came back into their life, it was like old times. He'd gone to Arizona State to play ball, and had ended up getting married to a girl in Arizona, and it hadn't worked out and he eventually circled back to his hometown. He was glad to see Greg and Darleene again. After the divorce, he'd been on his own for years, and downright lonely. It was good to laugh with them about old times. Share dinner with them, and every Monday night, come over to watch football. And truthfully, he liked to watch Darleene. She'd serve them snack plates wearing skimpy shorts and a tank-top, showing off her legs and her breasts.
Darleene noticed his eyes on her body, and it felt good. Not since cheer leading in high school had boys undressed her with their eyes. She felt the old spark. On a whim, she pulled out Greg's old jersey. She stripped naked and slipped it on. It was long enough to hang like a summer dress. The fabric hung loosely, but her nipples, if hard, poked out a little, and the jersey was just thin enough to let light shine through and reveal the outline of her legs.
Dressed in the jersey, she casually walked in to the living room to give Greg and Miller another beer. Their eyes both immediately jumped. She could see the look on their faces--they were just like teenage boys again. Horny as hell. She told them she'd put the baby and the toddler to bed, and would be in the kitchen, and offered to fetch them a beer every commercial break. She told them just to yell "Beer Break!" whenever the game cut to commercial.
Her plan had its affect. Commercials came on regularly, and each time the guys would yell "Beer Break!" She'd waltz in with two cold ones, just like a beer model. She had given each beer a little shake before entering the room, so when she cracked one, the foam burst and dribbled down her arm and she handed each guy a beer with a wink. She made a point to stand directly in front of the big screen TV, so the light came through her shirt. She tried to lean down a bit lower each time she handed the guys a beer, so they could look down the V of the jersey and see the cleavage of her two bare breasts.
After the first quarter, the guys were pretty buzzed. They'd been pounding beers competitively, so neither one would have a part-finsihed beer by the next "Beer Break!" They shouted at the game, cheered, and high-fived. They high-fived with each beer, and began to hoot and whistle when Darleene swayed into the room with two fresh cold ones.
As half time neared, the guys were starting to get wasted. They cheered and hooted and hollered. For many women it might not have been at all sexy or romantic, but for Darleene, it was just like old times.
"Hey fellas," she said, in her sexy voice, "wanna know what the half time show is?"
They looked at her with big stupid, shit-faced grins. "Beer Break!?"
"Me," she said.
The guys looked at each other, confused, but excited. The hooted and high-fived.
Darleene started one of her cheers from high school. "Give me a G. Give me an O..." She jumped and kicked as she had on the sidelines of many high school games. Greg and Miller were both older, heavier middle aged men, but for now, they were just like their old selves, just dudes, best friends, teammates. Darleene was loving all the attention and had forgotten her lack of underwear when she high kicked, and flashed the guys.
"Whhoooa!" they yelled. The hooted, hoolered, and slapped high fives again. Greg wasn't mad--he was drunk, happy, and totally stoked that his hot Homecoming Queen wife was flashing her snatch at him and Miller. He saw that Miller was totally hot for Darleene--as he should be. She was the prize of Hoover High.
With the dudes cheering, Darleene spun around and touched her toes so her jersey rose up. Her cheerleading moves become more like a strip dance, as the half-time band music played from the TV. It was surprisingly erotic. The sounds of the tubas and snare drums, the marching band, all the dork kids who wanted her, and could never have her. Only the football elite could have her. Like the captain of the team, Greg, and the star running back, Miller.
She flipped up her jersey, giving each guy a look. She bent forward and shook her ass in their faces. She could feel their hot, beery breath on her.
"Look at that ass!" yelled Greg. "That's a fucking hot ass!"
"Hell yeah it is," yelled Miller.
"Look at them titties," yelled Greg as Darleene leaned forward, cupping her breasts, and pushing them first into Greg's face and then into Miller's.
"Hell yeah," yelled Miller, his face being smothered in Darleene's breasts.
The band was reaching its crescendo. Darleene knew the song by heart, knew how to time the big finale. With the crash of the cymbols, she stripped off her jersey and stood before both guys, just inches form their face and hands. Greg began to stroke her thighs and stomach. "Damn," he said, "You're fuckin hot, baby," he said.
"Hell yeah," said Miller.
"Is my wife fuckable or what?" said Greg, stroking Darleene's thigh and letting his hand move between her legs.
"Oh hell yeah," said Miller.
Darleene quivered to Greg's touch and parted her legs. She saw Miller's hands ready to touch her, his eyes fixed on her wet pussy, the buldge in his pants strained. Darleene knew that Greg was ready, too. She knew all it'd take was the suggestion.
"So, you two going to fuck me or what already?"
The two guys jumped into play, each moving as if on the field, positioning themselves in relation to the other. Playing ball, they could communicate just by physical movement, no words were needed. They stripped and took her to the living room floor. On her knees, Greg pushed in, and Miller, sitting back, gave her front row access to his cock. What a great cock, she thought, as she took it in both hands like a trophy. Greg pumped her from behind as she sucked and slurped. The game played on the TV. All the sounds and ref's whistles and cheers of the crowd seemed just for them, each reliving a moment of glory days.
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