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Wendy Mitty has a secret life.

Trevor had dropped her off, but she needed a ride home. Could I pick her up around 10:15? I replied I would.

We got home about 9:50. My husband headed upstairs to bed. Sleep was never an issue with him. It was one of the reasons he was so productive. In bed at 10:00, asleep by 10:02, up at 5:00, and, most days, a mid-afternoon nap.

* * * *

Janet Jones, the school's principal, opened the door at Coach's house. I had not expected to see her and said only, "Principal Jones...," before stopping, not sure what to say. My surprise must have been evident, for she offered a quick explanation: "School policy. If students are at a teacher's house, another school employee must always be present. The gang's out back. And, please, call me Janet."

Janet Jones was a strikingly pretty blonde woman in her mid-30's. Her clothing emphasized her femininity and slender build. Tonight she was wearing a conservative lacy white blouse and leggings; I admired her figure as I followed her to the back yard. Was I was becoming a complete lech? Coach, standing before a large white board, discussing tomorrow's opponent. Most of the team was there and it was soon clear that, yes, I was becoming a complete lech. I was seeing these young women in a way I never had before. The team had more than its share of hotties and even the non-hotties looked pretty damn good. I also saw, as if my eyes had just been opened, how many of the girls were paired up. They were paying rapt attention to Coach, but many were sitting next to a partner, feet touching, fingers intertwined.

I stood in the back, trying to pay attention to Coach but distracted by all the firm young flesh. Images of these girls in various stages of undress flashed through my mind, followed by a question: how many had Katie been with - I was certainly not her first same-sex experience - and then images of Katie and these girls together. I was getting turned-on.

I felt the Principal's hand run down my spine.

"They are beautiful, aren't they?" she said.

Normally I would have dissembled, but I was caught off guard. "Yes, yes, they are."

I was saved from further embarrassment when Coach thanked the girls for coming, and approached Janet and me. We chatted while the girls packed up and said good night. Katie popped over, gave Coach and Principal Jones a big hug, and excused herself to duck down the hall to the facilities.

Upon her return we said our good nights and headed to the front door, my eyes flicking around to the remaining sweet young flesh. I hoped I wasn't being too obvious, but couldn't get their bodies out of my mind. I managed to be simultaneously troubled and struck by the irony: my incestuous affair with my daughter now seemed innocent - at least she was in the family - as opposed to my desire for her teammates.

When we got to the car there were two girls leaning against it, kissing passionately. I recognized one instantly. Cheyenne was the school's best athlete. She played first base on the softball team, forward on the basketball team, and had accepted a scholarship to the University of North Carolina for the following year. She was a few inches taller than six feet, dark brown in color, and she kept her hair short. She was small busted and her body was made-up of long lean sleek muscles. She was strength and grace personified; even the way she walked was striking. She was, in short, magnificent.

It took me longer to focus on the other girl. She was pale, at least eight half a foot shorter than Cheyenne, and had cropped red hair. She looked familiar.

"C'mon you two, break it up. Mom's here."

The girls unlocked lips and turned to me. "Hey Mrs. Stepton," the red-head said.

Now I recognized her. Andrea Wayman was a life-long friend of Katie's. The last time she came to the house her red hair came half-way down her back.

Trying to play it cool, I said, "I'm sorry Andrea, I didn't recognize you. When did you cut your hair?"

"About a month ago. This is my friend Cheyenne."

Cheyenne, with palpable self-assurance, stepped forward to shake my hand.

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