Brian was elated when the coach called him aside during the first week in August, after an especially hard work-out.

"You did pretty good today, Morgan," the coach said. "Be over at my house at seven tonight for dinner."

Brian couldn't believe his ears, but he managed to mumble a "Yes sir!" and rushed off to the showers. When he told Gary and a couple of his other buddies about his invitation, they whistled and shook their heads in awe.

"That means you'll be playing varsity for sure!" Gary said, slapping his friend on the back. "Fellas, we got an all-American right in front of our eyes!" he added, not realizing how prophetic his words would be.

The evening was warm and still as Brian knocked on the coach's door. He was extremously nervous, standing first on one foot and then the other, pulling his collar back with one finger, as he waited for the door to open.

Pamela Freemont answered the knock. She was thirty-five, tall, had raven black hair, and dark piercing eyes. Her sensuous lips parted in a half smile as she looked at the young man before her.

"You must be Brian," she said, placing her hand in his. "I am Pamela Freemont. Do come in."

Brian stammered out a greeting, as he took in the full beauty of the coach's wife with a hurried glance. He hadn't realized what he had missed, until he looked longingly at Pamela's full, upturned tits that pressed against a white linen blouse.

"I like that hungry look," Pamela said, indicating a chair.

"I beg your pardon, ma'm?" Brian said, sitting down awkwardly.

"Whenever Bob, uh, the coach, invites one of his better prospects to dinner – which is a rarity – they haven't been around a woman in so long, they look at me like a woman likes to be looked at," she answered, lighting up a cigarette.