“How does this look?” Anne asked as she walked into the living room and did a little pirouette. “I bought it for our trip to the beach next week.” She wore a bright pink bikini that covered the bare necessities but not much else.
Her husband, Jack, didn’t bother looking up from the television, which blared a UFC event. “It’s fine, hon,” he muttered.
Anne’s son, Matt, sat next to his father on the sofa, home from college for the summer. He did glance up at his mother but didn’t think before responding. “Geez, mom, it’s a little, I don’t know, a little problematic.” Anne noted his rolling eyes.
“What do you mean, ‘problematic’?” she asked, looking down.
Jack now shifted his focus to his wife of twenty-five years. “Good god, Anne, what are you thinking? You don’t have the body to pull that off!”
Matt agreed. “Yeah, mom. I mean, you look ok for a fifty-year-old—“
“I’m forty-eight,” Anne snapped.
“Yeah, whatever. You look good for you age, but, well, you’re kinda…”
“Kind of what?” Anne asked, hands on her hips. She moved to stand in front of the TV, blocking the father’s and son’s view of the fight.
“You’ve got flabby thighs, hon,” said Jack. “And your chest is saggy. Is that good enough for you? Why don’t you get a big one-piece suit, and maybe wear a t-shirt over it, and shorts.”
Anne glared at her husband and son, not budging. “Well, what are you dough-boys going to wear to the beach? Coveralls?”
“It’s ok, mom,” Matt said. “You’re in pretty good shape for as old as you are. You can’t help it if you’re not eighteen any more.”
“Neither one of you is eighteen any more, either,” Anne said. “And I’m not simply in pretty good shape, I’m in great shape. Better shape than either of you. All you do is watch other people do sports on TV.” She turned and looked at the fight on the screen behind her. “Neither one of you could ever do anything like that. Flabby thighs or not, I’m the only athlete in this house.”
“Oh geez,” moaned Jack.
“Be serious, mom!” Matt said, his voice rising. “You might jog some but you’re not in half the shape I am!”
“Jog some? I ran a four-hour marathon last month!”
“Big deal. Anybody can just putter along at nine or ten minutes a mile,” Matt argued.
“You couldn’t. Neither one of you could. Maybe for a few miles, but not twenty-six. Not even ten. And to look at the two of you sitting there eating chips, I bet I could even beat you both at that garbage.” She jerked her thumb at the TV, where one fighter had the other trapped in a triangle choke.
Jack snorted and Matt began to laugh hysterically.
“Sure mom, whatever you say,” he said between guffaws.
Anne had made her boast hyperbolically, in frustration, but as she stood there staring at her husband and son, she came to believe her words.
“OK, then, let’s make a bet. Tomorrow we’ll have a competition. First, we’ll all run ten miles. Right after we’ll wrestle; I’ll take you both on, one at a time. I bet I’ll beat both of you in the run and in the wrestling.”
“Oh geez,” snorted Jack, shaking his head.
“Mom, you can’t be serious!” shouted Matt.
“Afraid of your little ol’ mommy?” Anne taunted.
“What’s the bet?” Jack suddenly asked. “What do we get when we win?”
Anne thought a moment. “How about this? If either of you beats me in the race or in the wrestling, then I’ll get a new suit and do all the chores around the house for a year. Matt, if you win one of the events, I’ll buy you a new iPad and make your car payments for six months.”
“Sweet!” exclaimed Matt.
“Sounds like a good deal,” said Jack.
“But if I win, if I beat both of you in running and in wrestling, then both of you have to wear pink bikinis to the beach…just like this,” Anne said, running her fingers through her skimpy suit.
The men sat open-mouthed for just a moment before remembering that losing was not an option.
“You’re on,” said Jack.
“It’s a bet,” agreed Matt.
***
The next morning, Anne, Jack, and Matt stood in their driveway. Anne wore a pink sports bra and matching running shorts, along with pink Asics running shoes. Matt wore baggy basketball shorts and an UnderArmor t-shirt, while Jack wore cut-off sweatpants and a faded Steelers t-shirt.
“You both know the course, right?” asked Anne. “Just run straight down the boulevard, head right on Kingston Pike, run down to the Presbyterian Church, and then come back the same way. That way we’ll all be able to see each other so there won’t be any chance of cheating.”
“Sure, mom,” said Matt, taking a last swig from a RedBull.
“Sweetie, you shouldn’t drink that stuff,” said Anne. “It’s bad for you.”
Matt didn’t even bother replying.
“Ready? OK, let’s go!” Anne called as she clicked the timer on her running watch.
Matt took off at a pretty good clip; Anne estimated he was probably doing a seven-minute mile pace. Jack started off right at Matt’s heels but within a hundred yards had already slowed considerably. Anne contented herself with a moderate ten-minute per mile pace, knowing that the race wouldn’t be won in the first moments.
Anne passed her husband within five minutes. “Don’t push yourself too hard, honey,” she said as she passed him, true concern in her voice. Matt was out of sight. But by the time she neared the turn-around point, she had closed the gap. His pace had slowed considerably, and now he was just barely moving faster than a walk. When he turned he was shocked to see his mother just twenty yards behind him. Anne laughed to herself as he immediately accelerated; she knew that he wouldn’t be able to maintain the faster pace for more than a few minutes. Sure enough, she passed her son, breathing laboriously, just moments later. “See you back at the house, sugar,” she said brightly.
Ninety minutes after the race had begun, Anne trotted back up her driveway. She looked back and couldn’t see either her son or husband. “Great,” she thought, “I have enough time to change and get a quick snack.”
Twenty minutes later, Matt staggered up the drive and into his front yard. He bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, and panted like a dog. Suddenly two bare feet stepped into his field of view.
“Ready for your mom to kick your ass?” came his mother’s voice.
Anne didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t know any wrestling moves, but she didn’t need to. Matt was so fatigued from his run that she was able to sling him by one arm onto the grass. He feebly fought back but she straddled his stomach and grabbed his wrists, forcing them to the ground by his head. Matt struggled and squirmed but was too tired to dislodge the middle-aged woman pinning him to the ground.
“Do I win?” Anne asked, giggling like a schoolgirl, elated at the ease of her apparent victory.
Matt looked up at his grinning mother and realized, with dismay and shame, that she was wearing her new skimpy pink bikini. While he struggled pathetically, she adjusted her position so that now her knees pinned his biceps and her thighs (her flabby thighs) squeezed his chest tightly. Anne leaned forward, using her weight to force Matt’s wrists firmly into the grass. Her chest (her saggy chest) was immediately above him, and he couldn’t help but notice her breasts swinging back and forth as if to taunt him. He was not only beaten, he was beaten by a womanly woman.
“Do I win?” asked Anne again. She realized she could release her son’s wrists; he wasn’t going anywhere. He kicked his legs impotently, but that was all he could do. She grabbed his jaw with her right hand and squeezed, driving her pink nails into his skin. “I asked you a question, honey. Do I win?”
“Yes, yes,” sobbed Matt. “Let me up!”
“Is that the proper way to ask?” Anne scolded, squeezing her nails deeper into Matt’s face.
“No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Matt bucked and squirmed underneath his victorious mother. “Please, may I get up? Please?”
“OK, OK, since you asked nicely,” Anne laughed, getting off her son. She stood and offered him a hand, but he rolled to the side, too ashamed to accept her help. “Don’t be a baby,” she said. “Go on into the house and get cleaned up. I’ll make you some French toast for lunch if you don’t pout.”
Matt stalked inside, his head down.
Anne was glad that he wouldn’t see what she had in store for his father.
She sat on the porch drinking lemonade and admiring her nails for another fifteen minutes before Jack staggered up the street. He seemed barely able to walk. His breath was labored and he limped. Anne ran out to help him into the yard.
“Are you ok, honey? Do you need to go to the hospital?” Anne asked as she held him up by his arm.
“No…I’m….fi…fine…just…a little…tired…,” Jack gasped in between huge gulps of air.
“Well, if you’re fine,” said Anne, “I guess we’ll go on to round two.”
With that she kicked him in the balls as hard as she could. He dropped like a sack of concrete and lay writhing on the ground. Anne kicked him over to his back and then placed a bare foot on his throat. Gradually she shifted her weight onto his neck, watching with amusement how his face turned more and more red. Jack pawed helplessly at her leg.
Finally Anne took her foot off her husband’s throat and allowed him to breathe. He lay panting for several moments while Anne circled him. “Taking me for granted, huh? Thought you wore the pants in this family, didn’t you? We’ll see who gets to wear the pants around here.”
When Jack began to regain his senses a bit, Anne reached over and pulled him to his feet by his hair. He stood unsteadily. Anne then seized his right wrist and twisted it behind his back in a classic hammerlock. “This way,” she commanded as she walked him over to the front porch. She took a seat on the top step and forced him over her knee, still holding his arm behind his back.
“What are you doing?” sputtered Jack.
“I’m going to teach you who the boss is,” said Anne as she hooked the thumb of her free hand into the elastic of his shorts and yanked them to his knees.
“Anne! The neighbors will see!” screamed Jack.
“Then stop crying like a little girl,” replied his wife.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Anne’s breasts bounced merrily as she spanked her husband’s ass bare-handed until her hand was sore. His legs kicked like a child having a temper tantrum. When she was through, Anne shoved him off her lap and rolled him back into the front yard.
Before Jack could make an escape or even pull up his shorts, Anne was upon him again. “One last thing, honey,” she said. “Let’s see how much you like my flabby thighs. And my flabby butt. And my new bikini. I’d like to you kiss them.”
“What?” squealed Jack.
“You heard me. And you don’t have any choice.” It wasn’t hard for Anne to force Jack to his back and sit on his chest, facing his feet. She scooted backward, forcing the small pink bikini and the ample flesh it covered into Jack’s face. He tried to push her off but she easily grabbed both his wrists and pressed them into the grass by his sides.
“Kiss!” Anne commanded.
Jack refused. Anne bounced up and down on her husband, battering his face with her fleshy bottom until she sensed the last bit of fight had gone out of him.
“Kiss!” she commanded again. Anne smiled and giggled when her husband replied.
She could get used to this, she thought.
* * *
Anne met a lot of interesting people at the beach. So many women stopped to chat about the son and husband wearing bikinis that matched her own.
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