Coaching The Coach

_Thwop!_ “No no no no!” It was a perfectly good serve, fast and hard, nicking the far corner of
the backhand service court. But it wasn’t at all what he was trying to
get me to do. Coach Anderson came out on the court and moved up behind me. “No, no–
here, let me help you _feel_ it.” This was, I knew, the part of his job he liked the best. I reached down into the basket for another ball. If his eyes had been
hands, his lashes would have goosed me. “No balls, Linda,” he grunted. “I just want to guide you through the
motions.” No doubt he did! Coach pressed up against me from the rear, fully against me, his arms
reaching around so he could grip the back of my hands with his. The _best_ part of his job. He moved my left arm slowly up and down,
intoning in my ear, “Don’t release it when you usually do–hold on a
millisecond longer. You want the toss to go slightly _behind_ you. You
have to get the trajectory perfect–that’s _crucial_. Without it,
you’ll never get it right.” The best part. I could feel the thickness of his groin pressing into my
bottom. Imagine! Not only being allowed to practically dry hump any of
a dozen athletic college women on an almost daily basis, but getting
paid for it! Coach didn’t have a full erection, but if I wiggled my butt a little he
would. Not that I needed to: generally after the second half of the
instruction he’d become _Supercoach_–strong as steel. _Faster than a
speeding bullet_ really wouldn’t have been my first guess. “Now lean back,” he guided me, his pelvis all the more firmly pushed
against my tush as he forced my spine into a backwards arch. Over and
over we repeated the motion, swatting at the invisible ball that hung
miraculously suspended in the air behind us. The entire team could have all been Grand Slam Champs, but still he
would have unearthed new moves to teach us. That was his job, right?
The best part of it. Coach had spent the past several weeks trying to initiate me into the
mysteries of the American Twist. This was a nearly mythical serve
that’d ruined quite a few professional backs. But damn was it a bitch
of a serve. Initially I’d been pretty cold to the idea, but then he’d
set me up on the opposite side of the court to convince me with a
demonstration. He’d served to me for nearly fifteen minutes. It took
me over a hundred attempts before I could even lay a racquet on the
ball. And then, that was only because he was getting tired and losing
the form. Even so, my return was what was known in an earlier age as
_off the wood_–the ball ricocheting away with a spine-shuddering thud,
angling off all wobbly to land in the adjacent court. I made up my mind then that I wanted a serve like that on my agenda,
regardless of the cost. Toss, toss, toss. Swing, swing, swing. “Remember,” his words were hot
in my ear, “you have to make contact with the face of your racquet
parallel to the net. Whipping back to _swoop_ around the ball.” He was completely erect now, and he wanted me to know it. And why not? Though Coach was at least a dozen years older than any of
us, he was still an exceptionally good-looking man. Sexy. With what
felt to be a nice big cock. His help had helped him bed half the girls
on the team. At least. But I wanted no part of any of _that_. Disease-factors aside, I’d been
raised with an ethical trace. His wife and pair of young boys were much
more than a rumor. She was out there with them every match we had.
Stoically, unapplauding, with no pleasure, as if her presence alone
could somehow eradicate her husband’s infidelities. I really didn’t know what she thought. Or what she hoped to accomplish.
As though by being a milky-scented wet blanket on the wayside of our
victories she could somehow prevent the phrase _tennis match_ from
shedding its euphemistic skin. As though without her in the audience
things would erupt into an orgy of a dozen nubile college girls
ravishing her husband on the lined asphalt of the hard courts. There was no way not to feel sorry for her. Even our lowliest member
put up a wicked game; we hadn’t lost a match all season. Mrs. Anderson
would be left with two little boys gone from cute to cranky, while Coach
waved them away home, apologetically, insisting he had to take us out
for a victory celebration. He’d settle us all in to some pizza joint, then direct the restaurant
manager to the proper college account. Coach rarely stayed to eat,
preferring to go off to screw Suzie or whomever. The man really had no
scruples; once he’d even managed to detain a pair of our opponents,
causing them to miss their team bus back home. Presumably, the
subsequent motel and Greyhound bills were paid out of some discretionary
fund. It was obvious that Coach Anderson would fuck any girl in a minute.
What I hadn’t imagined was how apt a description that was. He was
_that_ kind of man–grunt, squirt, _see ya later!_ I didn’t learn that until I was in the locker room with Stacey, my
doubles partner. While Stacey was my dearest truest bestest friend–all those gushy
girlie endearments–I’d be the first to admit that she was a first-class
slut. That girl would ride anything with three legs. She hissed at me with an evil grin. “I found out the other afternoon
why Coach goes through so many girls.” “You didn’t,” I gasped, faking my surprise. “I did!” “Plan on doing it again?” I was truly curious about that. Though she
would spread her legs to anyone who uttered the magic phrase–_open
staceyforme_–I’d known her to stick around a guy if he made it worth
her while. “Are you kidding? That’s what I was just saying. The man’s a ball
short of a full can, if you catch my meaning.” Only because of the context of our conversation. But by being around
Stacey so much, observing her love of inappropriate or bungled
metaphors, I knew exactly what she was saying. “I mean, really! I hate those kind of men. A handsome face, cute buns,
and a definite angle to the dangle–and they think they can just lay
back on those laurels. Like any girl should be grateful just to have
them blow their load inside them. _Puh-lease!_ I expect more of a
reward than I got for having to spend the next hour walking around
_leaking_.” “So I take it he’s not a marathon man–more of a master of the six-inch
sprint.” “You got it, sister. You got it and you can have it, if you want it.” Not particularly, though that was what set my plan in motion. I knew my ass looked cute in my tennis shorts, especially when I added
an extra little swing to my hips. _Especially_ so when I stayed bent an
added beat or more when picking a ball up off the court. Once I noticed
Coach Anderson appreciating my efforts, that was when I decided to
switch to skirts. Tennis skirts. The kind that barely flounce down to
the top of your thighs. The sort of tennis skirt that’s so short it
mandates you wear the matching tennis panties. Those special panties
you pull on over your real panties. Those skimpy little panties waving
layers of lacy frills. I was suiting up in just such when I was interrupted. “Oh my!” Stacey poked her head around the corner of the lockers. “How
retro-sexy!” I glanced over my shoulder towards the mirror, at the image of my
backside. Hiking the skirt, I gave my fanny a little shake. My god, I
looked like something out of a nature film. Some exotic species
screaming out to be sexed. Good! Stacey gave a small frown. “But there aren’t any pockets on that
thing.” She was genuinely concerned. “Won’t that make things a bit
difficult? Or are you planning on switching to a one-handed backhand?” “You silly! There was a time when they wouldn’t even allow women on the
courts in shorts. You just slip the extras inside your panties.” Stacey’s eyes went wide. “You mean like Ben Wa balls? Damn! That’d
snap my concentration in about two minutes flat!” “No, dear. Just slip them up under the elastic. You don’t have to
shove them up your cunt unless you’re in the mood.” “Work one of those up me, I’d be in the mood all the time.” “But Stacey,” I soothed, “you _are_ in the mood all the time.” “Not for tennis practice I’m not!” + + + After a few weeks of intense work, I was getting the American Twist down
pretty well. Oh, I was far from being its master but I had the
movements added to the vernacular of my body language. The exhilaration
I would feel when every fourth or fifth attempt went right. When it
worked–what a killer serve! I glowed with the notion that I was well
on my way to becoming the baddest bitch on the courts. Even Stacey
begged off from my requests for the occasional friendly round of
singles. Waving me away, she’d laugh, “Why waste the hour when we know
the results? Game, set, match; you win, 6-0, 6-0.” But my progress didn’t prevent Coach from keeping me late nearly every
practice for some personal instruction. The hands-on kind. It was
rather pointless. He knew it and I knew it. I had the form, I only had
to harness it. The old humpity-bump, _Now_ reach _for the ball!_ As if
I needed it. He did, though. Boy, did he ever. “You’re getting it, you’re getting it!” In his dreams I was getting it. Or, more accurately, _he_ was getting
it. “Do you really think I’m getting it good, Coach?” “Oh yes, you’re almost ready.” “Oh Coach, I’m always ready. But am I good enough to get it?” “Good, so good, god you’re good, oh my god but you’re good.” So much of that stupid sort of banter. Geez, I wouldn’t have believed
that anyone seriously talked like that. Though no doubt I did say shit
like that all night long. But not in _my_ dreams. As if on cue, I went into a semi-swoon, resting back against him,
swinging my hair across his face. “Mmm, god Linda, you smell so good.” Suddenly there was a slug on my neck. Oh, no, that’d be his tongue.
“But not as good as I taste, I bet, right?” I added. I gyrated my ass
like a good tart should. Coach stiffened in appreciation. “If you taste as good as you look, I bet you’re good enough to eat.” My, what a witty rejoinder! “You know, Linda” Coach continued, “I really . . . _enjoy_ your change
in apparel. Shorts are sexy, but there’s nothing like a skirt to show
off a girl to her full advantage. I really, _really_ . . . _like_
skirts.” _Really_ really? As if I couldn’t feel the very evidence. Coach’s
breath was hot and heavy, sticky and sweet, warmed-up syrup poured into
my ear. Yuck! Who wants syrup in their ear? What a mess to clean up.
Nevertheless I kept in role and played along. “I can tell,” I purred, wriggling against him. “So . . . what are you doing after practice?” His words were like a
tongue worming into my ear. “Going back to my place,” I replied. “Where I’ll sit all alone and
lonely.” “Like some company?” I pressed back against him even harder, the peg of his cock pushing into
the groove of my ass. I rubbed him slowly, up and down. “What do you
think?” I had him hooked. “I think, uh, practice is over for the day. We’ve got the state
tournament coming up in a few weeks, and I, uh, don’t want you to get
_too_ worn out.” “Okay,” I demurred, stepping out of his reach. “First I’m going to hit
the showers. Then why don’t you meet me over at my place in about half
an hour. You know the Keystone Apartments over on Oak? I’m B-1.” “Oh? You’ll be one what?” I gave my hair a sultry toss. “That’s for you to find out. But . . .
take the time to shower yourself.” Turning then, I walked away towards the locker-room with a swish to my
stride. Once inside, I walked past the rows of lockers, past the sinks
and toilets, past the shower stalls, and straight out the back door.
With hardly anyone else around, I really didn’t trust the bastard to not
barge in on me. I was home and in the shower while Coach was likely still sniffing
around the locker-room. While I was washing, I decided to have a little
fun-under-the-spray, to give myself that special glow. As naughty as I
was feeling, I was singing in the shower within minutes. I was
staggering when I got out, swaying before the mirror as I toweled off.
Slipping a finger between my labia, I decided there was no point in
trying to dry off down there; the more I tried, the wetter I’d get. I
touched the tip of the curious finger behind each ear. A little Eau de
Pussy never hurt the cause. The next order was to get dressed. I quickly decided to carry on the
motif. I knew just the skirt, a true bargain. It’d come off the sale
rack, which might just as well have been labeled the slut rack. No sane
woman would have fingered it with serious thoughts to ever wearing it on
court. Unless she wanted to be an element of complete distraction in a
game of mixed doubles. Cunt pink and cut to the pink. Strapless tennis
wear? Hey designers, get real. Oh darn, I couldn’t find the matching bottoms . . . guess I’d just have
to go without. And gee, the only panties I owned that wouldn’t clash
were the kind you put on just to have someone else take them off. Then, as dressed as I was going to get, I took a quick spin through the
apartment. The bed, I shook my head. Neat as a pin, like the hotel
maids had just left. That wasn’t the kind of girl I was this afternoon.
I yanked at the cover, leaving it half off the bed, trailing all over
the floor. Then I rumpled up the sheets but good, giving them that
much-more-than-just-slept-in look. I was the kind of girl who lounged
around in bed. All morning long. Who didn’t make her bed because why
bother? It’d just get all mussed up again who knows how soon. I went back out into the livingroom and looked around. Everything was
pristine the way I liked it. But it lacked a little something.
Sloppiness confined to the bedroom was a good concept, but still . . . .
Scented candles, yea, that’d be the touch. I had some of those in the
closet. After distributing some of them around the room, I turned off
the overhead and left the lighting to the wicks and a floor lamp in the
corner. I scanned the room again, hand on my chin. _Tap tap tap_ went
my foot. Something, something, something. Ah! Perfect, I thought,
turning back towards the bedroom. I retrieved my previous outfit from
the wicker hamper, then carefully arranged the items in a casual puddle
just inside the front door, real panties on prominent display. The kind
of girl who comes home after a hard workout and can barely stand to get
inside the door before she has to _take off all her clothes!_ My transformation into Wet-Dream Tennis Slut complete, I went to check
on the time. Thirty minutes on the dot, the buzzer sounded. “_What!?_” I snarled into the intercom. Silence. “Um. Uh, Linda? It’s, uh, _me_. Heh heh, Coach Anderson.” “Ohh, _hell-lo_ Coach,” the pussy purring, that was the very intonation,
“come on up.” I buzzed him in. One giant step and he was at my door. But I already
had it open, myself leaning against the jamb. “I’m sorry I was so rude,” I whispered contritely. “I thought it was
someone I _didn’t_ want to see. I’d about lost hope; I thought you’d
decided to stand me up.” Coach was speechless. I could read his response on his face. Stand me
up? Why would he do that? He wanted to lay me down. He gaped at me,
then glanced at his wrist. But he wasn’t wearing a watch. I turned before he could make a bigger fool of himself, letting him
follow me into my apartment. I made a show of bolting and chaining the
door. Coach was checking out the digs. He gave out a long low whistle as his
eyes circled the room. It skipped into a dry-lipped sputter when his
gaze landed on the pile of laundry at his feet. “Oh, sloppy me,” I declared, swooping down to gather up the clothing.
“Be right back–don’t go anywhere!” Off to the bedroom I flounced to
dump it all back into the hamper. Of course I had to turn on the light
in there, giving him a good gander at my messy bed. I swept back into the livingroom sporting a sweet smile. “Sorry!
Didn’t mean to greet you with my unmentionables.” Coach returned my smile with a small shaking of his head. Then he
shifted back, continuing to crane his head. “Nice place! I like your
decorating taste. Live here alone?” “Of course. I value my privacy.” “Hmm. But wouldn’t it be a lot cheaper if you lived in the dorms, or
one of the sorority houses?” “Sure,” I shrugged. I let my tongue wet my upper lip. “But like I
said, I _value_ my privacy. You can’t put a price on some things. You
might as well ask me why I don’t dine at the Commons–I prefer fine food
and not having to sit at a table with a bunch of morons. And besides,”
I paused to give my hair a toss, “I like men . . . I like to _entertain_
men. Why would I want to live with a bunch of girls?” “Um, good point. A guy can feel pretty awkward walking down a hall with
a girl to her room . . . running the gauntlet you know . . . hard to get
any sense of privacy with a bunch of other girls poking their nosy heads
out their doors . . . I mean, at least that’s what I’d imagine.” Right. Imagine, my ass! I could tell Coach was about at the end of his conversational line, but
I decided to let him squirm on the hook a little longer before reeling
him in. My part was easy, after all. He was the salivating little boy.
All I had to do was keep being the piece of candy, wrapper still on. Coach glanced around the room some more–somehow, I didn’t think he was
going to suddenly launch into an appreciative discourse on the Paul Klee
print on the wall. He started shuffling his feet, then glanced down to
see what his feet were doing. His eyes darted over to the now bare
patch of carpet to the side of his feet, then he looked back up at me. “Do you,” he gulped, “generally dress like this? . . . off the court, I
mean.” I batted my lashes. “All the time.” Quick pause. “When I bother to
wear anything at all.” “I’ve never seen you wear that particular one before.” His voice was
thick with testosterone. “I _know!_” I pouted. “I somehow managed to misplace the matching
panties. See?” I lifted the hem. See indeed he did. Coach was on me in a second, sweeping me up in his
arms. Back to familiar territory. “God, Linda, you’ve been driving me crazy!” “Uh uh,” I dodged his lips with a giggle. “Not yet. You haven’t even
begun to see the crazy I’m going to show you. You have no idea what
crazy I’ve got in store for you.” I’ve been waiting for this moment for
so long, blah blah blah. _Ri-i-i-i-p_. “I’ll buy you a new dress, I swear.” _Ri-i-p_ again. “I’ll get you a hundred pairs of panties!” His lips were all over me. Christ, would he get me a new neck as well? I broke away from him and danced lightly down the hall towards the
bedroom. Coach beat me there. I was amazed, but couldn’t deny the
truth my eyes were seeing. He was actually standing between me and my
bed. A naked woman displayed to a fully clad man. What can you do? “Hey,” I called lightly, moving my gaze from his face to his crotch, “we
can’t play a good game ’til you get out your racquet and balls. And I thought he got my clothes off fast! He slipped down his pants and
shorts and immediately stepped out of them, having somehow shed his
shoes and socks in the process. He sent his shirt sailing up in the air
in a grand gesture; it parachuted down as a statement, infiltrating the
sheetscape of the No-Man’s Land of my bed. “Now get in the bed,” I growled. In bed he lay, waiting for me to join him. His mouth was all puckered up for some action, but there was no way I
wanted to actually kiss him. Instead I hovered over him, lowered way
down, and twisting my torso batted my breasts against his face. Coach caught on; Coach caught on. “You know,” I remarked all breathy,
“sometimes just having my tits sucked can bring me to orgasm.” What a
crock, but what a hoot to watch him try. He gave it his best effort, but it was obvious he hadn’t paused at a
pair of breasts past a quick paw in all his life. Since his mommy
bumped him off the tit anyway. Probably a bottle brat from day one. I thought about faking one–_ooh, ahh_–but my senses voted the idea
down. I could tell that he was starting to get bored–this wasn’t
really his style–and on the verge of just flopping me on my back and
getting the deed done. The original In-Out Man. So I pulled away from his mouth and started scooting down his body,
bumping into his little buddy along the way. Aha! There was the root of the problem. That big puppy was so eager it
was _drooling_. I wrapped my hand around the shaft and gave it a
squeeze. The damn thing throbbed in reply, _Hello–I love you!!!_ If
not third, maybe second time’s charm. The overgrown teenager. I started jacking off Coach. Judging from the intensity of his groans,
I figured I could finish off the job in about thirty seconds. I
considered that treatment, but then I thought my personae-of-the-moment
could do better than that. After all, what guy doesn’t get-off watching a girl gobble his goods?
Let him crown me the Blow-Job Queen. Down I went, and in it came. Rather quickly I was able to mentally
detach the penis from the man, falling into my natural state and
treating him to a full feast. _Oh you big beautiful cock, I’m going to
make you feel_ so-o _good!_ Work that suction, slather that tongue
around. Me have penis envy? No way! Phallic worship? You bet! I was not at all squeamish when it came to these things. I loved to
suck cock, and after acquiring the taste some years back I swallowed
every time. As the battling bumper stickers stated: _Mean people suck_
and _Nice people swallow_. The two just went together in my mind.
Hell, otherwise it’d be like a guy trying to eat me out without getting
his tongue wet. Then I snapped out of it. This was oral sex with a multitude of
purposes. I didn’t want to give Coach _that_ satisfaction. I whipped
my head away when I felt his cock puff up that penultimate measure. I
rubbed his nuts for good luck, then sat back on my haunches to watch the
show. I was mesmerized. It really was about the saddest, loneliest, most
pathetic performance I’d ever seen. Existential sex. Coach was
writhing from head to toe, his cock waving around, twitching for any
sort of touch. And then he erupted. The first two bursts shot up in
the air, only to fall back down on his stomach. The rest of the
ejaculation just sort of bubbled down his cock into his pubic hair. It
was like watching a baby boy pee all over himself. Or the rheumy tears
of an old man. I almost pitied Coach. Almost. As he lay there panting in his aftermath, I rose up on my knees and
began shuffling up his torso. Poor Coach! His face went nearly ashen
as I approached. “W-w-what are you doing?” he stammered. “Moving into position, silly!” “Huh?” “I’m rushing the net, like you’re always telling me to. _It’s a
critical strategy if you ever want to get anywhere,_” I started quoting
the Book of Coach. “_Keep your opponent distracted and on the
defensive._ Seize _the initiative._” Coach looked truly perplexed. “I don’t understand what you’re getting
at, Linda.” I gave my lips an exaggerated lick, as though I was drooling sperm. I
let my voice down into its sultriest register. “Simple. Serve _and_
volley, Coach.” I finished my forward motion and started lowering myself. Reaching my
hands down, I gingerly spread my labia apart. “Look at my pretty pussy,
Coach. Doesn’t it look good enough to eat?!” He didn’t get the time to answer; I promptly sat on his face. There wasn’t really any choice; my pussy was the only option open for
him. Judging by the movements of his tongue and lips, Coach knew what
to do with a faceful of cunt, though maybe it’d been awhile since he’d
had to make the effort. That or he was trying to tell me something. If
so, I was going to smother the words. I was going to tell him a few
things instead. “Now stick it up inside me! _Fuck me with your tongue._ Better start
lapping it up or I’m going to drown you in cunt sauce.” If nothing
else, this was certainly more _interesting_ than rubbing myself off. I
shifted a little and began riding his mouth in earnest. “That’s it! Go
for my clit. Lick it, nibble it, suck it. Make me come all over your
face!” His ministrations alone probably wouldn’t have turned the trick. But
god was I getting hot from the circumstances. Just the thought of
coming all over the bastard’s face had me terribly excited. That plus
the mood I’d set in the shower . . . I kept my orgasm at bay as long as
I could, just to keep his esteem from soaring, but finally I had to give
in, grinding down against him with a groan, then letting the ripples of
pleasure lead me screaming to the ceiling. At length I rose up off him. Coach was gasping for breath. I
maneuvered myself back down his body. Normally, the most erotic course
of action would have been to smother him with kisses. Tasting the
traces of myself all over his lips and tongue and cheeks. I find that
very arousing. But I wasn’t going to do that for him. Instead, I
parked myself between his thighs and began tickling his balls. Letting
him know I expected more. It was nearly priceless, the cast to his face. I was well acquainted
with the look a man got when he was mentally undressing a woman. But
this was the first time I’d ever seen a man mentally dressing himself.
Then one of his hands shot out, grappling around in the bedding
searching for his shirt. I put my hands on my hips, as stern an expression on my face as I could
muster without cracking up. “What do you think you’re doing?” “I, um, well, I just thought, well, since we both got-off and all, you
know, it’s getting late, and, well, you know, things to do, so I should
probably get going.” “_Get going_ is right!” I retorted, reaching a hand back to his limp
member. “That was just the first set–best two-out-of-three. Hell,
that was just the warm-up. You’re not leaving the court yet. You
haven’t even fucked me.” “But, but, you _came_, didn’t you?” “Humping your nose hardly counts.” I let that sink in, then continued. “You aren’t going to get me all
worked up then leave me hanging, _buster_. That may be the way you
_used to_ play. But I think it’s time for you to change your strategy.” A smirk slid across his face. “What are you going to do? Quit the
team?” Cocky bastard. “Oh,” I pondered, gazing off with a far-away look. “I
picture you returning to your cozy little home. I see you sitting down
to dinner. And the surprise on your face when your sweet wife serves
you up divorce papers for desert.” Did the man look stricken? I do believe the man did look stricken. The
stupid, arrogant prick. It’d clearly never crossed his mind that his
personal and professional lives might intersect. When they coexisted
barely blocks apart. “You wouldn’t?!” he gasped, going pale. “Not if you fuck the stuffing out of me,” I smiled sweetly. “But . . . but . . . but . . . ” he couldn’t begin to say it. “But what?” I dismissed him. “A big stud like you can’t get it up
again? Aren’t you used to actually satisfying a woman? Tell you what .
.. . how about a little show for encouragement? Show Mr. Penis what he’s
missing. Ever watch a girl _touch_ herself?” The man was out of his element; he didn’t own a poker-face to disguise
that fact. “Can you think of anything sexier than seeing a girl play with her
pussy?” I dipped my hands down, spread my lips and proceeded to
demonstrate the rhetorical nature of my question. I saw his cock give a little shudder. Life left in that thing after
all. My clit and my fingers were good old friends, so it didn’t take long to
get myself going. So delicious. I tried to stave off the finish, but
my fingers weren’t obeying orders from command central. That greedy
little nub was overriding my brain. _Rub me, squeeze me, flick me!_ I could hear the good crystal in the kitchen cabinets shatter as I cried
out my pleasure. Coach’s eyes were like saucers, spider-webbed with cracks but still
intact. His cock had started to fatten, but was nowhere near the point of doing
either of us any good. It looked like a sausage just put in the pan,
still cold and limp. Try to stuff that up me, it might just break off
in the middle. It was definitely time to turn up the heat and fry that
baby until it was nice and firm. I slipped a finger inside my cunt and stirred the juices around. My
other hand palmed his scrotum, lifting it up with slight pressure.
Coach undoubtedly thought I was just continuing the show, and giving the
little guy some added encouragement. Nope, just getting the target in view. I withdrew my dripping finger,
then _Hey-ho, up the butt we go!_ Coach flailed with a shout. “Jesus Linda! What are you doing?” I guess his urologist usually gave him a little bit more warning. But
Coach wasn’t going anywhere: I had him by the balls. “Finger-fucking your ass, you big queer,” I laughed. “And massaging
your prostate.” Coach was mortified by the whole process, but his cock was quick to
disagree. “There we go,” I trilled, “_nice recovery!_” The ordeal over, his humiliation evaporated. Always the man to claim
credit where none was due, Coach lay back, a smug play to his mouth. As
though gloating, _Of course I got it up again–what’d you expect, babe?_ With that I reached over and fumbled in a drawer of the bedside table.
Other considerations aside, desensitize that monster all the more.
Coach cringed when he saw me tearing open the foil packet. “I . . . uh, I don’t _use_ rubbers.” “You do if you’re going to fuck me. And you _are_ going to fuck me,
right? Didn’t we get that all settled? But you can just keep your
slime to yourself.” I was right on the edge of making a straight-faced
quip about Stacey being her Highness Princess Clap herself, but managed
to bite back my tongue at the last second. Didn’t want Coach to wilt
away for good, now, did I? As usual, the penis and the prick were on differing wavelengths.
Coach’s cock didn’t mind the condom at all–it strained ever upward
against the latex as I rolled the rubber down. _Do that again! get out
the whole box!_ The notion made me think of a child made fat bundled up
against the cold. I laughed aloud. “What’s so funny?” he demanded. I shook my head, still smiling at the image, denying him a reply. Coach insisted, “Come on, tell me.” The best thing would be to make him forget all about getting an answer.
Bearing that in mind I lifted up, held him in position, then started my
long, slow, luxurious descent. “How’s that?” I asked. Pretty damn good I guessed, gauging from the way
his eyes rolled up inside his head. “Nice,” Coach groaned, “_so-o_ very nice.” “Nice?” I murmured. “Try this for nice.” I ground down all the way on him, wriggling and squirming, then all the
way up, keeping just the head of his cock in my hold, sort of sucking
away at that supersensitive first inch with my pussy lips. From there I
switched systems of measurement, sinking him back inside millimeter by
excruciating millimeter. When he bottomed out, I _bounced_ up and down! It didn’t take me long to fall out of character. I started getting
genuinely carried away. There was that basic instinct–I _adored_
having that fat cock stuffed up inside me. I felt so wonderfully full.
Wetter than wet was I. All those sexy slurpy sounds as I moved up and
down and up and down. I was ready to just close my eyes and ride off
into the sunset. But I caught myself and returned to the primary mission. I’d get-off,
no doubt about that. But first I wanted to leave Coach dying to do the
same. And that I did, once, twice, dozens of times. I was the malicious Sherpa–over and over I led him within sight of the
peak, just to abandon him, leaving him gasping in the thin air. Oh, but was the man ever moaning. Making a noise whenever he could
manage. Coach lay there beneath me like a corpse somehow all atremble,
a victim of his own sensations. What little life he outwardly possessed
was all in the fishy lippings of his mouth, his hands twining in the
twisted sheets. All else had drained and concentrated and become
invisible, a pulsating shaft of intensity buried deep within my
mysterious folds. As his own hopes for resolution once again faded, I turned greedy,
shifting all my efforts to my own pleasure, rather quickly allowing
myself to roar into a voluptuous orgasm. My abdomen was still rippling with the last of the spasms when I
clutched Coach, rocking us, indicating it was time for us to roll over.
Once I was firmly on my back, the first thing I saw was a rather
unappetizing smile upon his face. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. That was like doing myself with a
dildo–I did all the work. Now you show me what _you_ can do.” Coach gave an evil little grin and started humping away like a machine.
I nearly threw him off me. “Not like _that_,” I snarled. “If I wanted
a stupid fast fuck I’d go out and buy a big dog.” He looked totally confused. “It’s easy–_make_ me come, you asshole. _Enjoy_ yourself. If you came
over here to just _pump-pump, squirt-squirt_, why didn’t you save
yourself the trip and just jerk-off in the shower?” I shook my head in
disbelief. “Weren’t you paying attention to what I was doing? Couldn’t
you feel your body trembling? Didn’t you _learn_ anything? _Use_ your
cock for what it’s made for.” Oh my goodness–the bulb behind his eyes wasn’t burned out after all. “You mean, like this?” he started back in with slow, swelling thrusts.
Then he backed out, nudging and teasing my opening before deliciously
filling me full again. “God, _yes_,” I whined, “exactly like that.” With that encouragement, he settled us into twenty minutes of some of
the most achingly exquisite lovemaking I’d ever experienced, vacillating
from tender to frantic as he drove me from crest to crest. Coach was
studying my face, amazement on his own as he observed the contortions
each time I came. Finally I couldn’t take anymore. It was time to give the old boy his
reward anyway. I started gyrating my pelvis, clenching him with my
vaginal muscles as I reached beneath us to caress his balls. Coach gave a strangled cry, a mighty roar, then a series of whimpers as
he filled up the little latex sack. He crumpled down upon me, burying
his head in the tangle of hair around my shoulder. I stroked his back
as he lay like that for the longest time, shuddering and sobbing,
gasping for breath. I discontinued my comforting, giving him little _you’re-squishing-me-
you-big-lug_ pats on the back. “There, now, wasn’t that much better
than your usual flash-flood fuck? What a boring style. Why just get-
off, when you can get-off like crazy?” He rolled off me and away, coming to a rest sitting up on the edge of
the bad. Shaking his head to clear the fog. “Wow–that was something.” The condom slipped off his shrinking cock. He held it up with evident
distaste, looking around the room. “Sorry Coach. I’m such a clean girl I don’t even own a trashcan. Guess
you’ll just have to take it with you. But, after all, it is _your_
trophy, not mine. Here, I’ll wrap it up to-go.” I don’t think he really believed me, but then he got too busy gathering
up his clothes to notice my handiwork. I knotted the open end, then
wrapped it up in some kleenex. I slunk my arm over his shoulder–he
thought I was giving him a hug. So I did, dropping the little package
unnoticed in his shirt pocket as he drew on his underwear. He kicked his feet through the trouser legs, but stopped and stayed
seated to put on his socks and shoes. Then he stood and did up his
pants, glancing over at me as he finished zipping. “Pretty damn good, huh?” he nodded, patting himself on the crotch. The
performance, okay, but the personality–that’d never change. “Not bad,” I cooed at him, “for an amateur. Just remember, Coach,
_practice makes perfect_. So you go on home and practice. Practice _a
lot_. I’m sure your wife will appreciate the workout.” He stood there finally fully dressed. A glimmer of hope shone in his
eyes. “Will I . . . will I see you again, Linda?” “Of course, Coach.” I shot him the most seductive look I could
manufacture. “On the courts per usual,” I gave a slinky stretch, “but
_only_ on the courts.” + + + At the state tournament we stomped some serious ass. It was a long,
grueling all-day affair. Our team took the doubles championship;
fortunately, Stacey and I barely straggled into the quarter-finals.
Though I enjoyed playing doubles, it never really was my fort�. I guess
I’m not much of a team player. There’s that whole psychology of
interaction that’s so very critical, yet lacking in my makeup. I’m the
lone hunter. Nevertheless, we might have placed a little higher if
Stacey hadn’t been up most the night before engaged in her favorite
sport. I wanted to slam a ball in her mouth every time the little slut
yawned. But it did work out for the best, otherwise I might not have
had the stamina for the singles rounds. One guess who wound up winning
the big trophy. Due in no small part to the fact that my American Twist
started coming in. It wasn’t until the finals that I had an opponent
who could even begin to deal with my serve. But then when she did catch
on, hunkering down to leap for that mean left hop, hell, I’d just throw
in a wicked slice that’d spin off in the opposite direction. 6-1, 6-2. After I won, Coach Anderson stepped over and swept me into his arms. I
let him. I hugged back. And then we parted. “Great job, Linda! Helluva serve, _helluva_ serve.” I stepped back, held my skirt and curtsied. “All thanks to you, Coach.” The strangest thing was that nearly immediately after that Mrs. Anderson
appeared from the throng. She was in attendance as always; I’d noticed
her more than usual in that she’d seemed strangely animated all day
long, actually cheering us on. And here she was, suddenly rushing up
and throwing her arms around me. “Beautiful, Linda, that was simply beautiful.” Up until that moment, I
would have taken bets that she didn’t even know my name. She took a step back, keeping her hands on my arms. “It was a wonderful
experience watching you out on the courts today. Poetry in motion:
that’s what you were.” The poor thing looked exhausted. But not the harried variety to be
expected from having to manage a pair of toddlers at a day-long sporting
event. Her face was crinkled with a sleepy sort of smile that showed no
signs of wearing off. She looked as if she hadn’t had a full night’s
rest in weeks. And regretted it not in the least. “Well, Mrs. Anderson, I couldn’t have done it with the help of Coach.” “Oh?” she pursed her lips. “Well, I’m glad to hear he’s good for
something.” With that she turned and gave him a saucy wink worthy of
Mae West. “Well, dear,” Coach approached his wife, “I think we better hasten on
home. Those little guys must be exhausted. I bet they could use a good
_long_ nap.” Her eyebrows danced at the words. They turned without a wave, each grabbing up a kid, and fairly sprinted
off to the parking lot. Which just goes to show that you can teach an old dog new tricks.