Coach and Me

My senior year in high school, a newly legal adult, I had a steady girlfriend but no real boyfriends, just semi-boyfriends. Fuck friends, really.

Late one afternoon, when we thought the football field was deserted, I was standing under the bleachers with one of these semi-boyfriends. There was nothing semi-hard about his cock, though! It was out of his jeans and I was jacking him off, while his hand was down my shorts.

I sometimes think about how we must have looked, two healthy young specimens in the throes of impromptu, random lust.

His long, talented pianist's fingers were turning my shaved pussy to butter, and I was gyrating on his hand like an exotic dancer. Trying to be quiet, I was humming my ecstasy: "Hmm! Hmm hmm hmm HMM! HMM! Hmm hmm!"

Meanwhile, he was humping my hand and grunting, nostrils flaring, droplets of precum flecking the grass from his spitting prickhead.

I remember we both were wearing the same nerd-club T-shirt. He was a skinny boy (other than his dick), and his shirt hung on him, as did the open flannel shirt he wore over it. I filled my shirt out nicely (still do), and my nipples were like bullets.

That's how we were when we got busted.

"Hey!" boomed a male voice. "Come out of there!"

"Oh, shit!" we both hissed at once, and sprang apart, as if the other were suddenly radioactive. I was better off than my poor semi-boyfriend; I was, after all, totally clothed, even if my dolphin shorts were now plastered to my sopping wet cunt. While my boy struggled to zip up his jeans without castrating himself, I just hopped from sneakered foot to sneakered foot, plucking at my camel toe, and watching Coach C. stomp toward us, ducking his head to navigate the underside of the bleachers.

"Y'all got no business being under here," Coach said, glaring at both of us but mostly at my boy, whose jeans were now zipped but whose cock bulge jutted across his hip at a painful angle. "What were you up to?" he demanded of us, as if it weren't just as obvious as the boy's cock and my nipples. "Not dealing drugs, I hope?"

"No, sir!" we both squeaked, me because I was terrified of going to prison and him probably because of his constricted hard-on.

"Uh-huh," Coach said, hands on hips, as he looked from the boy to me and back again.

Coach C. was not one of my coaches, but ours was a small school, so of course I knew him. He was (and is) your basic big, muscled, bullet-headed tough guy of uncertain age. I always had found him cute, in part because of his easygoing manner. He joked with everyone and carried his 6-foot-5 bulk lightly and gracefully, at least in the corridors and classrooms and at dances. He had a Dwayne Johnson sort of vibe. The look he gave me was much more sympathetic, sort of a mix of disgust and sympathy, than the look of hatred he gave Piano Boy.

He barked Piano Boy's name and said, "Get lost."

"Yes, sir," Piano Boy said, and fled at a run, his flannels flapping behind him. He didn't even look back.

Coach shook his head, turned to me, and said, "See how much he's worth? He didn't even take up for you."

I said nothing, just bit my lip and looked at the ground.

Coach sighed and said, "Gonna give you the Speech now." He reminded me of all that I had going for me and all the hopes my family had for me and how close I was to graduation and how foolish I would be to throw it all away and to be led astray by lowlifes who didn't deserve me and were just trying to take advantage of my innocence, yadda yadda.

I wondered why the boy, too, didn't get the Speech, and I reflected ruefully that if anything, I was LESS innocent than the poor scared-shitless guy whose precum was at that moment a dried film on my hand - but I said nothing.

Finally Coach sighed again and said, "End of speech. You hear me, Jean?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"OK, then," he said. "Won't write you up this time. You can go on home."

I cleared my throat. "Um, Coach? I think my ride, uh, already left."

I pointed with my precum hand in the direction my boy had gone. Coach looked embarrassed.

"Oh," Coach said. "Oh, OK. Well, don't worry. I can give you a ride home."

For a few paces, the silence was awkward, until he started asking me about school stuff, and we fell into something resembling a normal conversation. For me, it wasn't quite normal for several reasons.

Two of them were my nipples, which still were standing at attention; I was acutely aware of the T-shirt fabric rubbing across them, stimulating them, keeping them erect and hopeful.

Also, I was still wet as a swamp inside my shorts, and this was increasingly evident as I walked fast, trying to keep up with the coach, and anyone who was looking would have seen that my shorts weren't moving the way shorts normally would move at that pace. They were retreating into my cunt.

This didn't help me get any less horny. In fact, I felt like I was on fire, might cum just from climbing the stone stairs to the parking lot, so overstimulated were all my princess parts.

And as I glanced nervously sideways, trying to evaluate whether Coach C. had noticed any of this, I convinced myself that he had at least a half-mast hard-on inside his khaki shorts. There was definitely a package lurching around in there, and the package, as I glanced at it, was getting bigger.

How long, I wondered, had Coach watched us beneath the bleachers, before he said something?

Finally we reached Coach's tank-sized SUV, all alone in the far corner of the mostly deserted lot (he had parked across three spaces), and I was greatly relieved to slide into the front passenger seat and stop all that walking, though my shorts slid up farther than propriety might have dictated. I didn't dare try to adjust them, though.

As Coach C. asked me for directions and steered expertly onto the highway, I glanced at his lap and saw his package was bigger than ever, like the guy had some sort of mail-order military flashlight pushing up the front of his khakis. I stared at the summit and tried to convince myself that I was looking at a small indentation, like the dimple of the piss slit at the end of a prick.

"That guy your boyfriend?" asked the dimple's owner, and I hastily looked away and out the window.

"Just a friend," I said.

"Friends are great," Coach C. said, "but you have to be careful."

A brief silence fell.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No, sir," I replied, thinking, not like you mean, I don't.

"You go out much? I mean, are you dating?"

And from there, all his questions, all our conversation, was basically about my social life - indeed, about my sex life, though he was too polite (and too smart) to say so explicitly. This looks creepier, as I type it, than it seemed at the time. I was touched that he was taking an interest in me, and I viewed this as an extension of the sterner talking-to I got under the bleachers.

Besides, I was horny as a bitch, and Coach could have steered the fucking truck with that hundred-yard hard-on in his pants.

So I started to get ideas.

I started to wonder how far I could push things, in the twenty minutes or so left of the trip to my house.

"Well, Coach," I finally said, "I guess I'm just trying to get some experience, any way I can. Before I go off to college, y'know? If I show up on State's campus ignorant, I mean, some hick girl they can take advantage of, they're liable to chew me up and spit me out. I want to know what I'm doing."

And as I said all this, and more like it, adopting a sort of cool-chick bravado, I lifted both my sneakered feet and rested them on the seat in front of me, against my hot thighs, my knees in the air over the dashboard.

I pretended my left sneaker, the one closest to Coach C., needed retying, so as I worked on that, I squirmed a little so that my shorts went even farther up into my crack, exposing even more of my thigh on his side.

Instead of retying the shoe, I untied it, dropping it onto the floor, leaving only my little ankle sock on my left foot. I returned that foot to the floor but kept my right knee raised, and spent more time fussing with the laces of my right shoe, knowing that I was exposing even more of Miss Jean's hot young flesh to the Coach's gaze than before.

I yakked on, still squirming my shorts up a little higher, a little deeper.

The Coach had fallen silent, and people were passing us, because he was no longer driving even close to the speed limit.

Done with the right shoe, I kicked it off into the floorboards. Feeling giddy with horny daring, I unbuckled my seat belt, picked up my left foot, and swung around so that my back was to the passenger door, my knees in the air. I was facing the Coach and his great big blow-the-whistle cock, and when he looked my way - and oh yes, he was definitely looking my way, and not at my face - he was facing the sopping crotch of my dolphin shorts, which had so ridden up that the fabric was taut across my pussy lips like a swimsuit.

The truck began to chime DING! DING! DING! because my seatbelt wasn't fastened.

"I guess what I'm saying, Coach," I told his cock, "is that I'm not as innocent as you think I am."

"Uh, Jean," Coach C. told my cunt, "you need to put your belt back on, honey."

"Hell," I said, "I'm not even as innocent as Piano Boy thinks I am."

And I slid both my sock-clad feet under his right thigh, toes wiggling against his hairy leg like I was trying to warm them.

"Oh, Jesus," Coach C. sort of whispered, as he signaled for a right turn and veered off the highway, into the parking lot of one of our local parks, which was mostly shady woods.

DING! DING! DING!

"But I like talking to you," I continued, as I trailed the sock-clad big toe of my right foot along his thigh, from the knee down to the straining hem of his shorts, and then beyond, to the tumescent heat of his crotch, which I swear lurched up to meet me.

"I like this, too," I said, as I pressed against his big cock with my little foot.

"God damn!" he moaned. "You horny little bitch."

Through the khaki shorts and my cotton socks, his cock was like a hot, heavy pipe against my instep, unyielding as I slid my foot up and down. I thought it would burn me, like touching a cannon.

"I'm tired of boy cock, Coach," I told him. "I want man cock."

Coach C. about wrecked the car pulling into an empty parking lot, under the trees at the far end. He didn't turn off the engine - in case a quick escape was needed, maybe - but he put the truck in park, disengaged his own belt buckle, which whipped back against the door with a clank, and clawed at the front of his shorts like a horny teenager beneath the bleachers.

"Anytime you want a man's cock, baby," he panted, tugging down the zipper, "you just cum to Coach."

I swear he said it "cum," not "come."

And there it was, springing up between my feet, a magnificent pole of gristle, all veined and circumcised and dewy-tipped and mushroom-headed. Later that school year, I'd have plenty of opportunity to measure its 9 inches, in all sorts of ways. But in that moment, what I did was reverse position on the seat, and dive on it, and demonstrate the experience I had claimed by slurping half of Coach's cock into my sucking mouth.

"Mmmmm!" I hummed.

"Ohhhhhhhh," he gasped.

I bobbed my head on his hot hydrant, taking another inch on each downstroke until I bottomed out, his hairy balls swelling against my cheek.

"Jesus fuck!" he cried.

He raised up, fucking my throat.

"So good!" he moaned.

I pulled off with a choking wet gasp, drooling over it, and said, "I WAS a cheerleader, you know."

To that he just grinned and growled, and I went back to work in earnest, sucking in sync with my flailing hand slipping and sliding on his soupy shaft.

He slid his big right hand inside the back of my shorts and began filling my holes with his fat sausage fingers, screwing them alternately into my assbud and my cunt.

When he pinched my clit, I came, gleefully sobbing into his hairy balls as he fucked my face on one end and I fucked his fingers on the other.

Finally he started plucking at my chin, like he wanted to lift me off his cock.

"Look out, baby," he panted, "you're gonna make me cum!"

"Mmm-HMM," I said, and swatted his hand away and swallowed him again, just as he grabbed the back of my head and busted his nut down my throat, then flooded my mouth, then spunked my face as I pulled off, gasping and choking and laughing.

Believe it or not, after we somehow cleaned ourselves up enough to be halfway presentable, he talked the rest of the drive home about how wrong this had been, how he had been wrong to take advantage of me, how we never must do this again, though he always would remember it as a highlight of his life, yadda yadda.

A few nights later, of course, we were back in the park, and I was straddling him in the back seat of the SUV, his big dick spreading my cunt so wide, his big hands mauling my ass, his stubbly face barking my skin as he sucked my tits like a baby, and I felt like a total whore and came, and came, and came.

Coach wanted me to talk filthy, and I did. Still do, fuckers.

This went on for a couple of months, until graduation. We didn't tell anyone, of course, and I kept seeing my other friends. After all, Coach had, shall we say, other obligations, and all our time was stolen time.

Interestingly, Piano Boy, who had brought Coach and me together in the first place, kept his distance from me forevermore. I guess he was afraid if he corrupted my innocence further, Coach would kick his ass. I didn't mind... and he wasn't wrong, anyway. Not entirely.

When I graduated, Coach and I had our own two-person graduation party. We did it while I was wearing my cap and gown. The cap kept falling off. I didn't mind that, either.

END