The Gofer

"KISTIN!"

"OFFICE!"

"NOW!"

Coach Jones' voice echoes through the locker room over the hiss of the showers and the staccato chatter.

"Ah fuck, what now?" I grind out to myself as I gather up soggy towels and slap empty lockers shut, threading my way between girls in all sorts of undress, trying not to stare, but making mental notes of hickies, tats, and telling glances.

I am coach's gofer. I am allowed to skip actual participation in PE for this honor, which was bestowed on me at her request. This is because she wanted me. Not in a sexual way that I can tell, though I know her taste is for women, but because she wanted me on her teams. I was already six feet tall by my freshman year, thin and strong, with fast, agile hands, so she hounded me. I told her I have no interest in her sort of sports. I find all of them boring, preferring to expend my energy hiking and rock climbing. I tried to explain my dislike of team competition and my need for the personal solitude of these pastimes, but she refused to accept it. So I became her dash-about, the grunt to her whim, as she tried to convert me into a player. It didn't work, but now, in my senior year, she has just become used to having me as her puppet and that, for reasons of my own, is fine with me.

"There you are. Here, take this to Nurse Charles," she grumbles, handing me a plain envelope.

"Anything else, coach?"

"Yeah, get me a diet coke. And don't take all day."

As I cross the courtyard, I hold the envelope up to the sun, but all I can make out is blurry handwriting. I find Mrs. Charles sitting at her desk in the small health office where she passes out band-aides and counsels students about the evils of STDs. She is a small, pale woman with mousy brown hair screwed up in a bun that always looks like it's about to unravel. She is married to a big deal doctor and doesn't need to work, but hasn't anything else to do.

"Good morning, Kistin, what brings you here? Headaches again?"

"No, ma'am. Coach Jones told me to give you this," passing over the letter. I turn to go, but she tells me to wait in case there's a reply to carry back.

She puts on her glasses and opens the folded sheet from the envelope. As she reads, she lets out a quiet "Oh!" then looks up, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Wait here, dear, I'll be right back," she murmurs with a nervous smile and crosses to the small exam room, closing the door behind her. After a couple of minutes, she comes back in and hands me a manila interoffice envelope, taped shut.

"Off you go then, dear - make sure she gets this right away."

After picking up the drink, I make my way back to the gym, now empty of students. Coach is waiting for me at her office door.

"Took you long enough," she carps, snatching the drink and envelope with one hand and thrusting a bundle of loose sheets at me with the other.

"Get these stats in the database and if anybody's looking for me I'm not here, right?"

"Right, coach. On it," I answer as she goes through the office door without hearing me and kicks it closed.

I go to the small desk just outside her window and boot up the old desktop I get to use. As I wait, I lean to the window and peer in where the closed blinds don't quite reach the edge. I can see coach as she drops the envelope on her desk, takes a long pull of soda, then sets it down, too. Her back to me, she pulls her polo top off, muscles rippling with her motion. She turns back and stares down at the envelope. She plays her fingers across her flat stomach just above her running shorts, then drags them up over her sharp abs to her breasts, small like mine, and plucks at her tight nipples, twisting and pulling. She stops abruptly and picks up the envelope, rips it open, then pauses to peer inside. Her mouth curves up in a smile, as she dips in a hand and slowly draws out a crumpled pair of lacy pale blue panties. Dropping the envelope, she brings the silks to her nose with both hands and I can see her chest swell as she inhales deeply. Still holding them to her face, she goes into her private shower room at the back of the office and elbows the door closed.

I know I have twenty minutes or more to myself now. I dig in my bag and pull out the lanyard and key hidden in a small pocket. It is a master key to all the lockers. Only coach is supposed to have it, so she can check for contraband twice a month, but that would be a pain in her ass, so she leaves it to me instead. Jumping up, I cross the room to Varsity Corner, where the team stars have their own over-sized lockers and more private showers than in the big bay where the mere mortals bathe after gym.

I move down the aisle to the sixth in, labeled 'Jill Jacobs' in bold caps. Captain of the hockey team and cheer squad, Jill Jacobs. Sure to be Prom Queen, Jill Jacobs. Girlfriend of our all state star quarterback, Jill Jacobs. Girl with a big secret, Jill Jacobs.

I slide in the key and open the door. There are sweats neatly folded on the bottom shelf. The top is crowded with fancy soaps and deodorants and the rest of her daily ordeal. Her everyday workout clothes are hanging from hooks along the back wall. I reach in and take down her top. Like the coach, I bring it to my nose and breathe in the rich, intoxicating mixture of sweat and scent and perfume. But that is not my query and I hang it back up. I turn to the door where a large picture of Troy Kelly, resplendent in his football gear, is taped. He looks like every other grinning, moneyed, blond athlete looks: handsome, arrogant, and vapid. But he is not the object of my desire, either. I flick at the bottom edge of the picture and lift it up, carefully tucking a corner into the vent slot to hold it out of the way, revealing what is taped beneath. This is what I am here to see, to feast on.

It is a color picture, a very good print of a cell phone snap. It shows a girl, filling the frame, who is lying nude on a bed, propped up by frilly pillows. Looking at the girl, it is obvious this is not her bed. She is sharp and tough, with tats and piercings and a demi-dyke haircut dyed bright magenta at the tips. I know her. Everyone at school knows her. She is Billy Bad. At least that is what she insists we call her and she is quite willing to emphasize the demand with her fists. Her real name is Williamina Balch and she grew up a few doors down from me. I stare at the picture and press my cunny through my thin shorts.

This is not the girl I used to play dolls with. She is staring out with lust-filled, half closed eyes, her tongue licking her top lip. Between her full breasts there is a tattoo of a rose the same color as her dark red nipples, fat with arousal. There is a small jagged scar on her flat belly, a reminder of her breakup with the seriously crazy Kat James. Below, her legs are wantonly spread, her hands framing her cunt. Her fingers are pulling back the jet black curls that edge her fat lips, opened wide to expose her wet, engorged inner folds. Her thumbs have unhooded her large, thick clit, its glistening pearl head resting like a jewel above the coral pink.

My hand is on my cunt now and I can feel my moisture flowing. I slide a finger down, spreading my lips, and hook it in, thinking it is her hand stroking in and out. I draw it back and bathe my clit with my wetness and feel her tongue instead, swirling over its tender face. I feel her hands in my hair, drawing me down.

"Taste me, Kis, lick me. Suck my clit, baby, fuck me with your tongue. Make me cum, Kis, make me. . ."

"Well, someone's having fun. . ."

I jump and squeak in surprise, throwing back my head and hitting the locker wall hard. My eyes screw shut from the pain and I struggle to clear my vision. When I finally pry them open, Jill Jacobs' face is inches away, blue eyes glinting, a smile on her lips.

"Careful, Kis, you'll hurt yourself."

"I. . . I. . .I. . ."

"Shhh," She reaches into her locker, picks up her hair brush and drops it into the backpack at her feet. I start to slide away, but before I can move an inch, she grabs a handful of the tee shirt between my breasts and presses me against the lockers, holding me there.

"I. . . I. . .I. . ."

"Shhh. Again," she says with a frown and a tick-tock of her finger. She turns her head and looks at the open door and its lurid display. She reaches out and touches a fingertip to Billy's face, then draws it slowly lower till it rests on her open sex. Holding it there, she sighs a gentle "mmmmm," then flips down her boyfriend's image, and closes the door. Her head swivels back to mine and she leans in close again.

"You tell, you die. Understood?"

"Yes, oh god, yes."

"Good," She slides her hand carefully to the back of my neck and pulls me to her. Her kiss is forceful, not with malice, but passion. Her other hand lets go of my shirt and cups my breast, rubbing my nipple with her palm. I moan with renewed and unexpected excitement and pull her into me.

She tilts her head back and whispers, "Next time, just ask," squeezing my nipple, making me squirm.

"I swear I. . . "

"KISTIN!"

"OFFICE!"

"NOW!"