It was the middle of July. We were training in the old community gym, the air conditioning broken, the fans dead. Heat pressed down like a wet blanket. My thighs were hard, muscles showing, my short workout skirt clinging tight to my skin. Every twist made my sports bra ride up, and I knew he was watching.
He was the coach. Always had been. Mid-forties. Tall, serious. A bit of a belly, but the kind you feel when he presses against you. Not handsome in the classic sense—but he had something. The way he spoke close to my ear, the way his hand corrected me low on my body. I felt it. And so did he.
That day, halfway through a stretch, the pull hit me.
A sting of fire in my groin. I stopped, groaning, hand on my thigh.
“Hold still, let me see…” he said, stepping in.
He crouched in front of me. I was stretched out, skirt sliding high, my black panties outlining everything. His hand touched my thigh. Moved upward. Higher.
“Here? Does it hurt?”
“Higher,” I whispered. I don’t know if it was true or just hunger. I pushed his hand myself.
His thumb grazed the edge of the fabric. My pulse slammed. His eyes darted straight between my legs. Then—he pressed my clit through the thin layer. Firm. Slow.
“You’re so tense,” he murmured.
My hips rose on their own. I opened up without meaning to. He slid my panties aside. His fingers sank in. One first, then two. Filling me fast, tight, like he already knew I was soaked and ready. My legs trembled.
He tugged down my bra, freed my tits, staring like they belonged to him. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, noisy. His belly rubbed against my stomach, his breath hot on my skin. He kissed me—tasting like tobacco, sweat, raw man.
Then he freed his cock.
Thick. Veins bulging. The head swollen, flushed red. Throbbing.
He pressed it into my hand. That was all. I stroked twice, maybe three times—and he exploded.
Cum shot high across my stomach, hot streams landing between my navel and tits. Spattering my side, my bra. His whole body shuddered as his knees almost gave out.
He slid his fingers back inside me, shallow, slow—like sealing the moment. Then he stood, licking them clean, muttering an apology for how quick it had been.
“Don’t say a word.”
“Nothing happened,” I answered. But my skin stayed wet.
That night my groin still ached—
but what hurt more was not finishing.
I fixed it myself in bed, hand between my legs, my fingers still smelling like him.