Coach Me

by Lulu Pratt

“Oh yeah,” someone purred. “We got an excellent look, thank you very much.”

  I pivoted just enough so that I could meet their faces while still keeping my dick to the wall, and whatever anger I had managed to muster melted away when I saw Catya standing in the middle of the pack, her eyes greedily tracing the lines of my body. Her tongue darted out and she subtly licked her lips.

  Had she done that on purpose?

  I wanted to turn all the way around, to ask if her she meant to lick those lips just for me, if I could touch her other — shit. This was absolutely, positively not the time to be having these thoughts. Not with the hot water still running, not with a tiny scrap of fabric over my dick. If I got a boner right now, it would all be over.

  With a concerted effort, I tamped down my rising cock, and instead focused on being a coach.

  I said, “All right, everyone. Very funny, ha-ha, good joke. I would’ve hoped for a bit more originality from you, but alas.”

  “Aw, come on,” one cried. “It was a great prank!”

  It took everything I had to laugh — not because I was embarrassed, but because I didn’t want them to hear the desperate edge in my voice, produced by my suddenly massive anxiety that I might get hard.

  Playing it cool, I replied, “It was a decent prank, at best. And, because I’m awesome, I’ll let it slide just this once.”

  The girls shouted and clapped, apparently happy that they weren’t in for a more elaborate talking-to.

  Hmm. Seemed like I’d let them off too easy, so I added, “Oh, of course you are going to have to do midnight practice tomorrow.”

  A groan. “Really?”

  This time, I chuckled in earnest. “You think you’re gonna send me to the wrong locker room and catch me completely naked, and I wouldn’t even make you do some extra shitty drills? Ladies. That was so… so naïve of you.”

  Another voice piped up, “Worth it. One. Hundred. Percent. Worth it.”

  The rest of them echoed this sentiment.

  “All right then,” I said. “I’ll see you at the stroke of midnight tomorrow, Cinderellas. Don’t be late. And try to carbo-load tomorrow — I’m gonna work you so hard your cleats grind down to nubs.”

  I thought my words would be enough to get them out the door. Apparently not. By the rustling of twenty-odd bodies, I could hear that they remained firmly in place, possibly still checking out my ass like I was for sale.

  “Oh, hold on,” a voice, more familiar than the rest, said. “Just one sec.”

  From behind me came the echo of light feet pitter-pattering, and in moments, I could feel that someone was close at hand. Whereas the others were a good five meters away, this person was a meter, maybe less.

  “Here you go,” it continued.

  I turned enough to see that behind me stood Catya, tentatively holding out a fluffy white towel and trying very hard not to look closely at me.

  “Sorry about the girls,” she whispered. “They were just being silly. Here’s a towel.”

  In a tone low enough I hoped it wouldn’t reverberate off the bathroom tiles, I gestured to my rally towel and replied, “What, you don’t like the towel I’ve got?”

  Her eyes went wide, and then directly to the outlines of my cock beneath the tiny, wet piece of terrycloth. She gulped.

  “No,” she murmured back. “I love your towel.”

  Her words swelled with meaning, much like my simultaneously swelling dick. In a sudden haste, I grabbed the towel from her outstretched hands, wrapping it around me and hoping that the much thicker fabric would conceal my now undeniable hard-on.

  The others were too far away to notice, but I felt nearly certain that Catya glimpsed the tent that was forming under my towel. This time, she didn’t even try to look away, but just stared at it with the amusement and interest of an art connoisseur.

  She added with a smirk, “Just make sure you keep it wrapped tightly.” And then, “Grab your stuff, I’ll show you where the actual men’s showers are.”

  Towel firmly in place, wrapped around my hips and held up by my white-knuckle hands, I followed Catya’s lead. The team parted like the Red Sea, though not without another chorus of wolf whistles and bawdy grins. Was this what it felt like to be a male stripper? Had my soccer team become an intoxicated bachelorette party?

  Catya waved them off, and after I’d grabbed my clothes, escorted me out the door, down a hallway, and to another entrance, this one painted bright green.

  “Here we are,” she announced. “You can shower alone and in peace.”

  “What if I don’t want to shower alone?” I asked innocently.

  Her eyes lit up. She knew exactly what I was suggesting, but refused to take the bait.

  “Then,” she said evenly, “I guess you better drop a bar of soap and hope for the best.”

  Having totally trounced me, she grinned, flipped her hair and walked back to whence we came as I chuckled quietly.

  Chapter 9

  Catya

  Back in the lockers, it was time for us to actually shower. Simon may have vanished to the men’s lockers, but the girls had had enough entertainment to last them the rest of the night, possibly the rest of their lifetimes.

  Heaps of time was devoted to dissecting the specifics of his body — the curves of his ass, the fine, firm muscles of his back, even some conjecture as to penis length and girth. The only thing I can say in their defense is that they were exceptionally complimentary.

  What? I didn’t say it was a strong defense.

  At last, they’d all shampooed and scrubbed until there was no part of themselves left to wash. The subject of Simon’s body had also been exhausted, there are only so many pieces of the human anatomy to analyze.

  Gradually, they abandoned the confines of our locker room, and went back to their respective dorms, apartments and sorority houses. Somehow, while they were in the process of getting dressed, I hadn’t even considered leaving the warmth of the shower. I’d stayed under its inviting steam until long after everyone else had dried off.

  The realization didn’t really hit until I realized the locker room was silent, and I was all alone, still soaking in the water. Maybe this was my chance for some alone time that Simon had been asking me about that morning.

  Alone time. What could I do with alone time?

  My hand gave me the answer without me even realizing what I was doing. With a mind of its own, my hand began to migrate down to my pussy, tracing the light downy hair from my belly button to the top of my pubic bone, where it was met by denser fur. Was it a good idea to touch myself in a relatively public place? I discounted the thought as quickly as it had sprung up, then immediately wondered who this new, bold, sexually hungry Catya was. I liked her.

  My fingers spread open my pussy lips, and anchored themselves to my clitoris. I rubbed it gently, warming it up for some playtime. There was no need. The shower water aside, I was already soaking wet, if you take my meaning. My clit had been ready for a while. Or, to be more precise, since I’d seen Simon’s bare ass.

  Don’t think of Simon, my mind interrupted. Whatever may have happened today, he’s still well the hell off limits.

  Yes. Right. Good point. He might have a gorgeous body, but he was still my coach.

  I forcefully directed my mind to some other jackoff material — Leonardo DiCaprio, Ryan Gosling, etc. Y’know, the staples.

  My fingers responded to the suggestion, and began to strum my clit harder, making lustful patterns across its pearly surface. My breath came shorter and faster. Usually, touching my clit was enough to get me off. Today, I felt like I needed to explore more of my body, to feel pleasure everywhere.

  So with that, I slipped a few of those fingers inside myself, and began to stroke my vaginal walls. Yes, that was it, that was what I’d been looking for. The stroking became harder, faster, until my knees were so weak that I had to slide down the shower wall, my knees splayed wide, the shower water still coming down fast.

  “Simon,” I murmured
, and my mind, which had been so diligently providing images of male celebrities, snapped back to thinking about Simon. His body, his kindness, his devilish grin, his hair… I dug deeper, no longer resisting the thought of him. All I wanted was to feel as good as possible, and if that meant relinquishing control to my subconscious, if it meant holding thoughts of Simon in my mind’s eye and toying with my clit — well, so be it.

  Feelings, new feelings, of pleasure and discovery and ecstasy were flooding my body. I could feel an orgasm on the horizon. Much to my own surprise, I grabbed my breast, twisted my nipple between my fingers and let out a groan of pleasure. My eyes, long since shut, squeezed even more tightly together. It was coming.

  With a short cry, I felt delight course through my veins, my muscles shuddering and twitching. The orgasm seemed to stretch on forever, new waves constantly crashing down. Just as I was at the tail end of the waves, I heard:

  “Oh shit.”

  My eyes immediately opened wide, and my heart practically stopped.

  Simon.

  He’d come back.

  And I was on the floor, knees open, naked and pleasuring myself.

  Simon, apparently having figured out what he was seeing, turned around at once. I remained on the floor, confused and alarmed.

  He blurted out, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were in here, I thought everyone had left.”

  “Well, not everyone,” I muttered.

  “I know, I can, um, see that,” he replied.

  What else had he seen? Oh, who was I kidding. He’d seen it all. The primal part of me wondered if he’d liked his glimpse of the show.

  His back still to me, he continued, “I’m sorry, I just — I dropped my little rally towel here, after that whole, ah, ‘prank,’ and I came back to get it, it’s from a game that was important to me, in school, and I thought, well if you wait late enough at night, all the girls will have left and you can safely go back and get the damned towel, so that’s why I’m coming in now, and I guess you didn’t hear me over the sound of the shower, but for what it’s worth, I did call out, asking if anyone was here, and, and… I don’t know why I’m still talking, you don’t need to hear this.”

  He took a breath, and reiterated, “I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head, then realizing he couldn’t see that, I elaborated, “You don’t have to apologize. I am here really late. Your plan was almost a good one.”

  Simon laughed. “Yeah. Almost. I should’ve factored in that maybe I’m not the only one who likes to take crazy long showers. And, uh… relax.”

  He tripped over the words as though they were nodules in his throat. In the air between us hung the unspoken knowledge that he’d caught me masturbating. There was no way around that — we could laugh and act casual as much as we wanted, but he’d seen me touching myself and orgasming. And from the way he’d said ‘Oh shit,’ I knew he liked very much what he saw. That was gratifying.

  We were momentarily silent. What else was there to say? For better or worse, things had once again changed. I no longer felt like resisting the pull of the current.

  Standing slowly, making sure I had my footing on the slick tile, I looked around the showers. Of course I hadn’t brought a towel in with me. Again, in fairness, I thought I was alone. Evidently not. Resigning myself to this situation — and figuring he’d already seen me in a state far more inappropriate than mere nudity — I asked in a mild voice:

  “Where’d you leave the towel?”

  “Can I just come and look for it?” he returned. “I’m not sure where I left it, and after, um, all my other failings, I’d rather not make you go on a hunt for the thing.”

  Unable to hide the truth, I replied, “Simon, my towel’s not in the showers, a problem you might be familiar with. I’d have you go grab it, but you’ll never find my locker.”

  “If you just give me directions—”

  “It’s not gonna happen,” I said with patience. “Trust me.”

  In a pained voice, he replied, “Then shall I simply go to the other side of the room while you, ah, array yourself, and then you can bring me the towel?”

  I rolled my eyes. He was going to some lengths to protect my dignity, which had long since been dispensed with.

  “Just wait there,” I said, and began to search through the showers. There were rows and rows of showers, such that all were visible at any time, but the intricate dispensers, hand controls and racks on the wall made it look like a maze. I plodded around the room, trying to recall which shower he’d been in during the incident. The image finally came to my mind in a haze, and I went directly to that showerhead. Ah-ha — I was right. The towel was lying right there, on the floor. He must have accidentally dropped it in the confusion.

  Or… was it an accident?

  I ignored the thought, and grabbed the towel. It was so flimsy. How could something so inconsequential hold so many memories?

  Towel in hand, I made my way back to Simon, who was still firmly facing the opposite direction. He stood still, like a statue, which fit well with his unruly hair and sloping shoulders. I got closer, and then closer once more, until I was about a foot from him. My body ached to touch his, to be pressed up against him.

  I swallowed, and moved so close only a sheet of paper could’ve fit between us. No part of my naked body touched his, save the very tip of my wet, erect nipple.

  Simon knew I was there, and remained unmoving. I wondered if he, like me, was afraid to break the moment.

  In a sultry tone, I whispered, “Here’s your towel,” and reached my arm around his torso to place it in his hand. I wrapped around him like Cleopatra’s snake, encircling him with my limbs. His hand was low, close to his hip, and in placing the towel in it, I came a breath away from what I could tell was a straining cock. I’d never felt power like this — power in showing my sexuality, in commanding the situation, in making a beautiful grown man weak in the damn knees.

  “Thank you, Catya,” he murmured. I drank in his voice, and then, “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

  I snapped out of it like my brain itself had experienced whiplash. Practice. Oh God, right. For a minute there, it hadn’t seemed like a real thing, as though we were just two adults on the verge of devouring one another. Like there were no complications to this, you know? But of course there were. How dumb of me.

  “Right, right,” I said. “Practice.”

  I took a few steps away, putting distance between us, but remaining close enough that I could see the muscles under his shoulder blades tighten. What did that little twitch mean? I was trying to read the knots in his back as though they were Morse code.

  “I’ll see you then,” he reiterated, and with no further fanfare, hurried away from the showers. Moments later, I heard the sound of the heavy locker room door swinging shut.

  Chapter 10

  Catya

  After the encounter with Simon, I got dressed quickly, grabbed my stuff and left the fateful locker room. I was well and truly done with it for the day, maybe for the foreseeable future. On one hand, I’d never felt as alive and turned on as I did under that shower, and then seeing Simon see me doing the things I was under that shower… but on the other, fantasizing about impossible trysts is almost like engaging in self-harm.

  The sorority house was looming in front of me before I realized I’d walked all the way there. Had time elapsed that quickly? Seconds blurred, and the usual features of the campus melted away before me. I was walking through the gelatinous state of my own baffled mind.

  I passed under the predictable Grecian columns, turned the heavy brass knob which rested just beneath a custom sign that read ‘DOU,’ and entered. Even though I felt ineffably different, the house hadn’t changed in my absence. That seemed wrong. Shouldn’t the environment reflect my shifts like a mood ring?

  The whole bottom floor was open plan. To the left, a formal dining room. To the right, a study room. Straight ahead, a generalized ‘hangout’ space. My stomach in knots, and my
head in no mood to retain information, I walked straight.

  The hangout space, otherwise known as the DOU Zoo, had everything a college student could want — a beer pong table also known as a regular ping pong table, bean bags, and enough snack food to feed Napoleon’s troops. It was a little safe haven of indulgence.

  Usually.

  This time, I saw Sharon-Ann, Max and Grace. Like I mentioned before, a couple of the soccer girls were also in DOU, and while this usually meant lots of fun and extra bonding time, I was not in the mood. I felt like if they looked at me for long enough, they would totally see through my calm front, realizing something big had happened. In short time, they’d figure out my dirty secret, and I’d be screwed metaphorically, much to my own consternation.

  I was planning to pull the coward’s move — pretend like I hadn’t seen them and go upstairs to my own double — but they had athlete’s instincts.

  “Hey, Catya!” Sharon-Ann chirped.

  “Oh hey,” I said, feigning surprise. “Well, been a long day, I’m just gonna go—”

  Max interrupted, “Dude, how good was that prank?”

  I made a thumbs-up sign, and a smile that didn’t quite read as enthusiastic. “Funny,” I affirmed. No one bought it.

  Grace chuckled languidly, and replied, “I’d tap that.”

  “Simon?” I asked, my throat dry.

  “Duh,” she said with an eye roll. “I mean, if it weren’t against league rules and all.”

  Uh, what?

  Out loud, I demanded, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She held up her hands in the universal symbol for ‘take a chill pill,’ and replied, “Come on, Catya. You’re team captain. You must’ve heard these rules before.”

  Grace leaned in conspiratorially, and added, “If Melanie and Alan were really having an affair — and we all know they were — then that’s probably why they had to leave. To avoid Title IX stuff.”

  “Title IX?” I questioned.

  I mean, sure, I knew what Title IX was. Everybody on all college campuses knew, but especially women athletes. The gist of it was, nobody can be discriminated against in education based on their gender. A couple of ways this law played out, like tangible examples of it, was that administrations were forced to fund women’s sports equally, as well as giving out more athletic scholarships to women like me.