Coaching
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Coaching The Coach free porn video
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.
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