by Sylvia Fox
I had a bag of laundry I’d brought from school anyway, so I stripped the bed and gathered up my floordrobe. I tossed on a long nightshirt, planning to shower after I’d grabbed something to eat. It required two trips to haul everything downstairs, and then it took me way too long to figure out the Suttons fancy washing machine, which, in the end, was simple; it weighed the clothes to determine how much water to use. I was veteran of $.25 laundromats back home. Our washing machine had given up during my freshman year in high school, and there’d never been enough extra in the budget to replace the prehistoric beast.
Once I got the laundry going, I strolled back into the kitchen, assembling the ingredients for a sandwich. The bread the Suttons used came from a bakery, not Walmart. It was soft and thick, and I wasn’t sure how I’d ever go back to generic grocery store slices that ripped when you tried to spread the mayo or peanut butter on them.
A voice drifted into the kitchen, and it occurred to me that Eric must have returned home. I did the math in my head, and my post-orgasmic nap had probably been long enough that practice was over.
I tiptoed to the edge of the kitchen, down the hall from his office. He must have been on the phone.
“Dammit, Vince, he’s behind an all-conference guard. How much playing time does he expect? Where does he think he’s going to transfer to and play right away? I know, I know. I mean, it would be different if he could shoot. but we’ll need him if anything happens to LJ. Talk to him. You recruited him here. I don’t need this bullshit. Fix it for us, brother. I’m busy tonight. Take care of it. Thanks. Later.”
Listening to half of a conversation, especially about a subject completely outside one’s area of expertise, only muddles things. But I could tell Eric was angry about something. I didn’t want to surprise him with my presence in the kitchen, so I intentionally dropped a knife, letting it clatter loudly enough that he’d be aware that I was around.
He appeared moments later. That smile. Good grief.
“Hey, Emily! Don’t know if you could hear me in here, but pardon my language. Freshmen are the worst. They think they know everything, like we coaches are purposely trying to hold them back or something. Every year it’s the same, and it never gets less frustrating.
“Spending a few days here should teach you a valuable lesson – never, ever marry a coach. We’re all crazy and we never leave work at work. Not to mention we’re gone all the time. And we all smell like a locker room.”
We both laughed, and he turned to a pair of brown grocery bags on the counter that I hadn’t noticed.
“But, that’s what wine is for,” he proclaimed, pulling two bottles from one of the bags, shedding them of the smaller brown bags they wore, crumpled around their bottoms.
“Too bad I won’t be twenty-one for almost an entire year,” I said, snapping my fingers.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Eric replied, producing two glasses and a corkscrew.
I pantomimed closing a zipper across my lips and tossing a key over my shoulder.
“This,” he said, pouring me a glass, “is a 2004 Margaux, a French red. Goes fabulously with cold cuts.” He nodded toward the counter, where I’d been preparing my sandwich.
I’d seen enough movies to fake being a wine connoisseur, or so I hoped. I swirled the red in my glass, sniffing it before taking a small sip. I held it in my mouth before letting it slowly dance its way to the back of my tongue.
“Oh, my,” I said. “This stuff could be dangerous.”
He took a drink of his, dispensing with the swirling and sniffing. “I’m not the sophisticate you are, Emily. I just want to forget about freshman point guards for a while.” He knocked back another mouthful and walked around the kitchen island to where I stood. “What are we eating?”
We ate our sandwiches side by side sitting on barstools in the little breakfast nook on the corner of the kitchen, going through the better part of the bottle of Margaux as we laughed our way through our light dinner.
Eric was easy to talk to, although the wine certainly lubricated things.
When we finished, he grabbed a second bottle and two more glasses and we wound up in the Suttons’ ridiculous home theater.
A television the size of a movie screen covered most of one wall, with comfy reclining seats set off at an angle to one side. The other corner of the room, where we sat, was dominated by a massive leather sectional. I nestled into the corner, surrounded by pillows, my feet tucked beneath me.
He popped the cork on the second bottle, which he called an “aperitif.”
I wasn’t sure I liked it as much as the first bottle, but if one truism regarding alcohol holds, it’s that it leads to more alcohol. So, I was eager to get it into my system. Everything had started to take on that warm, hazy glow around the edges, and I was feeling very relaxed.
Eric sat a few feet to my left, his hands behind his head, waiting for Netflix to load. His arms looked so fucking good in that position.
We decided on a movie; something that took place on an island, where scary guys with guns were trying to get their hands on a pretty blonde, who in turn was being protected by a guy who was built like a silverback gorilla. Something about a top-secret computer chip. Whatever. I didn’t care.
Eric and I were talking and sipping wine more than watching the movie.
After a break in our conversation, during which the heroine had managed to get her white t-shirt soaking wet and the hero had lost his shirt for the umpteenth time, Eric turned to me with a serious look on his face.
“About that kiss…”
I sat up straight. This was a conversation I’d anticipated having to have, but not one to which I was looking forward.
“Clearly, it was a mistake. It should never have happened. Thank you for not making it weird between us. I don’t know what came over me,” he explained.
What can I do to ‘make it come over you again’? I thought, emboldened, no doubt, by my buzz.
“What are your thoughts?” he asked, and he did something unexpected. When I’d straightened up, my feet had slipped out from beneath me, and must have looked like they needed a home. The home he chose would be my ruin.
He took my bare feet in his hands and pulled my legs straight, letting my heels settle onto his lap. I became suddenly and acutely aware that I was still only wearing the nightshirt I’d put on before I came down to do laundry. When he’d extended my legs, everything had very nearly become visible. The room was dark, but the movie screen we sat before illuminated things enough that my semi-nudity would be no secret, if his eyes wandered up my thighs. I pulled a pillow around and put it on my own lap, concealing my, well, to be blunt, my pussy, from his gaze.
I considered excusing myself to put my laundry into the dryer, laundry that included a pair or two of yoga pants that I could slip into, even if they were wet, but his thumbs began making circles on my soles, and it would have taken a SWAT team to extricate me from his hands.
I sighed and let my head fall back. There was something so intimate in the way he rubbed my feet, his strong hands working all the stress loose.
I’d never had a massage, but they made perfect sense, now.
“My thoughts?” I asked, my mouth suddenly dry and my stomach filled with butterflies. “My thoughts are that you’re Holly’s dad. My best friend’s dad. That I have no business kissing you.”
I took my biggest gulp of wine yet. His hands on my feet were creeping to my calves. Thank God, I’d shaved my legs the day before. He looked crestfallen at my words, but his big hands hadn’t stopped.
“But, I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t been hoping it would happen again.”
There. I’d said it. I’d put my cards on the table. Blame the wine, blame his hands on me, blame my nipple for reacting the way it did to his accidental touch earlier, blame my hyper-sexualized state after the round of orgasms I’d given myself before dinner, blame anything you want to, I had just stepped off the high dive and all that remained was hitting the wa
ter.
His hands explored my legs, and when they rubbed behind my knees, I discovered an erogenous zone I never knew existed.
“Is that why you aren’t wearing anything under that shirt, Emily?”
My head, which had been laid back on the cushion, suddenly was upright. My eyes met his, and they found mischief there. I couldn’t speak. For a million dollars, I couldn’t answer his question.
His hands had reached my thighs, gentle, but firm, and then the back of one hand dragged itself lazily down my inner thigh. A deer in headlights had nothing on me. I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t will my heart to beat. Time was frozen, everything was frozen except his wonderful, maddening hands. From knee to ankle, then back up to mid-thigh they traveled. My eyes were fascinated by them. I clutched the pillow on my lap and listened as the dialogue from the movie seemed to fade into the distance. At some point, my heart had commenced beating again, and it was like a bass drum in my ears.
His hands inched, irresistibly, closer and closer. Nearer to what felt like molten lava between my legs.
“Move that pillow, Emily.” There was nothing resembling a question in what he said. It was a command. Resistance was inconceivable. I let the pillow fall to the floor and I bent my knees ever so slightly, allowing my legs to part. I rolled my hips a bit, just enough so that he’d be able to see, and touch, please touch, anywhere he wanted to.
His face resembled the Cheshire Cat. He was clearly very pleased with the view.
He whispered a single word, almost under his breath. “Fuck.”
I glanced down at what he was seeing, his fingertips just barely in my field of vision, having moved up to places only the most obscenely short shorts would cover.
My sex was neatly trimmed and tight. It glistened in the glow of the television. Suddenly, one of his thumbs advanced far enough that when it pulled at the tender flesh next to my opening, my labia began to part. Dewy strands of my arousal were all that linked them.
He did it twice more, exposing the pink inside. I couldn’t help but to squirm.
“You’re so beautiful, Emily,” he rasped, his hand moving to the back of my leg and up to my ass for a moment, pulling me forward and exposing me even more. I could feel my face burning hot with shame. And primal lust. I’d never needed anything in my life more than I needed Eric to touch me. To fuck me. No fire extinguisher on the market could cool what had become of my core. Only Eric Sutton had the remedy for my feverish desperation.
The sound of my own voice, small and octaves higher than normal, surprised me. “I’ve never … I want to, but I’m a, I’m …”
“Oh, Emily, you’re absolutely exquisite,” he said, soft laughter in his voice. “Relax. Just lay back and relax.”
His hands parted my thighs wide, and he adjusted his position, leaning down until he lay on his chest, face inches from the conflagration overwhelming my pussy.
His arms coiled around my legs from below, pushing my nightshirt up hands coming to rest on my inner legs. The steel of his muscles pressed against the cotton candy softness of my thighs and felt better than anything I’d ever felt. That lasted about four seconds, until a new “best thing I’d ever felt” knocked his-arms-on-my-legs from their pedestal.
His lips kissed up one side of my opening and down the other, slow, deliberate kisses. That magic place where thighs end and, well, vulva begins.
The wick was lit. Like in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, it was sizzling and jumping around, the dynamite embedded in my soul awaiting its catalyst.
His tongue probed at my opening, coaxing my lips to part for him. He was French kissing me there, and when he hit a particularly sensitive place inside me, my eyes searched for his in wonderment.
His eyes were smiling. There was no doubt. His mouth was busy, sealed against me, but his eyes betrayed an unmistakable joy. Devouring me seemed to give him the same ecstasy it was giving me.
When he’d touched everywhere inside me that his tongue could reach, he withdrew and adjusted himself to find my clit.
When his lips first surrounded it, the intensity nearly overwhelmed me. My hands, which had been exploring my own breasts and mouth as I writhed, instinctively flew to him, one in his hair the other on his wrist. Simultaneously, I tried to force him away and pull him in. Nothing in my twenty years of life had prepared me for such raw, impossible pleasure.
My hands were ineffectual, and my plaintive whimpers unheard. He didn’t care whether I could endure what he was doing to me, whether it was all too much for my virgin pussy. He meant to taste my climax, to have it exactly the way he wanted it and he knew I needed it.
He sucked at my clit, and only its tiny hood kept me from utter madness. My body liquefied under his assault, and the orgasm he pulled from me brought tears to my eyes. I reached for a pillow, something to smother the sounds of my release, but like a flash flood it was all around me, drowning me, and nothing could contain my howls.
“Oh my God, Oh my God, oh fuck, yes, yes, YES!” I screamed, my hips lifting and mashing against his handsome face, his perfect, delicious mouth.
It battered me, crashing through my soul, saturating every inch of me with indescribable pleasure, and still he sucked. And licked. I was finally frantic, pulling and pushing to get him to stop. The glorious aftershocks gave way to raw, searing pain as my clit burned from the tenderness.
He relented just in time. My fists were balled. When he pulled away, every muscle in my body relaxed, melting into the leather of the sectional.
I was only vaguely aware that he’d risen to his knees, pulling off and tossing his shirt away. His pecs bounced on his chest beneath a sprinkling of salt and pepper hair.
His pants were next to go, leaving him in boxer briefs tented and soaked with his arousal. As he pulled them down, his manhood smacked against his abs with a “thwack.” I was no expert on cocks, but Eric’s looked girthy, wide and strong, and I doubted anything that size could fit where not even a tampon or finger had ever been.
He straddled me, leaning down to kiss my mouth, even as the weight of his cock lay on my desperate pussy.
He was a foot away when the scent of my orgasm hit me. All over his face. I accepted his tongue into my mouth, sucking at it with lusty abandon, the flavor of pussy thick in his mouth, and now mine.
The way he kissed me was savage. Claiming me, my body as his own.
He shifted his hips to plunge into me, but he met resistance. I rolled my hips and bucked gently below him, struggling to find the right angle to be penetrated. His head eased inside me, but the sheath of my pussy was just too tight for the weapon he wielded.
He stopped kissing me a moment and looked in my eyes, softly caressing my face.
“Do you want this, Emily?”
I nodded, I hoped convincingly.
“Then you have to let me in. Be a good girl and relax. Let me in.”
Floodgates.
His voice made everything “down there” clench, and the next thing I knew, his length was inside me, a stretching, punishing, devastating plunge. My eyes were sealed tight, mind coming to terms with body, and both trying to explain to soul what had just happened.
If any part of me needed more convincing, his next set of thrusts – slow, slow, slow, then rapid fire – made their case.
I clawed at his back, my feet behind his thighs, the purpose of my life revealed to me at last. I was Coach Eric Sutton’s fuck toy. My body existed to please him and his cock, and really for no other reason.
I’d never not want him inside me. Although life before being fucked by him was a scant minute ago, the memory of that existence was so distant it may as well have been 10,000 years. All I knew was his cock. All I needed was it inside me. Always.
It hurt, I won’t lie. The pain was excruciating. But I was so wet, so ready, so desperate, that no pain could have mitigated the pleasure.
He stopped thrusting long enough to ask me a question.
“Are you ready for the rest of it?�
�
Wait, what? What. The. Fuck.
The confusion must have been evident on my face.
“Are you comfortable enough to take my entire cock? I don’t want to hurt you, Emily. I never want to hurt you,” he explained, his pace unchanged.
“I want it. I need it. I need everything you have. Please fuck me!” I begged like a whore.
The pain redoubled, his hammer stretching me deep inside, finding places I didn’t know existed.
My teeth were gritted. I had tears in the corners of my eyes, not the orgasmic tears from when he went down on me, tears of pain. But every gram of discomfort on the scale was met by a counterweight of gold, a ton of it, and he fucked me like that for a good, long while.
He talked me through the tears, through darkness of pain and into the bright, shining light. I began to shake. It started in my thighs and then spread, quickly. Everywhere.
“That’s it, Emily. Such a good girl. You feel so good. So fucking good. You’re so beautiful. I feel you trembling. You’re so close now. So very close. Come for me, Emily. Come all over my cock.”
Blinding light exploded across my brain, every neuron firing at once. The shaking wouldn’t stop. I was embarrassed, I felt like a freak, but I didn’t care. He was doing it to me, his cock forcing it out of me. The orgasm made every bit of pleasure I’d ever given myself seem laughable.
A girl exploring her own body could never compare to a man taking firm control and fucking her.
The relentless pounding he gave me kept the climax rolling, and I feared my nails were shredding his back, but I just couldn’t get him close enough. Deep enough. I thrashed and twisted, and at some point, my effort to have him deeper exceeded his own. A secret place at my center was being touched, a door being knocked on. I could scarcely imagine what lay behind it.
When nothing and no one replied to the insistent knocking, Eric’s cock smashed it to splinters.
A new flood began, and it was his turn to register shock and awe.
His eyes opened wider and his open mouth twisted into an intensity bordering on anger. My legs locked behind him in a grip no python could match.
