Forced Lesbian Submission Books 1-10

by Adrian Amos

  “If that was how it was before,” she says, a sharpness in her voice, ”That's not how it works now. Especially on a matter like this. Those girls violated school policy. Even if I did discuss these things with the Captain, a matter like this has no differing opinion. They did not meet the basics of college enrollment. What they did does not allow them play for us anymore. Not until they fix it, at least.”

  My anger shows through, and I raise my voice to her, “That's not how we do things here. Girls are given time to get their stuff in order. They don't just get kicked off the team. That's not fair to them.”

  “First off,” she says, “I'm running this team. We do things how I do them. I don't tolerate disobedience, nor do I tolerate poor grades. It isn't about fairness. Everyone is warned when they join school activities that their memberships exist only as long as their grades remain respectable.”

  “What do grades have to do with volleyball?” I ask, “None of that matters. Maybe from the South, things like that concern you, but here, the school cares about the money students bring in.”

  “It matters to me. Yeah, maybe this is typically a rich girl sport,” she adds, mockingly, “But no one's riding this team so they can get school permission to screw up their education. You either commit to your education, or you have no place on this team.”

  At this, it feels like she's just repeating herself, and I nearly yell at her, “You know you're fucking with our ability to compete against the top-tier schools. Amy and Rachel were two of our best strikers.”

  She stands at her desk, “Watch your language!”

  I close my mouth, knowing that I pushed the boundaries there.

  “And top tier schools?” she continues, “As far as I recall, this is not a top tier team. Don't try to fool me. I knew what this job was when I took it. You guys are bottom of the pecking order.”

  I grind my teeth. She's making us sound like shit.

  “And you know what. It is about money, but the school sees your awful record, and knows you're not going to bring any money in any time soon. No one wants to watch a losing team. I'm here to fix that. I'm here to turn you into a functional, winning team.”

  She walks around the desk and comes up to me, “What was your record again last year? I think you had 2 wins, maybe, against the worst teams in the division.”

  As she gets close to my face, I can smell her perfume: a strawberry-fruit blend of some sort. She's about 5'8”, my height, and her black locks falls down near her waist, just like my brown hair.

  “I don't have to listen to this,” I say, “I'll just go to the dean and tell him everything you said. How this team is a bunch of losers, or whatever.” I actually can't remember exactly what she said. ”I'll just tell him you can't coach us. No one's going to listen to a black girl barely older than us. I'll just get my daddy to find us someone who'll coach the right way.”

  I smile, sure that I scared her a little. Does she really think she can stand against the wealth that built this school?

  But she doesn't react like that. She reaches out and grabs my throat with one hand, pushing me up against the wall.

  I grab at her hand, trying to push it away, but her grip is ironclad. I clear my throat and struggle, trying to catch my breath through her clamped fingers.

  “Bitch. I'm not going to lose this job because of some stupid rich, little white girl.”

  “What are you doing?” I say, my voice straining, “You're definitely going to get fired for this, you crazy bitch!”

  “Oh, am I? I'll fight you to the end. I don't know how you're going to prove what I'm doing to you. The new coach strangled you? Even if I am a black girl, that sounds crazy.”

  Her fingers tightened on me, and I feel my head lighten with the increased pressure.

  “You're probably also a stuck up problem for the administration here. Getting whatever you want. All I have to say is you didn't like me letting 3 girls go that deserved to be let go. That you're not a team player and don't care anything about winning.”

  She let her grip slip again, and I took a deep breath as I felt the blood rush from my head.

  “Again, winning means money, and if you don't care about winning, then you don't care about money. I'll say whatever. It won't be easy for you.”

  I don't know if what she's saying is true, but this does sound crazy. I can't even believe she's doing it to me, and it's happening right now!

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice still struggling against her power.

  “What are you going to do about it?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You see how easy it is to restrain you. One handed. I'm barely even trying. It's because you don't take this shit seriously. You're not training, you're not strengthening yourself. You're not competing.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, confused at the weird fucking coach rhetoric being spewed at me out of nowhere.

  “Language!” she shouts, shaking me with a thrust of her wrist. “What I'm saying is you talk about competing against top tier schools, but you don't put the work in to even make it a possibility. I want to see some fight in you.”

  “Tell you what,” she goes on, “You get out of my grip, and I'll bring those three girls I let go back on the team, and I'll give you equal say in how the team's run.”

  “And if I can't get out? What then?”

  She shrugs as if it were a stupid question, “Then you'll still be in my grip. Then it means it doesn't really matter to you if you win or not.”

  Without saying another word, I ram my hands into hers, hoping to catch her off hilt so I can break out easily. But Coach Morris barely flinches, and as I claw and pull at her hand, she holds me in place with little effort. I let out an exasperated sigh and drop my arms.

  Coach Morris shakes her head, annoyed, “You see? You got no passion, no fight. And you're a quitter. You're basically telling me I can do whatever I want to you, that you're not going to try hard enough to escape.”

  I don't respond. I'm too tired from my adrenaline spiking and my inability to pull her off of me.

  She shakes her head again. “Okay, then,” she says. She lets go of my throat, and I catch my breath. But she quickly grabs my naked midriff and spins me around. As I get turned around, she pushes my head against the wall.

  “What are you doing?” I whine.

  “I'm showing you what happens to the losers and quitters of war.”

  I feel her hand move down my lower back and land on my ass. She starts groping, cupping, and pinching me.

  “Stop it!” I yell, but at the same time, her soft hand against the mesh fabric sends a ticklish signal down my body. I try to pull my ass in and away from her, but she pushes in with me, her nails digging in and upping the sensation.

  “Make me stop,” she says.

  “I can't!”

  “Then nothing stops for you unless you make it.” She slides her fingers under the band of my skin tight pants and pulls down, revealing my ass to her.

  “Oh my god, stop it!”

  “Are you wearing a thong?” she says, nearly laughing.

  I am. A white satin one.

  “I'm wearing yoga pants; I can't wear regular underwear with that. It'll show through.”

  “Okay, you're wasting your time talking.” She grabs the string between my ass crack and pulls up on it, driving the thong between my lips. I yelp from the pain but also feel the moisture building between my legs. She does it a number of times, releasing it slightly and then pulling it up hard, each time introducing me to pain and wetness.

  “Come on,” she says, “What are you going to do about this?” She lets go of the string, but then I feel her hand connect with my outstretched ass. She's spanking me! I can hear the sound of her hand connecting with my fat echoing through the office. She brings her hand down on me, and when she connects, she cups me with her hand and nails, pulling my ass back as she lifts her hand again to swing. On one of the swings, I g
et a sting of pleasure flow through me, and I swallow a moan that nearly rose to the service. Am I enjoying getting spanked by my lesbian coach?

  “What if someone hears this?” I ask, hoping she thinks about what she's doing and stops. I know I'd be embarrassed for someone to hear me spanking someone else.

  She stops. Thank God! “That's what you're worried about?” she asks, “Not even going to stop it, you're just going to worry about what other people think?”

  “It's embarrassing!” I say.

  “Come here if that's all you care about.” She grabs the back of my neck and guides me to the back of the office. I have to shimmy my feet, as my pants are hung just above my knees, keeping me from walking normally. I shuffle to the back where we enter the storage closet, where all the extra equipment is kept.

  She closes the door and turns toward me. I don't move, my yoga pants still around my thighs. I can see her eyes trail down to my pussy, which I knew they would: the wetness in me as soaked them and made them see through. She can see the pleasure in my pussy clearly.

  “Just stop spanking me and let me go.” A part of me wants it to stop, but another part wants to say what is going on out loud. I want to hear it. It sounds incredibly erotic, and just the thought spoken out loud makes me tingle.

  “Stop spanking you?” she asks.

  I think I also want her to hear it. I want her to acknowledge what she is doing to me, in case she doesn't realize it yet. In case she thinks she is punishing me, instead of turning me on.

  I want her to know. “I'll do whatever you want,” I plea. The words coming out of my mouth make me quiver. I want her to know that I'm submissive, and she can have her way with me.

  She comes close to me and presses a finger into my panties. “Oh, I know you will.” She slides her finger down against the fabric, eliciting a moan from my lips. “Because I have control, and you have no fight in you.”

  She leans in and kisses me. Her chocolate lips—softer than I thought possible—engulf mine, her tongue circles me and her teeth bite my lips. She pinches my nipple through my shirt, twisting it and pulling it out.

  She takes her shirt off. Her tits are a good size and her brown nipples large but finely crafted to her body. She pulls my head in and plants one in my mouth. Her flesh is soft and a waft of strawberries crash into me as I dive in. I suck on her nipple as I try to pull my own shirt off.

  She keeps my arms from lifting and says, “I didn't tell you to take your shirt off.”

  I go back to sucking on her, but she says, “You better apologize.”

  “I'm sorry, Coach Morris.”

  “You see, white girl, this black girl, as you call me, is your coach. And you don't do shit until I tell you to. Only winners get to decide what happens on this team. And I don't remember you winning anything.”

  She pulls my hair back and slaps me with her other hand. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Coach Morris,” I say.

  “Open your mouth,” she says.

  I open it, and she pulls my head back and spits down my throat.

  “Swallow it.”

  I do, she spits again, and I swallow again. She pulls me by the hair over to the mechanical weight bench in the center of the storage room. She bends me over it, the cushions pressed against my tits, and begins spanking my ass.

  “You're going to do what I say. I run this team. Say it!” She lays into me, the stings bucking me back and forth.

  “I will do what you say. You run this team, Coach Morris!” I cry out.

  “Are you gonna say shit to the dean?”

  “No, Coach Morris, I won't say anything,” I say, intent on keeping my word. I want her to dominate me. I want her to fuck me. I'll say whatever she wants to make that happen.

  She continues to spank me, though, unrelenting. “Tell me you're a spoiled, little rich girl.”

  I pause, absorbing the whacks of her palm. I think about it, but figure I don't want to upset her. “I'm a spoiled, little rich girl,” I finally say.

  “Tell me you want my black pussy in your mouth.”

  I stop it right there. “I don't want that.”

  I hear her cork back and she winds her arm up, beating me with twice the power she was using before. Clearly angry, her hand is bringing a reckoning on my already sore ass.

  “I want you to eat me out,” I say, finally releasing the fantasy I had built up, “I thought that's what you were going to do.”

  “Girl,” she says, laughing, “You're stupid. Being a winner means you don't have to eat pussy.”

  She picks me up and lays me on my back on the bench. She removes her jeans and her underwear, her shaved pussy inching closer to my face as she straddles me over the bench.

  “You better eat good,” she says, placing her pussy over my face. “You don't want to know what happens to losers who don't hold up their end.”

  She grabs onto the hanging barbell and rocks her hips back and forth, rubbing her pussy up and down my lips. I finally open my mouth, figuring it would be better that her juices get inside my mouth, rather than all over my face. My tongue runs up and down her slit as she grinds into me, the smell of her musky, salty, and intense as she rubs up toward my nose.

  I reach up and grab her ass as I try to push her to a rhythm that works better for me. The softness and flabbiness of her ass is a new sensation, far different from the gross, hairy, muscular asses of the men I've been with. Although she's stronger than me, touching her body still feels feminine, and caressing her ass and legs its own pleasure.

  She lifts her legs and spins around on me. She sits back down on my face and keep licking her. She grabs my legs and lifts them up toward her. With her sitting on my face and my feet in the air, she takes my shoes off and pulls my half-dropped pants up and all the way off.

  She spreads me and slaps my pussy with her open palm. The shock wave makes me sputter and jerk.

  “I still can't believe you thought I'd pleasure you. Your eating isn't even that good. I got something else for you,” she says.

  She slaps me again, the sting on my lips harsher than the one on my ass. She moves her hand and slaps my right inner thigh and then my left. She grabs under the crooks of my knees and pulls them up to my chest, bringing my ass closer to her.

  She continues to grind on my face, and with my legs in the air and spread apart, she spits on my pussy. She slaps my pussy, the sting accompanied by the splash of juice and saliva. She rubs it into my slit, spreading my lips with her fingers.

  She pushes past my pussy and over my asshole, soaking it with the juices and saliva. She pushes over it, between my cheeks, wetting it as she inserts a finger in.

  I try to scream, but her pussy is mashed up against my face. I try to struggle, but her arms are holding my legs up. I can't move as she begins to loosen my hole with her finger, thrusting into it with ease, as my ass is as spread as my legs.

  She leans in and spits on my asshole, working it in with her finger. I grab her thighs and wince as she introduces a second digit. She slowly thrusts in and out, and I begin to relax, which is easier to do once I acknowledge that I can't break free.

  When it finally starts to feel good, when I finally start to enjoy the pain mixed with pleasure, she pushes in a third finger.

  “No, it's too much!” I scream.

  But she doesn't say anything. She just slowly thrusts in and out.

  I brace against her as this solid, thick mass of flesh and bone penetrates my ass. It spreads me wide as I take it all in. I adapted to the first and second finger quick enough, but the third was a whole different beast. It was thicker than any cock I've ever taken, and it was in a hole I've never taken one in. The only good thing right now is how slow her thrusts are.

  But there is nothing I can do. She's stronger than me and has me trapped under her.

  And just like that, she stands up, as if reading my thoughts. She pulls off to one side of the bench with her fingers still inside me. She watches me as she thrusts into me
.

  “You like that, don't you?” she asks.

  As painful as it is, as much as I want it to stop, when I'm given the chance to pull away, I don't take it. I want to see what it feels like when I finally adjust to all her fingers inside me.

  I nod and bite my lip.

  She spits on my ass again and begins to thrust faster and harder, slamming her three fingers into me. I reach up and grab my legs, pulling them toward me so I don't shake her loose.

  She reaches over with her other hand and lifts my tank top up. She slaps my nipple, engorging it with a sudden rush of blood. She continues to slap it as she thrusts into me.

  She moves my arms out of the way and then shifts into position where she can take my nipple into her mouth, slap my other nipple hard, and thrust into me.

  All the pain is starting to blend and turn into pure pleasure. The thrusts of her fingers slip in and out of me easily now, and I can even clench onto her fingers and enjoy it more.

  This black girl is dominating me, fucking me in the ass, in a storage closet in the back of the school. There's students walking around somewhere out there. Maybe not this far back in the gym, but somewhere around here. I imagine a person walking just outside the office, oblivious to the volleyball captain getting fucked by the new coach just two doors away.

  Can someone hear me moaning outside?

  And I moan. I take her fingers; I take her mouth; I take her slaps. I take everything Coach gives me and I moan.

  She uses my body like a toy and makes me vibrate. I quiver and shake, clenching and un-clenching on her fingers, screaming as the pleasure turns my body on and off.

  As I lie wasted, her fingers exit me and my ass feels incredibly loose, ready for more.

  “I was just trying to teach you a lesson,” she says, giving me a kiss on the lips. She smiles, trying to get under my skin, “I guess you losers just really love it in the ass, don't you?”

  “I'm not a loser,” I say.

  “Good,” she says, “It's time to prove it to me. I'll see you back here tomorrow at 8 o'clock. We're going to do some strength training.”