At six-thirty, the early morning sun slanted through the gym's high windows highlighting the seven girls, suited up in their game-day outfits. The girls perched in a row on the bench where I had sprawled only hours before while Gretchen, the assistant dean, sucked my cock as a reward for finally agreeing to temporarily coach the girls’ golf team, the Troutettes, at Riverton College.
I had to be talked into coaching—sucked into it, actually— because I wasn’t a real self-assured guy. I thought I was okay in the looks department, a reasonable build, six feet one, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, and I'm a mixture of an Italian mom and an Irish father. So I've got light olive skin, dark curly hair and green eyes. But with girls, I had no confidence. Sure, Gretchen Fluoride had sucked my cock, but only because she wanted something from me. Well, that and a couple other reasons I’m not going to go into here.
And now I had to pay up. I was stuck with the situation.
Seven coeds, sitting up straight, paying attention, their legs crossed. The girls wore the red polo shirts with the Riverton College mascot, a leaping trout, on the left breast and tiny plaid skirts. I tried not to stare at all those slender, athletic legs.
We'd started at six. I was a lowly sophomore at Riverton, and had a class later that morning and the girls had to warm up before play began.
By six-thirty we'd gone through the usual speeches. The assistant athletic director explained that I had been selected as temporary acting interim coach and said a couple nice things about me—good student, working my way through school, interested in golf. He shook my hand, said to let him know if I had any problems, and headed back to the administration building.
Next up was the real coach, Betina Powers, on speakerphone from her hospital bed, sounding shaky. She told the girls that they were to carry on just as if she was still in charge.
“I have every confidence in Laurindo. He'll handle you just the way I would if I were there. I want you to give Laurindo your fullest cooperation. Let's all get on-board and—” she paused for emphasis.
I expected she would say that traditional thing, let's win one for the Gipper, something like that. But no, she gave it her own twist.
“—let's go out there and kick the living shit out of those cunts from State.”
The girls applauded.
Then came my turn. I explained how I'd come to be appointed, that though I was only a lowly sophomore I'd tried out as a walk-on for the men's team, that I'd seen the girls practicing on the range many times.
“I don't know your names as yet,” I said, “but I hope to get to know each one of you. There will be time enough for that later. This morning, our job is to go out there and beat State.”
The tall, blonde girl on the end, the big girl with shoulders, spoke up. “Kick the living shit out of those cunts.”
“Yeah, cunts,” another muttered.
I sensed a strong competitive spirit.
Now came awkward part. Whispering to me in her hospital bed, Betina Powers had told me what to say. I launched into it.
“Those of you who are ready, you can head out and start your warm up. Anyone who needs it, I'll be in the office with Calamity Jane.”
I held my breath, waiting for a reaction, maybe derisive laughter.
There was no reaction. The girls seemed to accept the changes and seemed to accept me, the completely new kid, the English major with no qualifications.
The coach’s office was down the hallway, a small, windowless room, a beat-up wooden desk with swivel chair behind it, a side chair in front of the desk, in-tray and out-tray, a collection of paperwork stacked in the baskets. On the walls were signed photos of past teams and below them were shelves with plaques and trophies.
On the wall behind the desk, alone in the place of honor, hung a burnished wooden plaque that held an antique putter resting on pegs. As Betina Powers had instructed, I took it down.
This was Calamity Jane, an old-time hickory club with an elongated wooden head of burnished wood. The handle was wrapped in leather, old and worn smooth.
I sat down in the swivel chair and laid Calamity Jane across the corner of the desk beside me, the handle jutting out. My forehead was damp with nervousness. Betina Powers had told me what to expect, but still, when the knock came at the door, I jumped.
I gathered myself, tried to look relaxed and confident.
“Come in,” I said.
The blonde, the one who'd spoken up in the team meeting, came through the door. She closed it behind her and snapped the bolt, just as Betina had told me she would.
“You are?” I let it hang.
She was a big girl, tall, with wide shoulders. I'd seen her hitting on the range, out-driving many of the guys on the men's team. She licked her lips, her cheeks blushing pink. She was pretty, with a nice mouth and wide-set blue eyes, her hair in pigtails.
“What can I do for you, Ingrid?”
“I'm just so nervous, Coach.” She held out a hand and it trembled slightly. “I need to calm down. Maybe Calamity Jane . . . ?”
Strange to say, but her nervousness seemed to leave me clear-headed, give me courage. This was going just the way Betina Powers said it would.
“Come over here,” I said, gesturing to where the handle of Calamity Jane hung out over the side of the desk.
Ingrid stepped around and stood almost up against the projecting putter handle. I rested my hand on my end of the club. My eyes were fixed on her plaid skirt and the handle of Calamity Jane that pointed right where I thought her thighs came together behind her skirt.
“Go ahead,” I said, “you know what you need. We'll do this just as if Coach Powers were here.”
“Okay,” she said in a small voice, and lifted up her skirt, lifted and kept on lifting it all the way up to her waist.
I'd been wrong. Her thighs didn't come together behind the skirt. The top of her thighs were separated by a lovely wide pussy, puffy lips behind a sparse, blond bush.
“No pantys?” I said, glancing up at her.
“I didn't want to mess them up,” she said. “I'll put them on when we're done.”
She inched forward and eased her pussy lips over the leather grip on the putter, ground down on it, worked her hips on it.
I held my end tight to keep the putter from moving.
She had a wonderful pussy. She stood in front of me with her feet a few inches apart, yet at the top of her thighs, her pussy was so wide I could have cupped it with my whole hand. She had a fantastic pelvis—wide and deep, a pelvis that, I thought, was the perfection of Mother Nature's design for making babies, for growing them and when the time was right, for squeezing them out. Her hips and pussy were like a big, comfortable Western saddle. I hoped that someday Ingrid would find a big Minnesota farmer, about six-foot four, who would fill that saddle twice a day, keep her barefoot in summer and pregnant in the winter.
But right at that moment in the office, I watched her heat up. The putter handle disappeared up between her pussy lips, which hung down on either side of the leather shaft as she worked her hips back and forth. As I watched, her clit came out to play and she began to pant. I looked up. Her cheeks were flushed and she had a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She had turned her head to one side, closed her eyes.
I looked back down. Her hands, knuckles, white, clutched her skirt up around her belly and her knees were bending.
“Lift . . . lift it . . . up a little,” she stammered, her voice coming in gasps. “I need . . . need it . . . on my clit!”
The pink bud hung down, almost the size of my little finger, and I lifted my end of the shaft, giving it a more downward angle, so that the leather grip tormented her clit as she worked her pussy back and forth.
She began to make whimpering cries, and I wondered if the office was soundproof.
“Oh!” she sputtered, “Work it! Work it! Please!”
Her hips went out of synch. Where they'd been stroking back and forth in a tight movement, now they were jerking out of control.
I understood what she needed. I began to skim the putter back and forth, holding it tight up against her pussy, her labia now rigid. I didn't have any leverage, and the shaft of the putter was awkward the way it ran over the edge of the desk, so I stood up close to her, changed my grip to underhanded on the shaft, began to really work it, and I got excited, too. I put my free hand on her breast, squeezed it, found the nipple jutting against the material of her bra and the polo shirt, flicked at it with the ball of my thumb, and pumped and pumped the shaft of the putter against her pussy as she began to come.
“Oh, God! “I'm coming! Oh, I love Calamity Jane! Oh, I love her! Oh, fuck me with her! Fuck me hard with her!”
I fucked and rubbed the shaft as hard and fast as I dared against her pussy, and she collapsed against me, her knees sagging apart. She turned her face up to me, her open mouth found mine and her tongue went deep into my mouth as she came and came.
A couple minutes passed, she eased down from her high and pulled her face back and smiled.
“Whew! That was great!”
I laid the putter on the desk. “Oh, coach,” she put her lips softly against mine. “You're the best.”
She stepped away and I sank back into the office chair. She shrugged, loosening her shoulders. “I'm going to be completely relaxed out there now.”
She smoothed down her skirt, flashed me a smile, unlocked the door and went out. As the door swung closed behind her and she went into the locker room across the hall, I heard her call out, “Next!”
I barely had time to find a box of towelettes in a desk drawer and give the putter handle a quick wipe before the next girl came through the door without knocking, tossed her long, black hair back over her shoulders and collapsed into the chair in front of the desk. I'd noticed her at the meeting earlier. She'd been restless, crossing and re-crossing her slender, shapely legs, bouncing her foot, shifting her weight. Her face was heart-shaped, delicate features with large dark eyes and a full mouth that was giving me a big smile.
I smiled back. “Your name?”
“Blanca. I'm a junior, exchange student from Venezuela.” As she spoke she was up again, out of the chair, around the end of the desk to stand close beside me. “I'm so glad you're here, Coach.” I looked up at her and she ran the fingers of one hand into my hair. “That chucha
Powers thinks she comes from la concha de Dios
.” Seeing the uncomprehending look on my face, she added, “I mean, she's kind of a bull dyke, she thinks she came out of God's cunt. I'm sorry, I mean, it doesn't sound quite so disrespectful in Spanish. Oh, Jesus! I'm talking too much! I know I am. But you see, I'm high-strung, I'm a high-strung girl, lots of nervous energy. Coach Powers wanted me to lick her pussy but I wouldn't. But oh, Coach, you've gotta calm me down, you've gotta!”
Blanca had a lovely mouth, a cute face, and as she said, she was animated, shifting from foot to foot, jiggling her frame, her hands at one moment tossing back her hair, at the next on my face or shoulders.
“Oh Jesus, I'm a motor-mouth, I know I am. Everybody tells me I am, and it's true, but it's just how I am. That's why I need a coach who understands me, who knows what I need! Oh, Jesus, I hope you're the right coach for me, Coach. Are you? I mean, are you the right coach for me? Oh Jesus, I hope you are!”
She took my right hand and pulled it under her short plaid game-day skirt, spreading her legs, turning my palm up and pulling on my wrist, getting my hand cupped well up under her pussy.
“Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! Oh that feels so good! It's so what I need!”
I stood up, keeping my hand on her pussy, put my other arm around her and pulled her close against me. “Shut the fuck up,” I said. “Jesus, just shut the fuck up for a minute.”
“Yes,” she said, her hips thrusting against my hand. “Yes, Coach, sir. You're right. That's what I need. I need a strong coach, a man, who tells me what to do.”
I moved my free hand down to her butt, took a big backswing and spanked her as hard as I could. “Shut the fuck up!” I said.
She flinched but said, “Yessir.”
“I've got a couple questions,” I said.
She stayed quiet, thank God.
“First, don't any of you girls wear panties under these skirts? I mean, these skirts are pretty short.”
Her hips were moving on my hand and she panted lightly.
“We take them off before we come in to see you,” she said. “A session with Calamity Jane, it's better without panties.”
“But you're not getting Calamity Jane,” I said.
“No. Oh, Coach, can I talk?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I need penetration. I can't really calm down until I come, and I can't come without penetration. That leather thing doesn't get it for me. I mean, Coach Powers makes me come with her tongue but only when she sticks it inside. Oh, Coach, am I talking too much?”
“Yeah,” I said, “you're starting to.”
Her hips had lengthened their arc, they were moving farther back and forth, and the tempo had increased.
“Oh Jesus, Coach, put your fingers in. Please put two fingers in, please, please!”
My fingers had been sliding like crazy back and forth against the hot wetness of juicy inner lips, and now I let my two middle fingers press upward into her opening and glide smoothly up inside as far as they would go.
She sagged against me, spread her legs farther apart. She was breathing hard now, moaning quietly. She pressed up against my hard-on and I felt her excitement grow. I wanted to turn her around, bend her over the desk and fuck her really hard, this little South American firecracker. She was such a hot thing with such a short fuse, she lit me up like a pinball machine.
Her hips went into overdrive and she turned her face up to me. “Kiss me! Kiss me!” she begged. “Oh Jesus, fuck me with your fingers! Stick your tongue in my mouth! Fuck my mouth, fuck my cunt! Fuck me in the cunt and the mouth!”
As I kissed her she made a ring of her lips. I pushed my tongue through it and began sawing it back and forth. At the same time I worked my two fingers in her flooding pussy, moving them in synch with her hips. It was easy to do, like eating popcorn at the movies.
When I thought about it later, it seemed strange, this desire that came over me with Blanca. It was something I'd experienced before but never really thought about, the urge to make a woman come as hard as possible, even if it's with fingers and tongue. Oh, yeah, the ultimate moment when I shot my load, that was special, I don't deny it, it's the best. But there's something to be said for making a woman really get off big-time. I don't understand what it is or how it works, it's probably something buried deep down. It's what I felt with Blanca.
She was so pretty and feisty and hot, such a sweet little cunt, and she wanted it so much. I worked her as hard as I could, plunging away at her pussy and her mouth, stabbing and grabbing and sliding and pushing and pulling—at that moment I wanted to make her come like a sixteen-wheeler going off a cliff, hitting the precipice at a hundred miles an hour then going over, spinning and turning in slow motion in empty space, the air streaming past, falling slowly, like a ten-ton snowflake settling through a haze of pleasure.
That's what she did. Something like that. She started to come and grabbed my shoulders and her pussy squeezed down around my fingers and throbbed and vibrated and her tongue thrashed against mine and she came and came.
My cock was up against her, pressed hard against her, and I felt like coming myself. I don't think I've ever wanted to get my cock inside a girl more than I wanted at that moment to shove my cock up Blanca's streaming cunt. I wanted to throw her down on the floor, put her legs over my shoulders and ram my cock into her until we both came so hard we passed out.
She came and came against me, I don't know how long it was. It seemed like five minutes before she settled to earth back into herself, but I knew it wasn't really that long.
She smiled up at me. We were still tight together. It was as if her inner chemistry had changed completely. Before, she'd been vibrating like a tuning fork at an Arnold Schoenberg festival, and now the placid calmness coming off her was like a landlocked lagoon on a South Pacific island.
“Coach,” she said, in a low, mellow voice. “That was perfect. That was just perfect.”
She gave me a slow, deep kiss, her tongue going around my lips and into my mouth.
She pulled back. “We're going to kick the shit out of those cunts from State,” she said. “I know it. I just know it. Call me tonight. I think I might need some more coaching.”
She reached down and gave my hard cock a squeeze. “I think you might need some coaching, too.”
I did need some coaching. I adjusted things down there and sat back in the office chair. This coaching thing, it was turning out to be unexpected, to say the least. I wondered, briefly, if the experience I was having that morning was what most coaches did first thing in the morning on game day.
I wasn't quite ready for more when the next girl came in the door.
more, I'll admit that, but I wasn't really ready
Until she walked in.
She was tiny. I didn't even remember her from the earlier meeting in the gym. But now that I did notice her, I saw she was not just small, but a compact exquisite package, with long black hair pulled in a ponytail. She had a sultry Oriental face and nice legs beneath the short skirt.
“My name is Noi,” she said. “People always ask. In case you're wondering, my parents are from Thailand.”
“You're very pretty,” I said, hoping it was an okay thing for a coach to say to a student, even though we were about the same age.
“Thank you,” she replied. Her eyelashes fluttered and she blushed. I felt myself warming toward her. At least there was one Troutette who hadn't come into my office immediately demanding sex. I relaxed.
“It's so unusual,” she said, and her voice was melodic, “for a student, and so young, to be named coach.”
“It's only temporary. It's just until Betina Powers is well enough to come back. So tell me, Noi, are you okay with playing the match this morning? Can I help you?”
“Yes, well,” she stood in front of my desk, her eyelashes fluttered again, and she looked over at the shelf of trophies. “Coach Powers, she always soothed me before a match.”
Well, I thought, I should be able to sooth
her. I figured I would hold her close, run a hand up and down her back, rub her shoulders, tell her some encouraging things that would give her some positive motivation. Yeah, I could do that.
“Come around here,” I said, standing up.
She came around the desk, I held out my arms, and she came into them, pressing the side of her face against my chest.
Yeah, I thought, great. I gently massaged her shoulder blades. “How does that feel?” I said. “Does it help?”
“Yes . . .” her voice was hesitant.
“You're a really talented player,” I said, thinking to instill some confidence. “You're not a big hitter —” there was no way, small as she was, she could hit the ball really far—”but you're short game is deadly and I know you can sink every putt you look at.”
I had one hand loosening the muscles in her lower back, the other lightly squeezing a trapezius.
“Yes . . “ she said again. “I know I can play, but I need soothing.”
“I am soothing you,” I said. “I've only just started to sooth you.”
“I mean,” she whispered, “Coach Powers would sooth me with the pink vibrator.”
Huh? The pink vibrator? It came to me what she meant. The pink Cyberskin dildo with the remote control, the gizmo that quaked like a cement truck on a country road.
“Do you have the pink vibrator?” she asked.
Where the hell was it? Stuffed in my backpack. But where was my backpack? Let's see. Gretchen Fluoride had been holding it on her lap when I walked out of Betina Powers hospital room last night. Then we got in her car, and the backpack—was it on the car floor at her feet? Was it in the back of her car? Had I taken it into my room when Gretchen Fluoride dropped me at the dorm? It had to be someplace, but it wasn't with me in the office.
“I haven't got it with me,” I said. “But let me sooth you this way.” I continued to rub her back and her shoulders.
“That's good,” she said, “but I need more.”
I felt her hand slip down between us, and her fingers wrap around my cock. I'd been hard with Ingrid and—if such a thing were possible—even harder with Blanca, I'd wanted so much to fuck her. My guy hadn't gone down a bit. He was rampant.
“I need this,” she said, her face still turned to the side. “If you haven't got the pink vibrator, then do me with this. It would be better, anyway.” Her fingers were playing first-chair skin flute from the base of my cock up to the head then back again.
“My tool doesn't vibrate you know.” Why the hell did I say that? Was I always going to be worried about whether or not I disappointed every woman I ever screwed?
“I know it doesn't, but I would like it just the same. I need it. Coach, please!”
She dropped to her knees and her little fingers, so strong, so adept, so clever, had my belt unbuckled, my pants unbuttoned, my zipper down and my pants and shorts down around my ankles in about as much time as it takes to tell it.
Noi had a perfect little rosebud mouth, a nice full lower lip.
“You have a nice one,” she said, wrapping one hand around the base and cradling my balls with her other hand, and slipped her lips around the head of my cock and took two inches into her mouth.
Oh, my God! It felt like relief was in sight, coming up over the horizon like a cigarette boat at full throttle in the Florida Straits, a Navy helicopter hot on its tail. The Troutettes and their demanding pussies had gotten me so turned on, and now finally I was getting some action. I felt my balls start to boil, that wonderful tingle started in the head of my cock . . . Oh, yeah!
Noi clamped her fingers around the base of my cock like a steel vise. “Owww! Jesus!”
She looked up at me with her little doll's face, her dark eyes wide, licking her lips. “I need this.”
In a flash she was on her feet, bent over with her head my desk, reaching back and flipping the little plaid skirt up on her hips, spreading her legs. “Put it in, Coach! Please hurry! Put it in!”
She had a lovely ass, wonderful legs, and between them a completely bare pussy. The lips of her golden labia seemed to pulse and wink at me.
I nuzzled the head of my cock along her slit. It was as small and delicate as the rest of her. It was so small, it scared me. “Will it fit?”
“Yes! Yes! It will fit! Do it! Please! Hurry!”
I found her opening with the head of my cock, pushed, and her vagina spread and opened like the flowering of a pink chrysanthemum on the first day of spring. Four inches of my cock went into her.
She groaned, a deep, guttural sound. “It's been so long! It's been so long since I had cock! Oh, Coach! I love your cock! I do! I love it!”
She reached back between her legs and I felt her fingers caressing my balls. “Don't come too soon,” she said. “But when you're ready, shoot me full. It's okay, I'm on the pill.”
Her fingers came up and fastened around the root of my shaft. “Make it last,” she said, “make it last long enough.”
I worked her slowly, giving her more of my shaft with each short thrust. In three or four strokes I had all of my cock buried in her except for the inch or so at the base where her fingers held me clamped. I held it there, fully up her. Noi had great flexibility, holding my cock like that at the same time as I fucked her from behind. She knew what she wanted.
“Pump me, Coach.”
She didn't have to ask twice. I began giving her long, full strokes, bringing the ridge on my cockhead all the way back until it was just barely in her, then sliding forward in a long, smooth motion, listening to her cry and groan. I got into a rhythm.
Then, on a back stroke, she said, “Take it all the way out.”
“Out? You want it out?”
She turned her head to look back over her shoulder at me, smiling. “Take it all the way out then put it all the way back in, all at once. I love it that way. I love the feeling of a cock going all the way up me all at once.”
I began to fuck her that way, sliding my cock all the way out, the head poised just outside her vagina. Her glistening pink cunt stayed open for me, her passage staying open, ready for me when I pushed back in, one long stroke that took all my cock completely in her.
She took her fingers off my cock, and now tickled my balls. On each stroke she pressed my balls tightly up against her.
“Yes,” she said. “That's so good! Fuck me that way! I love to be fucked that way! I love the feeling of a cock coming into me! Do you love me? Do you love my pussy? Is my pussy good for you?”
“Yes,” I said, putting my cock into her and giving her all of my cock in one hard stroke. “I love to fuck you this way, I love your hot little pussy.”
I did love her, I couldn't help it.
“More,” she said. “Harder, faster. I'm going to come! Oh, Coach! Fuck me! Fuck me! Make me come!”
I felt it, too. I was past the place where my brain or voice processed, it was all pure sensation now, it was the moment, in the moment, the ultimate moment. She began to babble, to moan and cry, her hips thrashed and humped, but wherever they went, my cock followed, locked to the glistening opening of her gaping cunt. I had to hold it all the way in for seconds now as I felt her pussy throbbing and pulsing, felt my cockhead tingling with what was happening. My nervous system told me to shove it as far in as it would go when I came, I had to, it was a demand from the ancestral balls of all mankind dictating to me: this is what you must do, shoot cum as deeply into this hot cunt as it's possible to go, for this is the ending, the ending of it all, and this is the beginning, the beginning of everything.
She screamed and we came and came and came.
When the muddle cleared from my head I looked down at her shapely hips. Her head was flat on the desk, eyes closed, mouth open.
I eased my softening cock slowly back down her passage, feeling that strange, after-fuck prickle that comes at such moments. I reached down and pulled open the desk drawer, grabbed a towelette and caught the drips going down her legs, then wiped her pussy and my cock. I pulled her skirt back down from her waist, covering her.
She stood up and turned to face me. “Oh, Coach, that was great, really great!” She stood on tiptoe and gave me a kiss. “That fixed me good. If I win my match today, will you take me out tonight?”
“I don't know, we'll see . . .” I stammered.
“No sweat.” She gave me a wave over her shoulder and bounced out the door.
I pulled up my pants, tucked in my shirt, smoothed back my hair and sank back into the office chair and went back over in my mind what had just happened with Ingrid, Blanca and then Noi. Jesus, that had been fantastic! This coaching gig, it was turning out to be better than I expected.
I tilted way back in the chair, put my feet up on the desk and considered it all. It had been pretty damn special, but there is always room for improvement. I needed to think that way, I was a coach now.
I gave myself a reminder: When you go to work in the morning, don't forget to button your fly, don't forget your wallet and your cell phone, and remember to take your pink Cyberskin dildo because you can never tell when more than one Troutette might need to be made tournament-ready. Yes, I thought, the Troutettes needed their own cheer. I dreamed one up. Rah, rah, siss-boom-boff, stick in my pussy and get me off.
I went out to the golf practice area. There are few things better than the smell of new-cut grass on a fresh spring day, the warming sun, a breeze fluttering the leaves of the large old elm trees lining the fairways. If I hadn't had the worries about succeeding at this strange assignment, I would have felt great.
There were a scattering of friends and a few parents around the putting green, watching the girls stroke some putts before tee-time. I was proud of the Troutettes in their mini skirts. When the girls bent over their putters, I could almost—but not quite—catch a glimpse of panties. I looked my girls over, especially Ingrid, Blanca and Noi. They looked good: smart, capable, ready to play. When they caught me looking on, they gave a smile and a wave.
The girls from State seemed less well-organized. They wore matching shirts, but clearly their own personal shorts, not a full uniform like the Troutettes.
A woman wearing a State sweatshirt came up to me. She looked like she was in her early thirties, dark hair cut short, a pretty face, brown eyes and a trim, athletic build.
“Hi, I'm Vanessa Dubadet, I coach the State girls. Are you Coach Jones? They told me you were taking over the team.”
We shook hands and I explained Betina Powers' accident, my own background.
“Well,” Vanessa said, “you might not have any experience, but it looks like you've got your girls ready to play. My girls get really uptight the morning of a match. Nothing I say seems to calm them down.”
“Well,” I said, without really thinking about it, “you probably need something like Calamity Jane.” I caught myself and kept from slapping a hand over my mouth.
“Calamity Jane? Isn't that a famous putter or something?”
“I was just kidding,” I said, wondering how to take back my words. “It's just a mascot, a locker-room tradition with the Troutettes. It relaxes them.” Yeah, I thought, Calamity Jane along with some fingers and a cock. I looked more closely at Vanessa Dubadet. I liked what I saw. I wouldn't mind taking her into the office for a session with the warm-up tools.
“Maybe after the match,” I said, “if we have time. Maybe we can have a drink and talk about it.”
What the hell had gotten into me? That wasn't my usual behavior, coming on to an older woman like that, and a coach. Maybe we can have a drink, Jesus, it sounded like a line from a Vince Vaughan movie.
“I'd like that,” she said, a smile flickering across her face. With the sweatshirt and the short hair, and being a coach and all, it had crossed my mind that Vanessa Dubadet might be gay. But the smile she gave me didn't seem like the smile of a woman who played for a team on the Island of Lesbos. “After the match, if things work out,” she said.
I watched the first couple girls tee off. Some of the on-lookers and parents came up and introduced themselves, calling me coach, treating me with a respect that I hadn't expected. They made me feel like I was someone with influence and some importance, not just another kid going to college. It felt good, but I had to get to class.
I had an early morning creative writing seminar that I never missed because I had a crush on two of the coeds in the class, Meredith and Taylor.
Meredith was a statuesque blond with a turned up nose, turned up nipples poking out her blouse and a perky little butt. Taylor was shorter and softer but equally stuck on herself, with heavy breasts and yet slender hips and a tight little butt. I yearned for both of them so much that I’d managed to overcome my shyness enough to say hi. I guess they didn’t hear me. Or maybe I didn’t say it loud enough. But this morning I headed to class not horny at all. I’d been pumped up and then I’d been pumped dry. Fuck those sorority girls, I thought, as I watched them saunter into the seminar room, who needs those cunts?
After class, with no place else to go, I headed back for the campus golf course, the shelter of the tiny, windowless office in the Women's Golf Center. I found a cabinet against one wall and a key on Betina Powers' key ring that opened it, and inside a bottle of Ketel One three-quarters full and a stack of paper cups.
I sat down in the swivel chair, put my feet up, and had myself a drink. Didn't matter that it was still only ten in the morning.
Then I had myself another.
The first sip of the third drink and that was enough. Paper cup in hand, I pulled on a Troutettes visor that was hanging on the back of the door and headed out to the golf course to see how my girls were doing.
It was turning into a hot day. Beside the ninth green, a sparse crowd had gathered to watch the girls as they finished the outward nine holes of their matches.
Vanessa Dubadet was there in her white jeans and State sweatshirt as well as a dozen or so onlookers. I went up to her.
“How are your girls doing?”
“The Troutettes are killing us,” Vanessa said, looking up at me. But she was smiling. That's the great thing about golf, it's all about sportsmanship, being generous in victory and gracious in defeat.
“Sorry,” I replied.
“I don't know how your team does it, your girls are always so settled and focused. I never see any sign of nerves in them.”
“Maybe it's the Kool-Aid,” I said, lifting my paper cut to her in toasting gesture, “It worked for Jim Jones.”
A man standing near Vanessa said something to her, she replied, then turned and pulled me into their conversation. “Mr. Querales, do you know Laurindo Jones? Laurindo is coaching the Troutettes while Betina Powers is in the hospital. Laurindo, Mr. Querales is the father of one of your players, Blanca Querales.”
Mr. Querales was a short, rotund man with dark slicked-back hair going gray around he edges. He wore aviator sunglasses and had a brushstroke mustaches on the upper lip of his chubby face. He was wearing a red polo shirt with the Troutettes logo on the breast, an extra-extra large. I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about fiery Blanca with her tongue in my mouth and my fingers up her pussy, coming like a Las Vegas high-rise collapsing on demolition day.
“Ah,” he said, reaching out to me. I juggled my cup of vodka to my left hand and he grabbed my right and gave me one of those two-handed shakes, shaking the hand that had the two fingers that had been up his daughter's pussy earlier that morning. Did this feel uncomfortable for me? It probably would of if I hadn't been half drunk.
“The coach!” Mr. Querales went on, “the great coach! Blanca told me when she was warming up that she felt really ready to play, and now after only nine holes, she's three-up! Fantastic! You know what she told me? You know what she said?” Mr. Querales was still shaking my hand. “She said you were the best coach she'd ever had! Think of that! And you just came onboard, right? Isn't that right?”
“That's right,” I managed to say, “but she's a fast learner.”
Well, hell, how was I to know? Maybe she was
a fast learner. She sure knew how to get my hand on her pussy in record time, and if I had to bet, I would guess she'd learned to grab a hand and stick it under her skirt in about one second flat.
“Three strokes up!” Mr. Querales was going on, “three strokes up already!”
“Are you Coach Jones?” An attractive woman with frosty-blond hair, mid-forties, put her hand on my arm. “I'm Betsy Lindberg, Ingrid's mother. I'm so glad to meet you!”
I muttered something in reply. I couldn’t get the image out of my head of Ingrid’s labia draped around the handle of Calamity Jane.
“Ingrid and the other girls are so enthusiastic about you, you're doing such a great job.”
I was? This was news to me. It was easy for me to be humble in response to Mrs. Lindberg's compliments; that was exactly how I felt.
A woman standing with Mrs. Lindberg chimed in. “Everyone's saying you're a real find, Coach Jones. The girls have never played better.”
The girls on the green in front of us were getting ready to putt, and someone in the crowd shushed us. We turned to watch. It was one of my girls, Ingrid of the broad shoulders and the wide, rocking pelvis, and her opponent, a tall girl with a ponytail in a State shirt and matching cap. Both of them missed their long putts and conceded the tap-ins. They came off the green toward us.
Ingrid came straight to me and picked up the hand that Mr. Querales had dropped. She whispered, “We're doing it, Coach, we're kicking the shit out of them.”
“Good girl!” I whispered back. “What's the score?”
“I'm five strokes ahead of her. She's totally falling apart.”
I whispered in Ingrid's ear, giving her the age-old, time-tested match play advice handed down from golfer to golfer ever since the first feathery flew in Scotland six hundred years ago. “Step on her throat,” I said.
“Got it, Coach.” Ingrid gave me a peck on the cheek.
Beside me, Vanessa Dubadet had her arms around the girl Ingrid was playing, consoling her. I saw the girl's face over Vanessa's shoulder, the tears well up in her eyes, and I did feel sorry for her. I felt the same way when Meredith and Taylor froze me out at the writing seminar.
Now, though, I was starting to feel better. Part of it was probably the vodka, but more than that, I was getting some positive feedback. Between the parents' compliments and Vanessa Dubadet's admiration of my coaching, my ego was getting a boost. Yeah, I did have things under control. Who needed stuck up sorority girls?
Look what I'd done with this golf team! My girls were rolling to a slam dunk over those cunts from State just like the Globetrotters flatten the Generals.
The girls moved on to the next tee, most of the crowd going with them. Vanessa Dubadet took my arm.
“You've got the touch with those girls, Laurindo. You've got to tell me how you do it.”
I looked down at her. She had brown, curly hair and an up-turned nose with a scattering of freckles. I liked her mouth, she had nice lips, kissable lips, and I liked her trim, athletic frame. The picture went through my mind of Noi bent over my desk, my cock plunging into here again and again.
“You really want to know?” I said to her. “You really want me to let you in on our secret? I can, you know. It's right over there in my office. We can have a drink and I'll let you in on the big secret. There is a big secret, you know.”
She must have smelled something on my breath. “What have you got in that cup?” she said, pulling my hand over, taking a sip. “Mmmm! Good stuff! That's just what a losing coach needs, a little pick-me-up.”
“I've got a bottle in the office,” I said, “and all our coaching secrets.”
I held open the door of the Women's Golf Center for Vanessa, watching her walk in ahead of me. She was wearing tight, white skinny jeans and she had what I thought of as a high rump—a set of nice high prominent buns. You've got a weakness, Laurindo, I said to myself, a weakness for the female butt. I filed that one away. I knew that recruiters during job interviews were always asking prospective candidates to name a weakness, and I thought that would be a good one to mention. I would tell them I had a real weakness for a high rump on a good-looking woman.
Fifteen minutes later I was sitting behind the desk with my feet up, Vanessa was across from me, and we were sipping on a second round of drinks from the bottle of Ketel One between us. We'd gone through the exchange of the usual information.
“For a student you're amazing, Laurindo,” Vanessa said. “You have the confidence of an older guy. You've got charisma.”
I was tempted to look around to see who she was talking about.
“Thanks,” I said.
Vanessa had something going on, too. The view I'd caught of her legs and ass had made me curious about what might be under her baggy State sweatshirt.
I met her eyes, her warm, brown eyes. She liked me. I was getting drunk and she was the best-looking woman in the room. I had that don't-give-a-damn nerve that comes with a few straight vodkas.
“So, what's the mystery,” she said. “How do you get your girls ready to play?”
“Right up there on the wall,” I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “Calamity Jane, our inspiration.”
She stepped around the desk to get a better look at the putter. I stood close beside her. She smelled like a woman who'd shampooed her hair then spent the morning in the sun, which in my estimation was a pretty damn fine smell. I put my hand casually on her shoulder and with the other reached up and took the old hickory-shafted putter and handed it to her.
She turned it over, running her fingers across the worn smoothness of the thick wooden blade, took hold of the handle that had been hard up against Ingrid's pussy that morning.
“Hmm,” she said, giving me what I thought was a wicked smile, “this old leather grip is worn really smooth. Know what this reminds me of?”
“I couldn't guess in a million years,” I replied, hope surging in my chest that it reminded her of what I hoped it reminded her.
“So . . . that's it? An antique golf club, that's what motivates your girls to get it done?”
“Yeah,” I said, “just an old club. But that's golf, you know? It's how you use it that counts.” I took the putter and laid it across the corner of my desk, handle sticking out over the edge of the desk, the way Betina Powers had told me. I took Vanessa by the shoulders and guided her around to stand in front of the putter. I sat down in my office chair and took hold of my end.
“This is it?” She put the cup she'd been drinking from down on my desk. “You point the putter at the girl and that does it? Are there magic words or something?”
“No magic words. You aren't standing close enough.” I was looking at her legs and crotch in those white jeans
She'd been only six inches or so away from the putter handle, which was aimed below her belt line and above her pussy.
She shuffled forward, the putter handle now only an inch or so away from her body. “Like this?”
I tipped my end of the putter up, her end down, so it was lined up directly with that little gap where her thighs almost but not quite came together at the top.
“Closer,” I said, feeling the hair prickle on the back of my scalp.
“Oh, I think I get it.”
She eased forward just a touch more, allowing the tip of the putter to just begin to graze her thighs on either side, her mound above.
“A little more,” I said, realizing I had been holding my breath.
“Laurindo.” She said my name in a low, throaty way different from the way she'd spoken up to now. But she eased forward and a few inches of putter disappeared between her thighs.
“This is ridiculous.” The words sent one message, but timbre of her voice said something else.
“Is it?” I stood up close beside her, just as I had earlier that morning with Ingrid, going to an underhand grip on the putter shaft, my arm going around her waist, my hand on the small of her back. I let the handle glide slowly back and forth, keeping the touch light on her pussy.
“I don't think you should be doing this.”
She said it like she didn't really believe it.
“I know,” I said. “I should stop, shouldn't I?” Slowly, softly, I kept the putter skimming her thighs and her pussy, a few inches in, a few inches back.
“Yes,” she said. We stood that way a few seconds, my awareness, and probably hers as well, focused on that slowly moving shaft. “Is this . . . is this how you do it? . . . How you get your girls ready?”
“Part of it,” I said.
She seemed to think about that for a few seconds, or perhaps she was distracted by the hard shaft rubbing against her and her mind was elsewhere. “What . . . what comes next?”
What came next? What did come next? I had to stop and think about it. Well, I didn't actually stop anything I was doing, I kept that stiff, hard rod going back and forth, but I had to jog my thinking. What came next with the Troutettes was what they wanted to come next. This was a different situation, I was on my own, I had to improvise. Who knows where these things came from? Somehow, for some reason, I had the feeling that Vanessa wanted to be told.
“With the Troutettes,” I said, “I tell the girl to lift up her skirt.”
Vanessa seemed to let that sink in for a few seconds. “What if she's not wearing a skirt?” She was panting.
I went right to it. Why not? What the hell? “I tell her to unbutton her jeans and push them down.”
She paused again. It was as if there was a disconnect, some interference going on in Vanessa's brain. “Does she . . . does she do it? . . . Does she do what . . . what you say?”
“If she wants to,” I said. “If she likes what she's feeling and she wants more, she unbuttons her jeans.”
“And . . . and does she . . . does she push them down?”
I felt her arms move, heard the zipper, the jeans loosened.
“Push them down,” I whispered, “do it! Push them down.”
She turned her face up to me and our lips touched softly. I pulled the putter back as she pushed her jeans down, working them down her thighs. They were tight and hung up above her knees.
I felt the tip of her tongue touch my lips. She sighed and melted against me, her belly pushing against my rigid cock. I dropped the putter, let it clatter down on the desk and put my fingers on her pussy lightly, working them slowly back and forth.
“Oh,” she said, “that's good!”
“Is it? Is it really good?”
It had been only been a couple hours since I'd fucked Noi, but Vanessa was really turning me on. There was something special about her. Or—oh, hell! tell the truth!—there I was with my fingers on a strange girl's pussy, her tongue touching my lips, my cock feeling like it was cast in bronze—of course I was really turned on! Jesus, I can be such a goddamn romantic idiot!
“We shouldn't be doing this,” she breathed. “I'm . . . I'm faculty and . . . and you're a student.”
“It's okay,” I said, “we go to different schools.”
“I . . . I shouldn't be letting you . . . letting you touch me . . . there.”
“Where am I touching you?” I pressed my fingers upward, let my middle finger go up, squeeze her panties up between her labia.
She gave a gasp. “There . . . “ she said. “There . . .”
Her panties were wet. I began working my finger forward along her slit, wanting to find her button. I had this urge to make her incredibly hot, to drive her crazy with it.
“Tell me where I shouldn't touch you,” I said. “Tell me it's your pussy. Tell me not to touch your pussy.”
“Don't . . .” she said. “Don't . . . touch it.”
“Don't touch what? Tell me it's your pussy. Tell me not to touch your pussy.” My finger found her clit. I circled it slowly.
“Don't touch my pussy!” Her voice was muffled, her tongue in my mouth. “Please! Oh, please! Don’t touch my pussy! You’re touching my pussy! My pussy. You’re touching it!”
It sounded more like yes please
than no please
I let my finger leave her button and go back the way it came, pressing it up into her slit, working along through the dampness.
“This is a very hot, wet pussy,” I said into her mouth.
“Take down your panties.”
“Don't . . . don't make me.”
“Yes,” I said. “Push them down. My finger wants into your hot pussy. Push them down.”
She sobbed into my mouth.
Her hands went to her hips. She pushed them down, wriggling. I kept my hand there, right at her pussy, letting the cloth slide away beneath my fingers. I was back at her pussy, her lips, pushing them apart, spreading them wide, letting my middle finger go up against her soft, pink wetness, roll along her slit, backward then forward again.
We kissed for a moment, my fingers working her cunt.
She spoke into my mouth: “Laurindo?”
“This is the awkward part.” Her tone had changed. This wasn't a sex-hungry voice, she had taken on a more practical note.
“What do you mean?” I ran my tongue along her upper lip, slid my finger back and forth through her soaking slit.
She said, “We need to get out of these clothes.”
“We need to decide whether we take off each other's clothes, or whether we each take off our own.”
“What do you mean?”
She pulled back from me. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her eyes had a bright, feverish heat. “I'd like to keep kissing you. I love your lips and your tongue. I'd like to keep my tongue in your mouth for a long time. I want you to keep your fingers where they are, but I need to get out of these clothes.”
“Me, too.” Oh, yes, I agreed, all right!
“But if you undress me, if you keep kissing me and touching me, it's going to take a while.”
“A nice while.”
“But I'm kind of in a hurry.”
“I want to be naked.” She came hard against me and her tongue went all the way into my mouth and swished around. Her tongue pulled back, her lips barely touching mind. “I want to be naked right now. I want you naked, too.”
“Uh-huh. I want to taste you before you fuck me. You're going to fuck me, aren't you?”
“You bet I am.”
“Do you want to watch me taste your cock?”
She made my knees feel weak. “Oh god yes.”
Abruptly she stepped back, grinned. “Get those clothes off, cowboy.”
I stood frozen as she stripped off the sweatshirt in one quick move. She wore no bra beneath it. She bent and pushed her panties and jeans down her legs, prying off her shoes.
“Come on,” she grinned at me, “get a move on!”
She was naked before I was, and tried to help me, our hands tangling with my pants and shorts, our heads bumping as we pushed clothes down my legs, got rid of my shoes. Everything gone down below, I straightened up and unbuttoned my shirt.
She didn't straighten up with me. She dropped to her knees, both hands holding my stiff cock straight out as I looked down at her, my fingers working at buttons.
She looked up at me, her face flushed, her short hair tousled. “Ready?” she smiled.
“Ready,” I croaked. She had lovely shoulders, her breasts were small but shapely with small areolas and beige button nipples.
I watched, fumbling at my shirt, as her tongue came out and touched the head of my cock on one side, touched it then went back into her mouth. It came out again, touching the head on top, then again, touching the other side, then coming out and touching the bottom, right on the most sensitive spot, touching it then licking, sliding her tongue back and forth over it. I wondered if she tasted Noi’s pussy.
She leaned back and looked up at me. “You like?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Do you want me to lick your cock?”
“Tell me to do it. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Lick my cock,” I said. “Lick the shaft and then lick the head. Give it a good going-over.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m going to lick your cock now.”
I watched as she bent to her task, her tongue and lips busy on the shaft of my cock, licking every bit of it, missing nothing. Then she concentrated on the head, went around and around, over and around it.
She pulled back and looked up at me. “It’s time for me to suck it,” she said. “Hold my head, both hands. Hold my head and make me suck it the way you want me to.”
She didn't have to ask twice. I slid my fingers into her hair and held her head, pulling her forward. She took my cock into her mouth, her pursed lips sliding tightly over the head of my cock, taking the next couple inches. I felt her tongue squeezing it against the roof of her mouth, her teeth lightly touching my shaft. As I watched, she began to suck, dimples appearing on her cheeks. That was it for me, that
was who she was, who she would always be in my stupid romantic mind: Dimples
I eased her head back and forth, sliding her mouth on my cock as she continued to suck me. I had to push her back. “I can't stand this. You're going to make me come.”
“Don't do that.” She stood up and we kissed. This one was deep, all-out. My hand went down and through her bush, curled around her mound to find the softness of her wet pussy. She pulled her mouth back. “I love sucking your cock,” she said. “You have a lovely cock.”
“I love having you suck my cock, but now it's my turn.”
I picked her up by the hips and put her on the edge of my desk, leaned her back, reached down and took her legs and brought them up. She bent her knees and spread her legs as I put her legs over my shoulders. I sat down in my office chair, leaned forward and spread her labia with my fingers. I blew lightly up and down her wet, pink cunt.
I looked up at her. “You like?”
“I like a lot.”
I gave her pussy a long, lascivious lick from bottom to top, finishing with a burrowing exploration of her clit, around, over, then around and around, then over again. I kept licking her, always going back to her button, as I slid a middle finger into her, slowly opening her hot passage.
She began to moan and bump her hips up off the desk. She was crying out. “Oh, Laurindo, do my hot cunt, oh do my cunt, yes, don't stop, do it, do it!”
My tongue and finger worked her harder and faster.
She went off, her hips jerking, and her cream flooded around my stroking finger. I held her there, kept her going, as tremor after tremor shook through her, her head thrown back, eyes closed. Finally she shuddered and shivered, quieted.
“Stop,” she said. “Enough. Please.”
I stood up. She was drenched in sweat, her dark hair plastered across her forehead. I put my cock at her entrance as we looked solemnly into each others eyes. I pushed slowly into her, the head of my cock a sensitive explorer of her hot vagina. She shivered as I penetrated her. When it was all the way in, I leaned into it hard, wedging it tightly into her, leaned forward and kissed her, shoving my tongue into her mouth.
Keeping my tongue against hers, I began to pump my cock in her, easing it slowly back down her vagina, pausing with it barely in her, then shoving it slowly back up, relishing each millimeter of tight, hot cunt sliding past my cock.
The head of my cock tingled as if it was being dipped in a hot, spicy sauce, which, actually, I guess it was.
I felt her start to build. “Faster,” she mumbled around my tongue. She pulled back from the kiss. “Oh, Laurindo. I love your cock. Fuck me faster and harder. Make me come again.”
I captured her mouth and picked up the pace, smacking my cock hard into her, jarring her back. I reached down and grabbed her hips, holding her on the edge of the desk as I rammed her hot cunt again and again until finally I felt it tipping, felt my balls churn, felt the wonderful convulsion of my cock, rammed my cock into her as my stuff pulsed deep into her cunt.
I pulled her tight against me, my cock all the way up her. As the throbbing died away, I caught my breath.
I whispered in her ear. “Did you come?”
“Couldn't you tell?” she whispered back.
“I couldn't tell anything. I was totally into myself.”
“You splashed so far up inside me, when I felt it, it put me over the edge and my cunt grabbed your cock and squeezed it and pulled it and milked everything you had into me. I adore your cock. I adore the way you fuck me. Will you fuck me again tonight?”
“You know, we have the traditional dinner.”
“The after-the-match dinner with you, me, the girls, whatever parents and friends want to come.”
“I didn't know.”
“After dinner there's another tradition.” Her hips moved, making my softening cock move inside her.
“The opposing coaches, they go out for a couple drinks, then they go back to my motel.”
“Yes. But this time they take off all their clothes first thing right away and get on a nice soft bed so their butts don't hurt from fucking on a desk.”
“Your butt hurts?”
I felt my cock coming back to life. “I don't want to stop fucking you.”
“I don't want you to stop fucking me. Turn me over and stand me up.”
I'd never done it before, turned a girl over without taking my cock out, but I found it wasn't all that difficult. She was very flexible. One of her legs went up and over, I held her hips helping her turn, and my cock stayed up her pussy and then her feet were on the floor and she was bent over my desk.
She looked back over her shoulder, smiling at me. “That was fun. Now fuck me again, my young stud. Give me a nice, hard fucking.”
I proceeded to do exactly that.
The after-match dinner was at the Trout Den, the campus pizza joint in the basement of the student union. They'd shoved some tables together beneath the big mural of a brown trout leaping clear of a mountain stream with a Dry Greenwells Glory hooked in the corner of its mouth. At least, that's what it said on the back of the Trout Den menu. I'd read it about a hundred times.
Vanessa—for me her name was Dimples, would always be Dimples—sat beside me. The girls were spaced around the table, the teams, fans and family mixed together so everyone could get to know everyone else. In all, about thirty people, with lots of laughter and socializing.
I had to deal with a constant stream of people wanting to shake my hand, slap me on the back, congratulate me, and tell me what a fine job—fine job!—I was doing with the Troutettes. Rodrigo Querales, Blanca's father, wanted me to come to Venezuela for the summer and teach golf to Blanca and other girls at the country club. It sounded like he owned the country club along with some banks and a shipping company. “You'll be well paid, very well paid,” he said.
When the pizza and pitchers of beer and Cokes came and things settled down, Dimples, her hand on my leg under the table, leaned close. “You ought to do it,” she said, “spend the summer in Venezuela.”
“Naw,” I said, “I don't think so.”
“Why not? Sounds like fun and lots of money.”
I thought it was better not to explain that coaching
Blanca involved sticking my two middle fingers up her pussy and making her explode like a freight train hitting a snow bank. I saw myself in Caracas with Blanca pissed at me for some reason, telling daddy what had been going on. I'm either changing my name to Mr. Blanca or at the bottom of Lake Maracaibo. “I just don't feel much like it,” I said. “I think I'll hang around here this summer.”
My plans, my future: what was going on with me? I didn't know if it was all the pats on the back because the team had won, or my success with Dimples, who, after all, was older and lots more experienced. Whatever the cause, I felt differently about myself. I was acting like a guy who had something of value—not like a loser who can’t get even a smile from a Chi Omega.
I really didn't know why it was so easy for me to turn down the moneybags from South America, I just knew
I didn't understand where this feeling of self-confidence came from. But it felt important. It felt like me
You're growing up, Laurindo, I said to myself. I thought, yes, that's what was happening.
And about time.
It took five weeks before Betina Powers was able to come back to work. During that time my coaching stamina
was taxed to the limit.
The routine for Ingrid, Blanca and another girl on the golf team, Susan, changed, and I was fucking all three of them in addition to tiny Noi, who continued to need regular soothing and decided she liked the pink vibrator up her butt at the same time my cock was up her pussy. My four girls, but only during the week. I made them take turns. The weekends were reserved for Dimples, who drove down from State. We fucked like rabid minks with twenty minutes left before the end of the world.
I kept a Post-It on the bathroom mirror reminding me to take Mr. Pinkie to work, so I managed to handle all my responsibilities as they needed to be handled, and nobody complained. During those five weeks, the Troutettes won three matches. A reporter from the school newspaper interviewed me and took a photo with me in the brown visor with the trout logo on the front and wearing the brown warm-up jacket with coach across the back in big letters. I became something of a campus celebrity, even for those who didn't suspect me of fucking several of the girls on the team.
But somehow, it wasn't enough. Yes, I was a campus somebody, I was up to my ears in pussy of several different varieties, but something was missing.
It was those two coeds from the writing seminar.
Meredith and Taylor with their perfect hair, their glossy lips, their chic clothes, their aura of self-righteous privilege. The world belongs to us, they seemed to say, to pick up and discard as we choose, and you, Laurindo Jones, are really beneath our notice. Now we need to drive off-campus in Meredith’s racing green Jag convertible with the chrome wire wheels, the kind of car you’ll never, ever possess, so don’t bother even thinking about it. [Note: This story is taken from the book “When College Girls Go Wild” from Lush Publishing now available on Amazon. If you like this story, you’ll probably like the book even more.]
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com
with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/straight-sex/the-coach-and-the-coeds.aspx">The Coach and the Coeds</a>