I was the head of the Physical Education department of our local college.  The school had both men’s and women’s sports programs, but the women’s soccer team especially was our pride.  The ladies were well regarded in their league, and were led by a fabulous woman coach.  Actually, the operative word here is, “were” led.  That coach’s success caused her to be recruited by a big college out West.  She left us for more money and a bigger stage.  The season was just starting, and it wouldn’t be easy to find a replacement on short notice. 

 While I had coached a high school men’s soccer team early in my career, I, obviously a man, had no experience with women’s sports.  But there was no one else, so I was asked to coach the team on an interim basis, while we sought a replacement.  The women knew I was just temporary, and while they accepted me, we were feeling each other out, so to speak, on how this would work. 

After a game, I’d go with them into the women’s locker room to discuss the game, talk strategy, and if appropriate, offer some criticism.  I didn’t do this on the field, as there were always spectators around after a game.  It wouldn’t be good to be overheard, especially if I’d be pointing out less than stellar play.

After my critique, I’d leave and the ladies would shower and dress.  At least, this is how it started.  When something changes, there’s always the time before and the time after.  In our case, the time after came in the form of our goalie, Amanda.  I was halfway into my critique, a somewhat longer than usual rant, I’ll admit, when Amanda began removing her uniform.  She was down to her sports bra and panties.  I stopped talking, not sure how to proceed.  I couldn’t not see her, but it would be awkward to watch her undress.  She started to remove the bra. 

“Amanda, can you wait until I’m finished?” I asked.

“Sorry, coach.  I’m meeting my boyfriend soon, so I need to get my shower.  But don’t mind me.  I’ve never been shy.  You don’t have to stop on my account.”

She took off the bra. Her full breasts stared at me.  (Or was it me staring at them?  Whatever.)  She bent over and slid the panties to the floor.  She had light auburn hair covering her pelvic area.  She grabbed a towel.  I watched her naked frame, those powerful glutes covered in sweat, stride toward the showers. 

I tried to continue my talk, but I was completely flustered. 

“What was I talking about?” I asked to no one in particular.  Several of the women were smiling and snickering at my obvious discomfort.

“Never seen a naked lady before, coach?” one asked.

Amanda’s departure emboldened others, who also voiced that they had appointments.

“How much longer, coach?”

“Er, not too much longer.  On second thought, maybe I should cut this short.  It looks like you all want to get going.”

There were immediate expressions of pleasure at being released, and in a flash, the women began getting ready for the showers.  Shirts, shorts, underwear began flying off.  Amanda’s casual nudity in front of me opened the floodgates.  If she could do it, so could the others.  My mouth was open at the sight of women stripping off their clothes. A gaggle of naked girls soon walked past me to the showers. 

I was finished with my talk, but I hadn’t left.  I was frozen in place.  If the women were unconcerned at my presence, what was the imperative to leave?  It was like I was one of the girls.  I knew that I should go.  I was a guy in the women’s locker room.  But my excitement over a swarm of naked women milling around overrode the obvious next step that should follow the end of my talk -- that I would leave.  I stayed.  I gawked at breasts of all shapes and sizes.  Large jugs that challenged their sports bra.  Some fabulous breasts that defied gravity.  I even enjoyed Veronica’s little nubs, really more of a boy’s chest than a girl’s.  She had prominent nipples that seemed even larger given the lack of breasts.  Not to forget that I was surrounded by multiple bare ass cheeks, chiseled solid from all the running soccer demands.  I gulped. 

“Like what you see?” asked Phillipa, a Latin beauty who was our forward, with a smile on her face.

“Er, no.  I mean yes.  I mean I’m just leaving,” I stammered.

“You don’t need to rush off, coach.  You’re practically one of us,” she said.  “Aren’t you going to shower too?”

That thought had never crossed my mind.  Normally I’d go home after a game and shower there.  Should I shower in the locker room?

No.  That was a bridge too far.  I had to leave.  I turned on my heels and practically ran out of the locker room.  I heard laughter trailing behind me, amusement over my obvious discomfort. 

But a dam had broken.  Once the taboo of undressing in my presence was broken, things changed.  Previously, I had waited until all the ladies were in their uniforms at the start of a game to come into the locker room to discuss strategy and position assignments.  Now, I came in early, and talked with them as they changed from street clothes into their uniforms.  Normal bras were removed as they strapped on the tight-fitting sports bras.  Slacks slid down to reveal skimpy panties, outlined against the lips they concealed.  I saw it all.  Even the few who initially were hesitant to strip in front of a man eventually came around.  Amazing what peer pressure can do.  Societal norms can change fast.  Think of American tourists visiting a nude beach in a foreign country; people who back home thought a bikini was daring, would strut naked among strangers of both sexes without hesitation.  “When in Rome…”

I loved my job.  Not just the normal thrill of coaching a successful team, but the easy interaction I had with the ladies.  It was like I was one of the girls, indeed.

And then it happened.  The candidate search concluded, and a permanent coach was to start next week.  This would be my last game as the women’s team coach.  I felt a sadness over that prospect.  I think the girls played extra hard to make my last game with them a success.  When we gathered in the locker room afterwards, for me to deliver congratulations on their great play, there was a different feel to the room.  Unlike most times, when girls would start changing as I talked, to allow for a speedy departure, this time they all sat around, paying attention to my remarks.  When I finished, Amanda (clearly the team leader), spoke:

“Coach, we think you’re an amazing coach, and we owe you a lot.  We’re sorry to see you go.  We talked of getting you a farewell gift.  There were a lot of options, but in the end, there was only one obvious choice.  We’ve seen how your face flushes when you talk with us as we undress, how you stumble over words when a naked body walks by.  It’s adorable.  You’re clearly lusting over us, but you’ve remained the perfect gentleman.  Instead of a farewell item for a shelf, we've decided to give you an experience.  Believe me, you won’t soon forget it.  Ladies!”

With that, everyone began to remove their clothes, all at once.  From every angle in the room, t-shirts were pulled off, bras loosened, girls bending over to lower shorts and panties.  Within seconds, the room was full of naked women.

“We once asked you to join us in the shower, coach,” said Amanda.  “The proper gentleman you are, you declined.  But not today.”

Now, I’m a healthy, fit guy, and any one guy is more than a match for a woman, maybe even two women.  But a swarm of a dozen or more fit, athletic women?  As the Borg said in Star Trek, “Resistance is futile.”  Within seconds, hands were stripping off my shirt.  I was laid on a bench.  My shoes and socks were yanked off, my pants lowered.  Soon I only retained my underpants.  All during this season of sensuous women displayed before me, my penis had heroically, valiantly, fought against becoming hard.  Now, it surrendered.  It rose and pushed against the fabric of my briefs, screaming for its freedom. 

“Your poor man,” said Amanda.  “That must be painful.  But don’t worry.  I’m in pre-nursing.  I know the treatment for this medical problem.”

As several girls held my arms, Amanda yanked down the briefs; the penis caught on the fabric but then burst forth.  Hands guided me toward the showers, one player literally pulling me by my rigid penis.  I protested, I made a show of resistance, but mostly so if ever in the future, asked about this, I could say I tried to stop them. 

Flanked by a mob of naked women, I was led to a shower head where soap was liberally applied on my body.  All parts of my body.  Amanda confirmed her medical knowledge by massaging the testicles and the shaft.  It didn’t take long.  I shuddered and shot out a stream of semen.  The penis began to subside.

“See,” she said, “it’s an easily treated condition.”

The other girls pressed against my body, and we all showered.  Afterwards, the girls used towels to dry me.  When we all had dressed, I addressed the smiling crowd.

“Thank you.  I love you all.  I’ll never forget this day.  If your new coach ever can’t make a game, give me a call.”

“Coach,” said Amanda.  “We’ll have to feel out the new person, but if she’s cool, we’ll ask that you be an assistant coach.  We hope she’s open-minded, with a body-positive attitude.”

I knew what Amanda meant.  I’m hoping for that too.