Chapter 8: Coach Feast
The stale, sweat-thick air of the locker room clung to everything. It was the hour after final bell, when ambition had curdled into exhaustion. The squad lounged on benches, their neon pink uniforms unzipped to the navel, massive breasts spilling out, slick with a post-practice sheen. The only sound was the steady, wet, rhythmic slurping.
Percy sat on a metal bench, passive as a throne. Tiffany was between his legs, her red bangs bouncing as she worked her mouth up and down his shaft with a desperate, hungry focus. Her nose was buried in the thatch of hair at his base. Kelsey and Becky each had one of his balls in their mouths, suckling gently, their eyes closed in contentment. Lana and Mika knelt to either side, taking turns licking the length from base to tip, their tongues flat and worshipful. Sasha simply stared, her hand a furious blur between her own legs.
Brittany oversaw it all, one foot propped on the bench beside Percy’s hip, slowly applying clear lip gloss. “Don’t forget the underside, Lana,” she murmured, not looking. “He likes that.”
The door to the coach’s office burst open.
Coach Paula stood frozen, one hand on the knob, the other holding a forgotten laptop case. She was a monument to surgical enhancement and desperate maintenance—a woman in her forties poured into a tracksuit two sizes too small, her blonde hair a helmet of highlights, her breasts two overinflated, veiny balloons straining against nylon. Her lipstick was a violent red gash.
Her eyes, framed by thick fake lashes, scanned the scene: her star captain, her entire varsity squad, on their knees, mouths and hands occupied by the pale, quiet transfer student from the woodshop class. His delicate, androgynous face was a blank slate. His enormous cock glistened under a layer of their collective saliva.
For a long beat, only the wet sounds continued. Tiffany gagged softly, taking him deeper.
Paula’s face cycled through expressions: confusion, disbelief, dawning outrage. Her perfectly drawn eyebrows shot up. “What in the seven levels of hell,” she breathed, her voice a low, theatrical rasp, “is this unsanitary deviance?”
The sucking stopped.Six heads turned. Only Percy didn’t react, his gaze resting somewhere on the fogged-up mirrors across the room.
Brittany lowered her foot. “Study group, Coach.”
“Study group.” Paula’s laugh was a single, sharp bark. She dropped the laptop case. It hit the tile with a crack. “That is not a textbook, Brittany. That is a… a public health hazard! An instrument of delinquency!” She took a step forward, her eyes locked on Percy’s cock, which twitched under her scrutiny. A drop of pre-cum welled at the tip. Paula’s nostrils flared. “Do your parents know you bring… projects… into my locker room?”
“He’s not a project,” Tiffany moaned, her lips still wrapped around the base. “He’s a miracle.”
“Silence!” Paula shrieked, pointing a trembling, manicured finger. She moved closer, her hips swinging in an exaggerated, angry stride. She stopped within arm’s reach, the scent of her cheap perfume warring with the musk of teen arousal. She looked down at Percy. He looked back, his expression serene. “You,” she seethed. “You think you can just waltz in here with your… your genetic lottery ticket and corrupt my girls? My state-finalist squad?”
Percy blinked slowly.
“This is a temple of discipline! Of excellence!” Her voice was rising, becoming hoarse. “That… thing… is neither excellent nor disciplined! It’s a grotesque carnival attraction!”
“Then why are you staring, Coach?” Brittany’s voice was a sugary, venomous drip.
Paula flinched. She hadn’t realized how close she’d gotten. Her eyes were level with the head of his cock. The drop of pre-cum had traced a glistening path down the side. She watched it, hypnotized. Her own breathing hitched, becoming shallow. The outrage on her face fractured, crumbling into something desperate and hungry.
“It’s… it’s a monstrosity,” she whispered, but the conviction was gone. Her tongue darted out, wetting her crimson lips. “A dangerous, unregulated monstrosity.”
“You should confiscate it,” Sasha said from the floor, her fingers still working. “For safety.”
Paula’s head jerked up. She looked at the circle of young, knowing faces. She saw no shame, only a flat, challenging expectation. She was an outsider in her own kingdom. The hierarchy had shifted, and the new currency was on blatant, sodden display.
A low, guttural sound escaped her throat. It was supposed to be a command. It came out a plea. “Back up. All of you. Give me… give me room to assess the… the violation.”
The squad shuffled back on their knees, creating a semicircle. They watched, eyes wide and avid, as their coach, the woman who drilled them on propriety and school spirit, dropped to her knees on the hard tile.
The sound her knees made was a sickening crack. She didn’t seem to feel it. Up close, the magnitude was absurd. It was thicker than her wrist. The veins stood out in relief, pulsing softly. The smell—musky, salty, utterly masculine—was an assault. It filled her lungs, short-circuiting the last of her protest.
“Disgraceful,” she moaned, her breath hot against the glistening skin. Then, with a whimper that was pure surrender, she opened her mouth wide, wider than any of the girls could, and took the head inside.
The difference was immediate. Where the girls were eager, Paula was ravenous. Where they worshipped, she consumed. Her experience showed. She used her tongue, her throat, her hands in a synchronized, obscene ballet of greed. She deep-throated him not with a girl’s gagging struggle, but with a wet, practiced swallow that took him down to the root. Her nose pressed into his pelvis.
A collective gasp went through the squad. They’d never seen anything so purely, technically filthy.
Paula came up for air with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his tip. “Oh, god,” she slurred, her eyes glassy. “Oh, you perfect, filthy boy. You perfect fucking horse.” She dove back down, her hands scrambling to free her own breasts from the constricting tracksuit. They spilled out, impossibly large, the nipples hard and puckered. She rubbed them against his thighs, moaning like a wounded animal.
“Coach?” Brittany’s voice cut through Paula’s drugged sounds.
Paula didn’t stop, her head bobbing frantically.
“Coach. You’re not confiscating it. You’re enjoying it.”
Paula pulled off, panting. Her lipstick was smeared in a clownish mess around her mouth. “I’m… assessing its… its corruptive potential! Its… its tensile strength!” Her words were a jumble. Her hands were already fumbling with the zipper of her tracksuit pants, pushing them down over her hips. She revealed a narrow waist that flared into surgically enhanced hips, a tiny black thong already soaked through. She hooked her thumbs in it, ripped it aside with a sound of tearing lace, and mounted him.
There was no grace, no preamble. She slammed herself down onto him in one brutal, claiming motion. Her head snapped back, her mouth a wide, silent scream for a full three seconds before sound returned. It was a raw, ragged shriek that echoed off the lockers.
“FUUUUCK! YES! THAT’S THE VIOLATION! THAT’S THE TICKET!”
She began to ride him with a frenetic, punishing rhythm, her augmented breasts swinging wildly, her hands braced on his slender shoulders for leverage. “You see girls?! You see how a woman takes a cock? You fucking milk it! You drain it!”
The squad watched, transfixed. This was a masterclass in depravity. Spit flew from Paula’s mouth. Sweat dripped from her chin onto Percy’s impassive face. She grunted, she cursed, she sobbed. Her orgasm hit her like a seizure, her body locking up, a long, guttural series of grunts forcing air out of her in violent bursts. She ground down on him, milking herself on him, her painted nails digging into his skin.
When she finally stilled, she was panting, drooling, a empty, blissed-out shell. She slid off him, collapsing onto the floor between Tiffany and Kelsey, a puddle of nylon and spent desire.
Percy remained sitting, his erection untouched, glistening with a fresh coat of her sweat and juices.
Brittany looked from her ruined coach to Percy’s still-hard cock. She smiled, a slow, cold curve of her lips. She unzipped her uniform the rest of the way, letting it puddle at her feet.
“Alright, squad,” she said, her voice calm and clear in the heavy air. “You heard Coach. Time for drills. Everyone on the floor. Head to toe. We’re going to learn to milk it dry.”
No one argued. They moved into position, a line of eager, open mouths. The slurping sounds began again, now accompanied by Paula’s weak, satisfied whimpers from the floor. The locker room was no longer a temple of discipline. It was a factory. And the shift had just begun.