Chapter 2: Chapter Two
Coach Williams stood there with the whistle between her lips.
Every woman in the room went still.
"Time check!" Coach Williams announced.
"Two hours and forty minutes, Coach," said the assistant on her left, the one with the clipboard, without looking up from it.
"Good." Coach Williams took the whistle from her lips and let it drop against her collarbone. She looked at Sydney, then at me, and something in her face flattened with mild professional disappointment. "He's gone soft."
I had. My cock lay against my thigh, slick and spent and shrinking, and the bench under my back had gone cold against my shoulders.
"I'll take care of it, Coach," Sydney said.
"Good," Coach Williams said, and Sydney nodded once, already turning back to me.
I leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Are you sure?" I had kissed her, and she questioned me about it after, and for a minute I had been certain I'd wrecked something.
Her palm flattened against my chest. She smiled, close, where only I could see it. "It's okay, Alan. It's not only part of the job; I like it, and it's something I want to do for you."
Then she slid off the bench and knelt on the cold tile, folding her ponytail back with one hand, and took my soft, slick cock into her mouth.
She worked me with her mouth, slow and wet, no hurry in it at all. I could feel the drag of her lips, the flat of her tongue along the underside, the taste of herself still on me mixing with everything else. My hand found her hair and stayed there.
She licked herself off me like she was cleaning a wound, slow strokes from the base to the head, and the taste of her own cunt on my skin seemed to please her. I could feel the difference in her mouth when she got there, the little hum of recognition, her tongue pressing flat and dragging it up.
That was the part that undid me. Not the wet heat. The fact that she knew exactly what she was tasting, that we'd made it together a few minutes ago on that bench, and she swallowed it down anyway as it belonged to her.
She pulled off and looked up, spit strung between her lips and my cock. "You feel that?"
I felt it. My hips lifted off the tile.
She pulled off me with a wet sound and sat back on her heels. Spit ran down her chin, and her eyes went wide in a way that was half performance and half not.
"Wow!" she said, loud enough to carry down the row of lockers. "He's ready. Really ready."
I looked down at myself, and she wasn't lying. My cock stood up off my belly, red and shining and wet, and twenty-nine women could see it.
Coach Williams uncrossed her arms. "You heard her, ladies! Mr. Mayhew is ready for his next rider," she announced, and pointed to the next woman in line. "Patterson! You're up!"
Patterson stepped out of the line, and I saw what they'd all been doing while they waited. Every woman behind her had a hand between her legs, fingers moving in short, patient strokes, keeping herself right at the edge.
Patterson straddled me and slid down over my cock, and she was so wet it took no effort at all. She set a fast rhythm immediately, chasing something she'd built up for twenty minutes. Behind her I could see the next four women breathing hard through their noses, working themselves faster.
Patterson came in under a minute, shuddering, then climbed off without a word.
Patterson was barely off me before the next one slid down. Number 14, a midfielder with her hair in cornrows and a grin that didn't reach her eyes. She rode me like she had a timer running, short fast strokes, and came with a bitten-off grunt about thirty seconds in. Then she was gone, and the line moved.
A tall defender with a pale scar over one knee took her place. She was slower, deliberate, rolling her hips in long circles until her thighs shook and she buried her face in my neck and came quietly, shuddering. She climbed off without looking at me.
The next one was a forward with a shock of red hair. She bounced on me, hands braced on my stomach for leverage, and announced her orgasm to the room with a breathless "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit" before collapsing across my chest. Her friend hauled her off by the armpits.
A dark-skinned woman with freckles across her nose straddled me next and worked herself with her fingers while I was inside her, making small, tight noises until she clamped down hard and stilled, eyes shut. Then she lifted off me, slick and satisfied.
I could feel my cock flagging. The line had thinned, and the cool air was doing nobody any favors.
A tall player with her hair in braided pigtails straddled me next. She worked me with long, unhurried grinds, leaning back with her hands on my thighs so I could watch myself slide into her. She came with a slow, rippling shudder, head tipped back, and climbed off with a satisfied hum.
I hadn't come. I was close but not there.
And then Sally stepped forward, and the room seemed to shift.
She wasn't in a hurry. She walked to the bench like she owned it, and her eyes never left mine. She knew me. A year ago, in a hotel room off campus, she and Julie had taken turns on me until I couldn't see straight.
"Miss me?" she asked.
"Every day."
She laughed, soft and low. "I bet you did."
She slid one leg over me and settled into place. Her cunt was slick against the head of my cock, and she held me there a beat, letting me feel how close she was. "You remember how I like it?"
"The slow part first."
"Good man."
She sank down. Not fast. Inch by inch, her thighs trembling on the downstroke, so slow I could feel every separate ridge of her. When she bottomed out she held still, cunt flexing around me in a slow, deliberate squeeze. Sweat ran down her collarbone and into the gap between her breasts.
"That's it," she said. "You feel that? That's the part you don't get with anyone else."
I dug my fingers into the bench under me. She started moving. Long grinds, each one dragging a low sound out of me I couldn't stop. Her hands pressed flat to my chest, holding me down, and she worked me exactly the way she had a year ago, with a kind of lazy expertise that had nothing to prove.
"Don't come yet," she murmured. "Not until I say."
"Okay."
She leaned forward. Her mouth brushed my ear. "Good boy."
The words went through me like a current. I got my hands on her hips and she let me, rolling her own rhythm over mine, matching me stroke for stroke. Her cunt tightened with each pass, and each pass she got wetter, slicker, louder.
"Still there," she said, mostly to herself. "Good."
I didn't know what she meant. Then I felt her hand slide down between us, and her fingers found her clit while I was inside her. She worked herself in short, tight circles, riding me in the same rhythm, jaw slack, eyes shut. The wet sound of it filled the quiet.
"Oh," she said, and it was not performance. "Oh, there it is."
She clamped down hard, thighs shaking, and came in a long, grinding wave. Her face pressed into my shoulder and she shuddered through all of it, her cunt milking me in pulses so tight I could feel my own edge chasing hers.
"Now," I said. "Can I come?"
She raised her head. Smiled. Wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist. Then she leaned down and kissed me, open-mouthed, tasting of salt and sweat, and said against my lips, "That's the thing, Alan. You've been paying me. You're not supposed to ask."
I came inside her with a noise I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried. She held still, cunt flexing around me in slow, deliberate pulses, drawing every last drop out until I was empty and shaking under her. She held my gaze the whole time, a small satisfied smile on her mouth, and didn't look away until I'd gone completely still.
"There he is," she said softly, and climbed off me. "That's the one I remember."
She climbed off me, slick and satisfied, and my cock lay soft and spent against my thigh. The line behind her had thinned to a handful of women, all of them watching, all of them patient.
Sally looked down at me, then over at Coach Williams, who had her arms folded and her chin up.
"Don't worry, Coach," Sally said, loud enough to carry. "I'll make him hard again for the next girl."
Coach Williams nodded once. "See that you do."
Sally turned back to me and knelt on the tile. Her hand closed around my soft cock, warm and sure, and she leaned in and took me back into her mouth without a word. The taste of her own come on me didn't seem to bother her. She worked me slow, tongue flat along the underside, her hand stroking the base in rhythm with her mouth, and I watched her do it with her eyes half closed, focused, patient, until I was swelling against her tongue.
She pulled off, stroked me twice more with her fist, and looked up. "There," she said. "Ready."
"You heard her," Coach Williams called. "Next!"
The next five came and went in a blur of slick thighs and clenched jaws. A sophomore with her hair in a bun rode me like she was punishing me, came with a sharp gasp, and was gone. A quiet defender took her time, grinding slow circles until her breathing went ragged and she slid off without a word. A midfielder with freckles over her nose bounced on me so hard the bench rattled against the lockers. A tall forward with a tattoo of a rose on her shoulder came in a sudden, shaking rush and stumbled off into the arms of her friend. A freshman with braces worked her clit with two fingers while she rode, staring at the ceiling, and finished with a long, shuddering exhale.
My cock was wet and burning and still hard, barely. The line had vanished.
Then Julie stepped forward; she was the last player. The three coaches moved in behind her, patient, arms folded.
She walked to the bench like she was walking onto a pitch. Number 38, ponytail high, honey-blonde hair swinging. Her blue eyes found mine and held them, and the room went quiet in a way it hadn't been since Sydney.
"Hello again, Alan," she said.
"Hi, Julie."
A year ago, she'd been a nervous girl in a hotel room who'd let me fuck her in her soccer uniform because she needed rent money. The woman looking down at me now was not nervous.
She climbed onto the bench and straddled me, knees bracketing my hips. Her hand closed around my cock and she notched the head against her cunt, slick and hot, and held it there.
"You came inside Sally," she said. "That's fine. She earned it. But I want your full attention."
Her hand tightened around my cock, and she held me at her cunt, not taking me yet. "You remember how I like it?" she asked.
I did. She liked it slow first, and she knew I liked letting her lead until she couldn't stand it anymore, then I took over.
"Slow," I said. "Then I get to drive."
Her smile meant yes. She sank down, inch by inch, and rode me in long, patient grinds, exactly the way she had a year ago, her wet cunt gripping me with every slow pass. I let her have it for a minute, watching her jaw slacken and her ponytail sway, then grabbed her hips and drove up hard, fast, fucking her until her thighs locked and she screamed into the locker room. My edge hit with hers, and I came deep inside her; she ground down through every pulse of it, then lifted off.
Julie slid off me, and her hand stayed wrapped around my cock, feeling it soften in her grip. She looked down at it, then back at me, and her mouth curved into something knowing.
"Don't get too comfortable," she said. "The coaches are still waiting. And I'm not about to let them go without their fun."
She knelt on the tile before I could answer. Her mouth closed over me, and her tongue worked the underside in steady, deliberate strokes while her fist stroked the base. She kept her eyes on mine the whole time, patient, unhurried, until I was swelling against her tongue and her fingers had to adjust their grip.
"There we go," she murmured, pulling off. "Now you're ready for them."
The first assistant coach stepped forward, and for the first time I got a real look at her.
She was older than the players, mid-thirties maybe, with dark skin that gleamed under the fluorescents and a body that had spent years in hard training. Her breasts were full and heavy, dark nipples standing out against her chest, and her stomach was a flat field of muscle with a softness just below the navel that said she'd stopped competing but never stopped caring how she looked. Her hips flared wide, thighs thick and powerful.
She knelt over me without ceremony, took my cock in her fist, and guided it into her with the careful precision of someone lining up a penalty kick. There was no hesitation, no teasing, just the wet slide of her cunt, slick and warm, taking me to the hilt in one smooth stroke. She let out a satisfied breath and began to ride me like she was counting reps. Her thighs worked in long, steady strokes, her cunt hot and slick around me, and she held my gaze the whole time, unblinking.
She rode me until her breathing broke into short, sharp huffs, then came with a tight, almost severe clench and slid off without looking back.
The second assistant took her place before I could catch my breath, leaner, paler, a comet of freckles across her chest. She stayed on me just long enough to prove a point and climbed off with my cock still hard and aching.
And there she was, all of her. Coach Williams' shoulders were round and strong, built for tackles that never happened at the level they'd been meant for. Her arms carried the subtle definition of years of weight work, and her small, high breasts sat firm with dark nipples that had gone tight in the cool air of the room. Below her navel, a strip of dark hair ran down to a cunt that was already slick, already swollen. Her thighs were the headline, heavy with muscle, the right one carrying a long pale scar from knee to mid-thigh, a pale seam of ruined cartilage and rebuilt strength. When she moved, she limped, even naked.
Then she straddled me, and the limp vanished into leverage. Her hand found my cock and lined me up, and she sank down with a breath that sounded like relief, taking me to the hilt in one slow, deliberate stroke. She let go of me, braced both hands on my chest, and began to ride with a rhythm she'd clearly been saving for exactly this hour. Not a drill, not a demonstration. Just her.
She rode me like she was coaching a drill, hips working in a steady, relentless rhythm, her cunt hot and slick around me. I got my hands on her scarred thigh, and she didn't flinch, just drove down harder, a low grunt escaping her throat.
"Bloody hell," she breathed, eyes shut. "You've got some staying power, Mr. Mayhew."
The accent did something to me. Every clipped vowel, every dropped consonant, landed right between my legs.
"You like that?" she asked, catching my expression. Her mouth curved into a grin, sharp and amused. "A bit of English flavour gets you going, does it?"
I nodded, unable to form words. She laughed, a low, wrecked sound, and picked up the pace, thighs slapping against mine.
"Right then," she said, exhaling hard. "Let's see if I can't knock the stuffing out of you before the shower."
She ground down in a tight circle, and I felt my edge surge. Her cunt gripped me, working me, and she leaned forward, breath hot on my ear.
"Give us your load, love," she whispered. "I've earned it."
I came with a groan I couldn't contain, emptying into her while she rode me through every pulse. She took it all, a satisfied hum in her throat, and when I finally went still, she lifted off, slick and smiling.
The last pulse of her ride faded, and I lay gasping, empty, my cock still slick from her. She lifted off with a satisfied hum, walked past her assistants, and checked the wall clock. Her jaw tightened.
"How long have we got, Marie?" she asked.
The clipboard assistant didn't look up. "One hour, Coach."
Coach Williams turned back to me, hands on her hips. Even naked, even sweat-slicked, she was all authority. She scanned the room, took in the pile of discarded kit, the wet tile, the twenty-nine women standing around in cooling, glistening skin, every one of them streaked with sweat and grime.
"Right," she said. "Look at the state of us. We're all a sticky mess, Mr. Mayhew." She paused, then tilted her chin toward the far wall. "The showers are big enough for thirty. How do you fancy an hour-long shower with the whole team?"
I looked at the row of showerheads, thirty of them lined up along the tile wall like a firing squad. Steam already curled from the pipes.
"An hour-long shower," I repeated.
"With the whole team." Coach Williams picked up a bottle of body wash from the bench and tossed it to me. I caught it against my chest. "You've earned a proper wash, Mr. Mayhew. And I'll not have you leaving here stinking of us."
The women began moving before I could answer. They flowed around me in a loose, laughing herd, naked and streaked with sweat, and I found myself being walked toward the showers by a wall of warm bodies. Sally had my left arm. Julie had my right. Sydney brought up the rear with a hand flat on my lower back, steering me like I was a drunk friend.
The tile was warm under my feet. Steam rolled out of the stalls and fogged my glasses.
"Off with those," Marnie said, plucking them from my face before I could protest. She set them on a shelf by the door. The world went soft and warm.
Water hit my shoulders from three different heads at once. The heat was a shock, then a relief. I stood there with my eyes closed and let it run down my chest while the team arranged itself around me like water finding its level.
Water sluiced down my chest, and I opened my eyes, though the world stayed soft without my glasses. The team moved in a loose circle around me, bodies gleaming, steam curling between them. Marnie pressed a handful of soap into my palm and spun me around, and then hands were on me everywhere, ten at least, sliding over my shoulders, my ribs, my hips.
Sally worked the base of my still-soft cock with the flat of her palm, lazy circles, and behind her I heard Julie laugh. Sydney stood under the spray with her head tipped back, letting the water run down the long line of her throat, and when she lowered her chin and looked at me, her eyes were dark and patient. The soap slipped from my hand, and someone caught it. The water was hot, and the hands were endless, and I felt myself stirring in Sally's grip. Coach Williams' voice came from the steam, sharp and amused: "Ladies, he's not done yet. See if you can get your money's worth."
Julie moved in front of me, water streaming off her shoulders, and her hand closed around my cock slick with soap. She gave me one slow stroke, watched my face, then looked over my shoulder. "Sally. Get in here."
Sally appeared at my left like she'd been waiting for the word. She pressed her shoulder to mine, and her hand joined Julie's on my cock, fingers interlacing. They worked me together like they'd practiced it, four hands, alternating grips, one stroking up while the other held the base. I remembered the hotel room a year ago, the way they'd traded off on me without ever asking, the way one would whisper while the other worked.
We knew each other. The three of us.
The water hit me cold for a second before the heat closed around me again. Sally dropped to her knees on the wet tile. Her mouth took me to the root in one slow, practiced slide. Julie stayed at my shoulder, one hand on Sally's head, one hand wrapped around my balls, holding them heavy in her palm.
"We still know what you like," Julie said against my ear. "And you remember what we like."
I did. We'd built this a year ago, the three of us, in a hotel room with cheap sheets and a nightstand that wobbled. Sally knew I liked it slow at the base, fast at the head. She gave me both. Julie knew I liked the breath in my ear while Sally worked, knew I came harder when she told me what was coming next. She told me now, low and filthy, "She's going to swallow it. And I'm going to watch."
Sally's mouth worked me in long, wet pulls, and her hand stayed wrapped around what her lips didn't cover, keeping the rhythm tight. Julie's palm pressed flat to my stomach, holding me still. I didn't want to be held still. I wanted to move, and Julie knew that too.
"You're not going anywhere," she said. "You're going to stand there and let her take it, and then you're going to turn around, and I'm going to ride you against that wall. Then we're going to switch. Then we're going to see who makes you come."
Sally's eyes came up at that, bright and sharp in the steam. She pulled off just far enough to say, "You're going to lose that bet."
"Not a bet," Julie said. "A schedule."
They moved me without asking. Sally rose, and Julie spun me around, hands flat on my back, pushing me toward the cold tile of the wall. Water ran down it in sheets. The soap was gone, and my hands were slick, and the tile hit my palms, cool against the heat of the room.
Julie pressed her chest to my back. Her mouth found my ear. "You've got one hard cock left in you, Alan. We're going to spend it properly."
"Oh, I think he has more than one left in him," Sally said, and nodded at Sydney, who stood under the spray, water streaming over her toned, athletic body in perfect rivulets. The soap suds clung to her skin like a second skin, clinging to every curve of muscle, every dip and hollow. Her head was tipped back under the spray, water sluicing down her throat and across her chest, and the line of her body was pure architecture, built and honed. Her ass was a perfect curve of muscle, her shoulders smooth and strong, her thighs heavy and corded, soap running down the seam of them in white threads. She glanced over at us once, then twice, like she was trying to ignore us, but each time her gaze caught me and held for a beat longer before she looked away.
Julie laughed, a low, knowing sound against my neck. "You've got a point."
"What are you two talking about?" I asked.
Julie laughed, a low, knowing sound against my neck, and her teeth grazed my earlobe. "We're talking about the way you nearly came the second you looked at Sydney under that spray."
My face went hot. Sally's hand stayed on my cock, and she gave me a slow, teasing stroke. "Don't act innocent. You kissed her. We all saw it."
"Because she earned it," I said, but the words came out thin.
"Earned it," Julie repeated, and the laughter in her voice turned soft. "That's fine, Alan. We're not mad. You want time with the captain; take it. We just want our turn first."
Sally pressed closer, wet skin sliding against mine. "You've got maybe forty minutes left."
Their rhythm had a shape to it, something built and tested. Sally's mouth worked the head in slow, wet circles while her fist stroked the base. Julie's hand stayed wrapped around my balls, tugging in time, and her other hand pressed flat against my stomach to keep me from bucking. I could feel the water running down my legs, the heat of the room, the way their hands moved like they'd been doing this together for years.
"Forty minutes," Julie said against my ear. "Do you want Sydney to get another turn after us?"
"Yes," I said, and Sally's mouth curved around me in a smile she shouldn't have been able to manage.
"He said yes," Sally said, pulling off just long enough to say it, and then she swallowed me again.
Sally's mouth worked me in long, practiced pulls, and the heat of the room pressed in from every side. I could feel the last reserve of hardness building in me, the deep, stubborn pulse that meant I had one more genuine load to give.
She pulled off just long enough to breathe. "He's there. He's ready to spend."
Julie spun me around. The tile was cold at my back, wet and slick, and she climbed up with her back to my chest without asking. Her hand guided me into her, and I gritted my teeth. She was slick and hot in a way that hadn't changed in a year.
"Welcome back, Alan," Julie murmured, and then she started to ride me against the wall, slow at first, then hard and fast, her thighs slapping against mine.
Julie rode me against the tile with her back to my chest, and the rhythm of her hips was the rhythm of her voice, fast, demanding, sure of what it wanted. Her hand reached back and grabbed my hair, pulling my mouth to her shoulder. The water ran over both of us, streaming down her stomach, down the join of us, washing away the soap and the slickness until all I felt was heat.
"You're close," she said. Not a question. "I can feel it. I want it inside me, Alan. Right now."
I drove up into her, both hands on her hips, and she rode me through it with her head thrown back against my shoulder. Water streamed over her tits, and her cunt gripped me like a fist, milking every pulse. When I finally emptied, she held still and let me spend, then slid off and turned in my arms, wet and grinning.
"Good boy," she said.
Sally stepped in before I could catch my breath, whose turn it clearly was. She pressed me back against the tile and dropped to her knees. Her mouth took me clean, licking off the taste of Julie, working me slow and patient until I was swelling again. She looked up once, mid-stroke, and said, "My turn."
I let her have it. Sally worked me slowly with her mouth, tongue flat and patient, her fist stroking the base in a rhythm I knew from the hotel room a year ago. She took her time, and the whole team watched through the steam, bodies gleaming under the spray.
When I was fully hard, she rose and turned her back to me. One hand reached back and guided me into her. She was slick and hot, and she rode me against that tile wall with her head tipped back, water running off her shoulders, taking me deep and slow until we both went over. I came inside her with a long, shuddering groan that had nothing left in it. She held me there, cunt flexing in slow pulses around my softening cock, drawing out every drop until I was empty and shaking against the tile. Then she climbed off, slick and satisfied, and stepped back into the steam.
Before I could catch my breath, Coach Williams' hand closed around my wrist. She turned me around, pressed my back to the cool tile, and looked up at me with those bright blue eyes, a challenge in them.
"My turn, love," she said, her accent thick as honey. "You've got one more in you. I can feel it."
She didn't wait for an answer. She reached down, wrapped her fist around my cock, and guided me into her. She was slick and hot from the water, and she took me to the hilt in one smooth stroke, her thighs locking around my hips.
She rode me against that wall with the same relentless rhythm she'd used on the bench, driving down hard, her scarred leg braced against my hip for leverage.
"That's it," she breathed. "Give us your last load, Mr. Mayhew."
I gave her everything. She held me tight, cunt milking me until I was completely spent, and when I finally sagged against her, she kissed my cheek and slid off.
She slid off me and stepped back into the steam, and I sagged against the tile, legs gone, heart hammering. The water ran over my face, and I let it.
Coach Williams stood there, hands on her hips, watching me catch my breath. Then she turned her head. "Stein. Evans."
Julie and Sally went still under the spray. Sally's eyebrows lifted.
"Coach," Julie said.
"That was proper teamwork," Coach Williams said. "You two moved as you'd rehearsed it. You knew each other's rhythm. You knew his." She paused, letting the water fill the quiet. "If you brought that kind of coordination to the pitch, you'd both see more game time. Those are starting positions you're leaving on the bench."
Sally blinked. "Coach, are you saying..."
"I'm saying," Coach Williams said, "that maybe I haven't given you two enough time on the pitch together. Maybe I haven't given you a chance to build a rhythm with the rest of the team the way you've built one with each other." Her arms dropped to her sides. "That's on me. I've been coaching you as individuals when I should have been coaching you as a unit."
The steam went still. Nobody moved under the spray.
"So here's what changes," she said, and her voice carried the way it did on the touchline. "Starting Monday, you two run the attacking drills as a pair. You scout together, you eat together, you push each other in conditioning. I'm going to find a system that fits both of you in, and by the end of the season, I want that rhythm you just showed me to be the rhythm of this whole team." She looked around the showers. "Do you want that?"
"Yes, Coach," twenty-nine voices answered, and Coach Williams nodded once, sharp and final.
Coach Williams turned to me, water running off her chin. "You don't have much time left, Mr. Mayhew. I think you have time for one more fuck. If you are able."
I looked past her shoulder. Sydney stood under the far spray, water streaming down the hard line of her stomach, her eyes dark and patient on mine. My cock stirred against my thigh. Then it swelled.
"Oh, I'm able," I said.
I pushed off the tile and walked through the steam toward the far spray where Sydney stood under the water with her eyes already on me. She didn't move as I closed the distance, just let the water run down her throat and across her chest. I stopped a foot from her, close enough to feel the heat of the spray mixing with the heat of her skin.
Sydney tilted her head, water running off her chin and dripping from the ends of her hair. A teasing smile spread across her mouth, slow and knowing.
"You're really hot for me, aren't you?"
My cock was already swelling against my thigh, and she saw it. I didn't bother hiding it. "Yeah," I said. "I am."
She stepped forward, closing the gap until her wet chest brushed mine. Her hand found my cock, slick with soap and water, and gave it one slow, deliberate stroke. "Good," she said. "I'm glad."
I stepped close, chest to hers, and slid one hand around the back of her neck. Water ran down between us.
"What do you like, Sydney?" I asked. "I want to know."
She considered it, water running off her lashes. "Surprises. I like surprises. I'll tell you if I don't like something you're doing."
That was all the permission I needed. I slid both hands under her ass and lifted her off the tile. Her legs came around my hips on reflex, ankles locking behind me, and I pinned her to the wall with my cock notched against her cunt. She was slick from the water and from everything we'd already done, and I drove up into her in one hard stroke that made her gasp against my mouth.
"Surprise," I said.
She laughed, short and sharp, then her teeth found my earlobe. "Good. Keep going."
I fucked her against the tile with the water hammering down over both of us, her back scraping the wall with every thrust, her cunt hot and tight and already working me. She didn't tell me to stop. She told me to go harder, and I did, until her thighs shook around my hips and she came with a raw, bitten-off cry that the steam swallowed whole. I finished inside her a moment later, buried to the root, and she held me there with her heels dug into my back until I had nothing left.
She slid down my body and stood on shaky legs. Water streamed off her chin as she looked at me.
Sydney's hand came up and curled around the back of my neck. She pulled my mouth down to hers and kissed me, slow and deliberate, her tongue sliding against mine before she pulled back. Her eyes were bright, amused.
"I owed you one after the last time," she said with a smile.
I smiled back.
The whistle cut through the steam before I could answer her. Coach Williams stood at the edge of the showers, the silver whistle still at her lips, and when she lowered it, the whole room went quiet.
"Time, Mr. Mayhew," she called. "Your three and a half hours are up."
The water kept running. Nobody moved.
Coach Williams walked into the steam, her limp barely visible under the spray. She stopped in front of me and put a hand on my shoulder, firm, almost warm.
"Thank you," she said. "That was a fun night. And surprisingly informative." She glanced at Julie and Sally, who stood shoulder to shoulder under the neighboring head. "Some of us learned something about teamwork."
Sally's eyebrows went up. Julie smiled, small and private.
"Right," Coach Williams said, louder now, and clapped her hands once. The sound cracked off the tile. "Everyone out. Finish your showers, dry off, get dressed. I'll see you all at the next practice. That's an order."
The team began to move, a laughing herd of wet bodies peeling away from the spray. I stood under the water a moment longer, letting it run over me, before someone pressed a towel into my hands.
"Will you be here after practice?" a voice asked. It was Patterson, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping.
Coach Williams answered before I could. "No," she said. "But another client will be."
The cheer that went up from the locker room was loud enough to rattle the lockers.
I pulled on my boxers and watched the team peel off their towels and step into street clothes. Then my eyes found the camera in the corner, the one dressed as a light fixture. It was watching. The red lens winked at me, patient. I knew the footage was rolling, recorded, already being packaged. The video would arrive in my inbox before morning, sharp and clean and clinical. I thought of the sound I'd heard through its speaker when I'd first entered the locker room. A low hum.
Odd.
Sydney's hand touched my arm, interrupting my thoughts.
"Hi," she said, smiling. God, she had a beautiful smile.
"Hi yourself," I said.
She glanced past me at Coach Williams, who was already gathering towels and herding the last of the players toward the doors. "She needs everyone out," Sydney said. "She's got to lock up. You know how it is."
I nodded and gathered the rest of my things.
I pulled on my slacks and shrugged into my wrinkled blue shirt. My jacket still lay over the chair, the visitor lanyard clipped to the collar. I slid it on.
"Ready?" Sydney asked.
Julie and Sally stood beside her, all three in T-shirts and jeans, hair still damp. "Yeah," I said.
We walked out together. Coach Williams waited at the door, keys in hand, her limp softened into something almost casual.
"Good night, ladies. Good night, Mr. Mayhew." She smiled, quick and real. "Be sure to make another appointment. Tonight was fun."
I held her gaze for a beat. "I will."
Her grin widened. "We'll be here."
We stepped out into the hallway and the door clicked shut behind us. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like chlorine and clean tile. Sydney walked beside me, her damp hair dark at the ends.
"She's right," Sydney said. "Tonight was fun."
Sally laughed, low and easy. Julie grinned and bumped my shoulder with hers. "Alan knows how to make us feel good."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, and I opened the browser.
"Yeah, you're amazing, Alan," Sydney said.
Her phone chirped. She pulled it out of her pants pocket and looked at it. A smile spread across her face, then a laugh, bright and genuine.
"Really, Alan?" she said.
"What?" Julie and Sally said at the same time.
Sydney turned the screen toward them. They both leaned in, and then they were laughing, Sally doubled over with a hand on her knee.
"I thought you were spent," Sally said.
"You really booked her until 2 AM?" Julie asked.
I shrugged. "Julie. Sally. You two should know by now that I have a lot of stamina and I rebound quickly. I would have booked you, Sydney, for all night. But that option wasn't available."
All three of them laughed, and the sound filled the empty hallway. Sydney shook her head, still smiling, and tucked her phone back into her pocket.
"Yeah," she said. "I have an 11 AM class, and I need some sleep."
Then Julie and Sally's phones chirped at once, a bright double note that cut through the hallway's hum.
They pulled out their phones in the same motion, side by side, like a drill they'd practiced. They looked at the screens. Then they both laughed, hard and genuine, the sound bouncing off the cinderblock walls. Sally leaned into Julie, who held her phone up like a trophy.
"What?" Sydney asked. "What is it?"
"He booked us for all night," Julie said, still laughing, and turned the screen toward Sydney. "Tomorrow night. Both of us. All night."
Sydney read the screen, and her eyebrows climbed. She looked at me, then back at the phone, then at me again. "Alan. Really?"
"What?" I asked, smiling sheepishly.
Sydney let out a long, exasperated laugh, shaking her head. She reached out and took my hand, her palm warm and sure.
"Oh, come on," she said. "Let's get to my dorm room."
Sydney tugged me down the hallway. I stumbled after her.
And the cameras followed our progress.