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"Don't you dare throw up," I warn him. "Or I'll have to fill you up all over again."
His face is deep red, almost purple, and it's hard to say if it's because he was just fighting for oxygen, the heat of the sauna, or embarrassment. Maybe all three.
Jack groans, and I don't know what to make of it. It almost sounds like arousal, but that could be my post-orgasm brain speaking. A quick glance down is all it takes to see that Jack is definitely sporting a large hard on. Yeah, he liked choking on my cock.
He fucking liked it.
Before Jack can do more than adjust his erection, I give him a new instruction. "If you want to cum, you'll have to earn it. Don't be late tomorrow," I say, picking up my towel and leaving Jack reeling in the sauna.
And this is how I rationalize what I’ve done. As part of the process, to encourage him, incentivize him.
To make him better.
CHAPTER 11
JACK
There is something wrong with me.
After I'm sure that Coach has left the locker room, if not the building, I leave the sauna and head to take a shower. I step into the spray, letting the cool water calm my overheated skin. Titling my face up, I let the water fill up my mouth and gargle, soothing the ache in my throat. No matter how long I stay in the cold water, though, the one thing I can't seem to soothe is my raging boner.
Through all of my taunting, I don't know what I expected. It wasn’t this, that’s for sure. Coach held me down and fucked my face like I was nothing but an object, a tool to be used to get off with. He wasn't exactly gentle, and for a minute there I definitely panicked that I wouldn't be able to get a breath.
Still, I somehow know it could have been worse. I also know that I liked it. A lot more than I can fully process.
My thoughts are a jumble of confusion, warring between anxiety about what I've done, fear over my unexplainable reaction to it, and a desire to know how far I can push this.
I'm not sure anything has ever given me more pleasure than pushing Coach to the edge and then watching him lose that carefully crafted mask he puts up. I want to see what makes him tick, and I'm curious about the consequences.
Hand wrapped around my cock, I pump slowly, giving in to the arousal coursing through my body after the way I was just used. He said not to cum, but how would he know? My eyes flit around the room, not seeing anywhere that he could be hiding or sensing any disturbances.
He can't fucking keep me from coming whenever and wherever I want. My mouth twitches up into a grin, an idea coming to mind.
Cutting off the shower, I dry myself as quickly as possible, throwing on my shorts, still damp from the sauna. After shoving my feet into my sneakers, I go to Coach's office, and sure enough, he's gone for the day. I know that maintenance keeps a spare key in the supply room, so I run in there and find the cabinet where they hang the keys. Behind the inside of the cabinet door there are about a dozen different keys, all neatly labeled. I grab the one with "HC" written on the ring and use it to open his office door.
I turn the lights on and look around, worrying my bottom lip. Where to leave my little message? I want him to know I was here and that he can't control me the way he thinks he can. However much I might let him dominate and punish me, I'm still in charge of me.
The smell of him—fresh laundry, musk, and the faint edge of muscle rub—affects me more than I want to admit. Taking out my dick, I stroke myself as I look over the coach's office. Just like his overall persona, everything is meticulously clean and organized, and it makes me itch to mess it all up. I eye the way everything on his desk is perfectly lined up, waiting for him to start his workday in the morning. He's going to lose his mind.
I swallow, and I barely get a second to reconsider before the soreness in my throat reminds me of my task, sending a jolt of arousal right to my dick, and before I know it, I'm painting Coach Nicks' keyboard with streams of my cum.
"Fuck yeah," I groan, imagining the look on his face when he sits down at his desk tomorrow.
For good measure, I swipe his meticulously lined up pens onto the floor and steal a clipboard.
I slept like a fucking baby last night, waking up early this morning with a refreshing sense of glee. Even my sawdust protein shake tasted delicious this morning, and I made it to the sports complex in record time, arriving before Nicks himself.
The expectation of what's to come makes me hyper aware of every movement and every sound in the building. I nearly lurch off the bench press when a maintenance person comes in, which startles the poor man into dropping a load of laundry.
"That's okay, Frank. Jack here will take care of refolding those," a deep voice comes from behind us as I help the older man pick up the towels. "Won't you, Jack?" The man side eyes me before muttering his thanks and skittering out of the room. Bryant Nicks has that effect on people, I suppose. I'd be lying if I said I don't feel it too, but I'm fucked up to the bone, and instead of frightening me, it excites me.
I look up at him with a little trepidation, searching his face for any sign of how pissed off he might be. All he's doing is staring back at me expectantly, and I realize then that he hasn't been to his office yet. He's waiting for me to answer him about the towels.
"Uh, y-yes Coach," I stutter a little, trying to hold back my smug grin.
It's no use. I've been smiling like a crazy person all morning, relishing the soreness in my jaw.
He looks confused, but pleased enough, and moves towards a treadmill. Does he not normally go to his office first? Or maybe today he decided to check on me first? That thought gives me a jolt of happiness.
