The Warped & Wicked Gym Coach Ch. 05

"Put your fingers in me now," she ordered. He fumbled around until he felt an opening with his middle finger, which he wriggled about until it continued in deeper. "Two fingers, Jake . . . Fuck!" His palm rested on her front as his two middle fingers inserted. She bent her knees, squatting and then standing, pressing her crotch again his hand, which rested on his knee. "You're getting hard," she grunted. "Get harder for me, sweetie." She reached down and stroked it with her fingers before stabilizing herself again on his torso.

She start to grind even faster, shaking his wobbly chair. "Jake, Jake! I'm gonna come! You're gonna make me come!" She practically was hopping up and down; she now grabbed him by the hair and ears. His cock was now hard, causing a dolorous nausea from his balls to his rib cage.

She looked right as him, with a face that looked as if she were going to cry: lips trembling, cheeks flushed, eyes wet and shimmering. He felt a jet of warm liquid drench his upper arm as her face was transformed by some mix of bliss and agony; Ms. Bandy's legs quaked and she held onto him for balance as she wailed like a lost coyote. Jake felt a wet spot on his upper leg and a severe ache in his injured ball sack, and he felt like he might throw up again.

"Holy shit," she coughed. "That was amazing. You're so good to me, Jake . . . you really are. I don't think you really hate me," she shook her head at him with an exhausted yet happy grin.

"Of course I don't, Ms. Bandy . . ."

"Jake? Call me Trish when we're alone." Trish. Patricia Bandy. Trish for short. He smiled.

"I . . . have strong feelings for you too, Trish."

She batted her eyelids and blushed. "So you'll do the second thing I ask?" she implored softly.

"Sure," he said without thinking.

"Break up with Holly. Today," she said, her tone immediately changing.

He was startled. Earlier that day Jake thought that he might love Holly, but right now he could hardly remember why. Here in his arms was the closest thing to a dream come true he had ever experienced, despite his quite literal blue balls. He looked down to the floor. She put her finger under his chin and lifted it until they were eye to eye.

"Today, Jake," she repeated. "That's your personal sacrifice. You do that, and it'll be like nothing ever happened. You'll only miss one game, and we go back to how it was, and you get back to winning. Don't you want that? Once everything -" she lightly caressed his balls: " - is back to working order?"

"I'll . . . end it with Holly. Today," he exhaled. It hurt him to say so out loud. "But I want you to admit it."

"Admit what?" she inquired casually.

"Admit that you hit me on purpose," he coolly stated. Trish studied him for a moment, then cocked her head back to laugh. "Oh Jake, you are a character." She hesitated, then said: "Sure. Yeah. I did it on purpose. Hell, I'm an Olympic fast pitcher, for Christ's sakes. I can knock a beetle off a bottle rocket." She kissed him one last time. "But it's so hot that you made me tell you."

She walked over to the table and grabbed the Ziploc bag. "Don't forget the ice," she said as she pressed it against his scrotum. He sharply groaned in shock and agony. She walked to the door, opened it, turned to him, and gave him a wink. Then she switched off the lights and left. He sat there, in the dark, waiting for the cold to numb the pain.