Chapter Six

Lance stood under the running shower, desperately polishing his handle, doing the five-knuckle shuffle, rubbing one out, engaging in some hand-to-gland combat with exactly one thing on his mind.

Kira.

Dammit, it had been two weeks, and no matter how hard he tried to exorcise the memory of that fat-booted vixen, no amount of shaking hands with the milkman could quell the fiery passion she had ignited within him.

God, what a way to blow his V card.

Setting aside the fact he’d unknowingly done so in front of an audience, spending his first time in the ecstatic arms (and between the eagerly spread legs) of a walking wet dream had turned out to be kind of a curse.

Like, had his sex life peaked already?

Was every carnal encounter from this point forward going to pale in comparison?

Lance couldn’t fathom any college girl, no matter how horny or open-minded, approaching the levels of lust-fueled depravity Kira had displayed in a single afternoon.

Nothing had been sacred. No act was off-limits. His black Barbie doll had taken every he had to give, then somehow dragged even more out of him. What kind of creature could do that to a man?

A sex goddess, he thought.

Then reconsidered.

Nope. Succubus, he amended.

Lance had lost himself in her welcoming softness. Become a rutting beast driven by primal instincts. She’d unleashed his wilder side, revelled in his raw brutality, and actively indulged his darker fantasies.

She’d called him daddy, her hands braced against the headboard, chubby caboose raised and rippling with every hammer blow as he nailed her tight cunt like a deranged carpenter.

And remembering events wasn’t helping.

“Oh, Kira. Jesus…fuck! Yeah, spread those cheeks wide for daddy.”

Lance half suspected she’d turned him into a sex addict on the first try. What else could explain the non-stop arousal he was suffering?

Randomly popped boners were difficult to hide given his gratuitous endowment, and choking the chicken six or seven times a day felt excessive, even for an active, healthy youth.

Not to mention horribly inconvenient, given his busy class and training schedule.

The aspiring track star from two weeks ago would’ve been mortified at the prospect of polishing his knob in a locker room shower. The risks would have been too great. The cost of getting caught too high.

Lately, it had become a necessity. The only means of expunging Kira from his fevered dreams.

Lance could all but see her there, sharing the cramped shower stall, water sluicing over her ripe contours. Touching him, coaxing him, serenading him with sinful promises.

Suddenly, the hand gripping his girthy enormity wasn't his own but Kira’s.

Dainty and small with long painted nails that grazed his throbbing sack. She plastered her plush, glistening wet figure against him. Gasping and gnawing her plump lower lip as she guided him between her thick, chocolate thighs.

Lance could almost feel the slick heat of her pussy christening the length of his rock-hard shaft as he thrust forward, lubricating it with her liberal nectar, his turgid tip prodding the lower hemispheres of her prodigious posterior.

“Mmmm… yes, daddy.” She pouted playfully, voice a high, girlish lilt. “Is all this hard, daddy meat for little ol’ me?”

“It sure is, baby. All for you.” He groaned, lost to the fantasy. “Daddy needs to be inside you so badly.”

God, what was wrong with him?

Lance couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep beating off in random washrooms.

His paranoia was spiking at record-breaking levels ever since he realized he’d appeared on the porn star’s live stream. Everywhere he went, Lance felt eyes on him.

He could swear total strangers were giving him odd looks.

The greasy-faced gas station attendant had done a blatant double take while Lance topped up his tank that morning. Squinting, clearly convinced they recognized Lance from somewhere, but unable to connect the dots.

Then there had been the mothers group in the park where Lance took his morning run.

One particularly fine mamajama had actually paused mid-breastfeeding to jab an elbow into her neighbour’s ribs.

Conversation died instantly. Half a dozen suburban housewives–freshly minted MILFs, provocatively attired in snug athleticwear–stared over their designer sunglasses with perked eyebrows and pursed lips, tracking Lance like a pride of hungry lionesses.

Only after he’d passed did they seem to remember the infants attached to them, hurriedly resuming mothering duties with throaty laughs and not-quite-whispered remarks which chased him all the way home.

“I want you too, daddy. I want you sooo~ fucking badly.” Kira mewled, smearing back and forth along his steeling shaft, clamped between her cushiony thighs and soaked pussy. “I’ll go crazy if you don’t fuck me soon. Please, sir. I need to feel your huge daddy dick stirring up my insides.”

It was too much.

On some level, Lance knew he would never be rid of her. Not completely.

Kira Bubblez had wormed her way into his psyche, burrowing in deep to live rent-free in his dreams forever.

It didn’t help that she kept texting him, either. No matter how innocent or innocuous the messages were.

“Daddy needs his good girl, too.” He gasped. His pumping fist became a soapy blur, but all he could feel was her firm, clenching softness. “Are you ready to be a good girl for daddy and take every fat inch he can give you?”

The peroxide-blonde phantom purred in response, licking her chops. Pancaking her spectacular rack against Lance’s pecs, she whispered in his ear.

“Anything you say, daddy.”

Before he could respond, Kira angled her double-wide hips back, gliding back along his ludicrous length until she could hook a leg over his hip and notch him at her sodden opening. Mashing her lips against his in a ravenous, tongue-fueled kiss, she slammed down to his girthy base in a single heart-stopping plunge.

“Ah, FUUUUCK!!”

Already worked up past his boiling point, Lance erupted like a jizz volcano.

A torrent of gooey spunk fountained from him, painting the shower wall before washing down into the drain. Rope after sticky rope splattered the tiles as the young athlete sagged in blessed relief, jerkily pumping his iron through the head-spinning climax.

There certainly was a lot of it.

His loads weren’t somehow getting more voluminous, were they?

“Goddamn.” He panted, swaying on his feet. “What the hell…”

Then a voice snapped him from his post-nut daze.

“Is everything alright in there?”

It was a rich, slightly accented voice that rolled its vowels and stabbed panic in Lance’s chest.

Coach Velasquez.

His tough-but-fair, highly respected, and consummately professional trainer sounded nearby.

Or to be more accurate: standing right outside the shower stall.

Lance froze, half–flaccid python still clutched in one hand, leaking pearly seed.

Nonononono!

A promising sports career ending in disgrace and humiliation flashed before Lance’s eyes as dread paralyzed him. Standing like a Greek statue, chiseled muscles shining under the spray, he waited while spunk slid past his toes to lazily circle the drain.

Why was she in the men’s locker room?

More importantly…

What had she heard?

Lance had a terrible feeling he hadn’t been overly discreet once he believed he had privacy.

And Coach Velasquez had always struck him as a woman with excellent hearing.

He flinched when knuckles rapped on the shower door.

“Lance? I thought I heard a disturbance. Are you okay? Everyone else left a while ago.”

Biting the bullet, he let the shower run a few seconds longer before turning off the water and reaching blindly for a towel.

“I’m fine,” he called, forcing his voice to sound steady. “Just getting out now. No need to worry, Coach.”

There was a pause outside the stall.

“Well… I do worry,” Coach Velasquez replied. “You’ve been in there a while. I thought maybe you slipped or something.”

“I didn’t slip.”

Wet floors are treacherous.” She sounded brighter now, like she was enjoying this. “You’d be surprised how many injuries happen outside practice.”

Lance cinched the towel tight around his waist, cursing the stubborn bulge that refused to quit. He cracked the stall door just enough to poke his head out.

“See?” He flashed an unconvincing grin. “Alive and kicking.”

Coach Velasquez stood barely three feet away, and holy hell—she wasn’t in her usual baggy sweats-and-jersey.

Lance stared, startled to discover the Hispanic trainer minimally clad in a strict sports bra and spray-on yoga shorts. Her sweats lay discarded on the floor.

He almost gasped, smacked in the face by so much bronzed, gym-toned flesh.

Velasquez was a total smoke show!

With arms crossed, delineating the boundary between her full chest and washboard abs, she arched a finely plucked brow at Lance as though challenging him.

Unable to resist, his eyes wandered down past her trim waist, over the flat expanse of her smooth pelvis, down to the three-inch gap at the apex of her muscular thighs, then back up again to the edges of a full bubble butt poking out on either side of her firm, grabbable hips.

His cock twitched hard enough to loosen the towel. Lance kept the door close to his body like a shield.

Coach’s eyes dropped anyway, meandering downward. A slow, knowing smile curled her lips.

“Just making sure,” she purred.

“I appreciate the concern,” Lance managed, voice a half octave higher than usual.

She took a small, deliberate step forward, crossing one long caramel leg over the other in a slow catwalk sway. Then she twisted, arching her back to give him the full side profile: tits thrust out, tummy sucked in, biceps subtly flexed, ass clenched so tight it looked like two prize-winning coconuts stuffed down the back of her skin-tight shorts.

“You know,” she said, tossing her dark, silken hair, “I could come in there. Look you over.” Her voice dipped low. “Make sure everything’s functioning properly.”

Lance blinked, feeling simultaneously uncomfortable and aroused, unsure how to react.

“That’s—uh—really not necessary.”

“Are you sure?” She glided closer, licking her plump lips. “You seem a bit tense.”

“I-I’m good.”

Another step. Another toss of her midnight mane. Velasquez teased an errant strand around a slender finger into her cleavage.

“Lance.” Che cooed in a sultry timbre, “I take my students well-being very seriously.”

He shifted anxiously, far too aware of his fast-returning boner.

“That really isn’t necessary.”

Her head tilted once more, trying to peer into the stall.

“You’ve got tremendous potential, Lance.” She continued. “National record for your age bracket. That’s not something I overlook.”

“Um, thanks?”

“But potential alone doesn’t guarantee someone a place on my team.”

Lance’s glassy smile fractured as her insinuation landed like a grenade in his future prospects.

“Hey, I work hard.” He protested. “Never skipped a training session.”

“I know you haven’t.” Her tone sharpened slightly. “But I can’t get the most out of you if we can’t maintain a clear, honest relationship.”

Feeling uneasy, he redoubled his grip on the door handle.

“I thought we had one.”

“Yet you’re acting awfully guarded right now.” She noted, her earlier playfulness gone.

“I’m only wearing a towel.” Lance said, careful not to let his lecherous eyes wander southward again lest there be further misunderstandings.

It wasn’t easy. Her tits were practically under his nose, busty and buoyant, not to mention other juicy temptations below.

“That’s hardly unusual in a locker room.”

Her sneaker edged closer to the stall threshold as if she were a travelling salesman preparing to jam a foot in the door.

“Coach,” Lance said quickly, “I’m fine, really. I just want to get dressed.”

She studied him for a moment, irritation creeping into her expression.

“You know,” she said slowly, “when a coach makes time for a private conversation, most athletes have the sense to engage.”

“I am engaging.”

“No, you’re hiding.” Her accusation carried a blunt edge. “Literally.”

“Because I just got out of the shower.” He reiterated, silently praying for an escape.

“Lance.” She growled–actually growled at him. “You’re one of the most promising runners I’ve coached in years. But promise only goes so far if you aren’t willing to… cooperate.”

The word hung in the steamy air.

She wasn’t even trying to veil her intentions.

Lance stared at her in shock.

Moving slowly, he reached out of the stall just enough to grab his gym bag from a nearby bench.

Velasquez leaned in again, making no attempt to hide her interest, lips pressing into a thin frown when Lance kept the door between them.

“Coach, thanks for stopping by.” He said quietly. “I’m going to get dressed now.”

Then he shut the door in her face, throwing the bolt.

“Lance, I’m not finished talking to you.”

Hastily unzipping his bag to retrieve a pair of jeans, Lance shook his head before speaking up.

“No. I think we’re done.”

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