My Coach, My Stalker by Jessa Kane
Chapter 2
Margot
I walk barefoot down the concrete tunnel leading to the physical therapy area.
Coach Everett is right behind me. Following silently.
More and more frequently I’ve been getting this hot, anxious feeling. Like I have an itch that I can’t find or scratch and it never goes away. It’s always at its worst in moments like this, when I’m about to be alone with my coach.
Because we both know the physical therapist already left for the day. Hours ago.
I don’t know why we both insist on keeping up this pretense, as if we both aren’t very aware that he’s about to massage my sore muscles in the deserted therapy room.
It’s my favorite and least favorite part of the day.
Favorite because I love Everett’s hands on me. I crave them there, kneading the knots out of my calves and shoulders and thighs. He’s the only one who can do it right, sensing exactly where my aches are most significant.
Least favorite because I feel achy and disjointed afterwards. I don’t know what to do with myself. My body won’t calm down. Which is why I had the idea to go dancing with some of my fellow divers. Maybe if I exhaust myself, I’ll finally be able to get some decent rest. Sleep that I need if I want to win gold.
We turn the corner into the therapy room and it’s empty. There’s no sound, except for the slow drip of the sink faucet. The low buzz of the overhead light.
“He must have gone home for the day,” Everett says casually, his breath ghosting over my shoulders, which are still wet from the pool. “I’ll have to rub you down.” His voice has turned deep. So deep. He never uses this tone around my parents. Only when we’re alone. It lifts every hair on my body, makes my nerve endings quiver. “Lie on the table, Margot. Face down.”
This is the part of the day where I tell myself this is innocent.
He’s my coach.
He’s the best coach. Sought after by every competitive diver in my state.
Maybe all he wants is to unknot my muscles.
After all, it never goes any further than a massage. No matter how bad I’d like it to.
No matter how close he comes to my private places, he never touches them. Never crosses the line into…fondling. Or sex. It’s just a massage. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just a functional part of his job. Priming the athlete.
If only I could see it that way.
If only he wasn’t so commanding and attractive and magnetic.
If only I hadn’t vowed at age sixteen to save my virginity for him.
Bottom lip clamped between my teeth, I remove my swim cap, letting out my long fall of white-blonde hair. Then I climb onto the table to lie face down, turning my head to watch Everett cleaning his hands in the sink, rolling back the sleeves of his button-down shirt to reveal strong forearms. He applies lotion to his palms and comes toward me, a muscle popping in his cheek. “You did well today, Margot,” he says, rubbing those big hands together, hesitating a second, then laying them on the backs of my thighs. Digging his thumbs into the tense muscle and dragging them all the way up, up, stopping just beneath the curve of my buttocks. “But something is bothering you. Preventing you from giving the dives your full concentration. Do you want to talk to me about it?”
Talk? Right now? With those magical fingertips trailing slowly down my calves, thumbs coasting up the curve of my instep. “Oh, um…” My mouth is completely dry, my pulse loud in my ears. Because his touch is traveling back up the full length of my legs, coming closer and closer to my bottom. Touch it. Touch me. But he just barely grazes the start of my bathing suit before retreating back down to my feet. “I didn’t realize I seemed distracted,” I lie.
In the ensuing silence, Everett crosses back to the lotion dispenser, methodically applying fresh white cream to his hands and slowly striding back in the direction of the table. “Now tell me the truth,” he says.
Do I dare?
It’s not a conversation I should be having with a man almost twice my age. A man who isn’t a member of my family. He’s my coach. But if I really stop to think about it, there is no one else in my life who I trust more. Everett always has my best interest in mind. Always. “I think maybe…” I squeeze my eyes closed. “My body seems like it’s changing. It’s…different lately.”
He takes a long breath and lets it out, sort of unevenly. “Different how?”
“Well.” I swallow. “Certain parts of me don’t fit as easily into my suit now.”
No taking it back. I’ve said it out loud.
I’ve been watching the changes in me take place in the mirror at home, concerned they’ll have a negative effect on my diving, but I haven’t shared my worries with anyone until now. It’s actually kind of a relief. At least, until he says, “Which parts, Margot?”
Oh God.
I’m flushing head to toe. Burying my face in the leather of the table.
“My hips,” I mutter, giggling a little bit out of discomfort. “But mostly my boobs.”
He hums in his throat and I can feel his gaze running the length of my body, assessing me, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to squirm. Or squeeze my legs together in an attempt to muffle the incessant pulsing.
“Turn over on your back. Let’s take a look.” His gruff instructions cause my feminine flesh to seize almost painfully. To flood with heat. Wet liquid warmth. This has never happened before. He’s asking me to take down my bathing suit? Like, show him my breasts? “It’s late, Margot. We don’t have all night.” He grips me by the waist and turns me over, resting a hand just beneath my belly button. So close—so close—to my sex. Does he realize where he’s touching me? Does he realize his touch is making me clench? “Peel it down, Margot.”
“Yes, coach,” I whisper, my fingers trembling as they reach up and hook beneath the damp straps of my bathing suit, first pulling my arms through the holes, then slowly pushing the material down to my waist. Immediately after exposing myself to the cold room and his sharp eyes, I stare at the ceiling. But my curiosity quickly gets the better of me and I look at Everett, finding his attention locked on my breasts, his jaw tight. Eyes glittering. What does that mean? “Does everything look…normal?” I ask quietly, resisting the urge to yank the suit back up.
“Yes,” he heaves, nostrils flaring. He takes a tissue out of his back pocket and pats his forehead—and that’s when I notice the bulge in his pants. It’s…massive. Pushing straight out from his zipper. My breath catches and Everett’s gaze shoots to mine. “It’s a natural reaction to seeing a woman’s naked body, Margot.”
“Oh,” I manage breathily. “I…I know.”
Only, I don’t know.
I know nothing about sex or the chemistry between men and women.
But I do know that Everett’s penis being hard means he’s aroused. That much was explained to me in health class, all the way back in middle school. The male genitalia hardens when it’s preparing to go inside of a woman. In other words, I’ve…aroused him. And that fact excites me, makes my toes curl at the end of the table.
Everett’s hands are still covered in lotion. I forget about that until he splays his palms on my tummy and slowly, slowly, slides his hands up and over my breasts, cupping them firmly. “There is nothing wrong with you here, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You’ve just matured.”
I can’t breathe. Is this really happening?
Everett is holding my bare breasts in his hands.
Now he’s massaging them, running his thumb back and forth over the nipples, making them pucker excruciatingly. The combination of pleasure and pain is so intense that I make a sound. A brief desperate one, accompanied by my thighs shooting together.
Squeezing.
What is wrong with my body? Should it feel this restless? I’m an inferno.
Everett watches it all happen in that shrewd, assessing way. “With maturity comes a lot of new feelings, Margot. You’ll learn to cope. Eventually you will adapt to the changes and you’ll find a new normal with diving.”
His voice is so low. His entire powerful frame seems coiled tight. And I can’t help it. My gaze drops to that protrusion in his pants and find it resting on the table beside my hip. “I…hope so, coach. I hope I can go back to feeling normal.”
“Yes.” He drags his lower lip through his teeth, a new sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. “Unfortunately, we have to work fast to get you feeling better, Margot. We’re at the Olympics. We don’t have an unlimited amount of time for you to get used to being a woman. And everything that comes with it.”
“What…what do you mean?” I ask, fully crossing my legs now. Oh god. I’m growing more wet by the second. Every time his thumbs drag across my nipples, there is a corresponding throb between my thighs. “What comes with being a woman?”
“Apart from your swimsuit fitting differently…” His throat works with a hard swallow and his hands leave my breasts. He drops his right one to his side and the left, oh Lord, it slips down my belly and grips my sex through the swimsuit, bringing my hips off the table, my strangled gasp loud in the small therapy room. “Are there changes down here, too, Margot? Does your pussy feel different?”
The word bursts out of me. “Yes.”
His thumb presses to the seam of my flesh. Just presses and holds, but it’s enough to set off fireworks in my belly, turn my thighs to jelly. “Has it been getting wet and uncomfortable?”
All I can do is nod.
He’s holding the most intimate part of me in his hands. Secrets seem useless.
“Yes.”
Everett bites off a growl, closing his eyes for long moments while visibly composing himself. “You’re horny, Margot.” He tightens his grip. “You have a horny little pussy.”
“H-horny?”
I’ve heard this word before, but I don’t know exactly what it means.
“Yes,” Everett says. “It means your body wants the kind of relief that comes from sex.” His voice turns choppy, his grip clenching and releasing. “You’re…ready for sex. That’s likely the reason your swimsuit feels extra tight and awkward lately.”
I want sex?
I never stopped to consider that.
Oh, I know I enjoy my coach’s hands on me, but sex always seemed like something so far in the future. Something that would happen after I won gold at the Olympics. For so long, diving has been the sole focus of my life. Nothing else. Have I been completely sheltered from the realities of turning into a woman and everything it means? “What am I going to do?” I whisper, unable to resist opening my thighs a little wider. It feels so good to be touched there.
“We have to take care of this before official competition starts. Otherwise you’re going to be distracted and anxious.” Everett says thickly, his eyelids drooped so low I can only see a sliver of his eyes. “You need an orgasm, Margot.”
An orgasm.
Relief.
As soon as he says the word, it’s like my body knows he’s right. It begins to clamor for it, nerve endings crackling, my blood rushing and racing backwards and forwards in my veins. “Are you going t-to give me one, coach?” I whisper, looking down at his hand where it still fondles me through the wet nylon of my bathing suit.
“I can’t,” he growls, his face a mask of misery as he finally yanks his hand away from the juncture of my thighs, pacing to the other side of the therapy room. “I’m old enough to be your father, goddammit. I’m your diving coach. I’ve already taken this way too far. The things I’ve done, sweetheart…you don’t even know the half.”
“Tell me,” I whisper, my heart thunking wildly.
What is he talking about?
Is he trying to admit he has feelings for me? The way I have for him?
Before I can press for more information, Everett snatches something up off the counter by the sink. A small, white, rolled up towel. “Turn over onto your stomach again,” he rasps.
Praying he’s going to touch me more, I do as I’m told, shocked when he wedges the rolled-up towel between my legs. Roughly. Right beneath my sex. I gasp at the sensation of the towel ridge pressing so tight to my femininity. Tingles are shooting down to my toes, my thighs beginning to tremble with anticipation.
Everett winds my long hair around his fist. “Pump your hips. Rub your pussy against the towel. When you find a spot that feels good, keep going.”
I should be humiliated. Or reticent. Or both.
But the ache is spreading and growing more intense, thanks to the moment. Sharing this intimacy with my coach. Having my breasts bare in his presence and having him refer to my sex as a pussy. It’s bad. It’s so bad, but I love it. And I start to rock my hips, making a broken sound when the friction produces a tightening. A ticklish pull deep, deep inside of me in a place that has never been reached. I work my lower body faster, the table beginning to creak underneath me, and I hear Everett groan.
“You forgot to mention your ass,” he says through clenched teeth. “How it’s gotten so sweet and supple. Tempting. You think it’s easy to coach when my dick is hard from watching you climb the fucking ladder, jiggling and flexing all the way to the top? Over and over and over. Goddammit.” His palm smacks down onto my backside. Somewhere between gentle and hard. And sparks fill my vision. Exhilaration runs laps in my stomach, my head. I feel found. Like I’ve been missing a huge part of my life that has been just out of sight this whole time. “Hump the towel, little sweetheart. Faster. Don’t stop.”
I’m going as fast as I can, whimpering, dragging my sex up and back on the rolled towel and it feels good, so good, but no matter how hard I try or how good it feels, there’s only buildup. No release. I’m practically doing the splits on top of the white terrycloth ridge, my fingers curled into the edges of the leather table. Sweat is beginning to coat my skin. I’m humping and humping. But I continue to hover right on the edge of the orgasm. It never swoops in and claims me—and frustration begins to intrude. Am I broken? Am I doing it wrong?
“Good girl,” Everett groans, yanking up on the back of my bathing suit so the material is wedged tightly between the cheeks of my bottom, like a makeshift thong. And he kneads me there, encouraging every pump of my hips. Occasionally delivering a firm spanking that makes the breath catch in my throat. “This is how you’d look riding cock, isn’t it? Like a wet, willing little beginner, just wanting to make her coach proud. Jesus Christ,” he pants. “Soak the towel. Soak it so I can bring it back to my hotel room and jerk off on it like a sick bastard.”
Wow. Did he really say that?
I’m right there. I’m right there. Incredible sensations are coursing through me, but there’s an intuition in the back of my mind that I can’t go any further. Like I’ve come up against a roadblock. And it hurts. It’s hurts so bad not being able to scale that final barrier. And on top of that, I’m disappointing my coach. He wants me to come and I can’t. I can’t do it.
With a hiccup borne of humiliation and frustration, I pitch myself off the table and hit the ground at a dead run, yanking up my bathing suit as I leave the therapy room, my sex pulsing angrily between my legs, sweat running down my spine.
“Margot!” shouts Everett.
But I turn a corner and run faster, ducking out through an exit door and leaving him behind. Leaving him in the room where he is definitely dissatisfied with me. Lately I haven’t been able to dive right and now my body can’t even reach completion. What’s wrong with me?
I don’t know. But I can’t go back to my room in Olympic Village and toss and turn all night, replaying what just happened and my shortfalls. As a diver and as a woman. I need to let loose and not think for a few hours. Changing directions, I head toward the cluster of buildings where my fellow divers are staying. Maybe one of them has a dress I can borrow.
