He would have hit the floor except Ms. Hawkins caught him.“At least you aren’t screaming like that,” Ms. Hawkins said.Thinking of how sore he would be in the morning, Coach Slaughter said, “Wait until tomorrow.”Another scream echoed through the dressing room. It was followed by a muffled shout, “My chest feels like it is on fire.”“His chest muscles are cramping up on him,” Coach Slaughter said sagging over to the side. He just kept falling until his head lightly hit his desk. His eyes closed.Inside the shower, Sean was staring down at his bloody chest. He had three bandages to remove yet and he wasn’t sure that he’d survive it. Closing his eyes and thrusting his chest forward, he ordered, “Off of me.”He screamed a few milliseconds later when the water hit the raw patches of bloody skin that had not departed with the bandages. He said, “That is going to be sore.”Ms. Hawkins stared down at Coach Slaughter. He was wearing tight shorts and a shirt that showed his muscles. She looked. It just happened that way: as much as I enjoyed myself, I never came during those sessions. Only you could make me come. Not because I kept myself for you, or you wanted it that way. That’s just how it happened, always.Only when we got home and we re-lived the previous few hours; you telling me on your teasing, mock condescending voice, how much you enjoyed watching your cock hungry slut... You told me, allowed me to cum. And I did. This little, unplanned tradition ended when you accidentally matched me with someone much more dominant than yourself, who had BDSM gear that would have turned Christian Grey – Christian Green.*I remember every single minute of that night in heartbeat-rising detail...I was sipping bubbly from a glitzy champagne glass in his posh Kensington condo, wearing nothing but my underwear and fishnet stockings. My legs were curled under me, heels on – he told me to keep those on, despite the pristine-white, fluffy rug. The two of you were tasting some god knows how.
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