Finally after about twenty minutes of this torture, he launches his body up out of the pool.
“Shermer and Rydell, on the platforms. Breastroke.”
Hunter and I walk toward the boards, and just as I pass by his drenched body, I see it.
The bulge is so…there… My eyes can see nothing else.
My heart hammers, my palms sweat. I have to take my eyes off that bulge, but I can’t not look.
The faint chlorine smell combined with his masculine scent is killing me. The rivulets of pool water make beautiful designs along his strong upper thighs. I have never wanted to be a drop of water more than I do now.
I force myself to look away, but I instantly wish I hadn’t. Now, Coach Ford and I make eye contact, and I feel like my whole face is as red as a tomato. Topped by my Greenbridge swim cap, my whole head must look like a light-u
p Christmas ornament.
I forget those embarrassing two seconds once I’m up on that platform and staring at the water, waiting for the whistle.
Hunter and I dive in on command, and I proceed to blunder through my least favorite stroke. Coach Ford barks at us. “Watch your shoulders! Breath control! That’s not what I showed you! Coming up too high! Not high enough!”
I hear Hunter muttering and cussing as she comes up for breath. She hates this, and I don’t blame her one bit. Me? I’m loving it. The more he shouts orders and corrections at us, the more I push myself. The more he voices his frustration and disappointment, the more I want to keep going, to work harder. Something comes over my body, and I’m going faster than I ever remember going on the breaststroke.
When we finish, he doesn’t tell any of us our times were any better than yesterday’s practice. He simply disappears into his office and we all meander into the locker room when he doesn’t reappear.
When we hit the showers and I peel off my swimsuit, I have the overwhelming need to use the private shower.
“Suddenly shy, Addie?” Ridley drawls in my direction.
“Period,” I fib.
The hot spray starts up and I pull the vinyl curtain on my private stall. “I can’t believe it’s taking so long for all our periods to sync up!” someone shouts.
Everyone laughs before moving on to talk shit about Coach Ford.
“He yells too much.”
“He’s so mean.”
“He’s going to work us into the ground.”
“That is so not Judy’s style.”
“What’s wrong with him? Why’s he such a grouch?”
Let them all hate him. Let them talk all the shit they want. Whatever it is he’s doing, it’s going to work. Because the only thing I feel is energized. And tingling head to toe.
I wet my washcloth and dip it down between my legs. Closing my eyes, I explore with the cloth all these feelings he has pulled out of me. The heat, the need, the overwhelming desire to be touched.
Of course I’ve touched myself before, but it’s never that easy to find the spot where I’m most aroused. Right now, however, my clit is unmissable. It’s hard and needy and begging for relief. I part my folds and rub urgent circles around the tight bud. It’s never felt this urgent.
I should not be doing this here. I should wait until bedtime, where I can be alone, hidden under the privacy of my blankets. But it’s too much. I have to have relief now.
I close my eyes and all I see is Coach Ford—his grumpy face and huge, shining bulge and the water dripping down his beautiful legs. Those images, along with the rubbing, set me off without warning. It’s so shocking and such an enormous wave of pleasure that I’m not expecting it.
My foot slips off the bench. I yelp as I try to compensate by shifting my weight backward, but my other foot slips out from under me, and I topple to the floor. My hand grabs at the shower curtain as I go, causing the rod, curtain and rings follow me down.
When my teammates come and find me tangled up under the curtain, I lie there like a dolt. Hunter turns off the shower and asks me what happened. Everyone is looking at me.
I lie through my teeth. “Lightheaded. I guess I blacked out.”