My Coach, My Stalker

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.

Chapter 3

Everett

My temples are pounding. I can’t swallow past the knot in my throat.

Margot is not in her room.

Where the fuck is she?

Her phone must be off, because my tracker isn’t working.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know exactly where she was. The last two years since she’s been in my life are all that exist for me. When she was still in school, I tracked her phone from mine, watching her move between classes. When she takes a day off from diving, I follow the blue dot to wherever she goes. The movies. Shopping. To the library. She is always within my reach even if she doesn’t know I’m there. Even if I can’t touch her.