My Coach, My Stalker

I broke that rule tonight.

God, I broke it so hard, putting my thirty-six-year-old hands on her supple eighteen-year-old tits, molding them like clay, teasing her innocent nipples into little points until she was flushed and squirming and restless. I should be taken out into the street and shot for what I’ve done. Where are my ethics? My principles? I’ve allowed the stalking to carry on with the caveat that I didn’t defile her virginal body, but Jesus, I came close tonight. Came dangerously close to removing the towel from between her legs and replacing it with my lap.

Making her hump my hard cock instead.

How would she look riding me? Working that sweet body up and down, whining over the buildup of lust and the burning need for relief. Fuck, I’d probably come before I ever got inside of her. I’d hold her down and jerk come onto every inch of her perfect skin.

And wow, somewhere, her parents are sleeping in their beds, secure in the fact that their little girl is in good hands. I should be ashamed of myself. I am. This obsession with Margot is out of control. I don’t know where she has gone and I want to slam my head into a wall. The possibility that she is upset and preparing to act out has my blood racing, running hot to cold.

Dancing.

She’s gone dancing.

And she’s horny. Unsatisfied.

I don’t know what happened, but she couldn’t reach her peak, even though she was so close. There is an inkling in the back of my head telling me she would have come if I’d unzipped my pants and planted my cock in her tight-ass cunt, but no. No. I won’t allow that. I won’t consider that. I’m in charge of her. I’m paid to coach her. It would be an unforgiveable violation of trust and she would hate me for it one day. Once she got older and realized how I took advantage of the coach-pupil relationship, she’d never speak to me again. And if that happened, I’d no longer have a reason to exist.

I exist for Margot.

I’m standing outside of her housing in Olympic Village now, once again checking my phone for the reassuring blue dot. Nothing. Grinding my back teeth together, I place a call to one of the other diving coaches I met during trials, asking if he knows where the athletes have gone dancing.

“Yeah…” He yawns, telling me I’ve woken him up. So be it. “Some place called Club Camelot, I think. A bunch of them were heading there. Might as well give them one last hurrah before competition starts in two days.”

“Right, thanks for the info. Good luck.”

I’m already walking, hailing a taxi as soon as I get to the street. Ten minutes later, we’re driving through the brightly lit streets of downtown Tokyo, people zigzagging in all directions—and I break into a cold sweat thinking about every bad thing that could happen to Margot in a foreign city. She could be robbed. Kidnapped. Things I can’t even consider without wanting to tear the roof off the top of this taxi.

My throat has closed up to the size of a straw by the time we pull to a stop outside of Club Camelot. I hand payment to the driver and climb out, intending to stride right into the club and carry Margot out over my shoulder. Fuck subtlety. I’m not in the mood for it. I’m not able to pretend right now that I’m not worried as hell and possessive of what’s mine.

Before I can approach the bouncer standing behind the red velvet rope, my eye is drawn to the establishment next door. A sex shop. There are toys in the window. Fetish gear. Advertisements for pornography. I’m interested in none of it. But they must sell vibrators inside. A towel might not have done the trick for Margot. A vibrator would, though. And if I don’t have some way to bring her to climax, I’m going to end up fucking her.

I know it as well as I know my own name.

With a curse, I change directions and enter the shop, striding down the empty aisles until I find what I’m looking for. At the counter, I gesture to the clerk to unwrap my purchase and I install the batteries, shoving the device into my pocket and once again leaving the store.

The inside of Club Camelot is something straight out of my nightmares, because I don’t want Margot in a place like this. Not for a split second. It’s dark. It’s anonymous. So dark that it invites bad behavior without the threat of consequences. The only lights come from a flashing strobe light above and the DJ booth, which is outlined in purple neon.

A vein throbs in my temple as I weave my way through the throngs of giddy—and in some cases, drunk—twenty-somethings. It’s a noticeably diverse crowd because most of them are athletes or spectators who’ve flown to Tokyo from their respective countries for the Olympic Games. From Sweden and Chile and South Africa. Young people grind on each other, visibly eager to get laid, hands groping body parts out in the open for everyone to witness. It’s an orgy waiting to happen and I swear to Christ, if any of these motherfuckers have laid a finger on Margot, I’m going to wreak utter havoc on this sweaty meat market.