Sorry for the long delay in posting this chapter, life got busy as I'm sure you all know haha, but I'm back to posting again - hope you enjoy.
Coach's touch
The whole day, I kept waiting for someone to say something. A joke, a weird look, a comment. But nothing came.
No one mentioned the way I’d run off the pitch, flushed and breathless with a damp spot on the back of my shorts. Not Luke. Not Kyle. Not even Coach.
Still, I couldn’t shake the heat from my face. I was half in my own head the entire day—spacing out in lectures, fidgeting through lunch. Every time my thighs shifted, I swore I could still feel that sticky reminder of what happened, haunting me.
At the end of the day, just as I was slipping my bag on, Coach Adams called out from the hallway. “Jamie. Stay back a sec.”
My stomach dropped.
I followed him into his office. The door shut with a quiet click. He sat behind the desk, arms folded casually, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.
“You’ve been doing well lately,” he said, voice calm. “Body’s changing. Getting stronger. Your endurance is up. But…”
He let that word hang.
“…you’ve seemed a little distracted.”
I shifted on my feet, heart thudding. “Yeah, I—I guess. I’ve just had… a lot on my mind.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You wanna tell me what that means?”
I hesitated. My mouth was dry, but I continued. “I don’t know. I’ve just been… tired. And—getting, like, these random… you know.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Erections. Like, all the time. It’s hard to focus.”
Coach didn’t flinch. He just leaned back a bit, his voice steady and serious. “That’s normal. Testosterone’s up. Training’s doing its job. What matters now is how you channel that energy.”
I blinked. “Channel it?”
He nodded. “No more jerking off. You’re leaking tension every time you do it. That’s your edge, Jamie. Keep it in, and your body’ll sharpen. You’ll hit harder. Last longer. You want that spot on the team?”
I hesitated, heat crawling up my neck. “Yeah. I mean—yeah, of course.”
“Then trust me. No more touching yourself. Two shakes a day, good rest, and let the tension build. Let it drive you.”
I swallowed hard. My cock twitched just from the thought of it.
“…Alright,” I said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll try, Sir”
Coach smiled—just a flicker of it. “That’s my boy.”
Coach didn’t say anything at first, my words lingering in the air heavy. He just gave me that same unreadable look from behind his desk before standing and motioning toward the locker room.
“Come on,” he said. “You’ve been pushing yourself. Let’s loosen you up before you lock up.”
I followed, heart thudding. I wasn’t sure what I expected—another drill? A lecture? But when we stepped into the empty locker room and he gestured to the bench, my brain seemed to fog over.
“Strip down to your jock,” he said. “Helps with the massage.”
The words hit me, and for a split second, I almost hesitated. Almost. But my hands were already moving, tugging at my shirt, stepping out of my shorts like it was nothing. I wasn’t even thinking—just obeying.
I lay down on the bench, stomach pressed to the cold vinyl, the chill biting at my skin and making it pebble with goosebumps and tighten. I practically forgot to breathe as Coach’s hands were on me—broad, firm, practiced. Starting at my shoulders, pressing deep into the knots I hadn’t realized were there.
His palms were broad, strong from hours in the gym, and he moved with a confidence that made my skin buzz. He started slow—thumbs digging into the tight flesh beneath him, fingers working in deep, steady circles. I groaned, low and quiet, as the tension started to bleed out of me the sound slipping out before I could stop it.
“Damn,” Coach Adams murmured, voice rough and quiet. “Didn’t know you were this tense.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My head was already swimming, my eyes fluttering shut as his touch sent heat rolling down my back. Each pass of his hands seemed to push me further into the bench. I could feel the muscles unlocking, one layer at a time, but with every inch lower he moved, something else in me tensed—tightened.
“You’ve been working hard,” he murmured, fingers moving slowly, deliberately, now working along my lower back. “Proud of you. You’re listening. Following direction. That’s what makes a winner.”
I shifted without meaning to—my hips rolling slightly, breath catching in my throat. His hands followed, slower now, kneading the bottom of my spine with just enough pressure to make my thoughts scatter. I was hyper-aware of the way my jock strap hugged me, how thin the fabric felt under his fingers, how easily it would take just the smallest slip for something to… happen.
He didn’t speak for a moment. Just worked his hands deeper, the warmth of his palms spreading through me like a current. It felt too good. Too intimate. Every time his thumbs rolled across a new patch of tension, my hips twitched—my body responding with a mind of its own.
Coach kept talking. “You’re adapting so fast, Jamie. Responding just like you’re meant to. Makes my job easy.”
His hands moved to the top of my glutes, kneading firmly, confidently. I gasped—too quiet to call it anything else—as he dug his thumbs in deep. The fabric of my jock barely kept me from grinding outright, every motion shooting sparks through me.
I was throbbing. There was no way to hide it.
His hands didn’t rush. They pressed and worked with slow, purposeful pressure, sinking into the thick muscle of my glutes, spreading warmth through me. Every squeeze made my hips twitch, grinding a little more into the bench beneath me without even meaning to. His thumbs dug deeper, rolling over tension I had been carrying. I let out a shaky breath, trying not to moan again, but the sounds kept slipping out—small, involuntary, almost embarrassed.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “Let it happen. You’re doing great.”
Let what happen?
The question echoed through my skull, but I didn’t ask it. I didn’t move. I just breathed—deep, heavy, desperate—and let him keep going. His voice was steady, patient, like this was just another drill. Like he hadn’t just spent a full minute massaging the curve of my ass, his strong hands kneading me open, melting whatever resistance I thought I had.
Then his hands stilled. One stayed planted on my hip steadying me while the other moved lower, almost experimentally, his fingertips brushing just along the curve where my thigh met my ass. It wasn’t overt. It wasn’t anything… except it was. My whole body tightened around the touch like it had been waiting for it, aching for more.
My breath came faster. My face burned. I didn’t understand the feeling tearing through me—equal parts heat and fear and want—but it didn’t stop me from pressing just a little harder into the bench.
I was rock hard in my jock, throbbing against the strained fabric and the vinyl bench. My whole body was alive with sensation, my breath catching in my throat as his thumb passed dangerously close again, almost brushing the edge of something forbidden. I didn’t know what I wanted him to do next—but I knew I didn’t want him to stop.
My whole body was humming—burning—and still, Coach didn’t waver always stopping just short of too far. Didn’t pause. Just kept working, whispering encouragement in that same low, confident voice, like I was being shaped into something he already knew I was becoming.
I didn’t understand why I needed it so badly. I just didn’t want it to stop.
Then I felt it—just a brush, a graze of fingertips somewhere too sensitive. It was barely anything, featherlight. But it made my whole-body freeze. Something inside me clenched and opened at the same time, and I didn’t know what it meant, only that I needed more of it.
The moment his thumb ghosted over my tight, sensitive hole—barely a brush, a whisper of pressure—my breath caught sharp in my throat silencing the moan threatening to break free. My whole body seized, not in fear, but in something deeper, more primal. Like something ancient and buried had just been touched for the first time. I gasped, my hips jerking forward into the bench, my jock soaking with the forbidden touch I didn’t know I craved.
It was like a switch flipped.
A hunger I didn’t understand cracked open inside me—raw and aching. My chest rose and fell too fast. I bit my lip hard, trying to stay quiet and failing, but the heat pulsed through me in waves.
Coach said nothing. Just kept working, slow and steady, like he hadn’t just lit a fire I couldn’t put out.
I didn’t know why that tiny touch made me feel so empty and desperate, but I needed more. Needed it like oxygen.
Coach pulled his hands away –
I blinked, dazed. He was standing beside me again, calm as ever, holding out a new tub of powder. This one deep red. No label again.
“This one’s twice as effective,” he said. “You’re ready for it. Two shakes a day—same routine.”
I took it without thinking. Still hard not bothering to cover up.
Coach gave me a single pat on the shoulder. “Good work today boy.”
And then he was gone, leaving me alone, flushed, and still pulsing, desperate for his touch.
