Thursday came. I didn't even bother with my workout—just walked past the weight room, past the locker banks, and pushed open the door to the equipment room. It was cramped, shelves of basketballs and jerseys stacked floor to ceiling, one narrow aisle between them, a bench in the back corner. The door had a lock. I'd checked.
He was already there. Brennan. Standing by the rack of practice jerseys, hands in his pockets, looking like a man waiting for a firing squad. He'd showered—smelled like sandalwood soap instead of gym sweat—but he was wearing the same khakis from his office hours. The ones that hung off his ass just right.
"Close the door," I said.
He did. His hand was shaking when he turned the lock.
I didn't waste time. I crossed the space between us in three strides, grabbed him by the belt, and walked him backward until his shoulder blades hit the shelving. A stack of cones tumbled to the floor, orange plastic bouncing around our feet.
"Since Tuesday," I said, working his buckle open, "all I can think about is how you looked bent over those lockers. How you sounded when you came."
"Marcus—" He tried to say my name like a warning, but it came out like a prayer.
I silenced him with my mouth, kissing him hard, tasting the mint of his nervous toothpaste. My hand slid down his stomach, into his waistband, and found him already half-hard. I wrapped my fingers around his cock and squeezed, feeling him pulse to full hardness in my palm.
"Already?" I chuckled against his jaw, stroking him slow, torturous. "You been thinking about this too, Coach? Thinking about me filling you up again?"
He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, hips thrusting into my grip. "Every fucking minute."
"Good." I released him and spun him around, bending him over the equipment bench. It was the perfect height—his ass presented at exactly the right angle, his hands braced on the worn wood. I kicked his feet apart and yanked his khakis and briefs down in one rough motion, leaving him naked from the waist down.
His ass was pale, still bearing the faint shadow of my fingerprints from Tuesday. I ran my palm over one cheek, gripped hard enough to leave fresh marks.
"Look at you," I breathed, kneeling behind him. I spread him open with both hands, exposed everything. "Fucking desperate for it."
I didn't wait. I leaned in and dragged my tongue from his balls up to his hole, felt him jolt like electricity, heard him choke on a moan. I did it again, slower, circling the muscle, teasing until he was pushing back against my face, shameless and begging.
"Please—Marcus, please just—"
I stood up, spitting into my palm again, working my cock. I was leaking already, slick and throbbing, and the sight of him bent over like this—professor, coach, married man—spread open and waiting for a twenty-two-year-old to wreck him—
I pushed in.
The sound he made was obscene. A broken, guttural cry that he tried to muffle against his forearm. I didn't give him time to adjust. I pulled back and thrust deep, bottoming out in one stroke, feeling his heat clamp down around me like a vice.
"Fuck, you're tight," I gritted out, setting a rhythm. "You clench like that for your wife, Coach? Or is this just for me?"
"Just you," he gasped, pushing back to meet my thrusts. "Only you—god, harder—"
I gave him harder. The bench scraped against the concrete floor with every stroke, inching across the room. I gripped his hips, watching my cock disappear into him again and again, the obscene wet sound of skin on skin filling the small space.
I reached around, found his cock dangling heavy and dripping beneath him, and jerked him in time with my thrusts.
"Look at you," I commanded. "Look in the mirror."
There was a small mirror propped on the shelf ahead of us, angled just right. I could see his face—mouth open, eyes glazed, completely lost. I could see my own face behind him—sweat-slicked, predatory, teeth bared in something like a snarl.
"See what you look like getting fucked by your student?" I pounded into him, angling for that spot that made his legs shake. "See how fucking pretty you are when you take my cock?"
"Yes—yes—" He was babbling, incoherent, his cock leaking steadily into my fist. "I'm gonna—Marcus, I'm gonna—"
"Not yet." I pulled out suddenly, ignoring his whine of protest. I flipped him over onto his back on the bench, his legs dangling off the edge, and pushed back inside him in one smooth motion.
The new angle made him scream—actually scream, loud enough that I had to clamp my hand over his mouth. His eyes rolled back, and I felt him clench around me, on the edge, desperate.
"Now," I growled, fucking into him with short, brutal thrusts, hitting that spot every time. "Come now. Come on my cock like a good little slut."
He bit my palm as he came, teeth sinking in, his whole body arching off the bench as he spilled between us, hot and thick across his own stomach. The feel of him milking me, the sight of him wrecked and marked and mine—
I buried myself to the hilt and came, pulsing deep inside him, filling him up, watching my cum leak out around my cock where we were joined. I kept thrusting through it, slow and filthy, working every drop into him.
When I finally pulled out, he was trembling, unable to stand. I leaned down, kissed the sweat from his temple, and whispered:
"Next time, I'm taking you in your office. Your desk. While your wife's picture watches."
He shuddered, still sensitive, and I smiled against his neck.
"Don't worry, Coach. I'll make sure you see me coming."
