By the way, you should really stop glaring at me in the hallway. I’m not sure if you know this but it makes you look really sexy. Also it makes me wet. So fucking wet and horny and achy that yesterday, I had to excuse myself from my trig class and go to the bathroom so I could do something about it.
And I did.
I touched myself while thinking about the dark color of your eyes and that arousing clench of your jaw.
Yours,
The Rebound Girl
PS: Thanks for solving that trig problem. Miller was surprised at my fake math skills.
PPS: I’m really excited about our one-on-one session tonight.
PPPS: I want you to know that the orgasm I gave myself had nothing on the one you so very nicely gave me. Also, you were right. My pussy is swollen and tight and pouty. Perfect for a big, fat cock such as yours.
Again, I go through my day in a haze but when the time comes to get on the soccer field, I’m bursting at the seams.
I get there early even, hoping to impress him, but he’s already there.
He stands at the edge of the field, watching me walk over to him, his expression smooth and his arms folded across his chest.
I open my mouth to say hi to him when he abruptly clips, “We’ll work on your running.”
“What?”
“Running,” he says tersely. “We’ll work on it.”
“Why?”
“Because running involves knees. And we need to work on your knees.”
I look at my pale knees. “What’s wrong with my knees?”
He looks at them too but there’s a certain absence of emotion. He does it all so clinically, so professionally that I’m… disappointed.
“You need to lift them up more when you run,” he explains while raising his eyes back to my face. “It helps with the posture, and that helps with striking the ball and making goals. That’s pretty much what soccer is all about.”
He looks so coach-like right now. Like he did back in his office.
At least in his office there was a thrum of emotion sitting just under his skin. Here, he is completely emotionless.
There’s even a whistle around his neck. Along with that big watch strapped to his wrist, he looks so freaking unapproachable and authoritative.
Mindful of a few lingering students around the field, I step closer to him. He barely shows any reaction to that but I don’t get deterred. “Aren’t we gonna, like, talk about things?”
His jaw moves then. “Does it involve soccer?”
“Well, no. But –”
“Then, no. We aren’t going to talk aboutthings.”
The sun is setting, and the sky is all burnt orange, illuminating the golden strands of his hair. I rub my fingers together, remembering the velvety feel of them.
That gives me the encouragement to go on. “So what, I’m supposed to run around the field until you tell me to stop?”
He gives me an inscrutable look. “That’s the idea.”
“And you’ll watch me.”
