Squeezing.
What is wrong with my body? Should it feel this restless? I’m an inferno.
Everett watches it all happen in that shrewd, assessing way. “With maturity comes a lot of new feelings, Margot. You’ll learn to cope. Eventually you will adapt to the changes and you’ll find a new normal with diving.”
His voice is so low. His entire powerful frame seems coiled tight. And I can’t help it. My gaze drops to that protrusion in his pants and find it resting on the table beside my hip. “I…hope so, coach. I hope I can go back to feeling normal.”
“Yes.” He drags his lower lip through his teeth, a new sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. “Unfortunately, we have to work fast to get you feeling better, Margot. We’re at the Olympics. We don’t have an unlimited amount of time for you to get used to being a woman. And everything that comes with it.”
“What…what do you mean?” I ask, fully crossing my legs now. Oh god. I’m growing more wet by the second. Every time his thumbs drag across my nipples, there is a corresponding throb between my thighs. “What comes with being a woman?”
“Apart from your swimsuit fitting differently…” His throat works with a hard swallow and his hands leave my breasts. He drops his right one to his side and the left, oh Lord, it slips down my belly and grips my sex through the swimsuit, bringing my hips off the table, my strangled gasp loud in the small therapy room. “Are there changes down here, too, Margot? Does your pussy feel different?”
The word bursts out of me. “Yes.”
His thumb presses to the seam of my flesh. Just presses and holds, but it’s enough to set off fireworks in my belly, turn my thighs to jelly. “Has it been getting wet and uncomfortable?”
All I can do is nod.
He’s holding the most intimate part of me in his hands. Secrets seem useless.
“Yes.”
Everett bites off a growl, closing his eyes for long moments while visibly composing himself. “You’re horny, Margot.” He tightens his grip. “You have a horny little pussy.”
“H-horny?”
I’ve heard this word before, but I don’t know exactly what it means.
“Yes,” Everett says. “It means your body wants the kind of relief that comes from sex.” His voice turns choppy, his grip clenching and releasing. “You’re…ready for sex. That’s likely the reason your swimsuit feels extra tight and awkward lately.”
I want sex?
I never stopped to consider that.
Oh, I know I enjoy my coach’s hands on me, but sex always seemed like something so far in the future. Something that would happen after I won gold at the Olympics. For so long, diving has been the sole focus of my life. Nothing else. Have I been completely sheltered from the realities of turning into a woman and everything it means? “What am I going to do?” I whisper, unable to resist opening my thighs a little wider. It feels so good to be touched there.
“We have to take care of this before official competition starts. Otherwise you’re going to be distracted and anxious.” Everett says thickly, his eyelids drooped so low I can only see a sliver of his eyes. “You need an orgasm, Margot.”
An orgasm.
Relief.
As soon as he says the word, it’s like my body knows he’s right. It begins to clamor for it, nerve endings crackling, my blood rushing and racing backwards and forwards in my veins. “Are you going t-to give me one, coach?” I whisper, looking down at his hand where it still fondles me through the wet nylon of my bathing suit.
“I can’t,” he growls, his face a mask of misery as he finally yanks his hand away from the juncture of my thighs, pacing to the other side of the therapy room. “I’m old enough to be your father, goddammit. I’m your diving coach. I’ve already taken this way too far. The things I’ve done, sweetheart…you don’t even know the half.”
“Tell me,” I whisper, my heart thunking wildly.
What is he talking about?
Is he trying to admit he has feelings for me? The way I have for him?
Before I can press for more information, Everett snatches something up off the counter by the sink. A small, white, rolled up towel. “Turn over onto your stomach again,” he rasps.
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.