My senior year in high school, a newly legal adult, I had a steady girlfriend but no real boyfriends, just semi-boyfriends. Fuck friends, really.
Late one afternoon, when we thought the football field was deserted, I was standing under the bleachers with one of these semi-boyfriends. There was nothing semi-hard about his cock, though! It was out of his jeans and I was jacking him off, while his hand was down my shorts.
I sometimes think about how we must have looked, two healthy young specimens in the throes of impromptu, random lust.
His long, talented pianist's fingers were turning my shaved pussy to butter, and I was gyrating on his hand like an exotic dancer. Trying to be quiet, I was humming my ecstasy: "Hmm! Hmm hmm hmm HMM! HMM! Hmm hmm!"
Meanwhile, he was humping my hand and grunting, nostrils flaring, droplets of precum flecking the grass from his spitting prickhead.
I remember we both were wearing the same nerd-club T-shirt. He was a skinny boy (other than his dick), and his shirt hung on him, as did the open flannel shirt he wore over it. I filled my shirt out nicely (still do), and my nipples were like bullets.
That's how we were when we got busted.
"Hey!" boomed a male voice. "Come out of there!"
"Oh, shit!" we both hissed at once, and sprang apart, as if the other were suddenly radioactive. I was better off than my poor semi-boyfriend; I was, after all, totally clothed, even if my dolphin shorts were now plastered to my sopping wet cunt. While my boy struggled to zip up his jeans without castrating himself, I just hopped from sneakered foot to sneakered foot, plucking at my camel toe, and watching Coach C. stomp toward us, ducking his head to navigate the underside of the bleachers.
"Y'all got no business being under here," Coach said, glaring at both of us but mostly at my boy, whose jeans were now zipped but whose cock bulge jutted across his hip at a painful angle. "What were you up to?" he demanded of us, as if it weren't just as obvious as the boy's cock and my nipples. "Not dealing drugs, I hope?"
"No, sir!" we both squeaked, me because I was terrified of going to prison and him probably because of his constricted hard-on.
"Uh-huh," Coach said, hands on hips, as he looked from the boy to me and back again.
Coach C. was not one of my coaches, but ours was a small school, so of course I knew him. He was (and is) your basic big, muscled, bullet-headed tough guy of uncertain age. I always had found him cute, in part because of his easygoing manner. He joked with everyone and carried his 6-foot-5 bulk lightly and gracefully, at least in the corridors and classrooms and at dances. He had a Dwayne Johnson sort of vibe. The look he gave me was much more sympathetic, sort of a mix of disgust and sympathy, than the look of hatred he gave Piano Boy.
He barked Piano Boy's name and said, "Get lost."
"Yes, sir," Piano Boy said, and fled at a run, his flannels flapping behind him. He didn't even look back.
Coach shook his head, turned to me, and said, "See how much he's worth? He didn't even take up for you."
I said nothing, just bit my lip and looked at the ground.
Coach sighed and said, "Gonna give you the Speech now." He reminded me of all that I had going for me and all the hopes my family had for me and how close I was to graduation and how foolish I would be to throw it all away and to be led astray by lowlifes who didn't deserve me and were just trying to take advantage of my innocence, yadda yadda.
I wondered why the boy, too, didn't get the Speech, and I reflected ruefully that if anything, I was LESS innocent than the poor scared-shitless guy whose precum was at that moment a dried film on my hand - but I said nothing.
Finally Coach sighed again and said, "End of speech. You hear me, Jean?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"OK, then," he said. "Won't write you up this time. You can go on home."
I cleared my throat. "Um, Coach? I think my ride, uh, already left."
I pointed with my precum hand in the direction my boy had gone. Coach looked embarrassed.
"Oh," Coach said. "Oh, OK. Well, don't worry. I can give you a ride home."
For a few paces, the silence was awkward, until he started asking me about school stuff, and we fell into something resembling a normal conversation. For me, it wasn't quite normal for several reasons.
Two of them were my nipples, which still were standing at attention; I was acutely aware of the T-shirt fabric rubbing across them, stimulating them, keeping them erect and hopeful.
Also, I was still wet as a swamp inside my shorts, and this was increasingly evident as I walked fast, trying to keep up with the coach, and anyone who was looking would have seen that my shorts weren't moving the way shorts normally would move at that pace. They were retreating into my cunt.
This didn't help me get any less horny. In fact, I felt like I was on fire, might cum just from climbing the stone stairs to the parking lot, so overstimulated were all my princess parts.
And as I glanced nervously sideways, trying to evaluate whether Coach C. had noticed any of this, I convinced myself that he had at least a half-mast hard-on inside his khaki shorts. There was definitely a package lurching around in there, and the package, as I glanced at it, was getting bigger.
How long, I wondered, had Coach watched us beneath the bleachers, before he said something?
Finally we reached Coach's tank-sized SUV, all alone in the far corner of the mostly deserted lot (he had parked across three spaces), and I was greatly relieved to slide into the front passenger seat and stop all that walking, though my shorts slid up farther than propriety might have dictated. I didn't dare try to adjust them, though.
As Coach C. asked me for directions and steered expertly onto the highway, I glanced at his lap and saw his package was bigger than ever, like the guy had some sort of mail-order military flashlight pushing up the front of his khakis. I stared at the summit and tried to convince myself that I was looking at a small indentation, like the dimple of the piss slit at the end of a prick.
"That guy your boyfriend?" asked the dimple's owner, and I hastily looked away and out the window.
"Just a friend," I said.
"Friends are great," Coach C. said, "but you have to be careful."
A brief silence fell.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No, sir," I replied, thinking, not like you mean, I don't.
"You go out much? I mean, are you dating?"
And from there, all his questions, all our conversation, was basically about my social life - indeed, about my sex life, though he was too polite (and too smart) to say so explicitly. This looks creepier, as I type it, than it seemed at the time. I was touched that he was taking an interest in me, and I viewed this as an extension of the sterner talking-to I got under the bleachers.
Besides, I was horny as a bitch, and Coach could have steered the fucking truck with that hundred-yard hard-on in his pants.
So I started to get ideas.
