I've always enjoyed coaching. I had worked at a small, private college for a few years, overseeing the women's softball program. It was a good position: the team was good enough to be competitive, but not so good that the students were obnoxious: the atmosphere was one of intense, collaborative fun.
I had been a little nervous starting the job: I was only a few years out of college myself, and the prospect of spending all my time around athletic young women raised some fantasies that I knew were wildly inappropriate. But I found quickly that they were easy enough to dispel. I had friendly, professional relationships with the girls, and directed my sexual energy towards women at bars or dating apps; women who weren't off limits.
Of course, equilibriums never last. The athletic facilities on campus were being renovated; Specifically, the men's locker room was being renovated, which meant that both genders were using what was ordinarily the women's locker room. There were schedules of course, posted liberally around the area, describing the strict times after which the women were supposed to be out, schedules that I usually buffered by a good hour to avoid any sort of accidental indecency. And, we were at a point in the athletic schedule where the women's softball team was the only sport active, which simplified things: I just had to wait a few hours after practice to freshen up before I went home for the day, time that gave me a chance to catch up on paperwork and prepare for the next day.
Of course, fantasies abounded, but, again, I was able to suppress them after a few weeks, and settle into a comfortable routine, largely forgetting that, at the end of the day, the showers I were using had been full of wet, naked college students hours before.
Until, of course, everything changed.
I stood there enjoying the warm water running down my body, feeling it wash away the grime and sweat of the day. I was shampooing my hair, eyes closed, when I heard someone padding into the showers behind me. I froze, unwilling to turn and look with shampoo running down my face, but I heard the unknown person walking across the wet floor and standing stationery next to me. The shower next to me hissed on, and the splatter of water running off their body joined mine on the tiled floor.
I continued rinsing my hair long after it was necessary, reluctant to open my eyes and face the embarrassing question of if one of my students had now seen me naked and brazenly chosen to shower next to me. But, finally, I did, turned, opened my eyes, and found myself staring at one of my pitchers: a wet, naked Michelle, with a teasing half smile on her face. "Hi, coach," she said, giving me a little wave.
I tried desperately to keep my eyes on her face. Her long brown hair was wet and pulled back in a tail down her back, and her elfen face was flushed from the heat of the shower. She still had that smirk on, and a light in her eyes that made it obvious she was enjoying my discomfort. As hard as I tried not to notice, I could see her two plum sized breasts, sitting perkily on her slender frame, her nipples small and hard, water hitting her chest and running down between them.
"Michelle, what are you doing here?" I tried my best to mask my embarrassment with disapproval. "You know you girls are supposed to be out of here by 5 so I can use the showers while the men's locker room is under renovation."
She shrugged carelessly, her thin shoulder coming to a point. "I stayed late to hit a few more balls. But being naked around you doesn't bother me. I manage to do it with the other girls all the time. And I've seen naked men plenty of times. So what's the harm?" She had an affected look of fake innocence, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised questioningly.
I was having trouble maintaining an authoritative air as my face reddened and my cock started to stiffen. "I'm your coach, is the harm! I'm not supposed to see you naked!"
She pouted. "We're both adults, aren't we? And you're hardly older than I am. Are you saying I gross you out?"
I couldn't help it. I used the half invitation to run my eyes down her body, taking in the thin, toned stomach, the delicate strength of her arms, her thin waist, and her half hidden cunt, a small tuft of brown hair above it. Her face and skin were wet and glistening, trails of water running down her slender frame, accentuating her petite curves. I stared at her cunt, tuft of hair wet, warm water streaming down her muscular thighs.
She laughed. "Okay, obviously I'm not gross. Like what you see, coach?" She opened her legs, allowing me to see her cunt, labia poking out.
"No, Michelle, you're not gross. But this still isn't acceptable behavior."
"Really?" She asked, "I think it could be helpful. Maybe you could look at some of my muscle groups in closer detail." She turned, and stuck out her tight, athletic ass. "I'm concerned my glutes aren't even. Could that mess up my swing?"
I shook my head, and desperately tried to avoid drooling as I stared at her displayed ass, bent forward enough to open her cheeks slightly, and show off her asshole, and flushed cunt underneath. She wiggled it slightly. "I'm not sure if you'd be able to tell just by looking, coach. You might have to do it by feel."
I closed my eyes tight, and put a hand over my face, trying to recover my composure. "Michelle. We both know there's nothing wrong with your glutes."
"You're saying my ass is perfect?! Thank you, coach!"
"That's not..."
Her hands were on my cock. My eyes snapped open, and I was looking at Michelle on her knees in front of me, both hands wrapped around my sizable cock. "What the fuck are you doing?"
She looked up at me with the same look of affected innocence, green eyes sparkling, water on her face. "I'm having so much trouble with my swing," she said, "I'm wondering if it's my grip." She squeezed my cock gently with both of her hands. "And since this rod of yours is just about the size of a bat handle, I figured I could test out some different ones. And maybe", she said, running her right hand gently up my shaft and back down, water running over us, "the tactile feedback can help you give me pointers."
I knew this was wrong, but the feeling of her delicate hands on my cock, her lithe body kneeling in front of me, water running down her small breasts and back, sluicing down the bend of her spine between her toned ass, felt perfect, like she had been designed for me. Still, I tried one more time. "That's not how you hold a bat, Michelle."
She pretended to be puzzled. "Isn't it? I admit, usually we're using aluminum, and this is clearly wood, but it seems incredibly natural." She started stroking my cock, keeping her left hand stationary, squeezing the base of my shaft. "I think I need to work on my grip. Is this too hard or too soft? To hold a bat with, I mean."
I was desperately trying to avoid showing any reaction, unable to stop her, but aware that if I let the 22 year old minx in front of me know that she was giving me the best hand job I'd ever received, she'd have me by the balls metaphorically as well as literally. "It's great," I managed to croak out, trying to sound authoritative. "But only because my di--er, the bat, is so wet."
She nodded solemnly. "Coach, you know I always take weather conditions into account. My playfield, for example, is incredibly slick right now. If you saw it you'd realize how dangerous it is. Not many people can perform to their full potential on it. But I think you probably could."
I shook my head. "My playing days are done."
