Author's Note:
He's been her brother's football (soccer) coach for years -- always polite, always distant. Every summer, she came along on the tour, and every summer, she pushed the line a little further.
Now she's 18.
This year, she's not asking. She's taking.
A slow-burn story about power shifts, quiet dominance, and the moment everything changes.
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I told myself I was checking on the lads. Standard duty. A check-in to make sure they weren't causing trouble. But the second I stepped through the bar doors, I knew -- this wasn't about them. It wasn't about the lads. It was about her.
Same smirk. Red top. Tight jeans. And beside her -- my pint. She didn't wave. Just tapped the rim with one nail, like she'd already decided how this night would end.
I sat. Our knees brushed and stayed there. We barely spoke. Didn't need to. It was all there in the silence -- that thick, low hum between us. The way her gaze lingered on my mouth. The way I couldn't seem to look anywhere but her collarbone.
When I stood, she followed. No word, no question. Just her quiet footsteps behind mine, her heels clicking against the floor. Calm. Sure.
We didn't talk on the walk back. There was nothing to say. We both knew exactly where this was going. And maybe we'd always known. She wasn't a kid anymore. And I'd run out of reasons to keep pretending she was.
At my door, I turned.
She kissed me. No hesitation. Full mouth, whole body, pressing in like she meant to burn the hesitation right out of me. I staggered back into the wall, caught her instinctively. Her legs came up around my waist like she'd done it a hundred times. I could feel everything -- her breath hot in my mouth, her nails dragging across my neck, the heat of her through her jeans and mine. It was dizzying.
For a second, I couldn't tell if it was really happening.
Then it was all happening too fast.
I set her down and fumbled for the key. She got the door open and pulled me inside by the hand, as if it were her house, not mine. Of course, she knew the way. Every caravan here was the same.
We hit the bedroom, and the air shifted. The space felt too small. Too close.
She turned in the low light, her face unreadable. Then, without a word, she bent to undo her shoes. One. Then the other. She stood again and pulled her top off in a single, fluid motion. No nerves, no show. Bare arms, black bra, soft skin lit by the hallway glow.
I didn't move.
She looked at me, then down at the button of her jeans.
That's when I stepped forward, still not quite breathing right. I kissed her. I needed to kiss her. I needed something to hold on to while I reached for the button and started to undo it.
My hands shook. She felt it -- I know she did -- but she didn't say anything. I leaned into the kiss and pulled her hips, encouraging the denim to slide down.
I didn't want to stop kissing her. If I stopped, I might break.
The zip came down slow. The sound of it -- soft, precise -- almost louder than the thoughts crashing in my skull. I slid my fingers under the waistband and started to pull. She lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out of them like it was nothing. Like this was always going to happen.
And maybe it was. Perhaps it had been inevitable since the day I set eyes on her when she was just the sister of one of my players.
She stood there in her bra and knickers, and for a second, all I could do was look at her. Not in the way I had when she was younger, full of questions and danger, but as a woman. A whole woman. Wanting me. Choosing me.
I swallowed.
She smiled a cheeky grin and reached for my belt.
Steady fingers, unhurried and sure. No rush. No performance. Quietly confident, like she'd known exactly how this would go the moment I walked into that bar.
I caught her wrist. Not to stop her, not really to pause. To remind myself, I could.
She looked up at me. Not annoyed. Not scared. Just... waiting. Her pulse was visible in her throat. She didn't say a word.
I let go.
She placed one hand on my stomach and pushed. It wasn't hard, but it was decisive. I let her; I allowed myself to tip back and land on the mattress with a soft thud.
She climbed on top of me carefully, straddling my hips, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side. Her hair had come loose and fell in front of her face, casting her in shadows. She didn't kiss me again. Not yet. She let her hands travel over my chest, along my ribs, down to the edge of my shirt.
She slipped her fingers beneath the fabric and pushed it up. I lifted my arms so she could peel it off. She sat back, looking down at me, and bit the corner of her lip. That lip -- that mouth -- had no business on an eighteen-year-old. But it wasn't about age now. Not anymore.
She leaned forward and kissed my collarbone. Just that. A soft press of lips against skin.
I felt it like a shot of heat right down my spine to my cock.
Then one more, just beneath my jaw. And another, measured, precise, over my chest. Her mouth moved like she needed to remember every taste. As she had envisioned it countless times, she now needed to bring it to life. Her breath was warm and trembling, yet her hands remained steady. Intent.
Mine were still at my sides. I didn't know what to do with them.
Reading my mind, she took my hands and placed them on her waist.
The way she said it -- soft, but sure -- it wrecked me. As my hands touched her soft warm skin more blood rushed to my cock, I was sure she could feel it getting harder.
I allowed my thumbs to glide along the waistband of her knickers, not descending any lower, simply savouring the moment. Being present. She leaned in to kiss me, her breath warm, her hands steady, her hair brushing against my face, and at last, finally, kissed me once more.
This time it was different. Deeper. Slower. Less hungry, more certain. Like we'd crossed into something neither of us could take back.
As she pulled away, I found myself breathless.
A spark appeared in her eyes, sharper than before. It felt as if she had chosen her next step and was merely executing it.
She shifted her weight, sliding back along my thighs. I felt the change immediately -- the cool air between us, the ache of where she had been. My hands slipped from her hips, but I didn't stop her. I watched.
She moved with intention, her fingers trailing down my stomach, slow enough to make me forget how to breathe.
When she reached the edge of my boxers, she paused. Just a breath. Just long enough to make sure I was watching her, really watching. Then she dipped her fingers beneath the waistband, gentle and unhurried, until she found my hard cock. The one she had told me had been the centre of her fantasies for many years.
I twitched under her touch. God. Her hand was warm, soft, so confident. How was she this confident? How was she seducing me? How was she in control of this?
She pulled me free, the heat of her mouth already making it impossible to think. Her eyes flicked up to mine, a look that told me she knew what she was about to do. She knew she was going to wreck me. The way she looked up -- calm, almost smug -- told me she was taking me apart one breath at a time.
I wasn't guiding this. I was being guided.
Every motion of her mouth was deliberate, as if she was reading a map she'd memorised years ago -- and now, she was tracing it with her tongue.
Her lips brushed the head, tender and electric. Barely a kiss. And still -- it hit like lightning. I swallowed hard and let my head fall back, my hands tightening on the sheets. I could feel everything. Every warm breath. Every slow inch of her. The careful way her mouth moved, learning me.
I wanted to move, to thrust my hips, but I couldn't. I was frozen.
She had the control.
This wasn't a performance. It wasn't about proving anything. It was personal -- her pace, her rhythm, the slight hum in her throat like she'd finally gotten something she'd waited for.
I couldn't take my eyes off her.
The way she moved -- head down, lips parting around me -- like this wasn't her first time doing it, but the first time it ever meant something. Like she was claiming me.
And Christ, the way it felt. Warm. Wet. Tight. Too much.
I gripped the sheets harder, trying not to buck my hips, trying not to lose control. But my body had its own ideas. Every flick of her tongue, every slow pull of her mouth sent another wave of pressure building low in my gut. I could feel the edge creeping closer, fast, too fast.
Jesus. I can't...