It wasn't my choice, standing here with my heart thumping. Trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I felt Coach's hands move from my ribcage up to my breasts. Those hands were foreign, not my own. They kneaded my breasts through my shirt, pinched my nipples. The hands moved to my shoulders, where the fingers stretched to my collarbone and stroked my trembling neck.
As Coach grabbed a handful of my long, thick black hair and yanked my head back, my mind flashed over the events that led up to this situation.
I had just finished track practice and went back to the locker room to change only to discover the doors were locked. At eighteen years old, I was a senior on the girls varsity long distance team and good race times meant extra hours on the track. It was often just me and Coach walking in at 5 p.m., and we'd always had a healthy rapport until tonight. Finding the locker room doors locked, I knocked at his office to see if he'd let me borrow the space to change.
"Sure, come on in, Becks. Those janitors are morons--they know we always stay til five. Take your time, I'll just call my wife and tell her I'm running a little late today."
"Thanks so much, Coach. It's too cold outside to go home in my practice clothes!"
As he waited in the hallway, I quickly stripped down and rummaged in my bag for street clothes. Suddenly, a glint caught the corner of my eye. My heart stopped as I looked up to find what appeared to be the lens of a camera directed at me, partially hidden in sports equipment that was piled in the corner of his office. The red recording light was on.
What the fuck.
The discovery of the camera left me feeling shocked and violated. My brother and I had grown up in a very sheltered household. Uncertain what to do, nervousness set in when I heard Coach's voice talking on the phone in the hallway.
He'd always seemed so nice. That prick. How dare he?
Half-dressed and confused about Coach's intentions, I quickly debated my options. I dressed swiftly, then shakily picked up the phone on his desk. As I began dialing the cops, a knock loudly shook the door. Nearing a panic, I fought it down and answered, "Yes?"
Teasingly Coach called out, "You pass out in there, Becks? What's taking you so long?"
"N-nothing. Almost done."
Hurriedly, I slammed the phone down without meaning to. Hearing the noise, he barged in. Caught with my hand on the phone, Coach turned his gaze to my face, his once friendly eyes now tinged with a creepy menace. Chills went down my back. Taking stock of my flushed cheeks and translucent, after-workout glow, he slowly and deliberately closed and locked the door behind him. Trapped in this confined space, my breathing grew rapid. My thin 5'4" frame was no match for his 6' muscular build. Never having so much as kissed a boy, I was a late bloomer, and as he approached me, I felt a sickening dread in the pit of my stomach.
"Rebecca, who were you calling?"
Why is he using my full name?
Summoning my courage, I confronted him, "C-coach, what the hell is that camera doing over there?"
He chuckled softly, menacingly, "Oh Rebecca, what do you think it's for? Do you really think the janitors would lock up so early without someone telling them to?"
As he slowly drew nearer, I kept backing up until I hit the wall. My clammy hands pressed against the wooden paneling.
Tanned from hours spent outdoors, Coach wasn't a bad looking guy, in a five-o'clock-shadow kind of way. I knew from our runs that his broad chest was dusted with golden hair, lighter than the chestnut brown on his head. His hands were strong and deft, but I didn't want them touching me now, not like this: alone in an empty building, with no one to hear me cry out.
One hand suddenly went up to my throat, pinning me to the wall, his hazel eyes piercing my large, dark brown ones. Suddenly my red plaid shirt and skinny indigo jeans felt uncomfortable, as a prickly heat spread over my body. My breath caught in my throat and I managed to whisper, "Why are you doing this?"
"Because now that you're legal, I can," he said with a low laugh.
Then he spun me around and pulled me against his chest as his hands began to explore my breasts, my neck, my soft stomach. Yanking my hair, he pulled my entire body into a tight hold with both arms, and he lowered his head to my neck, breathing in my scent. I knew it was soft, musky, sweet. I felt the prickle of his stubble first, then the pressure of his lips behind my ear. His tongue, wet and soft.
I had never thought of Coach in this way. Had never let my mind wander into sexual territory when thinking of him. He was a figure of authority, a friendly mentor. He had a wife and family for God's sake!
But with his mouth on my neck, his body pressed against mine, and a bulge jutting into my butt through his jeans, my mind was no longer thinking rationally. As if under a spell, I inhaled his scent: sweat, sun, grass, laundry detergent from his t-shirt, something else, something intoxicating.
Unbuttoning my shirt, he drew back to peel it off me and tossed it to the floor. Then he unhooked my bra, and shame washed over me as it fell away.
This is my coach! I'm a good girl, and only an equally wholesome and caring guy should be touching me like this. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Cheeks burning, I choked back a sob. Being touched by him felt so good, but so deeply wrong at the same time.
Now bare, he massaged my breasts more roughly. Pinched the erect nipples so hard my eyes watered and my nose began to run.
"You're so hot, I've been wanting to do this for so long," he breathed into my hair.
