The Warped And Wicked Gym Coach Ch 02

The fall semester was brutal -- Jacob had three AP courses, two volunteer gigs, and he helped out his mother at the pharmacy on Saturdays. Sunday naturally was church and family. He had zero free time. He had organized his weekdays as such:

4:30 -- Wake up

4:45 -- Jogging

5:30 -- Shower, Get dressed

6:00 -- Breakfast

6:30 -- Bible reading

7:00 -- National Honor Society

7:20 -- School

14:45 -- Basketball

16:00 -- TeenLife

18:30 -- Dinner

19:00 -- Homework

20:45 -- Bedtime

Jake was excelling in class, but he was worried about when basketball season started. He barely had enough time as it was to complete all his activities, and practice was exhausting. But he was determined. Someone very special to him once told him that if you focus your mind on your goals, your body will respond.

A month had passed since school started, and first period was still his favorite class. Ms. Bandy introduced them to yoga, which he thought was weird at first (and possibly akin to witchcraft), but he gradually began to like it, learning new breathing techniques that helped to calm him for the rest of the day. Aside from keeping them active, she taught them body awareness, flexibility and a positive attitude. Ever since their talk, she had treated him the same as everyone else in class, but at moments, he felt that they shared a silent look, that real bond existed between them. I respect her, he thought to himself. So much.

Unfortunately, not every class was first period, and not every teacher was Ms. Bandy. Third period was AP World History with Mr. O'Malley -- a strange, lonely alcoholic who knew a shocking amount about medieval warfare, as archaic words like 'trebuchet' and 'portcullis' rolled off his tongue with disturbing ease. History was Jacob's least favorite subject. He didn't understand the point of it; why memorize the events of the past, when the future was all that mattered? He didn't have the mind for it -- he couldn't remember names nor dates with ease, no matter how hard he tried -- and he didn't care for it. But the first major test, on the Charlemagne era, was fast approaching -- Monday afternoon -- and he felt woefully unprepared. He studied all weekend. He studied more on the way to school. His last chance was the study hall before lunch, to brush up on a few more names and dates.

The proctor, Mrs. Cauldwell, was late, and the other students were criminally distracting, throwing objects nearby and playing bass-heavy music on the room's stereo. Jacob sat in the front row, in the leftmost seat, trying to read and take notes, poorly. He was having trouble concentrating. This is the most boring thing I've ever read, he lamented to himself. God, please give me some inspiration.

"Alright, children, cut it out!" Ms. Bandy belted out. They all looked up, and froze, even the girls. Ms. Bandy stood in the doorway. Jacob realized at that moment that he had never seen her out of her unflattering navy blue jumpsuit, with her hair in a hastily done ponytail; now she looked glamorous and sultry, wearing a black skirt over her toned legs covered by sheer black hose and a tight red silk top, buttoned up. Her hair was ironed straight and long down to the tops of her breasts, and she had black, open-toed high heels on her feet. This was a level of hot that none of them ever saw up close. It was literally stunning.

"Sit down, do what you do here. And turn that radio off! I have a lot of paperwork to do. Be like Packert over there," she smiled. He rolled his eyes, but felt dizzy all of a sudden.

"What's with the get-up?" inquired Clark Holder, flirtatiously.

"Never you mind," she responded flatly.

"Where's Mrs. Cauldwell?" asked Stacey Meyer.

"Dunno," answered Ms. Bandy. "I just go where they tell me to. I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow." She walked over the the teacher's chair. No one moved; they all just stared at her. Annoyed, she looked up.

"It's study hall, so study! Take advantage, before you end up a lowly high school gym teacher," she mock-warned, and they laughed as she took her seat at the desk. She flipped her hair behind her back with both hands and picked up her notebook and pen.

Great, thought Jacob. The ultimate distraction. He closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate, reopened them, and began to work again.

Fifteen minutes went by. He was reading the same page as when she walked in, something about the Merovingian dynasty. He looked up. Her legs, shining in the black sheer, were crossed under the desk, leaning to one side, and she chewed on the end of her pen as she wrinkled her forehead with the cutest look of confusion there ever was, and as her hand pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. He returned to the book. Clovis the First, son of Childeric, united all of Gaul, present-day France. She uncrossed her legs, knees together, then slightly parted as she grew distracted by her work. Her thighs had perfect heft in the middle, and he could see that the hose were the old-fashioned kind, with a lacy top, attached with garter straps. Above the lace tops, he could make out the skin of her milky white thighs. He used his hand to try and obscure his gaze, as he focused in between. Ashamed, he returned his eyes to Clovis. Concentrate, he thought. No more sin.

Fifteen more minutes passed. He hadn't even gotten to Charlemagne yet. He looked up; her legs were crossed once more. He looked back down to the textbook and skipped a few pages ahead. "Packert, come here please," he heard from the front of the room. Ms. Bandy was smiling brightly at him.

"Sure," he responded. He approached her desk, and bent down a bit. She remained seated and looked up at him. "I'm gonna need you to run something to the dean's office, is that okay? Are you busy?"

He had fifteen minutes left to learn all about the early Middle Ages. "No, I'm good. What's up?"

"Hang on, let me finish filling this out." She started scribbling in an official form. He stood by her side, lazily looking around the room, then down again. His eyes pulled involuntarily to her. He noticed her neckline; a button had come undone, and her shirt fell open. Her décolletage, from a bird's-eye view, was completely visible. Had her blouse been this open when she walked in? He tried to focus his eyes back to the form she filled out, but it was as futile as reading medieval history.

He could see where her bra began and ended. As she wrote, her chest jiggled some, heaved as she breathed, and moved back and forth. There was separation of her breast from her bra cup. He craned his neck to the left, just a little, hoping his actions weren't noticeable. He could see a bit more -- the inner curve of the breasts, and a tan line; even though her uncovered skin seemed so white, it was whiter still down there. He held his breath.

She shifted in her chair as she wrote faster, opening her arms wider at her desk, bending over more. He had a direct view downward; he could make out a reddish semi-circle, along with a puffy bit of pinkish skin. The whole of her right breast seemed to be visible to him. Spellbound, he couldn't move or stop staring. It was beautiful.

She stopped writing and turned her head upwards, quickly, and opened her mouth as if to speak with him. But her eyes seemed to understand what was happening and glazed over. She straightened up in her chair, and slowly closed her blouse with her left fingers. His eyes went down to his shoes. I think she knows, he thought with deep regret. She saw me looking.

"Packert," she snapped. He reluctantly met her gaze. It was intense. "Take this to Dean Bluffton, and tell him I apologize for the delay." She curtly smiled, then didn't.

"Sure," he said. He couldn't move.

"Can I help you with anything else?" He shook his head.

"Okay then." She was smiling again, but she had not let go of her blouse. He took the paper from her and hurried out the door.

When he returned to the class, Ms. Bandy looked up from her work, and politely smiled at him. He noticed that her blouse had been buttoned back up to the top. He sat back down, and opened his book, as the alarm began to sound.

"Okay, y'all! See you in gym class!" Ms. Bandy waved as the students sprinted past, and she returned to her work.

Jacob packed up his books, and was the last to leave. "Bye, Ms. Bandy," he said nervously.

"Good-bye, Jacob," she said without looking up.

***

It had been a difficult week. Jacob hadn't done as poorly on the test as he had feared, but he hadn't aced it either. He was in danger of getting a B in the class, which he found utterly unsatisfactory. His increased studying led to fatigue, and he felt sluggish at basketball practice. His volunteer work was becoming irritable to him, and his mother had scolded him for inattention at the job. He was crestfallen. The stress of trying to do everything he wanted and to do it well -- everything he needed to do in order to meet his goal of personal excellence -- was breaking him down. He prayed that Monday morning for strength, for patience, and for the faith in God to be help him become successful, loved, and happy.

He remembered his swim trunks. Ms. Bandy had told them on Friday that Monday was going to be a special class, at that for the next week they were going to practice swimming in the indoor pool. He wanted to please her; he felt she was disappointed in him. Since the incident in study hall, she had acted differently toward him. Cooler. She was pleasant enough -- she was always pleasant -- but he felt that their bond, their unspoken something, had been damaged, maybe broken. He desperately hoped not. He did respect her. He wanted her to know that he did. She was not just an object of desire for him. She had meant so much more to him.

He arrived early to the pool, wearing his pool trunks, which went to the knees. The indoor pool was humid, and had a dank smell of mold and chlorine. The bright white tiles and the florescent lighting made him feel somewhat ill this early in the day. He sat at the edge of the Olympic-sized pool, and stuck his legs in the water. It was chilly for a heated pool.

"Morning, Jacob!" he heard from behind. He turned to see Ms. Bandy, wearing a white swim cap and a black one-piece swimsuit, walking toward him, carrying a stack of differently colored kickboards. Her legs, my gosh, her legs, he thought. He blinked and forced himself to look her in the eye. "Morning, Ms. Bandy!" he said, as cheerfully as he could. Her full breasts stretched the suit to the sides, held up by two thin straps, the legs exposed to the hips; between her legs, the suit formed a black vee. In the eye, he repeated to himself. Your sister in Christ.

She put down the kickboards. "Whatcha wearin'?" she said inquisitively.

"Uh, my bathing suit," he stated.

"We're all wearing school swimsuits today. We're practicing competitive swimming, not going surfing," she joked. "Didn't you request a pair on Friday?"

"What do you mean?"

"I passed around a sheet so that everyone could request their size," she said.

"What? When?"

She shrugged her shoulders innocently. "Uh, in class? You were there," He thought back to Friday. He was the first one there and the last to leave. He only went to the bathroom once . . .

"Uh, no I wasn't."

"Hm," she uttered.

"Well, when were we supposed to get them?"

"They're handing out suits and goggles and caps at the pool office. Everyone's probably picking them up right now. You better go get 'em!" she smiled. He leaped out of the pool. "No running!" she yelled out after him.

He fast walked to the locker room, put on his gym shirt, and ran to the office. There was a line of students that ended at the office door; he seemed to be the last one there. The girls were receiving black Olympic-style suits, with an open back and medium leg length; the boys' suits were blue Lycra, and went down to above the knee, like boxer briefs. Jeez, he thought. That is . . . revealing.

After about three minutes or so, he made it to the office window. Miss Grainger worked the office, wearing old lady glasses around her neck with a chain, a gray blouse, blue Dickeys, and a pencil behind her ear. She sat at the window, clipboard in hand.

"Name," she barked.

"Jacob Packert."

She studied the list. "I don't see no Packert."

"I didn't fill out the sheet," he said.

"Hmph," she muttered. "Size?"

"Uh, 32 waist."

"Hang on," she said, and she got up, and went behind the window and out of view. He heard what sounded like cardboard boxes being thrown about. She returned a moment later, with what looked like a dish rag. He held it up -- it was an old-style suit, bright yellow, cut like small underwear, no legs, up to the crotch.

He looked aghast. "What is this?" he demanded.

"A Speedo," she remarked bluntly.

"What about the other suits?"

"We don't have them in a 32," she responded with annoyance.

"Well, give me a 33 then."

"We don't have anything bigger than a 28 left," she said. He thought for a second. That was not going to work. He looked at the tag inside. "Hey, this says it's a 31."

She took them back from them, and put her glasses to her eyes. "That's right," she said. "Only thing bigger than a 28." He didn't have a response. "Here, take your goggles."

"Thanks," he murmured. He took the gear, and walked slowly to the locker room, trying to suppress his anger. "For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God," he said to himself aloud. He should have been told, yes. He should have been allowed to be prepared. He should not have to wear the least modest swimsuit in front of all the boys and girls in his class. But it had happened. He had to deal with it, as uprightly as he could. It was an honest mistake, he thought. Ms. Bandy wasn't trying to intentionally humiliate him, although this was getting to be a habit. She couldn't want that. In fact, he was sure that, given the circumstances, she'd allow him to wear his trunks today, provided he could order the proper suit for tomorrow.

He came back to the pool as the others were changing, yellow suit in hand, and approached Ms. Bandy. "Oh, goody! You got one," she said.

"Uh, yeah, it's not gonna work," he replied.

She frowned. "Why not?"

He held it up. "Uh-huh?" she spoke, confused.

"I mean, look at them," he said, as if it was obvious. "I can't wear these. Everyone else has suits with legs! Besides, they're a size too small!"

She smirked, rolled her eyes, and shook her head, as if to stress how irrational he was being. "They'll stretch. 'Sides, what do you think students wore before the new ones? Those are what boys wore when I went to school. Those'll be fine."

"They're not fine," he said. "I can just wear my trunks today."

"Uh, no you cannot," she said. "This is competitive swimming. Put the other one on."

He glared at her. This was the angriest he had ever been at anyone in a long time. He hated her right now. She glared right back, with a look of incredulity.

"Are you disobeying me right now?" He buckled, and looked down. He never disobeyed an authority figure. She looked so angry, too. It hurt.

"No," he glumly let out.

She remained firm. "Good. Now get changed. Now."

As Jacob entered the changing room, the other boys were exiting, and by the time he got to the benches, the last boy had left. He was alone, at least for now. Still, he wrapped his towel around his waist, in case someone entered, and took off his red swim trunks. He picked up the yellow suit, and put one leg through. The second leg was a challenge, and he hopped around some; as he brought them up to his buttocks, they began to roll up. He managed to straighten them out, and pulled them over his junk, then lifted them from behind. They felt very tight; he pulled them up as high as he could. He took off the towel, and walked over to the mirror.

"Oh, no way," he blurted out. This was a nightmare. He looked practically naked. He could make out the whole shape of his penis, and the yellow color almost matched his skin tone. His butt was squeezed into the Speedo, practically bursting out. How could he go out like this? Though if he did not, he would be directly disobeying a teacher, and Ms. Bandy at that. He could have to go to the principal. They might call his parents! Any of those options were unthinkable to him.

He suddenly knew what to do -- he'd wear the towel to the pool, jump in quickly, and leave last. It was the best option he had. He grabbed the goggles, and wrapped the towel around again, then headed out the door.

The kids were already in the water, doing laps. Great, I'm late as well, he thought. Ms. Bandy, was standing by the edge of the pool, coaching the swimmers and yelling words of encouragement. "Kick, Meagan, kick while you swim! Alright, Sammy, looking good! Breathe, y'all, breathe! Last one, come on, Meg! Kick! Alright, and stop! Great job, everybody. Hey! Packert! Towels on the bleachers, and hurry up! You're doggin' it!"

Everyone was hanging off the side of the pool, and their heads all turned toward him. His heart began to explode. "I --" He had nothing to say. He walked over to the bleacher, and looked over his shoulder. He could feel them all looking at him. He took off the towel.

Bursts of laughter erupted from the water. He covered himself as best as he could, hurriedly walking to the pool. He could see the girls covering their mouths as they laughed, looking at each other. The boys laughed loudest, and someone dog-whistled. "Grow up," he yelled back, and jumped in the nearest lane.

"Cut it out, children!" added Ms. Bandy, "I don't want to hear another peep! If you can laugh, you can swim harder! Alright, get set! Butterfly, two hundreds! Ready! And -- go!"

He swam as hard as he could, fueled by rage. With his head under water, his thoughts rang even clearer. Is she doing this on purpose? he now wondered. Is she trying, on purpose, to embarrass me? The suit rubbed his thighs raw as he kicked, and he felt mild pain where a seam of the suit chafed his urethra. He swam on.

He beat everybody. He even won the final race -- against Ms. Bandy herself, for the right of the class to leave early. It was a small but happy vindication.

"Great job, Packert! I'm impressed! Alright, that's it for class today, folks! Thanks to Packert, you're out ten minutes early! Take a shower!" They cheered and began to hop out of the pool. Jacob decided to get out last. "Except for you, Packert!" she laughed. "You missed the first few laps, and now you're gonna make 'em up! Four hundred breaststroke! Get set!"

You gotta be kidding me, he thought. She really had it out for him today.

"And -- go!" He went.

As he bobbed up and down, in the steady flow of breaststroke, he began to meditate upon the day. She said she was impressed by him; she said 'great job.' She wasn't picking on him. She was helping him, he realized. Just like she said she would. Hadn't she told him that she was going to test his mind and his body? To help him to manage his desires, to act with intention, to resist wicked temptation? To be good and righteous. She's helping me to become great, he thought. Gratitude washed over him, as he entered into the final lap. He wasn't angry any more, far from it. He owed her a great big thanks. He hit the wall, and looked up for her. She wasn't there. He looked around the pool, and he saw that he was alone.

Jake got out and grabbed his towel, which he immediately used to cover himself, and he went inside the locker room. Strange that she would leave him like that, he thought. As he entered, Jacob could hear the others hollering and laughing in the changing section. Hm, he considered. Better to wait this out. He stood by the entrance, as the echos of the boys' noises lessened, dimmed, and finally stopped.