Holly sat motionless in his passenger seat, looking straight ahead. "Oh," was all she said. Her eyes filled with tears. Jake looked at the floor of his truck, staring at a dirty receipt in the corner behind the gas pedal. Snow fell on the windshield, making it darker and darker inside the cab.
"I'm so sorry, Holly, I just . . . can't concentrate on anything else but basketball. I can't handle this, not now. I -- I had a great time over Christmas, I really did --" he said earnestly, deeply wishing he wasn't doing this.
"It's -- it's okay," she sniffed. "I get it. We weren't supposed to be dating anyway." At this she began to cry. He hesitated, then put his hand on her shoulder. "No, I'm fine," she said, brushing his hand away. "I gotta go."
"Bye, Holly," he spoke in a soft voice. "I'll see you tomorrow?" She nodded, and left the car. He remained there sinking in his chair, for a moment, and then started the truck again, pulling away from her house, thinking the winter snow would bury him and the world would swallow him whole.
The world did not end that day, however, and winter went on. He focused all of his energy on basketball. The Franklin Academy entered the postseason with a one-loss record, and continued their dominant streak, led by their star captain, Jacob Packert. The whole team was playing at their top level, like "a well-oiled machine," according to Coach Mullinax, as quoted in the Clarksburg Post. But anyone who watched a game knew that Jacob made his team better just by stepping on the court. They massacred the Flemington Prep Tigers in the first round, and handily beat the Fayetteville Day School 65-60 in the semis, in a game that was not as close as the score suggested. They were on course for a final match-up with Charleston Catholic, to be held in the University of West Virginia basketball stadium in Morgantown, holding a capacity of fourteen thousand fans.
Ms. Bandy had traveled with the team, acting as an equipment manager, as well as personal coach to Jake in the evenings before the games. Two hours before tip-off, they would escape to her hotel room. Before the first round, she had blindfolded him again, and made him lick her clitoris while she gave him a blow job; on the day of the semi-final, she hog-tied him in plastic cuffs and milked his prostate. Each session had its own flavor, its own vibration, but the themes maintained: she stripped him, manhandled him, hurt him, and brought him to orgasm, while she remained clothed -- sometimes provocatively, other times not -- and in full control. He still enjoyed the attention, but the lack of total fulfillment was maddening, like a rat gnawing away at his guts. He wanted more. Jake reasoned that if he were successful, she would love him, and give him what he needed. Finally having sex with her became his life's sole compulsion, and winning the finals was now a means to an end.
The team drove to Morgantown in a fancy bus and stayed at a Holiday Inn near the university on the Friday before the big game. Half of the school had come as well; everyone had jumped aboard the bandwagon, and the whole of Franklin reveled in the winning spirit that basketball had brought them. Jake was rooming with Will Wilson, who had befriended him, despite their personality differences. "Hey, you want some pop? I'm gonna get a can of Coke," Jake offered his roommate.
"Sure, man. Get me a Sprite," Will answered from his bed, flipping through channels on the television. Jake took his wallet and stepped out of the room; coming down the hall was Holly Morgan.
"Oh, hey," Jake said, giving her a little wave.
"Hi, Jake," Holly replied. She looked beautiful: her hair fell down around her shoulders, a simple white tank top accentuated her heavy breasts, and tight jeans hugged her solid thighs and hips. She was wearing an earthy red hue of lipstick, which she normally didn't use but which suited her. His heart fluttered as she smiled kindly with her blue eyes shining happily.
"I'm glad you came," he said, and he meant it. He had missed her, and the fun they had had together. He missed the look in her eye as he came off the court victorious. He even missed her innocent kisses and demure protestations. Seeing her here, looking so pretty, immediately transported him to the day he sat in the truck, watching the snow fall as he broke her heart.
"You bet," she smiled. "You better come and see me play tennis when all this is over. You're not the only one having a good year, you know."
Jake laughed. He imagined her in a tennis top and a short white skirt, her sexy legs and arms sweating from the heat . . . "Wouldn't miss it," he smiled back. "Listen, I'm getting me and Will some pop . . ."
"Yeah, I'm on my way to Michelle Mueller's room anyway. See you tomorrow!" she said, as she took a few steps, before stopping again, and turning around. "Hey . . . Jake . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Good luck," she told him.
"Thanks," he said and blinked. She smiled one more time, and walked away.
***
Jake knocked on Room 2447. Ms. Bandy -- Trish, he called her now -- opened the door in a white terry cloth bathrobe. "Hey you," she cooed and grabbed him by the shirt. She led him over to her queen-sized bed, clutching his t-shirt, and pushed him onto the covers. Unlacing his left shoe, then his right, she took them and his socks off; she loosened his jeans, lowered his zipper, and tugged at the legs until they fell to the floor. Trish took his hands, and pulled him up to seated; then she took the sleeves of his sweatshirt and pulled until both it and his undershirt came off, mussing his hair. With her palm on his chest, she shoved him back onto the bed.
She opened her bathrobe up, wearing only a black lace bra and panty set, sheer yet not quite see-through, and let it drop to the carpet; then, straddling him, the softness between her legs pressed up against his erect member, pushing precum out of his tip. "How does it feel to be so close to everything you ever wanted?" she asked, while grabbing his wrists, holding them against the mattress over his head as she rocked forward and backward, sliding his cock between her lips, underwear on underwear.
"I want it," he panted. "I want it so bad."
"It's coming, Jake. Everything," Trish grunted, dry humping him faster. She leaned down, licking his face, sucking his right ear. She sat up, still grinding into his dick, pinching both of his nipples in her fingers. "You're gonna be a star, baby."
"That's not all I want," he said as he grabbed her by the sides. He flipped her onto her back, her hair tossed onto her face. She looked bewildered and savage. He cradled her in his arms, slipping between her warm, firm thighs. Surprised, she tittered nervously. "I want you."
She reached down into his shorts. "I know, sweetie," she said as she began to stroke him. "But that's not what this is . . . I'm still your teacher." She gripped his cock, taking it out, and rubbing it against her crotch. "Oh, but I love the way your cock feels on my clit, Jake . . . oh . . ." Jake, feeling bolder than ever before, reached over and touched the front of her bra, rubbing it through the lace, eliciting a moan from Ms. Trisha Bandy. He held it and felt the weight of her breast in the palm of his hand, and he decided right then and there that it was the single best thing in the entire world.
"I'm your teacher, baby," she repeated, brushing his hand away. "You can't touch my boobies!" She pretended to appear shocked and offended as his hand returned, squeezing her. She pulled away, lowering herself, and removed his shorts, flinging them idly over her shoulder.
"I want you so bad," Jake growled, grabbing her ass with his other hand, pulling her into him. His hand slid into her crack, feeling the heat radiating from her. He kissed her on the mouth, on the neck, licking her shoulder, and sucking on her earlobe. "Put it in you."
"What are you saying, Jake?" she continued her farce of outrage and indignation, as she jerked his cock harder.
"I want to put it inside your pussy."
"Put what? What, Jake?"
