And apparently, it wasn’t subtle. The coach had taken one look at me during tryouts and muttered something about “potential,” which I’m pretty now was just code for “we need warm bodies.”
The first practice was a wake-up call. His hands were broad, calloused from years of practice and lifting weights, but they moved with a surprising gentleness as he lathered me up. And then there was his low hanging dick, bigger than any I had seen in person. My eyes darted back to my chest, but the damage was done. Pressure. “Ignore them,” Jake said, still scrubbing. I wanted to protest, to stop him, but my body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving more. I learned a new sense of pleasure. My brain was glitching, caught between panic and other nerves as he washed my hairless globes.
