Paul Cutter mostly hated his job. He worked as a gym teacher and coach for St. Thomas College - an small private college outside Chicago filled with the children of the elite. Spoiled brats, he grumbled to himself as he laid cone after cone along the painted lines on the shiny floor. He somewhat enjoyed training the track and swim teams for the school; the young, eager athletes hoping to be see on television at a regional meet. It was the general health and exercise classes he hated most. Especially the all-girl class he had first thing in the morning.
Here they came now; he frowned, setting the last cone, listening to the giggling chatter. Fourteen empty-headed females with no skills and no aspirations. This was the future; he shook his head as they spilled into the gym. They were mostly blond, blue-eyed girls, a brunette and two redheads thrown in for sparkle. Mostly thin to anorexic, with one average and one chunky girl for contrast. And, God help him, all with full war-paint and cell phones clipped to their fashionable spandex.
"Line up, girls," he shouted over the din, striding to the ball cart. They paid no attention, as usual.
"Soccer! Drills!" He shouted a warning, then began to sling balls at each girl. Several caught them badly (oh the whining), but the chatter died as each girl turned towards him. "One at a time, feet only, around each cone. At the end, you can carry the damn ball back or whatever then do the line again."
Girlish whines as they shifted and arranged themselves into two lines then began the drill. All in all, once he had their attention they were fine. Until, of course, someone broke a nail.
Paul dropped onto the end of the bleachers. This was one of the few things he could appreciate about his job. Watching young girls in skin-tight spandex running. Pony-tails, curls, and breasts bounced by and he could zone out for a few minutes, study their tight little asses. Imagining bare ass cheeks. Imagining himself sliding his hands over those tight cheeks, squeezing. Imagining pumping his cock and spraying cum all over those tight cheeks.
"Coach Cutter!" A squeal broke his daydream and he jerked, frowning.
"What?"
One of the redheads was standing with her hands on her hips, frowning, looking down on a sobbing blonde. The rest of the girls were gathered around, looking at him.
The chunky blonde pointed, "Marilee tripped and bumped into Brenna and Brenna punched her."
Great. The bane of his life - girl spats.
"I didn't mean to trip," the sobbing blonde wailed.
"You didn't trip, you ass," the redhead insisted, "You deliberately kicked my ball sideways."
"No!" the blonde wailed even louder. Paul couldn't take any more.
"Marilee, go see the nurse," he ordered, "Brenna, my office. The rest of you, go change and read chapter fifteen on the rules of soccer. I don't need this." Still, he knew how to cover his ass. After watching to be sure Brenna was in the office, he escorted Marilee to the hall, making soothing noises and assuring her there wasn't any swelling and she didn't have a black eye. He could hear the chatter from the girl's locker area and shook his head. They wouldn't get much reading done, but they would leave him alone for a while.
He slammed into his office, pleased to see the redhead startle. "What am I going to do with YOU?" he demanded. He circled the desk and dropped into his chair with a creak.
"You didn't see anything so it's all hearsay," she smirked, "You don't know what really happened and you have two stories. Who's to say what the truth is." Great, a lawyer's brat, Paul could have groaned.
"You're just lucky if she doesn't get a black eye," he growled.
"If she does, it's not from me," Brenna snapped back, "I hit her in the stomach." Paul felt twin urges to laugh and to yell.
"So you admit you hit her?" he asked.
"I never denied it," she grinned, the sparkle of mischief teasing his libido, "I had just cause to do it. You just didn't see it."
Damn, he was not going to think about sex right now. "How do you know I didn't see it?"
"Because you get all glassy-eyed when you sit on the bleachers," she sassed, "Watching the tits and asses."
That shot him to his feet, towering over her. "You bitch, I ought to smack you for that," he growled, incensed. She stood, only a half-head shorter than he was.
"Try it," she challenged.
Something inside him broke free and he grabbed her, spinning her around and bending her over his desk, his big hand smacking her ass with a loud crack. She gasped and he fumbled her wrists together behind her, gripping them in one hand, as he smacked her ass a second time. A third. She moaned. On the fifth slap, she shuddered, gasping, and he smelled sex. The scent brought him back to reality and he jerked away from her, stunned and aroused beyond belief.
He was rock-hard, his cock straining against his pants like an animal trying to break free, his hands shaking as he realized what he'd done. What she'd done.
She'd cum.
From the slap of his hand on her ass.
It was dirty, dark, erotic as hell. He could do nothing but stare as Brenna shook her hair back from her face and turned to him, leaning weakly against the desk.
