The guys were all waiting at the clubhouse door when Carmella pulled up. Surveying the group as she exited her car, she noted the subtle looks of appreciation, and felt herself flush – just a little. "What a fine collection of specimens," she fleetingly thought before she reached them, greeted them, and began to explain her presence. "Duncan is in the hospital," she began, "with an acute gallstone attack."
It was the evening before their big, championship game, and Duncan, her boyfriend, was the coach. He had sent Carmella to open up so the boys could have a final practice, and asked that she wait and lock up after practice. 'The boys' were actually the men's division team at the soccer club, made up entirely of twenty-something lads – all very trim and fit – and while they pretty much all thought of themselves as Canadian, they were, racially, at least, rather cosmopolitan – representing all corners of the globe.
Markus, for example, the captain – a strong defender – both confident and bold – was of Scandinavian extraction. It fell to him to run the practice. "Nets, balls, pylons," he shouted, directing the initial set-up. Digging in the coach's desk for the roster-list, pens, whiteboards, and clipboards, he surreptitiously admired Carmella.
He had always been very attracted to her. "Who wouldn't be?" he thought, even if she was the coach's girl. At twenty-seven, Carmella was slight and pretty in an athletic, homey way. She carried a nice set of boobs – smallish, but pert. She had her light brown hair in a ponytail, and, although she wore exercise gear – trainers, tight, Spandex capris, and a stretchy tee-shirt – she seemed, to Markus, just a little out-of-her-element – unsure of herself, perhaps a bit naïve, or timid.
As he hustled out of the change-room, Markus looked at her over his shoulder, once more, and asked, "Hey, Karma, you gonna watch? Cheer the boys on?"
She quietly, resignedly, corrected him. "It's Carmella, actually." Karma was Duncan's pet name for her, and though she had thought it was cute at the start, Duncan's overuse had made it tiresome. She'd told him more than once that she didn't like it anymore; his continued use had, indeed, become a bit of a sore spot.
In any case, not waiting for an answer, Markus had run onto the pitch and begun shouting orders. Carmella shrugged, smiling at his retreating tight ass. She watched most of the practice from the sidelines, cheering the boys on – in fact, getting quite excited during the close, final scrimmage.
As they all gathered to debrief the practice, Carmella retreated back into the clubhouse, and waited for the boys to clean-up and put away the equipment. Consequently, she was sitting at the coach's desk with her back to the locker room, checking her phone when Markus came in and offered her a cup of tea.
He watched her, focused on her Smartphone, as he prepared the beverage, admiring her physical attributes, imagining them in action – his initial innocent contemplations subtly shifting to covetous thoughts of sexuality. As these thoughts crossed his mind, one of the younger boys – perhaps thinking it was a fellow player in 'coach's chair', or, more likely, just not thinking – dumped a cooler of melted ice-water over her head.
Carmella screamed and sputtered and jumped up; but to make matters much worse, unbeknownst to the perpetrator, there had, unfortunately, been a tub of spoiled, melted ice-cream also in the cooler. The sticky sludge covered Carmella, dripping from her hair, flowing over her shoulders onto her chest and into her lap. "Oh! Oh!" She stood – hands out, dripping with the sour muck – looking down at the mess. She was speechless.
Markus immediately took charge. "Everyone out of the shower area! He ordered. "Get me one of those big towels," he directed, pointing to the shelves above the laundry. Then he explained what he was doing, as he held the big bath sheet for Carmella to undress beneath. Kicking her discarded clothes away, he said, "Throw her clothes into the washing machine, tout suite!" then turning back to Carmella, whom he was ushering into the gang-shower, he said, very matter-of-factly, "You can have a good, long, hot shower, while your clothes get cleaned. I'll guard your privacy." He smiled sincerely at her, then winked.
A little befuddled from the shock of the event, Carmella agreed, and once she was confident there were no prying eyes, she slipped out from beneath the towel, and allowed herself to relax under the lovely, hot rain. Carmella was actually surprised at how a steaming shower, all to herself, was so incredibly soothing, and she began to daydream, picturing the boys getting undressed just around the corner.
For their part, the boys were, to a man, fantasizing about Carmella, standing naked in the steam and water, and what, under the right circumstances, they could be doing to her – with her!
Luxuriating in the spray, Carmella just stood still letting the hot water rain over her – eyes closed, thinking of nothing – except the naked, athletic, male bodies – just around the corner! "Mmmmm!" Then, gradually, she began to think about the boys, themselves, putting faces to the bodies. Their solicitousness; their trim, buff, muscular bodies.
Believing herself to be, effectively, alone, and under the guise of scrubbing her body, she began, left arm across her chest, to massage her soapy right boob, twiddling the nipple gently. The glowing sensations that tingled in her chest, spreading back to her spine and down, lit up a growing desire. Soon her right hand descended slowly to her crotch, circling her pussy with increasing pressure.
