Author's note: This is a multi-chapter story, currently planned at 5 chapters, about a spoiled brat tennis star's training under a controlling new coach. The story will continue to have a lot of non-consent/reluctance, adultery, light bondage/domination, spanking/humiliation, lesbianism, and other kinks as her "training" progresses. Hope you enjoy!
A new day and a fresh start.
I dressed with a sense of purpose and confidence. The face in the mirror as I shaved was my own again, not that of a stranger. I felt in control of myself once more, my mind clear. My perverted behavior from yesterday seemed like a bad dream.
I could coach Sasha and achieve what I hoped without lowering myself into infidelity. Of course, I'd be firm with her, she needed it, but spanking would likely not be required again after my harsh lesson yesterday. And her puerile attempts to seduce me, well of course I'd be able to continue to resist them!
My resolve faltered almost immediately when I saw her that morning.
"Where is my smoothie?" Sasha asked brusquely. She'd startled me and interrupted my conversation with the chef, who scampered to produce the requested beverage post-haste.
I was in the kitchen, grabbing a quick breakfast at the large island table and having a capuccino. I'd been reviewing some coaching notes and discussing menu changes with the chef when Sasha had entered silently from behind.
She was dressed similar to yesterday, in a matching sports bra and shorts, but this kit was black instead of white and somehow even smaller in cut. A halo of white skin surrounded the edges, highlighting just how much more was exposed than in her typical outfits. There was too much tanned flesh on display, with too little fabric to cover it all, and my eyes could only find safe harbor on her face. Even her face proved full of peril, however, when I noticed that a thick braid replaced her ponytail today. The first thought that came to my mind was how much easier it would be to hold her when I spanked her later.
What was wrong with me?
"Ah, Greg," Sasha said, turning at last and giving me a tepid smile. "We start at nine, yes?"
"Yes, although if you want to begin earlier—"
We'd set my on-court coaching to be from nine to one every day this month, except Sundays.
"Unfortunately, I've my trainer in the mornings until 8:30," she said, giving me a small shrug. Her attitude made it clear that starting earlier with me was the least interesting idea she'd ever heard before. She looked at my papers curiously. "What is all this?"
"Meal plans and nutrition guidelines for your diet," I said, shuffling through the first stack which I'd been about to leave with the chef. "I also have a training regime for cardio and weights that I'll go over with your trainer. Finally there are some orders for new shoes and rackets, from your sponsors, so we can evaluate if there might be a better—"
"I've got all of that well in hand!" Sasha exclaimed. Her face had soured at my first words, then twisted into an angry scowl as I'd continued, before she'd finally snapped. She grabbed one of the papers at random. "I've hired you for tennis advice, not... what is this? 'High-protein-low-processed-sugar' menu ideas? Rubbish! Stick to what you know. I can handle my own diet and training."
She tossed the paper and turned to leave.
"Alexandra," I said softly.
She turned stiffly, my use of her full name instead of her diminutive catching her ear.
"Why did you call me that?"
"It's your name, isn't it?"
"I go by Sasha. Try not to be so stuffy, Greg."
"Not anymore. Sasha is a little girl's name. Alexandra is a woman's name," I said and met her angry stare evenly. The chef handed her the smoothie she'd demanded, and then quickly busied herself on the far side of the kitchen. I pulled out another piece of paper. "If you have a press firm, which I'm waiting for Anatoly to wake up to find out, we'll be instructing them to use Alexandra Vinkourov from now on for press inquiries, and as your official name in tournaments that you enter. I'm speaking with your agent about it later as well."
"This has NOTHING to do with my tennis game!" Sasha yelled at me. Her face was flushed and I could tell she was barely restraining another tantrum. "You have no authority to make these decisions and I WON'T allow it!"
"It has everything to do with your tennis game, Alexandra," I said. "We are reinventing you beginning this morning. Sasha was a talented juniors player, but Alexandra is going to be a great woman's champion."
"And what if I want to win as Sasha, under my preferred name?"
"We both know that you can't," I said, enjoying watching her jaw drop in outrage. She squeezed the plastic cup holding her smoothie to the point of overflowing, her jaw visibly setting, and then placed it on the table to free her hands. I continued, mercilessly, "You need a fresh start. Everything you did before, from food, to training, to your image, all of it has to be scrapped. Your old approach didn't work, could never work. Sasha was not a winner, but Alexandra will be."
"I didn't hire you to do anything but coach my TENNIS game!" she said, her anger finally boiling over. With a savage scream, she grabbed two handful of my papers and threw them wildly around the kitchen. "Stick to your knitting, not things you know nothing about! Sasha is my name."
"You are at four, now," I said sternly, adding to her tally from last night. That earned me a baleful glare, but Sasha grabbed her smoothie and left. Her glorious ass swung in an agitated rhythm as she exited the kitchen, walking as fast as she could without appearing like she was fleeing. I watched her go with a smile, enjoying the sight of her pale cheeks hanging out from the bottom of the tiny shorts.
"Prick." Her final barb came after she was out of view, but spoken loud enough to ensure I could hear.
----------
"Are you going to coach tennis, then, or do you want to discuss my choice of headbands for an hour instead?" Sasha asked after she'd entered the courts with Yelena in tow.
"You should think about wearing one, Alexandra, it'll keep the sweat out of your eyes," I said with a chuckle. "If you can't see the ball, you can't hit it."
"Your coaching has to be better than your sense of humor, I'd hope," she replied coldly, and nodded her head impatiently. "Let's get on with it, then. I'm eager to hear your tennis thoughts, since you have already shared your useless opinions on seemingly everything else."
"Fine, but we don't need Yelena this morning."
