stayed late after rec league soccer in pink shorts and knee socks. the assistant coach sucked me and i fucked him on my couch

Friday · October 2

For eight weeks I found reasons to be the last one off the field, and for eight weeks the assistant coach found reasons to let me.

Rec league plays under bad lights and ends late. Tuesday nights, nine o’clock, a flat patch of grass behind a closed-down garden center and a ref who’s always on his phone. By ten the cars were gone, the guys had all shouted “good game” and left, and it was me, Aaron, and a mesh bag of orange cones.

Aaron’s the volunteer assistant coach. Big, quiet, a little gray at the temples, with a clipboard he never writes on and a way of watching practice with his arms folded that made me want to run drills wrong just to see his eyebrow go up. I play midfield. I also play it in pink shorts, knee socks pulled to the thigh, and a ponytail, because I’m a femboy and I’m good at soccer and I decided a long time ago I’d stop picking one.

Aaron noticed the first week. He noticed every week. I knew exactly where his eyes went when I bent to tie my cleats.

“You missed one,” I said.

He looked at the empty field. “Where?”

I pointed at the cone by my own foot. “Tragic.”

He walked over. I pulled my shirt up over my head to wipe my face, and I took my sweet time about it, and when I came out of the neckline he was looking at my stomach and my ribs and the sweat running down my chest. He wasn’t even pretending.

“You do that a lot,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Look.”

He could’ve lied. I watched him decide not to.

“Yeah.”

I let the shirt hang around my neck. “Good.”

We stood there in the spill of the field lights with the moths going crazy overhead. My heart was going like I’d run a whole second half.

“You want me to do something about it?” he asked.

I stepped in till my chest was almost on his. “Yes.”

He kissed me against the side of his car, one hand flat in the middle of my back and the other in my ponytail, and it was exactly as good as I’d been imagining it for two months. He tasted like gum and Gatorade. I made a noise against his mouth and he pulled back, laughing a little, breathless, and looked at the dark field and the road.

“It’s public. Even empty.”

“Your place?”

“Too far.”

“Mine’s five minutes.”

He grinned. “Hydrate first.”

“Coach.”

“Adult with a functioning nervous system. Water.”

apartment entry · post-game, keys in bowl

At my apartment I dropped my keys in the bowl and he put his water bottle down on the counter like it was a rule of the house.

“Hydrate first.”

I stared at him. “You’re still doing this?”

“Drink.”

I drank. I held his eyes the whole time and let the water run a little down my chin, and Aaron watched my throat move, and I could hear him swallow too.

“Happy?” I asked, setting it down.

“Not remotely.”

He kissed me again, and this time my shirt was already gone and there was no parking lot, no field lights, no ref on his phone. Just his big hands settling on my waist, thumbs on my hip bones, finally getting to touch what he’d been looking at since September.

I laughed into his mouth. “You do look.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He made this small sound, and his eyes flickered. I felt it all the way down my back. Oh. Oh, he likes that. I filed it away like a set piece.

“Sit,” I said, and pushed him back toward the couch.

He sat. I stood between his knees in sweaty hair and pink shorts and knee socks and nothing else, exactly the picture he’d been pretending not to collect for eight weeks.

“Go on then, coach. Do something about it.”

His hands slid up my thighs, over the socks, over bare skin, and I felt my breath catch. His hand went higher. No more jokes. He touched me through the shorts first, slow, the heel of his palm right where I was already stiff against the nylon, and I exhaled shakily.

“More.”

He smiled. “Bossy.”

“Coach.”

“Not in here.”

“Right.” That was the rule we’d made without ever saying it. Out there he was coach. In here he was just a guy on my couch with his hand on my dick, and God, that was so much better.

He pulled the waistband down and my dick came out hard and pink and leaking against my belly, and he laughed softly under his breath.

I pointed at him. “Careful.”

“Hydration response.”

“Shut up.”

He dropped to his knees on my carpet in front of me, and I stopped smiling.

He took me in his mouth.

My hand slammed on the back of the couch. The other went toward his hair and stopped, hovering, and without taking his mouth off me he reached up and put my hand in his hair himself.

I held on. He went slow, tongue flat under the head, lips tight, and everything about it was physical in a way I hadn’t expected. The big shoulders working, the sound of him, the thick wet heat. My thighs started to shake. I was trying so hard not to thrust into his mouth that my whole body locked up, and he must’ve felt it because he looked up, and nodded, a tiny nod, and I let my hips move just a little.

“Good,” I breathed. “That’s so good, Aaron.”

His eyes closed. His whole body shuddered, on his knees on the carpet, and I felt it in his mouth.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh, you really do.”

He pulled off. “Don’t.”

“Good,” I said, on purpose, and he groaned and took me all the way down.

I could feel the back of his throat. He did this thing with his tongue and I nearly lost my footing, and I told him how good he was, not constantly, just enough, whenever he took me deeper, whenever he moaned around me. “That’s it.” “So good.” “Look at you.” And every time he went tight and desperate and sloppier, his own hand dropping to his lap, rubbing himself through his coach’s shorts.

“Stop,” I said, hoarse. “Wait. Get up here. I want to be inside you.”

He looked up with his mouth wet and red. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Couch. Now.”

He stood and stripped without a word. His body was everything I’d been imagining, wide chest, soft stomach, thick thighs, and his cock was huge and heavy and flushed, curving up against him. I knelt on the cushion behind him where he bent over the back of the couch, and I ran my hands down his back and over his ass and said, “I’ve wanted to do this since the second week.”

“Then do it, Miles.”

I did.

I took my time. I got him ready, fingers and mouth and a lot of patience I didn’t know I had, until he was swearing into the cushion and pushing back against my hand, and the big man who’d stood on that sideline telling twenty people what to do was begging me in a low broken voice. “Please. Come on. Please.”

“Say it nicer.”

“Miles, please fuck me.”

“Good,” I said, and he groaned out loud, and I pushed in.

He was so tight and so hot I saw stars. I held his hips and went slow and deep until I was all the way in, with my knee socks on his thighs and my ponytail swinging forward over my shoulder. He dropped his head between his arms. I started to move, long strokes at first, then faster, then not slow at all, with the couch sliding on the floor and the sound of skin on skin filling up the apartment. I pulled him back by the shoulders so his back was against my chest and wrapped a hand around his cock.

“Good,” I kept saying in his ear. “So good for me. Look at you taking it.”

“Fuck,” he said, high and cracked. “Miles. Miles, I’m—”

“Do it.”

He came all over my hand and the couch cushion with a shout that probably woke the neighbors, clenching so hard around me that I lost it, buried deep, shaking and biting the back of his shoulder while I filled him. We stayed locked together like that, panting, sweaty, his head tipped back on my collarbone.

couch/floor · afterward, shoulders against cushions

Afterward we ended up on the floor with our shoulders against the couch and a blanket I’d dragged off the arm of it. Aaron reached for his water bottle, drank, and held it out to me.

“Hydrate.”

“Coach?”

“Adult with a functioning nervous system,” he said, deadpan, and I laughed until I had to put my head on his shoulder.

At the next game I walked to the sideline before warm-ups with a bottle of water and held it out to him in front of the entire team.

“New team rule,” I said.

Aaron took it. “What’s that?”

“Hydrate.”

Neither of us could keep a straight face. One of the guys looked back and forth between us, and then very quietly started stretching.

By the time I got home the team chat had figured it out.

I still stay late on Tuesdays. There’s always one more cone.