Praying he’s going to touch me more, I do as I’m told, shocked when he wedges the rolled-up towel between my legs. Roughly. Right beneath my sex. I gasp at the sensation of the towel ridge pressing so tight to my femininity. Tingles are shooting down to my toes, my thighs beginning to tremble with anticipation.
Everett winds my long hair around his fist. “Pump your hips. Rub your pussy against the towel. When you find a spot that feels good, keep going.”
I should be humiliated. Or reticent. Or both.
But the ache is spreading and growing more intense, thanks to the moment. Sharing this intimacy with my coach. Having my breasts bare in his presence and having him refer to my sex as a pussy. It’s bad. It’s so bad, but I love it. And I start to rock my hips, making a broken sound when the friction produces a tightening. A ticklish pull deep, deep inside of me in a place that has never been reached. I work my lower body faster, the table beginning to creak underneath me, and I hear Everett groan.
“You forgot to mention your ass,” he says through clenched teeth. “How it’s gotten so sweet and supple. Tempting. You think it’s easy to coach when my dick is hard from watching you climb the fucking ladder, jiggling and flexing all the way to the top? Over and over and over. Goddammit.” His palm smacks down onto my backside. Somewhere between gentle and hard. And sparks fill my vision. Exhilaration runs laps in my stomach, my head. I feel found. Like I’ve been missing a huge part of my life that has been just out of sight this whole time. “Hump the towel, little sweetheart. Faster. Don’t stop.”
I’m going as fast as I can, whimpering, dragging my sex up and back on the rolled towel and it feels good, so good, but no matter how hard I try or how good it feels, there’s only buildup. No release. I’m practically doing the splits on top of the white terrycloth ridge, my fingers curled into the edges of the leather table. Sweat is beginning to coat my skin. I’m humping and humping. But I continue to hover right on the edge of the orgasm. It never swoops in and claims me-and frustration begins to intrude. Am I broken? Am I doing it wrong?
“Good girl,” Everett groans, yanking up on the back of my bathing suit so the material is wedged tightly between the cheeks of my bottom, like a makeshift thong. And he kneads me there, encouraging every pump of my hips. Occasionally delivering a firm spanking that makes the breath catch in my throat. “This is how you’d look riding cock, isn’t it? Like a wet, willing little beginner, just wanting to make her coach proud. Jesus Christ,” he pants. “Soak the towel. Soak it so I can bring it back to my hotel room and jerk off on it like a sick bastard.”
Wow. Did he really say that?
I’m right there. I’m right there. Incredible sensations are coursing through me, but there’s an intuition in the back of my mind that I can’t go any further. Like I’ve come up against a roadblock. And it hurts. It’s hurts so bad not being able to scale that final barrier. And on top of that, I’m disappointing my coach. He wants me to come and I can’t. I can’t do it.
With a hiccup borne of humiliation and frustration, I pitch myself off the table and hit the ground at a dead run, yanking up my bathing suit as I leave the therapy room, my sex pulsing angrily between my legs, sweat running down my spine.
“Margot!” shouts Everett.
But I turn a corner and run faster, ducking out through an exit door and leaving him behind. Leaving him in the room where he is definitely dissatisfied with me. Lately I haven’t been able to dive right and now my body can’t even reach completion. What’s wrong with me?
I don’t know. But I can’t go back to my room in Olympic Village and toss and turn all night, replaying what just happened and my shortfalls. As a diver and as a woman. I need to let loose and not think for a few hours. Changing directions, I head toward the cluster of buildings where my fellow divers are staying. Maybe one of them has a dress I can borrow.
Everett~
My temples are pounding. I can’t swallow past the knot in my throat.
Margot is not in her room.
Where the fuck is she?
Her phone must be off, because my tracker isn’t working.
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know exactly where she was. The last two years since she’s been in my life are all that exist for me. When she was still in school, I tracked her phone from mine, watching her move between classes. When she takes a day off from diving, I follow the blue dot to wherever she goes. The movies. Shopping. To the library. She is always within my reach even if she doesn’t know I’m there. Even if I can’t touch her.
I broke that rule tonight.
God, I broke it so hard, putting my thirty-six-year-old hands on her supple eighteen-year-old tits, molding them like clay, teasing her innocent nipples into little points until she was flushed and squirming and restless. I should be taken out into the street and shot for what I’ve done. Where are my ethics? My principles? I’ve allowed the stalking to carry on with the caveat that I didn’t defile her virginal body, but Jesus, I came close tonight. Came dangerously close to removing the towel from between her legs and replacing it with my lap.
Making her hump my hard cock instead.
How would she look riding me? Working that sweet body up and down, whining over the buildup of lust and the burning need for relief. Fuck, I’d probably come before I ever got inside of her. I’d hold her down and jerk come onto every inch of her perfect skin.
And wow, somewhere, her parents are sleeping in their beds, secure in the fact that their little girl is in good hands. I should be ashamed of myself. I am. This obsession with Margot is out of control. I don’t know where she has gone and I want to slam my head into a wall. The possibility that she is upset and preparing to act out has my blood racing, running hot to cold.
Dancing.
She’s gone dancing.
And she’s horny. Unsatisfied.
I don’t know what happened, but she couldn’t reach her peak, even though she was so close. There is an inkling in the back of my head telling me she would have come if I’d unzipped my pants and planted my cock in her tight-ass cunt, but no. No. I won’t allow that. I won’t consider that. I’m in charge of her. I’m paid to coach her. It would be an unforgivable violation of trust and she would hate me for it one day. Once she got older and realized how I took advantage of the coach-pupil relationship, she’d never speak to me again. And if that happened, I’d no longer have a reason to exist.
I exist for Margot.
I’m standing outside of her housing in Olympic Village now, once again checking my phone for the reassuring blue dot. Nothing. Grinding my back teeth together, I place a call to one of the other diving coaches I met during trials, asking if he knows where the athletes have gone dancing.
“Yeah…” He yawns, telling me I’ve woken him up. So be it. “Some place called Club Camelot, I think. A bunch of them were heading there. Might as well give them one last hurrah before competition starts in two days.”
“Right, thanks for the info. Good luck.”
I’m already walking, hailing a taxi as soon as I get to the street. Ten minutes later, we’re driving through the brightly lit streets of downtown Tokyo, people zigzagging in all directions-and I break into a cold sweat thinking about every bad thing that could happen to Margot in a foreign city. She could be robbed. Kidnapped. Things I can’t even consider without wanting to tear the roof off the top of this taxi.
My throat has closed up to the size of a straw by the time we pull to a stop outside of Club Camelot. I hand payment to the driver and climb out, intending to stride right into the club and carry Margot out over my shoulder. Fuck subtlety. I’m not in the mood for it. I’m not able to pretend right now that I’m not worried as hell and possessive of what’s mine.
Before I can approach the bouncer standing behind the red velvet rope, my eye is drawn to the establishment next door. A sex shop. There are toys in the window. Fetish gear. Advertisements for pornography. I’m interested in none of it. But they must sell vibrators inside. A towel might not have done the trick for Margot. A vibrator would, though. And if I don’t have some way to bring her to climax, I’m going to end up fucking her.
I know it as well as I know my own name.
With a curse, I change directions and enter the shop, striding down the empty aisles until I find what I’m looking for. At the counter, I gesture to the clerk to unwrap my purchase and I install the batteries, shoving the device into my pocket and once again leaving the store.
The inside of Club Camelot is something straight out of my nightmares, because I don’t want Margot in a place like this. Not for a split second. It’s dark. It’s anonymous. So dark that it invites bad behavior without the threat of consequences. The only lights come from a flashing strobe light above and the DJ booth, which is outlined in purple neon.
A vein throbs in my temple as I weave my way through the throngs of giddy-and in some cases, drunk-twenty-somethings. It’s a noticeably diverse crowd because most of them are athletes or spectators who’ve flown to Tokyo from their respective countries for the Olympic Games. From Sweden and Chile and South Africa. Young people grind on each other, visibly eager to get laid, hands groping body parts out in the open for everyone to witness. It’s an orgy waiting to happen and I swear to Christ, if any of these motherfuckers have laid a finger on Margot, I’m going to wreak utter havoc on this sweaty meat market.