Date: Thu, 2 Jan 2014 02:26:29 -0500 (EST)
From: Chris Thomas <f27s@aol.com>
Subject: Coach Part 4

On Thursday morning my stomach was tied in knots, so I decided to call in
sick.  I went in to school at 5:30, when I knew no one but the janitor
would be there, dropped off work for my students and Coach's graded papers;
then I quickly hurried back to my car.  As I opened the door and stepped
onto the parking lot, I immediately noticed a large-wheeled pickup truck
now parked next to my small Nissan Sentra and the very large man who had so
quickly come to dominate my every thought standing between the two cars
that represented us both so well.  He stared in the opposite direction of
me with his back to his truck.  I paused for a moment and took him in.  I
couldn't say how I felt about being bullied at age 24; it was all new to
me.  I did know that I didn't look at him with spite as one might expect a
tortured kid to feel about his oppressor.  I gazed at the beautiful
silhouette of his face and the perfection of his body, the body that had
thrown me like a rag doll just one day prior.  I looked at him in awe and
with admiration, worship really.

As I nervously approached my car, he lifted his right leg placing his foot
onto my car door.  "Good morning, Coach." I said, my voice squeaking
somewhat.

"Morning, boy." he responded without looking directly at me.  "Going home?"

"Yes, IÉ"

"Call me Sir."  He interrupted.

"YesÉ Sir," I responded.  "I'm feeling a bit under the weather."

"Okay, no problem.  It doesn't look like I hurt you too bad yesterday.  I'm
glad.  That wasn't my intent."  He still stared forward without looking at
me.  "Come here, kid."

"Come here?"  My stupid question shot forth as a defense mechanism, my
brain's way of buying time while I figured out what to do.  I thought of
turning and running, but God knows he'd catch me in a second and matters
would be much worse.  Paralyzed and praying for some divine intervention, I
tried to earn a few more seconds, "ComeÉ closerÉ to you?

"Yes!" He raised his voice and turned his head downward giving me a look
that convinced my subconscious to to obey immediately.  I rushed to him
wish such force that I had to steady myself with the side of his pickup
truck.  He looked away again and now I stood less than an inch from him
breathing in his manliness.  This close to him there was no way to pretend
I was anything but his worshipping slave.  My cock released a stream of
precum, which would normally have embarrassed the hell out of me, but
standing this close to him I couldn't help but rub my pants as I stared at
the muscular pecs just inches away poorly concealed by his polo shirt.

"Dear God, you are awesome" I muttered without thinking and still so
mesmerized that I didn't care to attempt any pretense.  "You are just so
fucking big and powerful."

He chuckled, breaking my trance for a moment, then did something that
seemingly betrayed his character.  Lifting his massive left arm over my
head and putting it around my neck and over my shoulder, he patted my
little chest with his huge hand.  "Listen, kid" he said looking down at me
and noticing my now much wetter pants.  "Oh my god, boy, control yourself.
Then again, I guess that's hard to do."  As he said this, he raised his
right arm and flexed it to its full peak, easily 22 to 23 inches.  His
cocky smile did even more than his bicep to turn the wet spot on my pants
to a huge, saturated mess.

"Yes Sir," I replied breathing deeply in an attempt to assert control over
my body.

"Here's the thing.  I don't want you to be afraid of me any more than is
natural.  So let's not let what happened yesterday cause you to try to
avoid me.  That's not going to help either one of us out, right?"  He
paused for a response.

"RightÉ or.. Yes, Sir."  I answered, still trying my best to calm
myself.

"Good, of course I want you to have a healthy fear of me.  You need to know
that you're to do what I tell you and to do it well.  I've been doing this
job for about ten years now and I haven't graded my first paper, stood out
for cafeteria duty, or any of the other bullshit I don't want to do.
There's always been and always will be a man or a woman who knows it's his
or her place to be my bitch.  Right now that person is you.  I could easily
replace you for messing up, but then that would mean that I'm letting your
fuck up dictate to me what I do."  He paused for just a moment and turned
placing us face to chest, resting his mammoth hands on my shoulders.  With
the return of his cocky grin, he continued, "And you know if I replaced
you, you'd be so jealous of the bitch that did your chores instead of you,
you would want to kill them, right?"

I swallowed hard, "Right, Sir.  I'll keep doing the extra work you need,
and I won't mess up."

"Good."  He released me and gestured me toward my car door.  To show my
submission, I moved swiftly toward my car and pulled the door open toward
me only to have Coach's giant hand reach across my shoulder and slam it
closed again.  Suddenly very confused, I glanced over at the giant forearm
holding my car door shut.

"Yes Sir?  Was there something else?"

"Yeah, I almost forgot."  He removed his arm and reached into his pocket
retrieving a pen and post-it pad.  "Your wife's number.  I'd like to text
her, you know, about tomorrow night."

My body completely betrayed my mind.  My thoughts said this had gone too
far.  No one asks a man for his wife's number.  He could communicate with
me about dinner.  My body, however, did otherwise.  My head shook in
agreement.  My hands took the pad and wrote the number.  My cock ejaculated
without touching it, shooting out more cum than even my possessed wife
could draw from it the previous night.

- Any comments are welcome - I'll try to faithfully keep writing, and I
apologize for the several years in between parts two and three. -