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. -