otherworlderotic
My dearest pupil,
I’m here alone – my body in silk, my legs curled beneath me in bed. Just myself, a pen, and paper. Despite knowing that you’ll never read this – that I’ll never find the courage to express this to you – I have to do something, anything to give voice to the desires that have taken root within my heart. As your tennis coach, it has been my privilege to guide you, to hone your skills on the court. Yet, with each passing lesson, my thoughts drift more and more from the game to the man before me.
During our lessons, I am captivated by the way your body moves. My eyes follow your skin, glistening with each exertion. I find my gaze lingering on the taut muscles of your legs, the way your shorts hug your thighs as you lunge for the ball – and at my worst, a desperate seeking of an outline, a hint of some arousal that I impose upon you. Yes, I’m distracted by the contours of your athletic form, my desire mounting under my skirt, any pretense of instruction falling far behind my lust in my attention.
In the moments between serves, I catch myself studying the lines of your face, the intensity of your focus. The determination in your eyes sets my pulse racing, and I am left to wonder if you can hear the pounding of my heart over the rhythmic thwack of the ball against the court.
I have tried, in my own subtle ways, to convey the depth of my desire. A lingering touch as I adjust your grip on the racket, a playful smile when you execute a particularly impressive shot. But alas, my hints seem to go unnoticed, lost in the heat of the game. What must a girl do? Slide my hands down your chest, pull forward the waistband of your shorts, quest for the hard length of you…
And so, I am left to imagine, to indulge in the fantasies that consume my waking thoughts.
I want you to take me.
I imagine the heat of your body pressed against mine as you move to stand behind me, a contrivance I’ve concocted to get my ass pressed against you, your strong hands on my arms as I demonstrate the perfect swing. The closeness of your presence is intoxicating, and I bump against your sheathed length, savoring the contact.
As I arch my back, preparing to mime another strike, I feel the fabric of my short skirt riding up my thighs, revealing me. The sensation of your hips against mine, the unmistakable pressure of your arousal, sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine your hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer, the excuse of the tutorial becoming so flimsy as to be a comedy as we move in unison.
The desire that courses through me is overwhelming, and I know I can no longer resist the temptation. Taking your hand in mine, I lead you away from prying eyes, around the corner to a secluded spot. My heart races with anticipation as I lean against the wall, a coy smile playing on my lips.
"Pull down your shorts," I whisper. I watch as your hands move to comply, my breath catching in my throat as you reveal yourself to me. The sight of your hard cock, freed from its confines, is enough to make my knees weak. I drink in every inch of you, committing the image to memory.
As you close the distance between us, I feel the heat radiating from your body, igniting a fire deep within me. Your hands find their way to my sports bra, exploring the contours of my breasts through the fabric. I’m nervous now, scared of what I’ve set into motion, and yet I arch into your touch, craving more, silently urging you to continue.
Your fingers grow bolder, kneading and caressing my breasts through the thin fabric of my sports bra. I bite my lip hard, stifling the moans that threaten to escape as your hands map my curves with increasing urgency. You trace the rounded undersides of my breasts, following the swell of them up to my straining peaks. You tease my nipples, your thumbs rubbing them through the fabric. "Pinch them," I whimper, my voice ragged with need. "Please..." You comply immediately, rolling my stiffened nubs between your fingers, tugging gently. My head falls back against the wall as I surrender to your hands. I've never been so aroused, so desperate to be touched.
"Reach under," I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. Without hesitation, your hands slip beneath my sports bra, your warm palms finally splaying across my bare breasts. I gasp at the skin-to-skin contact, my nipples pebbling against your touch. You squeeze the soft flesh, testing the weight of them in your hands as you continue to tease my peaks. I’m so needy, so wet. I'm panting now, my chest heaving under your groping. The rough wall scrapes against my back as I press myself harder against you.
"Don't stop," I plead breathlessly, my nails digging into your shoulders. "Touch me, just like that..."
As your hands continue their delicious torment on my aching breasts, I become increasingly aware of your hardness pressing insistently against my stomach. The thin fabric of my skirt is the only barrier between your swollen cock and my heated skin, a flimsy boundary that I'm desperate to remove. I arch my hips, grinding shamelessly against your length, savoring the friction even as I crave more.
You groan low in your throat, fingers tightening on my breasts, kneading the soft flesh roughly. I can feel the tension coiled in your muscles, the barely restrained hunger in the press of your body against mine.
I reach between us, my fingers grazing the hard ridge of your cock. I stroke you, teasing, testing, thrilling at the way you twitch and throb under my touch. I stroke the length of you from base to tip, swirling my thumb around the sensitive head, gathering the bead of moisture that has leaked from the slit.
Your head falls forward, your forehead pressing against mine as you struggle to maintain control. I pump you slowly, relishing the weight of you in my hand. Your hips flex, thrusting shallowly into my fist.
You pull back, and I watch your eyes hot on me.
I want you.
I sink to my knees before you, my eyes locked on your throbbing erection mere inches from my face. I lean in close, extending my tongue to lick a slow stripe up the underside of your shaft, from base to tip. I circle the head with the pointed tip of my tongue and pull back, savoring the way you twitch before me.
Wrapping one hand around the base of your cock, I take just the swollen head into my mouth. My lips form a tight seal as I suckle gently, swirling my tongue around and around the ridge. I hear you groan above me and I glance up to see your head thrown back in pleasure. I take you deeper, inch by inch, until you bump the back of my throat.
Relaxing my jaw, I begin to bob my head, sliding your hard length in and out of the wet heat of my mouth. Saliva drips down my chin and coats your balls as I lose myself in pleasuring you. Your hands find their way into my hair, fingers twisting and tugging as you guide my head, urging me to take you faster, harder.
I redouble my efforts, hollowing my cheeks to create an intense suction every time I pull back.
"Fuck, just like that," you grunt, your grip on my hair tightening almost painfully as you start to thrust into my willing mouth. "Don't stop, I'm so close..."
Your movements become erratic, shallow thrusts giving way to desperate, urgent bucks of your hips. I can feel you pulsing on my tongue. With a flex of your fingers in my hair, you pull me off your cock, fisting your slick shaft with quick, tight strokes.
I tilt my face up, closing my eyes and parting my lips in anticipation. The first rope of your release hits my cheek, followed quickly your cum erupting in hot spurts across my face. I moan in blissful satisfaction as I feel your cum dripping down my skin, marking me, claiming me as yours.
As the last pulses of your orgasm fade, I open my eyes to gaze up at you, my tongue sneaking out to lick a stray drop from the corner of my mouth. The sight of you quivering is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
But, my dearest, this release exists only in my imagination. The ink on this page, the passion it holds, will soon be nothing more than ashes. For I know that our lives dictate that these yearnings must remain unspoken, confined to the secret corners of my heart.
Yet, even as I prepare to consign this letter to the flames, I cannot help but cling to the hope that someday, somehow, you’ll make me yours. Until then, I will continue to imagine you as I pleasure myself.
I hope you don’t mind.
Love,
Your coach
