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Breakfast finished fast after the teasing died down. Everyone was buzzing for the first game—nervous energy, last-minute stretches, quick bathroom runs. Marcus clapped his hands once in the common room.
“Alright, team—back to the room, gear up. Game starts in forty-five. Move!”
We all headed down the hallway. I walked between Alex and Marcus like usual. Nobody said anything about the creaking noises anymore, but I could feel eyes on me from a couple of the guys.
When we got to their room Marcus shut the door behind us. Alex immediately started pulling out his uniform, sneakers, ankle brace—routine stuff.
Marcus turned to him first. “Alex, get changed quick. Full warm-up gear, tape your fingers like we talked about. I want you sharp from the jump.”
“Yes, coach,” Alex said, already stripping off his shirt.
Then Marcus looked at me, eyes sliding down my body slow. “Em, you’re our secret weapon today. Wear something skimpy. Short as you can manage. Show these other teams our girls are the hottest—intimidates the hell out of them. Psychology, baby.”
I blinked. “You really think that works?”
He grinned. “I know it works. Go on—try a few things. I’ll tell you when it’s right.”
I opened my bag on the bed and pulled out some options. First a tight crop top and regular shorts—Marcus shook his head. “Nah, too much coverage.”
Next, a little sundress I brought just in case. He tilted his head, then said, “Better… but still not enough leg.”
I tried the cheer skirt from the last game—the tiny pleated red one with the school logo—and paired it with the matching crop top. When I spun around for him the skirt flared high, barely covering my ass.
Marcus whistled low. “Fuck yes. That one. That’s the winner. Legs for days, Em. Perfect.”
I smoothed the skirt down, feeling the hem ride up the second I moved. “You sure? It’s really short…”
“Exactly why it’s perfect.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Shame we don’t have time.”
I looked up at him. “Time for what?”
He just smirked, eyes locked on mine. “What do you think why?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My brain blanked.
Before I could even try to answer, his big hand came down and gave my butt a firm, loud pat—right through the thin skirt. The sound cracked in the quiet room. Alex froze mid-lacing his sneaker but didn’t turn around.
Marcus chuckled. “Come on, let’s roll. Game’s waiting.”
He opened the door and strode out first. Alex finished tying his shoes quick, gave me a fast look that I couldn’t quite read—half worried, half something else—then followed. I grabbed my phone and hurried after them, the tiny skirt swishing against my thighs with every step, feeling the cool air on way more skin than usual.
The gym was packed, rival fans loud, but our section was louder at first. The team came out hot—except Alex. From the opening tip he looked off: hands slow, feet stuck, passes too high or too hard. He air-balled an open three early, then got stripped on a drive. Every mistake piled up.
Marcus stood on the sideline, arms crossed at first, then pacing, jaw tight. By the end of the first quarter the score was close but he was already boiling.
Halftime buzzer. Team jogged to the bench. Marcus didn’t wait for them to sit.
“What the fuck was that, Alex?” he barked loud enough the first few rows heard. “You’re playing like a scared freshman. Turnovers, bad shots, soft defense—where’s the guy who won us the last game? You’re killing us out there!”
The team went dead quiet. Alex stared at the floor, face burning, shoulders hunched. “Sorry, coach… I’m off. Won’t happen again.”
Marcus stepped right in his face. “Won’t happen again? It’s happening right fucking now. You promised me you’d show up today. Step the fuck up or sit the bench. Your choice.”
Alex swallowed hard. “I’ll fix it, coach. I promise. I’ll play better. I swear.”
Marcus stared him down another second, then waved him off. “Prove it. Second half you better be the player I know you are.”
The team scattered to water bottles and towels. During the short break while Marcus talked to the assistant about adjustments, I slipped over to Alex at the end of the bench. He was sitting with his head in his hands.
I crouched down next to him, voice soft so only he could hear. “Hey… you okay?”
He looked up, eyes red. “I fucked up, Em. Coach is pissed. I’m sorry.”
I put my hand on his knee, squeezing. “You can do it. I know you can. Just play like you always do when you’re not thinking too hard. Go out there and give everything you’ve got. Not to make Marcus happy—to show yourself you’re that guy. Okay? I believe in you.”
Alex took a shaky breath, then nodded once. “Yeah… yeah, okay. Thanks, Em.”
He stood up, wiped his face with his jersey, and jogged back toward the huddle as Marcus called everyone in.
I went back to my spot behind the bench, heart pounding for him.
Second half started and Alex came out different—like something clicked. He was moving his feet, hands active, eyes up. First possession he stripped their point guard clean, pushed the ball ahead, and dropped a perfect bounce pass to the big for an easy dunk. Crowd roared. Next time down he hit a pull-up mid-range jumper over his man. Then a steal, fast break, finished with a strong layup through contact.
Marcus was on the sideline, arms uncrossed now, nodding hard every time Alex touched the ball. The team fed off it—passes sharper, screens solid, defense locked in.
Midway through the third, Alex took a charge that sent their best scorer sprawling. Ref called it clean. Marcus pumped his fist once, then turned to the bench.
“See that shit?” he barked loud to the whole team. “That’s how you fucking play! Alex—there he is. That’s the guy I know. Keep feeding him the ball, run off him, lock in on D. We’re taking this game!”
The subs and the bench erupted—clapping, yelling “Let’s go!” Alex glanced over quick, chest heaving, gave Marcus a tight nod.
Right after the next timeout Marcus pointed at Jake, the big forward who’d made the creaking joke earlier. “Jake—you’re checking in for Mike. Bring energy, crash the glass, and don’t let their four breathe. Go!”
Jake jumped up, slapped hands with Mike coming off, and sprinted to the scorer’s table. No question, no hesitation—just instant obedience. Marcus’s word was law, and everyone knew it.
Alex kept rolling: a three-pointer late in the quarter, then an and-one drive that put us up double digits. Marcus called him over during the next dead ball, slapped his back hard. “That’s my fucking guy. Stay locked in.”
Alex just grinned, breathless. “Yes, coach.”
I was jumping behind the bench in my tiny skirt, cheering so loud my voice cracked, proud as hell watching him finally play like himself again.
The final buzzer sounded and the gym erupted—our side louder than theirs for once. We won by two points, razor thin, and it was all Alex in the last minute. He hit a floater over two defenders with ten seconds left, then blocked the inbound pass attempt, sealed the game. The team mobbed him on the court, jerseys soaked, everyone screaming, jumping, slapping backs. Alex looked exhausted but glowing, finally himself again.
Marcus let them celebrate for a minute—high-fives, chest bumps, a couple guys lifting Alex off the ground—then he clapped loud to gather them.
“Alright, alright—listen up!” His voice cut through the noise like always. “That’s how you gut one out. Close, ugly, but a fucking win. Alex, you showed up when it mattered. Rest of you—followed suit. Proud of every single one of you. Now get your shit, head back to the rooms, cool down, and get ready to do it again tomorrow. We’re not done yet.”
The team cheered one last time, then started filing off the court, still buzzing.
Back at the hostel we piled into the common area first, but Marcus waved everyone toward the rooms. “Shower, change, relax. We earned it.”
When it was just the three of us in Alex and Marcus’s room, Marcus shut the door and turned to Alex.
“Alex… look, I’m sorry I rode you so hard at halftime. Was harsh. Couldn’t let that first half slide though—not when we’re in a tournament. You know that.”
It didn’t really sound like an apology. More like a coach explaining why he had to be an asshole—firm, matter-of-fact, no softness.
Alex nodded quick. “I get it, coach. I needed it. Thanks.”
I couldn’t help jumping in. “Yeah, he really did need it, Marcus. You pushed him and he came through huge. That’s what good coaches do.”
Marcus’s eyes flicked to me—slowly down to the tiny skirt still riding high on my thighs, then up to my chest where the crop top clung tight from all the jumping and cheering. He didn’t even try to hide it. His mouth curved a little.
“You’re right, Em,” he said, voice lower. “I was right to push him. And you’re right to defend your man.” He paused, still staring openly at my body. “But we won. Time to celebrate that little victory properly.”
He looked at Alex. “Go grab a few beers from the corner store down the block. Nothing crazy—just a six-pack or two for the guys. We’ll share in the common room later. Go on.”
Alex hesitated half a second, glanced at me, then nodded. “Yeah, okay, coach. Be right back.”
He grabbed his wallet and left, door clicking shut behind him.
The room went quiet.
Marcus turned back to me, sitting on the edge of the lower bunk now, legs spread casual.
“Turn around for me, Em.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“Wanna see the progress of your training.” His voice was calm, almost professional. “You’ve been working hard these past weeks. Body’s changed. Let me look.”
I felt a little flutter in my stomach but turned slowly anyway, hands smoothing the short skirt. The hem barely covered anything when I moved.
Marcus stood up behind me, close enough I could feel his heat. His big hands settled softly on my hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin where the crop top ended.
“Look at that,” he murmured, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, then sliding down to the flare of my hips. “Proportions are damn near perfect now. Tight little waist, round ass. Training’s paying off big time.”
I blushed hard, but his words made me smile shyly. “Really? Thank you… I’ve been trying so hard to get better.”
His grip tightened just a fraction, thumbs pressing in. “Oh, you have. Believe me.”
Marcus’s hands stayed on my hips, thumbs tracing slow circles over the bare skin just above the waistband of the tiny skirt.
“You really did get better, Em,” he said low, voice thick. “Body’s tight, curves are perfect now. Training’s doing wonders.”
I smiled shyly over my shoulder. “Thanks… I’ve been working hard.”
He gave my hips a little squeeze. “Bend over a bit for me. Let me see the full picture.”
I hesitated, looking around the small room. “I can’t… there’s nothing to lean on.”
Marcus nodded toward the small desk against the wall—the one with our bags on it. “Use the table. Right there.”
I turned, stepped over, and leaned forward a little, hands flat on the desktop, bending at the waist. The skirt rode up instantly, barely covering anything anymore.
Marcus stepped right behind me, close enough that I felt his heat against the backs of my thighs. His voice dropped even lower. “Fuck… you look so inviting like that.”
I glanced back, confused, cheeks already warm. “Inviting for what?”
He chuckled deep, the sound vibrating through the quiet room. “Exactly what it looks like, Em.”
Before I could ask anything else, his fingers found the hem of the skirt and slowly pushed it up over my hips, bunching it around my waist. Cool air hit my skin.
His big hands settled on my bare ass cheeks, stroking slow and firm, thumbs sliding along the crease where thigh met butt. “Goddamn… look at this.”
I bit my lip, still bent over the table. “Um… should I stay like this? Or…?”
“Yes,” he said immediately, voice rougher now. “Stay exactly like that. Don’t move.”
I stayed frozen, palms pressed to the wood, heart thumping.
Then I felt his fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear. He tugged them down slow—past my hips, over the curve of my ass, letting them slide all the way to my ankles.
A second later I heard the unmistakable sound of his own shorts hitting the floor behind me, the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of his belt buckle.
I stayed bent over the table, skirt bunched around my waist, panties around my ankles, heart hammering in my chest.
Marcus was right behind me, hands still resting on my hips. I felt the blunt head of his cock press against my entrance—hot, thick, insistent.
I swallowed. “Marcus… what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he just murmured, low and rough, “You’ll see, Em.”
Then he pushed forward slowly.
The stretch was immediate and intense. My breath caught as the head slipped inside, parting me inch by careful inch. Marcus groaned loud—deep, guttural, unrestrained—his fingers digging into my hips.
I gripped the edge of the table harder, trying to breathe through it. With every slow, deliberate stroke he sank deeper, and my body adjusted around him, walls fluttering, yielding bit by bit.
He kept going—steady, controlled, no rush—until finally he bottomed out completely, hips flush against my ass, buried to the hilt.
He let out another long, low moan, head tipping back for a second. “Fuuuck… there we go.”
He stayed like that for several heartbeats, just filling me completely, letting me feel every thick inch pulsing inside.
Then he started moving again—slow, long strokes in and out, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep.
My thighs trembled. I bit my lip, voice shaky when I spoke. “Should I… use my mouth again? Like before?”
Marcus chuckled darkly, hands sliding up to grip my waist tighter.
“No, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with pleasure. “That’s not needed right now.”
He rolled his hips again, slow and deep, making sure I felt every inch.
I stayed bent over the table, skirt bunched around my waist, panties around my ankles, heart hammering in my chest.
Marcus was right behind me, hands still resting on my hips. I felt the blunt head of his cock press against my entrance—hot, thick, insistent.
I swallowed. “Marcus… what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he just murmured, low and rough, “You’ll see, Em.”
Then he pushed forward slowly.
The stretch was immediate and intense. My breath caught as the head slipped inside, parting me inch by careful inch. Marcus groaned loud—deep, guttural, unrestrained—his fingers digging into my hips.
I gripped the edge of the table harder, trying to breathe through it. With every slow, deliberate stroke he sank deeper, and my body adjusted around him, walls fluttering, yielding bit by bit.
He kept going—steady, controlled, no rush—until finally he bottomed out completely, hips flush against my ass, buried to the hilt.
He let out another long, low moan, head tipping back for a second. “Fuuuck… there we go.”
He stayed like that for several heartbeats, just filling me completely, letting me feel every thick inch pulsing inside.
Then he started moving again—slow, long strokes in and out, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep.
My thighs trembled. I bit my lip, voice shaky when I spoke. “Should I… use my mouth again? Like before?”
Marcus chuckled darkly, hands sliding up to grip my waist tighter.
“No, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with pleasure. “That’s not needed right now.”
He rolled his hips again, slow and deep, making sure I felt every inch.
Marcus’s grip on my hips tightened and he picked up the pace — not frantic, just steady, normal fucking rhythm now. Each thrust pushed deep and smooth, hips meeting my ass with soft, wet slaps that echoed quietly in the small room. I stayed bent over the table, palms flat, breathing harder, feeling every thick inch slide in and out, stretching me open again and again.
It went on like that for several minutes — the desk creaking faintly under my weight, my skirt still bunched around my waist, his hands occasionally sliding up to squeeze my waist or stroke down my back while he kept that consistent, claiming stroke.
Then the door handle turned.
The door swung open.
Alex stepped inside with the plastic bag of beers in one hand.
I turned my head sharply toward the door, hair falling in my face, cheeks flushed, lips parted — and there he was, frozen in the doorway, eyes huge.
“Hi babe…” I managed, voice breathy and a little shaky while Marcus never even slowed down, just kept sliding in and out of me with the same calm, deep rhythm. I felt a sudden pang of guilt twist in my stomach. “Sorry Alex… I think he’s almost done.”
Alex’s mouth opened, then closed. The bag slipped a little in his fingers.
Marcus didn’t miss a beat. He looked over his shoulder, still buried inside me, hips rolling slow.
“Close the door, Alex,” he said, voice perfectly even, almost bored. “I’m not finished yet.”
Alex blinked, stunned, but his hand moved automatically — door clicked shut behind him.
Marcus gave one more deep thrust, then spoke again, still looking at Alex while he kept fucking me steadily.
“Go out to the team. Tell them we’ll be there soon. Em and I just need to… wrap this up.”
Alex stared at us — at me bent over, skirt up, being taken from behind by his coach — for another two full seconds. Then he swallowed hard, nodded once like a robot, turned, and walked back out. The door closed softly.
The second it latched, Marcus chuckled low in his throat, deep and satisfied.
“Good” he muttered.
Then his hands slid back to my hips, fingers digging in, and he picked the rhythm right back up — slow, deep strokes turning firmer again, the wet sound of him moving inside me filling the quiet room once more.
Marcus kept thrusting in that steady rhythm, but after a few more strokes he slowed just enough to speak, voice low and gravelly against my ear.
“Get on your toes a little for me, Em. Up on them—yeah, like that.”
I pushed up onto the balls of my feet, arching my back more, lifting my ass higher toward him. The angle changed instantly—deeper, sharper.
He groaned the second I did it. “Fuck… perfect. That’s perfect.”
He started again, sliding in smoother now, every thrust bottoming out harder, the head kissing something deep inside that made my thighs tremble. Wet, obscene squelching sounds filled the room with each stroke—slick, sloppy schlick-schlick-schlick every time he buried himself and pulled back.
He let out a rough breath. “Goddamn… listen to that. I’m getting really deep now, Em. Can feel it all the way in.”
His pace picked up—still controlled but noticeably faster. The wet sounds grew louder, more insistent: schlop-schlop-schlop—echoing off the walls, impossible to ignore. My own breathing turned ragged, little gasps slipping out each time he drove home.
“I’m almost there,” he rasped, fingers digging harder into my hips. “Almost…”
Then he really let go—pace turning urgent, hips snapping forward faster, deeper, the desk creaking under the force. The wet noises were filthy now, loud and rhythmic, schlick-schlop-schlick-schlop, mixing with his heavy grunts.
“Look back at me,” he ordered, voice tight. “Want to see your face when I fill you up.”
I twisted my head over my shoulder, hair falling across my cheek, eyes meeting his—dark, hungry, locked on mine.
He stared right into me, lips parted. “Here it comes…”
A few more brutal, fast thrusts—then he yanked my hips back hard, slamming himself as deep as physically possible, pelvis crushed against my ass.
A long, guttural “Fuuuck—” tore out of him as he came, cock pulsing thick and hot inside me, flooding me with heavy spurts, one after another, filling me completely while he held me pinned there, shaking through every last pulse.
Marcus stayed buried inside me for several long seconds after he finished, hips pressed flush against my ass, breathing heavy against the back of my nec