The locker

Vic is thirty-nine and he coaches at a gym that is not mine. I was visiting, off the clock, and the locker room was empty. He is not my fighter. I do not fuck athletes I coach, and I did not suddenly start because the benches were wood and the place smelled like soap. I sat first, black tank still on, shaved head, a towel over one shoulder, sweatpants on, bare feet on the tile. That was the still minute. Clothes on. Nobody performing a round.

I told him break is the stop, same as I tell any man who wants it rough with me. He said it back. I told him no blood, no marks I did not ask for, and that a shower in here is for washing and nothing else. He nodded. We rinsed the day off in the stall, soap and hot water, hair and skin, an ordinary wash. I turned the water off myself. Wet tile, clean bodies, the fuck not hiding inside the rinse. I wanted him against the wall after I was clean, not instead of being clean.

I faced the tile and told him to fuck my cunt. His cock slid in easy because I was already wet from wanting it, not from the shower story I was not telling. He fucked me hard, hands on my hips, the tile cold on my cheek. I asked for one slap on my ass and only one. He gave me one, open palm, a sting I had ordered, and then his hand went still. That was all. No second guess. No bruises I had not asked for. No blood. My cunt gripped his cock and I reached under and rubbed my clit until I came, forehead to the grout, a low rough sound. He stayed in me until I told him out.

I turned around, dropped to the bench height by bending my knees, and sucked his cock. I like the taste of my own cunt on a man. I told him my face when he was close. He pulled out of my mouth and came on my cheek and my lip, cum messy and hot, his hand steady on his cock. I licked what I wanted and wiped the rest with the towel that had been on my shoulder. I sat on the bench again, tank on, and let the softer minute happen without turning it into a promise. My cunt was swollen and satisfied. I told him he had fucked me the way I asked, one slap, break unused, no blood, and no athlete of mine anywhere near it. He looked pleased and wrecked. I liked him better for stopping at the edges I had drawn. Break never left my mouth because I did not need it. We dressed. I was softer in the hallway, almost kind, and I still did not give him my roster or my number at the gym. He is a coach I fucked. He is not mine. I took my bag and walked.