Training Mac's Mouth
Mac lingered outside the front door of the gym, smoking a cigarette and trying to look less like he was about to step inside a brothel. To work there. Having sex with people. For money.
It shouldn’t really be that hard to project, since he didn’t usually spend his time waiting outside a brothel to have sex with people for money, but somehow he still felt like he was wearing a big neon sign on his forehead.
He almost jumped out of his skin when the door pushed open.
“Hey there. You must be the new guy. I’m Jem.”
Jem was about six feet tall with pale skin, black hair, black eyeliner, black nail polish. He held out a hand, which Mac took.
“You gonna tell me your name?”
“Sorry. I’m Mac.”
“Uh huh. Come on in. Welcome to the gym.” Only the way Jem said it sounded more like Welcome to The Gym. If you could hear capital letters, which was probably ridiculous.
Mac stubbed out his cigarette.
“You should shower before you meet Coach. He hates smoking. Like, if he smells it on you when you’re on the floor, he’ll send you home.”
The hell? “Seriously?”
Jem shrugged, leading him past the darkened front desk and down a hallway. “He and the Professor both have their quirks. She’s the one who hired you, right?”
“Is that Ms Tebow?”
“Uh, yeah, but here everyone calls her the Professor. If she hired you, you’ll be training with him tonight.” Jem tossed a glance back over his shoulder. “He’s gonna eat you up. You have that damaged tough guy thing going for you. She probably hired you for him.” At Mac’s expression (which he tried to clear as quickly as he could), Jem flapped a hand at him. “Not like that. You can trust Coach. He’s a good guy.”
“Fine.” If the money was anything close to what Ms Tebow had said, he could have sex with anyone. Even some asshole who went by the name “Coach.”
“Here we are.” Jem swiped a card and a door unlatched, leading into a stairwell. “Our locker room is on the second floor. The day crew has a totally different locker room. And no kitchen.”
“There’s a kitchen?” Even the thought of a kitchen made Mac’s stomach grumble.
“Yeah. And the showers are amazing. Did I mention you should shower before you meet Coach? Even though smoke’s probably all over your clothes.”
“I don’t—”
Jem shoved open the first door on the right at the top of the stairs and whistled low. “Too late. Hey, Coach. I already told him off for smoking, so you can save the healthy lungs lecture.”
The guy who cuffed Jem in the back of the head was tall and broad, with a shaved head and a scar on the side of his neck. “Thanks, Shorty.”
“As if! You gonna give him the rest of the tour, or—?”
“Yeah. Go eat dinner.”
“’Kay. Be nice.”
Coach raised a hand and Jem pretended to flinch, but it was obviously a game.
Shit. Mac didn’t do well with macho assholes who thought punching was something to laugh at. Mac didn’t have a “play fighting” setting. He tried to focus on the money he’d make if he got through this training shit, but he tensed up the second Jem pushed through a doorway across the locker room (the sounds of people eating and laughing on the other side definitely got Mac’s attention).
“You’re Michael?”
“Mac.”
“I’m Coach. Good to meet you.”
He shook hands, careful to keep his side of it firm-but-not-challenging. The last thing he needed was to butt heads with the guy in charge in his first ten minutes.
“Come on. I’ll take you on the rest of the tour.” The guy held up a card like Jem’s. “Tonight you’ll have someone with you pretty much all the time. If you decide to join the team, we’ll get you a key for tomorrow. Clear?”
“Yeah,” Mac said.
“Great.”
Mac couldn’t tell if the guy was mocking him, or what. He definitely looked amused, as if Mac was a little comedy show just for him. The money, the money, the money. Think about the money.
“Locker room. It’s co-ed, and so is the bathroom, but the bathroom has dressing areas. Most of the folks around here wouldn’t recognize modesty if it was a semi about to smash them, but everyone who’s shy just uses the dressing rooms. The showers are also co-ed, and the stalls in there are roomy.” As they walked, Coach pushed open doors, demonstrating the location of towels, snacks, an entire closet full of water bottles, spare socks. (“I honestly don’t know what the hell is up with you kids and socks, but we decided we’d just buy our own and supply them since your generation appears to have some kind of vendetta against white cotton crew socks.”) He waved at the kitchen (“Feel free to help yourself to as much as you like, but come in before your shift so you’re not eating on my dime, capisce?”). He actually took Mac into the laundry room and turned to look at him.
Being still took most of Mac’s effort; every other scrap of energy he had went into trying to appear unthreatening. He’d screwed up a lot of jobs by accidentally pushing macho guys like this one.
“We want all of you out there in clean clothes, with clean skin, and clean hair. This isn’t a strip joint, it’s a themed private club. I can train you to do everything anyone out there will ask of you, but I’m not gonna wash your shorts for you. Got it?”
Mac frowned. “Yeah.”
“Listen.” Coach leaned back against one of the dryers, which was running. “You want to bring your laundry here and wash it, go ahead. But get here early to do it so I don’t have to catch you back here when you’re supposed to be out there.”
“Fine.” Then, the words tasting like ash, Mac forced himself to add, “Thank you.”
“Oh man. The Professor swore you wouldn’t find me charming. I told her everyone finds me charming.”
The money, the money, the money. Mac stood there, not speaking, until Coach straightened up.
“All right. It was only a twenty dollar bet, anyway. Let’s head out on the floor so I can show you around before we open doors.”
The gym floor, accessed through a huge archway, looked like every gym Mac had ever seen on TV: weights machines, treadmills, ellipticals.
“You’ll do your gym training out here next week. This week you’ll do your personal attention training. Both are actual parts of your job.” Coach gestured to the room, and the two beyond it, all sporting additional gym-type things. “Believe it or not, people actually rely on us for fitness, go figure. Some of our regulars come in here three times a week to workout and never even ask for a back rub.”
Mac shook his head. “Why?”
“Some like to watch. Some take things slowly at first. Some—” Coach started moving again, and Mac followed. “The world is a pretty closed place, Mac. It doesn’t look kindly on the freaks and fuck-ups. Some of our clients pay our utterly appalling fees just for the relief of being among us for a few hours. No one judges here. You know?”
I know that’s a bunch of bullshit. He decided not to say anything.
“Heated pool, sauna, spa. There is absolutely no sex in the pool or the spa, and everyone knows it. If anyone tries to give you grief, you find one of the gold stars to smack them for you.”
“Gold stars?”
“Me, the Professor, Jem, a few of the others. Anyone with a star on their badge has the authority to kick out clients, though it hardly ever comes to that. The Professor’s screening process for clients is even more grueling than her screening process for staff.” The guy offered a smile, but Mac ignored it. “The sauna used to be off-limits, but now we have specific sauna nights where anything goes. The clients are mostly well-behaved, but some of them will be bratty, and all of them know the rules better than you do, so don’t hesitate to come to one of us.”
“Okay.”
“You might end up doing some maintenance shifts as well. You’ll get the maintenance training next week, but if it’s not your thing, it’s not your thing.”
“Some people like maintenance?”
Coach appeared to weigh his words before saying, “Some of the staff are here for the same reason as those clients I told you about. Anyway, we’ll talk about that next week. These are the offices, come on in.”
The door at the far end of the gym led to another stairwell, and back up to what he assumed was the same hallway as before. He followed Coach into a spacious office with a couple of couches in different seating areas, one of those fancy gas fireplaces with the rocks, and a desk shoved into a corner, covered in papers.
There was a conspicuous padded area in the far corner that looked like it was ready for a wrestling match. Mac tried not to think about the kind of wrestling this guy probably got off on.
“The answer to the question you’re not asking is yes, by the way,” Coach called over his shoulder. He tapped the computer keyboard so the monitor would turn on and inputted a code.
“What’s that?”
For a moment Coach seemed fascinated by whatever he was looking at. Then he looked back at Mac and said, “Yes. You will be having sex with me tonight. Part of the training. You’ll get the Professor tomorrow, so good luck.”
Mac clenched his jaw and looked away.
“She didn’t tell you, did she? She can be so funny about information dispersal. Come sit. Tell me what my sadistic wife said to you about this job.”
Wife? “You and Ms—the Professor are married?”
“She didn’t tell you that, either? Interesting.” Coach gestured to one of his little two-seater sofas. “Sit. Not really a request, Mac.”
He could leave. The guy wasn’t going to actually force him to stay here. He’d heard a lot of crazy shit, but he hadn’t seen anything illegal yet. Plus, maybe Coach was a jock, but there was no way he was married to Ms Tebow (the Professor) if he actually held people hostage in his office. Something about that made even less sense than having a sex gym.
Mac sat.
“What did she tell you? She cycles through five or so stories, with variations, and the one she told you will tell me the way she thinks I should play you.”
“Play me?”
“Yeah. I’ll explain once you’ve answered my question.”
Mac minutely unlocked his jaw. “She said she could find a place for me if I didn’t mind having sex for cash, and that it’d be as safe as it could be.” He paused before adding, “She said it’d be a lot of money, way more than I could make doing anything else.”
Coach nodded. “Did she let you think she was gay?”
“She didn’t say she had a husband,” Mac muttered, more uncomfortable than ever.
“It is a lot of money. There are a few jobs where you could make more, probably, but that’s why we offer perks. And there are no jobs that include sex with others that you could do more safely than here. Which reminds me—one of the rules is that you not see clients outside The Gym.”
There were those invisible capital letters again.
“Why?” Mac asked, mostly to be argumentative.
“Because when you’re in this building I have video footage of what happens between you and the clients, and all of them know it. When you leave this building I can’t protect you.”
The money, the money, the money. “Can we just get this over with?”
“Don’t you want to know what the Professor thinks about you?”
“Probably not.”
“She thinks you grew up with more money than you have now, and that’s why she emphasized it. People who have always been poor have a hunger for money; she thinks you’re frantically scrabbling for something you think you should have. She thinks you’re detached enough from your body that you’re willing to do sex work, even if it doesn’t suit you, and detached enough from your morals that you aren’t actually ethically opposed to it.”
In normal daily life, Mac would have mocked anyone who implied he had morals; hearing Coach so blithely assume he didn’t rankled for some reason.
“You’re kind of a prick,” he said, looking up for the first time since they entered the office.
Coach grinned. “You have no idea. I’m provoking you a little, but I am also kind of a prick. And I’m only a fraction of the Professor.”
“So what does she think you’re supposed to do with me, then?”
“She only comes off as gay when she thinks she’s dealing with someone who’s queer, Mac. You got a read on why she thinks that if you’re so jumpy around men? Or maybe you’re only jumpy around me.”
“I’m not.”
“Jumpy?”
Mac gritted his teeth and tried not to clench his fists.
“Are you straight?”
Obviously the correct answer was yes, maybe with a side order of none of your fucking business, but Mac was still seething and the pause went on too long.
“Ah,” Coach said, as if that meant something. “All right. We have no requirements in this area, but we also have no specialists. If you’re on the floor and a client wants your time, you’re expected to give it. At the basic level of service, we don’t generally allow for refusal, and absolutely never based on ‘boys are yucky.’ You got me?”
“So you want me to have sex with men?”
“And women. And whoever else asks. Yes. There are higher levels of service that come with higher levels of pay, but you won’t need to think about those until your probation’s up.” Coach leaned forward, over his knees. “If you can’t make any man in this gym feel like he’s the one you’ve been lusting after all night, Mac, this won’t be a good position for you.”
“How’m I supposed to do that?”
“You act. But it’s not as hard as it may sound. You’ll get to know the clients, get to know what they like. You might be surprised how genuinely you enjoy some of them.”
“I doubt that.”
“Everyone does. It’s why I keep saying it. And training lasts as long as it lasts. You have thirty days before you’re expected to be on your own on the floor, and we can ease you into the things that make you uncomfortable.”
Mac considered it, probably for longer than he was really allowed. He thought about Annabel’s couch (and her bitch of a mother who was always snarking at him about how he should be paying her more for rent, even though he was already paying a third, and all he got was a stinking couch), and hiding out in the discount store until everyone went home so he could catch a few hours of sleep in the break room (the rest of the store was alarmed, but if he hid in the men’s room and got to the break room before the alarm set, he was okay to stay there overnight).
The couch he was sitting on was more comfortable than any place he’d slept since he left home. It was probably more comfortable than his bed had been before that.
Maybe he really didn’t have morals; he definitely didn’t care about having sex with people for money. Or maybe he was just desperate to find some way to claw himself out of this pit of constant hunger and fear.
“I think I can do it. I don’t know how you want me to start.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of tonight’s events, Mac. It’s gonna piss you off and make you even more uncomfortable, but if I do it right, it’ll be good for you, too. Try to relax those tendons in your neck, though. You look like you’re about to get a body cavity search by Nurse Ratched.”
Mac eyed Coach up and down. “Uh. Yeah.”
Coach laughed it off. “Stand up. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Christ, was he gonna—yeah, obviously he was gonna have to get naked for this guy. Mac stood, arms like lead pipes at his sides, fists tight.
“The Professor doesn’t usually miss her mark. Did she do an in depth survey of your sexual history?”
Unable to speak with Coach looking at him like that, kind and interested, Mac shook his head.
“So fascinating. I can’t wait to see her later.” Coach stood. “I’m taller than you, and stronger than you. I’m coming closer now.”
“Just do it,” Mac said through his teeth.
“We have clients who like to pretend their partner is reluctant, but that’s a much higher pay grade than yours. And a whole different training. My job is to show you how sweet a man like me can be to a man like you.”
The word was a surprise. Mac shot a look at Coach, but again couldn’t read anything sinister beneath his smile.
“You don’t believe that either. I know, I know. No one ever believes me. And I think I’m pretty credible.” He took a step closer, then another, and they were standing close enough so their different masses were almost enough to make Mac step back.
The money. The first few times will be the hardest. Then it’s all downhill. You can do this. Being fucked by some dude is probably only a little more demeaning than cleaning up baby shit on changing tables at the discount store.
He forced himself to stay still, even when Coach reached out.
Damn. The man’s hand was hot and felt like it weighed about five pounds, pressed against Mac’s chest.
“I like everyone. When I was younger than you I used to tell myself that looking at other men was okay because I just admired them. I liked their pecs, or their abs, or their thighs. I didn’t like men, I just liked the pieces they were made of.”
Mac stared at Coach’s forearm—skin, dark like he came from people who’d been in the sun a lot and now the tan was part of his genetic makeup, darker hairs wiry and thick.
“And I liked breasts too, so I figured it would all wash in the end. I’d probably just grow out of the way I’d get preoccupied by a guy’s ass while he walked up a set of bleachers.”
How the fuck did he know? Stop. Don’t think about this. This is just another mind game. These people like mind games.
“Let’s see what pieces you’re made of, Mac. Take your shirt off.”
Mac pulled his shirt off and dropped it behind him on the couch.
“Tats. The Professor will be delighted.” Coach touched the thorns of the dead vines that climbed Mac’s left arm. His fingers grazed the blood drops beneath Mac’s clavicle, the twisting tornado inked across his abdomen, which looked like it was just about to touch down below his belly button. “This one will be her favorite, though.” Coach’s hand pressed against the meticulously drawn human heart on his right bicep. “Do you wear your heart on your sleeve, Mac?”
Despite trying to keep still, he shifted, unable to maintain this much contact with a dude who hadn’t hit him yet.
Mac had sex when girls acted interested, mostly in backseats and bathrooms and darkened bedrooms with loud music on and the constant threat of being caught. (Weird how girls seemed so turned on by the idea of getting caught. Mac couldn’t see the draw, himself.) No girl had ever looked at him the way Coach was looking at him. He’d never allowed it.
“You have any designs on your back?”
Mac shook his head.
“Why not?”
He had to clear his throat before he could answer. “I like to watch the needle.”
“Sure. If it’s gonna hurt you, you want to be looking at it.”
“Yeah.”
“Understandable.” Now Coach placed his other hand on Mac’s other shoulder. “Do you like kissing, Mac?”
“No.”
“I love kissing.” And that was it, that was all the warning he got, but when Coach pressed lips against his, he didn’t move his hands. Mac leaned back and Coach remained still. Waiting.
“I’m not sure I can do this, Coach,” Mac whispered, wishing he could just stop thinking and let it happen.
“It’s okay. You take a turn. Kiss my neck.”
Mac’s eyes locked on Coach’s neck. He could kiss a neck. A neck was just a neck, right? A neck was the same on anyone.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against Coach’s neck, on the opposite side from the scar.
“Good. Try it again and stay long enough to make me think you’re into it, you’re into my skin, you’re smelling my scent.”
He left his lips in one spot, but that felt dumb, so he moved them, dragging along skin. When the warmer, damper insides of his lips dragged, Coach “mmm”d in appreciation.
“I’ll do the same to you now. Pay attention.”
Mac had to remain totally unmoved, totally uninvolved. He had to. But it was completely fucking impossible, with Coach kissing his neck. It shouldn’t have felt so obscene—no tongue, no suction—but somehow Coach’s lips communicated in an entire language of desire that Mac didn’t even know he spoke.
“Yes, that’s how it felt for me, too. I’ll try something else, and then I want you to do it.”
“On my neck?” Mac asked without meeting his eyes.
“On your neck.”
Stubble. The prick-pull of blunt hairs, rubbing up and down his skin. He shivered.
“Different, I know.” Coach ran a thumb along his jaw. “Your turn, Mac.”
He’d shaved this morning, but he was going to have to shave here as well; he could get a good start on a beard inside a month. No way shaving at the crack of dawn would last him all day.
Not that it mattered right now. He felt like an idiot, but he tried to run his own cheek over Coach’s neck.
“Yes. Perfect. Just a little tease, a little hint.” Coach’s hands moved down his arms now, in parallel. “You can do that to any part of someone’s body. Some people like it, some can’t stand it, some only like it in some places. The trick is to shift to something new if someone isn’t into what you’re doing.”
“Okay.”
The hands moved to his waist and he tensed, but Coach only felt all the way back up to his shoulders, two parallel lines of sensation up his sides.
“Is it so bad, imagining a man’s body instead of a woman’s?”
Mac swallowed, acutely aware of the heat coming from Coach’s palms. “Taking it up the ass seems like a bad idea. And blowing a guy seems…” Shit. He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
“Scary?” Coach suggested.
“I don’t know.”
“Take my shirt off. Use your hands on me as much as you can. Most people who ask you for services will want you to touch them, Mac.”
He tried to mimic the move Coach had done, but with the hem of his shirt clenched in his fists. It wasn’t a smooth slide up his body, but it wasn’t nothing.
Coach had his own tats, all dark tribal designs, covering his entire chest. Before he’d realized he was doing it, Mac was tracing the lines. Some were older than others, but the artist had found a way to make them look interconnected, as if they’d been designed that way.
He realized he was touching where he hadn’t been invited and tried to pull his hands away, but Coach pulled them back.
One of them should probably say something, but neither of them did. After at least a full minute of silence, Mac went back to picking out individual tattoos and Coach let him.
“How many are there?” he asked finally, after losing count twice.
“Twenty-three. Well, twenty-three plus the one that pulls them all together.”
Mac nodded. “How many years?”
“Oh, thirty, give or take.”
Thirty? No way this guy was fifty. “You must’ve been pretty young.”
“I was.” Coach gently stilled his hands. “There are a lot of ways to have sex, Mac. We’re only doing one of them today. You have any requests?”
Mac shook his head and forced his body to breathe.
“I’m gonna step back, take off my pants, and sit down again. Tonight you’re learning about blowjobs. You like it when girls swallow your load, Mac?”
Shit. “Guess so.”
“That’s what you’re going to try to do, but if you don’t manage, it’s okay.”
“What do you mean?”
Coach shrugged, which Mac could still feel, since he was still fucking touching the guy. “Some people find swallowing distasteful. You’re gonna find a lot of things distasteful at first, and some of them will always be distasteful. But you’ll try them anyway.”
Mac nodded. That was like any fuckin’ job.
“Good.”
Coach stepped back and stripped off his pants and fuck, yeah, he looked like a body builder, like the guys at Muscle Beach in old pictures. Even when he sat down, he looked like he could crack Mac in two.
“Kneel here. No one’s gonna hurt you, Mac. Kneel here. I’ll tell you exactly what I want. I don’t expect you to read my mind, to magically know the right places to touch, and you don’t have to bring me flowers tomorrow.”
Humor. Right. Coach was supposed to be the charming one.
“I just want to get this over with,” Mac mumbled, kneeling down.
“Hm.” Coach reached out to cradle his cheek. This time when he pulled away, Coach held him in place. “You ever look at pieces of men’s bodies with longing? Just the pieces. Not the men themselves. You ever find yourself staring a little too long at a guy’s arms, maybe his ass?”
I don’t have to answer these stupid fuckin’ questions. Fuck you.
“It’s all right. Here at The Gym you can be whoever you are.” Coach’s hands disappeared. “You reminded her of me. That’s why she acted the way she did. And she hadn’t even seen your tattoos. Move in closer. How are you with fixing stuff? Toaster, video game console, vacuum?”
He shot a glare in the direction of Coach’s face. “I can rebuild an engine. Fuck toasters.”
Coach grinned again. “Good. Then you know that once you get the feel for it, everything’s simple. This is the same way. A few basic techniques work for a wide variety of men; start with those, then branch out. Start with one hand on my cock.”
Shit. This wasn’t cool. Mac watched his hand move and was still almost shocked by the heat of Coach’s dick.
“I have three main moves for the other hand, to start with. I like top of thigh”—Coach dragged his left hand over to demonstrate—“inner thigh, which gives you a fun little control play”—he pressed Mac’s hand against his thigh as if Mac was pushing his legs open more—“or balls. Balls is pretty much always a winner.” Because he’d already been doing whatever he wanted with Mac’s hand, Mac let him drag it down.
Smooth skin on his sac. Did a guy like this wax? Mac swallowed and let his fingers move a little. Coach’s hand didn’t disappear right away, which somehow made it easier. I’m not doing this. I’m just following directions.
Balls. Touching another guy’s balls was both more weird (less familiar) and less weird than he’d expected. They were recognizably balls, but not the same as his own.
“Start moving the hand on my shaft now. Good. You can try different amounts of pressure if the guy you’re blowing doesn’t give you direction. Grip me all the way around, as tightly as you can and still move.”
Mac followed directions and Coach’s stomach rose and fell faster. This was turning him on.
“Right, good. Now just fingertips, light touches.”
Fingertips, okay. Mac used his fingertips, but his other hand tested out a light squeeze on Coach’s balls. Coach shuddered.
“Jumping ahead of your lessons. Keep that up and lean in. Breathe over my cock. Some guys think that’s sexy as hell, some think it’s a waste of time. Try it out.”
Breathe over his cock? Mac leaned in, frowning a little, and exhaled over Coach like he was warming his hands in winter.
“Yeah, doesn’t really do anything for me. But that sensation totally unravels some people. Take in the head of my cock now, Mac.”
Mac swallowed hard. This was the fucking part. This was the part he didn’t even think he could actually go through with.
Instead of another pep talk, Coach waited.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Try it once. That’s all. You’ll do different things tomorrow.”
“But I can’t—I mean it’s not even worth me trying at all if I can’t even—”
“It’s always worth trying once. Everyone on staff has been right where you are now. You’re doing fine. Hell, you’re doing a lot better than Jem the first time he trained with the Professor. Poor kid.”
He risked glancing up. “You made—but he’s gotta be gay.”
“Absolutely one hundred percent.”
“But—” Mac shook his head. “Really? Women actually want—I mean—”
“He has more male than female clients, but there are definitely women who feel like they receive better service from a man who’s truly doing it for them, not himself.”
“So that could be me, but with guys?”
Coach didn’t answer right away. When he did, it wasn’t much of an answer. “It is sometimes true for people that the things they enjoy doing most are the things they dislike doing for money. Or that the things they don’t care for in their normal lives end up being the things they don’t mind doing for cash.”
“Right. Okay.” He did it before he could think about it. He ducked his head and let himself take in Coach’s dick.
It was totally different than he expected.
He’d braced for the taste, but Coach didn’t taste bad. He didn’t taste good. Mac swiped his tongue across and it was so much softer than he’d imagined. How could there be a spot this soft on a man this hard?
He waited for more directions, but when none came he moved his right hand up and down.
“Good. Keep playing.”
Oh, that was the taste. He threw in a little bit of ball action and Coach’s dick gave him a little more flavor. Shit. Okay. Not terrible. He could do this.
Actually, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he’d expected. He’d thought it’d be revolting, like getting a whiff of ground beef left out too long, but it wasn’t.
Mac explored with his tongue, still never straying from the head of Coach’s dick. Yeah, okay. It wasn’t so bad, and the way Coach seemed to be restraining himself made Mac feel powerful.
“Change up the pressure.” One of Coach’s hands came down flat on his thighs.
Right, pressure. He went tighter on the shaft, which was okay, but it wasn’t until he sucked on the head while using only fingertips that Coach’s hand curled into a fist.
“Very good, Mac. Do you feel me getting bigger? Do you feel my cock swelling because I like what you’re doing?”
Harder, longer, yeah, damn. Mac sucked faster, tried to take in more.
“Don’t forget my balls—”
Right, balls. Mac kept going and Coach’s body went still.
“Good—good—that’s good, Mac—I’m close—I’m coming—”
There was too much, even though Mac braced for it, even though it almost felt good to make Coach lose control. He tried to swallow, but once wasn’t enough and then he couldn’t inhale to swallow again.
Mac choked and backed off, swallowing convulsively, trying to clear his airwaves.
“Here.”
A tissue in front of his face. He coughed into it and sat back on his feet. Shit, was he gonna be fired right now? Also, girls had swallowed his load before, it didn’t seem like a big deal, so how’d he screw it up so badly he had to wipe jizz off his chin?
Shit.
“Very good, Mac.” Coach rose, reached down, and pulled him to standing.
The kiss surprised him. The way it kept going shocked him more. The way he leaned into it—
He tried to pull back, and Coach let him, but only until they were no longer kissing.
“I won’t tell anyone it made you hard, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Mac shut his eyes fast. “No.”
“My turn. Sit.”
He let Coach turn him, push him down. He let Coach pull his jeans down under his butt, but he was shaking.
“If you want me to stop, I will.”
“But isn’t this—”
“This is me getting off on blowing a handsome man in my office. If you want me to stop, Mac, I will. This isn’t training.”
It was worse. Having the choice. But when Coach pulled Mac’s hands up, pressing them to his head, Mac didn’t think about it. He guided Coach down and thrust up. Coach did the rest.
Mac came with an embarrassing moan, giving in to stronger suction than he’d ever felt, like Coach was pulling the orgasm out from his toes.
“Thanks,” Coach said. He stood up, and pulled Mac up with him. “Kiss me. Like I kissed you.”
Fuck. Was this more training? Mac leaned in but couldn’t quite do it. He dipped down and kissed Coach’s neck instead.
Coach laughed. “All right. You’re getting paid for the full shift, but your training is done for tonight. Get some food and a shower before you go. And Jem was right about the cigarettes; I hate them. I sure as hell hate seeing healthy kids turning their lungs into ashtrays.”
“Fuck you, Coach.”
“In a couple of days, Mac. Never fear. Locker room’s all the way down the hall on the left.” Coach walked back to his desk, rustled around in a drawer, did something on the computer, and swiped a key card through some kind of machine. “You’re officially in training, if you want to come back. Yes or no?”
“Uh.”
Coach smiled. “Think of the money.”
“Shit. Fine, Coach. Yeah, okay. I’ll come back.”
“Good. I like you.” Coach held up the card. “This will get you into the places you’re permitted to go. Any door that reads red, stay out of. You got it?”
“See, that sounds like a challenge.”
“Only if you want to get fired. Otherwise, don’t worry. You’ve got potential. One of these days you might get a gold star.”
“Then I’ll be able to get through all the doors?”
Coach walked back across the room and handed him the card. “If I tell you yes, does that make you more likely to stay?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, Mac. All the doors. Now scram.” Already walking away, Coach called back, “But really, get something to eat, I can hear your stomach growling, it’s distracting.”
Mac blushed and let himself out.