Training Mac's Tool
Mac got in even earlier on the third day of his training. He’d tried to catch a nap between shifts, but Annabel was at work, and her mom was always more messed up when Annabel was gone. Today she’d accused him of trying to spy on her in the shower, so he’d booked it.
He was pretty surprised to find Jem already in the kitchen eating a sandwich.
“I thought you had a house.”
“I know, right? I covered a shift at the day gym today. Man, that is so boring. I can’t believe anyone does such a boring job. And for less money.”
Mac brought bread and peanut butter to the table. “You think they’re saying the same thing about you?”
“Oh, Mac, the day gym staff have no idea we exist. It’s really sweet. When I cover a shift I just say I work at some other gym and I know the Professor from college.”
“Do they call her ‘the Professor’ too?”
“No, but there’s a whole different management staff. They know the Professor’s one of the owners, but they think she’s off somewhere. Probably they think she’s being a professor.” He grinned at the thought. “Hey, I meant to ask you—which one of them’s more intense, Coach or the Professor?”
“More intense?”
“Yeah, you know. More, like, intense.”
Mac spread peanut butter over his bread and considered it. The Professor was definitely intense, but she also sat there and worked on spreadsheets or something while he blew her husband. Coach, though. Every time Coach touched him he felt more naked.
“Coach,” he said finally. “Coach is more intense. I bet the Professor can be super intense, but I haven’t seen that side of her as much.”
“Exactly! The straight boys all think it’s the Professor, because Coach plays the butch guy with them, like ‘Oh, hey, my dick’s in your mouth, no biggie, we’re both macho dudebros here.’”
The words I’m straight stuck in his throat. “Really?”
“Yeah, haven’t you seen him do that yet? It’s pretty funny.”
“But Coach is married to the Professor.”
“I know.” Jem leaned over the table. “I know. But have you ever seen them touch? It’s so fascinating. I love them. I mean I know it’s gross and incestuous, but they’re the closest things I have to family. Anyway, they are so interesting to me. They love each other, they get along really well, and I’ve worked here for almost four years and literally never seen them casually touch, like outside of a training session.”
“Four years? How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Baby,” Jem said, with no actual heat behind the insult. “Anyway I kind of committed a huge training foul and forgot to show you the schedule. It’s always posted over on the bulletin board, just FYI.”
“I have a schedule?”
“Silly, of course you have a schedule.”
Mac took his first peanut butter bread slice over to the bulletin board and looked around. Sure enough, set off from the rest of the board by a background of what looked like faded black construction paper, a schedule. He found his name at the bottom, and his shifts, though he hadn’t stayed until the end of one yet. Last night’s shift had (P) after it, but the next three shifts had (C).
Not that much they could mean by that. And no one else had either letters after their shifts.
“Am I the only person in training right now?”
“Yeah. They only train one at a time unless we lose a bunch of people all at once without enough warning.”
“So I should know who I’m training with by the ‘P’ or ‘C’ after the shift?”
Jem turned in his seat. “Technically. I bet Coach keeps you, though, whatever the schedule says.”
“That’s pretty much what the schedule says.”
“Aw. Hot. I love Coach. He’s amazing.”
Mac didn’t reply. But he didn’t feel disappointed to be left in Coach’s hands for the next three days either.
* * *
He knocked at Coach’s office door at the start of his shift and Coach called “Come in!”
Mac wondered if the offices would ever look normal to him. Would he spend any time in these rooms once he was done with his training? Or maybe there would be more training. That’s what Coach had said the first day, that there were different levels of training. Not that he wanted more training. Except maybe he did.
“You can come over here, Mac. I’ve got about ten minutes left on this before I can walk away from it.”
He crossed the room and Coach turned his chair halfway.
“So. How many days left at the other job?”
“Five.”
Coach nodded. “You look more tired than Jem does, and he’s been in the building since nine a.m.”
“Sorry,” Mac muttered.
“Hey. Don’t feed me bullshit apologies. I’m not on your case.” Coach pulled his shirt off. “I’ve got about ten minutes, but let’s see if I can get through it while you distract me.” He reached into one of the middle drawers and pulled out two oil packets. “Here. Get to work on my neck and shoulders. I’ll even make it easier for you.”
Which apparently meant he’d lower the chair. Coach looked a little absurd sitting so low at the desk, but it did make it easier for Mac to reach his upper body.
He took a slow breath and broke open the first oil packet. It wasn’t as warm as the ones in the Professor’s end table, but he ran it in his hands first before dropping them to Coach’s skin. Mac smoothed oil up his neck, across his shoulders, down his back. He hesitated, then opened the second packet and used both of his hands to smooth over Coach’s chest.
His tattoos flared brighter under the oil. Mac kept at him until ever bit of ink was oiled, and only then did he realize Coach was no longer working.
He blushed and murmured, “Sorry.” This time he meant it.
“I thought you’d serve as an incentive more than a distraction, but you surprised me. Don’t apologize. Keep going.”
Coach, it looked like with some effort, forced his hand to his mouse and started working again while Mac played with his skin.
It was an entirely different experience than massaging the Professor. Her skin was softer and her muscles deeper. Coach’s skin ran thin over thick muscle, and when Mac dug in harder, he pushed back. His neck was tense, and Mac could trace that tension all the way down to his arms. He kneaded at the toughest part until it loosened up and moved on to the next spot, losing himself in the effort.
“Oh man, Mac, you’re killing me.” Coach spun in the chair, breaking his grip. “Your hands are strong for a guy who works at a bargain store.”
“I play guitar. I used to do all those hand exercises to try to get better fingering.”
“You should keep doing your exercises.” Coach grabbed the hem of his shirt. “Get rid of this. I want to see your skin.”
He let Coach lift the shirt over his head and pull him in, even though that should have been more strange. Coach pulled his hands back into place where they were before, working on his neck, and when Mac returned to his task, Coach leaned in and started sucking on his stomach and chest.
Mac shuddered, trying to stay still, trying to focus on what his hands were doing and not Coach’s lips, mouthing across his ribs.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Coach spoke into his skin. “Talk to me with your hands. Your hands are communicating whole worlds of sensation to me right now.”
Mac had no fucking idea what the hell that meant, but he shifted his palms up the back of Coach’s skull, inadvertently pulling him in closer, and Coach responded by kissing a line up to one of his nipples, then biting it.
“Shit!”
“Too much?” Coach asked, and did it again.
“Crap, stop, what the hell?”
“What the hell what, Mac?”
“I don’t know. Just—why’d you do that?”
“Because I like the way it feels and I thought you might also like the way it feels.” Coach’s hands skimmed over his sides, around his back, and held him still while Coach leaned in again. This time he didn’t bite. This time his tongue flicked out at Mac’s nipple over and over again until Mac hissed and pushed back into his hands.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
“Never done that?”
“No.”
Coach’s hands ran up and down his back, then rested at the top of his jeans. “Today we’re gonna play with our tools. We’ll play a little more monkey-see-monkey-do. First, though—” Coach tugged him in by his belt loops, ducking down to run a cheek along the stiff outline of Mac’s dick. “Oh good. I was about to be worried I was totally off-base.” He looked up from under his lashes. “Mac. Use your hands and make me do what you want.”
“What?”
“Use. Your. Hands.”
Mac’s hands, still on Coach’s head, tightened. “Use them?”
“Show me what to do. Show me what you like.”
Shit. He tentatively pulled Coach’s head toward him, then stopped, uncertain.
“It’s okay. Whatever you want. Show me.”
Mac bit down on his tongue and pulled Coach’s face to his other nipple.
This time it was all tongue and suction, no teeth, and Mac had to close his eyes against the feeling of Coach’s stubble against his skin as he sucked and licked.
It felt incredible and wrong and Mac didn’t know if he wanted more or if he was already over the edge of too much.
One of Coach’s hands pressed against his hard-on and Mac gasped.
“It’s okay,” Coach said, lips wet against his skin.
Mac had no idea what was okay anymore. He pushed Coach’s head back and stepped away, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“You can wash up at the sink.”
That was good, that was great, that was a reprieve from whatever this chaos was in his body making him want crazy shit, like Coach’s lips on his dick again.
Get it together. You’re here for the money. Get it the fuck together. Anything other than fucking and money has no place in this transaction.
He scrubbed all the oil from between his fingers, underneath his nails, washing away Coach’s skin as well.
“Monkey see, monkey do,” Coach said.
Mac sucked in a breath, let it out slowly, and turned around. “Okay.”
Coach was naked now, standing back against the arm of one couch, half-sitting. He didn’t fully smile, but he wasn’t annoyed. When he gestured, Mac moved closer.
“C’mere.” Coach’s hand squeezed one side of his neck and he wasn’t exactly shocked when lips pressed against his cheek. “You ever see a man’s package and wonder what it’d feel like in your hand, Mac?” Coach asked, not pulling back.
Mac closed his eyes and nodded.
“Yeah, me too.” Coach kissing him like this, faces pressed together, like nothing else was going on, should have felt more screwed up than anything, but Mac couldn’t find that voice in his head anymore. He wanted to stand here for the rest of the night, with his eyes closed, thinking of nothing but the sensation of Coach’s lips and the pull of his stubble.
“We’re jumping ahead of my training program,” Coach whispered.
Mac stopped his guilty fantasy of more kissing and tried to back himself down. This was training. That’s all it was. Coach probably made out with every single person he trained. This was nothing to him but a job.
Some terrible masochistic impulse led Mac to ask, “So everyone gets the same training?”
“What?” Coach shook his head and turned Mac’s so they were facing each other. “That wouldn’t make sense. You train everyone the same if you want them to be interchangeable. Every one of our staff members offers something different to The Gym, something different to the clients, to each other. We train accordingly.”
“Oh.”
“What are you thinking about? A minute ago you were somewhat relaxed—at least for you—and now you’re tense again.”
“Nothing. Just—you do this all the time. I don’t.”
“I do what all the time?”
“This.” Mac gestured in between them. “This. Training. Whatever. I have to keep reminding myself it’s just training.” He shook his head, trying to embrace anger more than whatever this other emotion was that made him feel nauseous and humiliated.
“There is no ‘just,’ Mac. You are not ‘just’ anything. I train everyone differently. I’ve never trained anyone the way I’m training you.”
He was acting like a whiny baby. It was embarrassing. Mac swallowed and tried to stop being weird. “Sorry. Anyway. We can keep going.”
“Not until you relax again.” Coach tugged his head back. “You are nothing like anyone else on staff. If you were just like other people, we wouldn’t have hired you. Close your eyes again, Mac.”
He closed his eyes and let Coach go back to kissing his throat, his jaw. “Jem says the gay guys think you’re more intense and the straight guys think the Professor is.”
“Mm,” Coach said, still kissing.
“The Professor is pretty intense.”
“She is, yes.” A tongue traced his Adam’s apple.
“But you’re—” Mac sucked in a ragged breath.
“I’m what?”
“She’s intense when she’s talking to me. You’re always intense, even if you’re just touching my wrist, even if you’re just looking at me.”
Coach laughed, and his breath made Mac shiver. “She turns it off, you’re right. I don’t turn it off for you. I do turn it off for some people.”
“Like the straight guys?”
“Maybe some of them. Not all of them. Being straight isn’t the defining factor, though it is a factor.” Coach snagged his neck again and guided him toward the wrestling mats in the corner. “I have my favorites and the Professor has hers. Jem’s definitely on that list for both of us.”
“I like him. He talks to me like we’re friends.”
“I’m sure he considers you friends. It takes Jem about twenty, twenty-five seconds to make a friend.” Coach released him and popped the lid on a little ottoman/coffee table. He pulled out a blanket and opened it over the mats. “Come on, you. Let’s work on that cock of yours.”
“Work on it?”
“Yeah. You see, you do, Mac.” Coach tossed a couple of oil packets down on the blanket and stretched himself out.
Shit. It looked an awful lot like a bed right now. Except for the oil packets. “You have something against lube?”
“Yep. The flavor. This is food-grade oil.”
Mac took in the implications there and swallowed.
“That’s not a promise, by the way. Monkey see—”
“Monkey do, I know.” Mac lowered himself to the blanket.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” One of Coach’s hairy legs rubbed against Mac’s jeans.
“Uh.”
Coach reached out to toy with the button of his jeans. Mac braced, but Coach didn’t exactly unbutton him. Just played with him, pressing the button in, tugging it this way, then that way. “Everyone comes here with different ideas in their head, different things that scare them, or shame them. Did you know you’d freak out if someone touched the back of your knee?”
Mac shook his head.
“That’s why we do so much of this, and why you’ll spend next week job shadowing, and the week after that with someone shadowing you. All safeguards to make sure if something hits you wrong, we can help.” Coach touched his lips. “You came here with a lot of questions I hope you can answer better than you could before.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, Mac.”
If he asked, he knew what Coach would say, so he didn’t.
“Monkey see.”
“I know.” Mac unbuttoned his jeans and slid them over his hips. He didn’t tense up when Coach helped take them off.
Coach tossed a thing of oil at his chest and took one himself. He lay back and opened it, getting both hands oily, dripping the rest on his stomach.
After a moment, Mac did the same. He didn’t like the mess, but this was a game.
“Show me what feels good,” Coach said, gripping his own dick.
“Is that something people actually want to watch?”
“Sure. People want to watch, or join in, or they want you to tease them with something they can’t have.”
“But can’t they just—have it?”
“Some of them will take what they want. Some of them won’t. A lot of people just enjoy flirtation for the sake of flirtation. That’s a huge part of what we do. It should be fun.”
Mac forced his gaze up from Coach’s dick. “The Professor flirts for fun?”
“God, no. The Professor doesn’t flirt. She has other skills she brings to the business. Like vetting staff.”
“If she was looking for flirtatious I don’t know how she ended up with me.” Mac experimentally used an oily hand on his dick. It was good. Warmer than lube, or just picking up his body heat faster.
“You should ask her sometime. Watch my hand.”
…on your dick. Right. No problem. I watch guys jerk off all the time.
Coach used his fist for a few pumps, then his thumb and forefinger. He let his hand slide lightly over skin, then he used more pressure and really jacked himself. Mac started mimicking the motions and they lasted longer. A strong grasp with his fist lasted until he started thrusting in little jerks, trying to control himself. Coach switched it to a loose fingertip slide that made Mac shudder in frustration.
“Good. Keep with me, Mac. Keep with me. Watch.”
This time he followed the movements, but he was missing something. It became clear what when Coach deliberately squeezed a few beads of precome out of the tip of his dick.
Mac salivated, the memory of that taste immediately hitting him. No. You do not want to lick some guy’s dick right now. That’s not what you’re here for. Not that it mattered, anyway.
“Your turn,” Coach said.
He’d never milked himself like this; jerking off was something he did in the shower when no one else was home. It was something he’d done hiding under his sheets as a teenager, wishing he didn’t need it. He’d never touched himself in front of someone unless it was to put a condom on or take a condom off.
“Go ahead. See what you can do.”
A twist, a shift. Coach reached down to play with his balls, so Mac did the same. Pressure, deliberate action at the head of his dick. There. He’d managed one drop.
“That was harder than I thought,” Mac said, surprised to hear his own voice, low and aroused.
“This part is easy.” Coach reached out with his right hand to swipe the precome off Mac’s dick. Then he stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked.
Mac’s toes curled, watching Coach’s lips.
“Your turn.” And it didn’t feel…deliberately provocative. Like Coach was getting off on making him do something he didn’t want to do.
Because he did. He obeyed, using his thumb, running it over the flushed dusky purple of Coach’s head, not quite able to catch all of it. Still, he sucked what he’d gotten off his thumb and went back again.
“Oh man. Yeah, that’s so good.”
“Can I—”
No. No, that’s not part of the training, that’s a fucking request—
“Yes,” Coach said. “Do it.”
Mac turned on his side and leaned down. This time he used his tongue and yeah, it tasted better on Coach’s dick than it did on his thumb.
“You keep that up and this party’s gonna end way too soon. Up, Mac. I gotta take a breather. I’m an old man.”
“You aren’t old.”
“Sure I am. Unless you consider forty-five young.”
Forty-five. What had he said about the tattoos? He’d been getting them for thirty years. Mac stretched out again, this time on his side, and studied Coach’s ink, trying to find the oldest one, the one he’d gotten at fifteen.
Touching wasn’t necessary, but it gave him a visual way to dismiss the newer tats, and the bigger frame work design. He painted them in oil until he was left with the most faded and blurred. There were three that looked right around the same age, but he couldn’t choose between them.
“You can’t see it. You’re looking for the first one, right?”
“Yeah.”
Coach took his hand and pressed it directly over his heart, on the darkest patch of the design. “I had it covered up, badly, when I was eighteen. I shouldn’t have, but I was angry at the time.”
Mac searched Coach’s expression for anything forbidden and didn’t find it. “Why?”
“A very dear friend of mine did it. When he died, I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.”
“How did he die?”
“He took a bottle of painkillers, chased it with half a bottle of vodka, and shot himself in the head.” The ghost of a smile turned up Coach’s lips. “He was unwilling to accept failure. It was his most lethal character flaw.”
“I’m sorry,” Mac said after a minute.
“I am, too.” Coach pressed down, compressing Mac’s fingers. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Mac frowned, trying to work it out in his head without asking, but that made no sense. “For reminding you about your dead friend?”
“For reminding me about love. And ink. Do you think that’d be a good song? A ballad, maybe, ‘Love and Ink.’ About two boys who were so afraid of being in love the only thing they could do was pierce each other with needles and exchange crummy tattoos when they really wanted to kiss.”
Shit. “That’s pretty fucked up, Coach.”
“Yes. C’mere, Mac. You can keep playing with my skin, but I want you on top of me.”
“On top—”
Coach was strong. Strong enough to haul him over. “Sit on my stomach. Good.”
Intense, yeah, intense was sitting on top of Coach with his dick at Mac’s ass.
“Show me what you like,” Coach repeated, hands resting on Mac’s spread thighs.
“This feels weird.”
“We have a few clients who will like you naked and hard when you’re working with them. They don’t touch. In fact, not touching is part of what they get off on. Can you hold an erection when no one’s touching you?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll work on that Friday.” Before Mac could ask, Coach added, “Tomorrow, though. Do you know what we’re working on tomorrow?”
“No. The training sheet just says C.”
“I told the Professor you’d be sick of me, but she assured me you secretly find me charming so I actually won our bet.”
“Shut up, Coach,” Mac muttered.
“Tomorrow we’re gonna do something else.” Coach shifted, legs bending until his knees came up behind Mac. He reached around to press his dick against Mac’s ass. “You remember telling me taking it up the ass seemed like a bad idea?”
Mac stared down at Coach’s black chest plate, tracing the lines with his fingers, and didn’t answer.
“Tomorrow I prove to you that it’s a damn good idea.”
He didn’t want that. But he had to hold himself very still or he’d be pushing back into Coach’s hand, into his dick.
“You also said blowing a guy was scary. Is that still true?”
Mac gnawed on his tongue and forced his gaze up. “Blowing you isn’t scary. That supposed to cure me for blowing everyone? What if a guy hasn’t showered in a few days?”
“Then he’s not laying a finger on my equipment. Be reasonable. Did you see the Professor’s office? She does not tolerate deviation from clean.” The hand still on his thigh began to knead. “More seriously, when the staff complains, we take action. And we have. No one’s ever fought for their right to come in here smelling like a dumpster. Could you blow Jem? Jem’s definitely clean.”
The correct answer was No fucking way. But even without the incentive of money, Mac was intrigued. Could he blow Jem? What did Jem’s dick look like? And yeah, what’d it feel like? Did Jem wax?
“Do you wax?”
Coach blinked. It was the closest he’d come to looking shocked. “Wax?”
“Your balls are smooth.”
“Oh, wax. I shave. I tried waxing, but I like the ritual of shaving more. I bet Jem waxes.”
Mac flushed, the momentary enjoyment in taking Coach off-guard completely evaporated.
“Shift up for a minute.”
He did it, and Coach shimmied until Mac was sitting on his upper thighs instead of his stomach. (For a split second, Coach’s dick dragged over Mac’s balls and he tensed every muscle in his body trying not to feel it.)
Then he was sitting again and Coach was reaching for their dicks. Both of their dicks.
“A little cock-on-cock, Mac. We have a regular who loves foreskin docking. Do you know what that is? It’s intense, a man pulling his foreskin up over the head of your cock.”
Mac didn’t even fully comprehend that and it sounded insane.
“Almost makes me wish I had a foreskin of my own, though this is nice, too. There’s something about the vulnerability of a cut cock, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you will.” Coach’s hands smoothed up their dicks, not jacking, just using the oil to pull both of them together.
“Straight guys do shit like this on the floor?”
“Sure. And gay guys go down on women.”
“And you’re saying everyone pretends they’re okay with that?”
“Not pretends, exactly. At first you pretend. But most people figure out how to enjoy themselves. Ask Jem. Jem was terrified of women wanting his service.”
“And now he’s got a gold star.”
“Now he’s a gold star, yes.”
“That means he’s gone through all the training?”
“All the training we currently offer, though the Professor’s always thinking of new things.”
Mac tried to focus through the presence of Coach’s dick pressing against his, and Coach’s hands increasing the pressure. “What’re the different levels?”
“Do you like this, Mac? Do you like the way this feels?”
“I don’t know.” Don’t think, try not to feel.
“I know when you’re bullshitting, by the way. I’m just too polite to point it out. Get down here. Now.”
The sudden command in Coach’s voice startled him, and Mac looked up.
“She pegged you for a kid who disliked male authority figures. I can come on like an authority figure, but I’ve been showing you something else. You want me to play the bully?”
“I’d probably hit you. I don’t do real well with bullies.”
“Me either.” Coach tipped them to their sides, pulling Mac lengthwise against him. “Why’re you so afraid of feeling good?”
“Because it only lasts for a minute and when it’s gone—” He broke off. “I just don’t like it. I’d rather stay numb.”
“I can feel that in you. Here, face-down.”
No command. Mac let Coach’s hands turn him, arrange his arms out. He wasn’t shocked when Coach picked up another oil packet and started in on him.
“I wanted to do you yesterday, but the Professor thought you wouldn’t want her in the room. Interesting, right? I figured that was the part you’d mind least, being naked in front of a woman. But she didn’t mean that. She meant this. She meant you wouldn’t want to open yourself up for it.”
“Coach? Is this part of the training?”
Fingers dug into his neck, dug furrows into the tense muscles of his shoulders.
“If I say no, you gonna make me stop? Because I’ve justified things a lot stranger than a back rub as training. I could make something up to justify this.”
But no. No. Coach’s weight on top of him, holding him steady, working him over felt good. Money or not.
Coach leaned down and whispered in his ear, “It’s team-building, Mac. We’re working on our bond.”
“Shut up, Coach.”
Coach laughed.
Once Coach was done liquefying his neck, he moved down to his shoulders and upper back. Then he moved lower, and that was good, that was like yesterday but better because Mac didn’t have to hold himself up this time.
He felt the tension flowing back in when Coach’s hands landed on his ass, but Coach took no more liberties with him than he had with the Professor. And it felt damn good, having hands working his muscles like this; it felt like being held together and drifting apart all at once.
“Level two is actual bodywork training. We send you off-site for that, to a one week intensive. There’s some studying beforehand, muscle groups and stuff like that. Level three is light BDSM, mostly dealing with sensation play and low-level sensory deprivation, one sense at a time. We also do spanking on level three, because it’s relatively common, and also there was some demand for it from staff. Level four is bondage, which is a fun one. Level five is intermediate BDSM, though we might phase that out. We have very few clients who are interested, and the training’s intense. Level six is administrative. That’s the Professor’s favorite. Level seven is security.”
“And Jem’s done all that?”
“He has. You can ask him about it. Hardly anyone’s interested enough to do the whole thing. They may like the idea of a gold star, but the actual full work to get there takes at least a year.”
See? You won’t be here in a year. Six months, maybe nine, and you’re out.
“Of course, you make more money with each level,” Coach said, sounding way too innocent.
“Jem said he can’t believe the day gym staff make less money and spend so much of their time being bored.”
Coach laughed. “We’re definitely never bored at night.” He rose, making his way down each of Mac’s legs, avoiding his knees, paying attention to his feet. When he finished, Mac was floating, weightless, barely awake. “Flip over,” Coach said softly, touching his side.
He flipped, not bothering to feel anxious now. Coach could look at him. Coach had been looking at him all week.
Coach looked. And when he was done looking, he sat over Mac’s stomach, letting his balls rub against the residual oil. When that wasn’t enough, Coach busted open another packet and rubbed it between his palms. Mac watched through hooded, hazy eyes as Coach reached behind him to grab Mac’s dick in one slick hand.
“Tomorrow,” he said, as he slid Mac into his cleft. The oil made for a smooth glide up and down, and Mac’s back arched with the pleasure of it. Not sex but near sex. “Tomorrow we will have fun stretching and penetrating. Today we will have fun with friction in other forms.”
Mac hissed when his dick popped under, running between Coach’s legs, nudging his balls.
“Yeah, that’s good. Good, Mac.”
He was thrusting. When had he started thrusting?
Coach came down over him, bracing on either side, and now both of them were thrusting toward each other, against each other, the oil making it both messy and sexy. Coach’s teeth began at his neck and moved up, nibbling along his jaw. Mac shaved just before the start of his shift; Coach had shaved hours ago, and the rough drag of his skin almost electrified the nerves in Mac’s.
“Keep your eyes open. You always close your eyes.” Kisses now, over his cheek bones, on his forehead. “You hide from pleasure. It’s interesting, but annoying, too.” Even as he said it, he smiled. “Be with me here. Think of the money.”
“Shut up.”
Anything else he’d been planning to say was lost in the kiss that followed. Coach’s tongue thrust in while his dick thrust against and Mac couldn’t help shaking, this close to orgasm, this close to losing control.
“Yes, yes, come on, it feels good, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it feel like you’ll never find the spot you need? Doesn’t it feel like you’ll be stuck right on this edge for the rest of your life?”
Coach’s weight came down more firmly and Mac cried out, needing more sensation, more everything, pistoning his dick helplessly up into Coach’s body, needing the heat, the pressure, desperate to give in.
“Do it, do it, Mac, yes, do it, keep going, keep fucking me just like this, keep fucking me, take what you need, do it, just do it—”
Keep fucking me. Keep fucking me just like this.
Mac exploded, and somehow his arms were around Coach’s neck, his face buried there. He was shaking and he couldn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t do anything but stay in the dark and shake like a kitten in the rain.
Oh my god, a kitten in the fucking rain? Get it together. Stop this right now.
He ignored his brain and let the aftershocks roll through him. Coach shifted his body, but didn’t pull away. After a minute, Mac realized he was jerking off right there on top of him. Coach had his hand between them and was jerking off on Mac’s body, on Mac’s belly, right over Mac’s come.
Coach came with a sigh and collapsed again. “That was good. Frottage is always good. There is literally not a single bad thing about it. It’s the most overlooked sex act, and that’s sad. Very sad.”
Was Coach trying to soothe him with chatter again? Mac took a slow breath. He expected a kiss, but instead Coach just looked down at him, eyebrows slightly raised.
“That was good.”
“Yeah, Mac.” Coach rolled off and stretched out. “I love my job.”
Mac rolled his eyes.
“Listen, you’re getting paid to be here all night. Don’t feel any obligation to run off. Lupe said you linger on the roof over a single cigarette like any minute now someone’s gonna kick you out. Hang out in the kitchen. Read a book. Watch TV.”
Oh. Right. He was done. He bit down on his tongue so the disappointment wouldn’t show on his face. “Okay.”
“Huh. What just happened?”
“Nothing.”
Coach eyed him for a long moment. “Nothing my ass. All right. I really have to get back to those reports. Tax returns wait for no man. Words of wisdom.” Coach gave his cheek a light slap with his fingers. “If you’re tired, sleep. No one will bother you here.”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine. Okay. Let’s just pretend I believe that.” Another long stretch and Coach got up. “Man, I’m old.”
Mac dragged himself to his feet and gathered the discarded oil packets to throw away. He washed up at the sink and wiped himself down with paper towels before pulling his clothes back on. Coach had only pulled on his shorts to go back to his desk, but he turned when Mac was heading for the door.
“Hey.” He waited until Mac was looking to say, “Get your butt over here.”
Mac almost considered arguing it—Is that part of my training?—but instead he walked back over and stood just out of reach.
“I would like nothing more than to cuddle with you for a few more hours, but I don’t have time to do that today.”
“I don’t need fucking cuddling.”
“Mac, everyone needs fucking cuddling.”
“Well, obviously I don’t, or I’d be dead by now.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone needs cuddling. Even you. Which I knew when I wrote your training schedule and blocked off the whole shift on Friday for cuddling and related training activities.”
“Fuck you, Coach.”
A smile. Coach reached out to press two fingers to his lips. “Tomorrow. That’s a promise. If you’re not gonna sleep, go down to the locker room. Having you here and conscious is a distraction.”
Mac turned and walked out, knowing he was being childish, not able to stop himself. He took another shower, a long, hot shower, and when he came out, he felt a little less like a scolded kid. He took a cigarette break with Lupe, who was on lunch, and went home to Annabel’s couch.