THINKING ABOUT COACH!ART BEING ALL FLUSTERED AROUND PERVERT!READER ꩜ .ᐟ
WARNINGS .ᐟ age gap (art is in his 30’s, reader is in her 20’s). power dynamics (coach & athlete). reader is perverse.
you were surely doing this all on purpose, thought art—the witty responses, wandering eyes, tight and extremely short tennis skirts and the completely unnecessary subtle touches.
it started gradually at first, of course you’d been a total recluse when he first started coaching you, you both had, but with time you eventually opened up to him, your raunchy personality barring itself to him as soon as you felt comfortable around him.
you started talking to him as if he weren’t supposed to be your superior, as if you weren’t supposed to keep your and art’s relationship strictly professional.
it drove him mad.
each coaching session ended with him in the shower, his one hand bracing against the cold tiles of the shower wall while the other fisted his cock, his mind conjuring up the filthiest images of you; you bent over the net with your tennis skirt flipped up; you with your beautiful legs spread and over his shoulders while his mouth devoured the pretty pussy he imagined you had. just you, you, you.
it was starting to become a problem, to the point he’d lay awake at night thinking about you, talk patrick’s ear off about how he shouldn’t even want you like that, how he shouldn’t even see you like that, to which patrick would reply with some sleazy comment on how you were both adults so who gave a fuck? he also had some inkling of a feeling that you knew just how much of a problem this was for him, well judging from your increasingly risqué behaviour around him.
he was right of course, you noticed, i mean anyone with eyes could see that coach art donaldson had the hots for his star player, it was as obvious as the tent in his shorts each time you’d “accidentally” brushed your hand across his crotch in passing, the twinkle in your eye giving your game away instantaneously.
today was like any other; you arrived at his home for your afternoon till late night training session, white tennis shoes tapping against the floor as you walked the familiar route through his home toward the backyard, leading to the private tennis court he coached you on.
a sultry smile made its way onto your lips at the sight of him shirtless, doing laps up and down the tennis court as he waited for you, chest glistening like a glazed donut, the sight straight out of porno.
you descended the steps to the tennis court, dropping your belongings on one of the benches court-side before clearing your throat.
art stopped in his tracks, lips parted as he huffed out air, gleaming with sweat as he turned to face you, the corners of his lips twisting up in that side smirk you got off too late at night, the look on your face already making him shake his head in defeat; he could only imagine what you were thinking right about now.
“oh don’t stop on my account,” you spoke, walking up to him, your eyes shamelessly trailing over his shirtless form, lingering on his pecs before swallowing, looking back up at him.
“you’re late,” he quips, his lips forming a thin line as he uses the towel he’d grabbed in passing, patting the back of his neck before laying the white towel over his shoulder.
you rolled your eyes at his retort, stepping closer till the toes of your shoes touched his, your hand reaching up for the towel, bunching it up in your dominant hand before beginning to pat down the front of his neck, moving the fabric down along his collarbones before stopping just above his hardened chest, your eyes filled to the brim with mischief as you looked right into his blue ones, before continuing, your other hand bracing itself on his bicep, nails digging into his skin.
this was what he was talking about; though this could’ve been interpreted as a kind, friendly gesture, the slight curl of the corners of your lips, your fluttering lashes, it all pointed to the glaringly obvious sign—you were doing all of this just to rile him up, and it was clearly working.
you tossed the towel back to him after patting down most of his chest and abdomen, tilting your head up at him before speaking, “you’re welcome,” you hummed, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in that way that made him lose his mind, the apples of his cheeks tinting a light shade of pink, the same shade you were so sure his pretty (and currently hard and aching) cock was.
and with that you turned on your heels, jogging back to your belongings to pick up your tennis racket, leaving art clenching and unclenching his fists as he stayed in place, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before smiling, shaking his head, sneakily adjusting himself in his white adidas shorts.
this was going to be a long training session.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS .ᐟ gif (1) creds: @harcive | gif (2) creds: @anyataylorjoys | divider creds: @enchanthings
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