Coach Brandi

Carter can’t make a layup to save her life. Coach Brandi watches her miss another easy one, sighs, and calls her over. Says she’ll work with her after class. They drill all week. Carter starts hitting her shots. One night the hallway’s dark. She taps on the coach’s door, heart doing drumrolls. Brandi opens it wearing just a tank and shorts. Carter walks in, shuts the door with her heel, and blurts it out: she doesn’t give a damn about basketball—she’s been inventing reasons to stay alone with her. The air tightens. Brandi studies her for a long beat, then steps closer, slips her fingers under Carter’s chin, and kisses her hard, hungry. One hand on the wall, the other tugging the hem of Carter’s jersey. Carter moans, low and broken, when Brandi’s knee presses between her thighs. They stumble to the couch. Brandi pulls Carter’s shorts down and slides two fingers straight into soaked heat, fucking her steady and deep while her mouth sucks marks into the girl’s neck. Carter clings to Brandi’s shoulders, hips jerking, chasing every stroke until the tension snaps and she comes gasping the coach’s name. Brandi keeps her fingers working slow, savoring the spasms, then pushes Carter flat, spreads her wider, and eats her until Carter’s thighs shake and she’s begging to return the favor. Later, they lie there sweat-slick and breathing heavy. Basketball forgotten. Something hotter on the scoreboard.