Can I Blow Your Whistle Coach?

Coach Chad Alva sits on the locker-room bench and frowns at Julia James. Late again. Mind drifting all practice. Turns out the skinny little redhead just needs her face stuffed with meat before her brain works right. One hand on her head, the other already freeing his dick, Chad tells her to kneel. She licks her lips like she’s starving, takes him straight to the back of her throat, and slurps like the first sip of coffee on a Monday morning. Her drool runs down his shaft, soaks his balls, but he keeps her going. Saliva bubbles at the corners of her lips. She gags once, twice, then finds a rhythm—hollowed cheeks, quick bobs, wide eyes watering. Each wet suck relaxes the tension between her legs a little more until she slides two fingers under her skirt and rubs herself in time with the blowjob. Chad chuckles, gives her ponytail a playful tug, then unloads down her throat in thick, warm spurts. She gulps every drop, wipes her mouth on her wrist, and stands up grinning like she just aced finals. Class dismissed.