The locker room air was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap body spray, and testosterone. It was the familiar, almost comforting smell of victory after a hard-fought practice. For most of the guys on the team, it was a place of easy camaraderie, of boastful jokes and casual nudity. For Dylan, it had become a circle of hell.
It wasn't that he wasn't one of them. He was the team captain, a senior, one of the best players on the field. He was respected for his skill, for his dedication. But in the past year, something had shifted. Puberty had hit him with a strange, almost cruel sense of humor. While the other guys were bulking up in their chests and shoulders, Dylan’s growth had concentrated somewhere else entirely. His ass.
It was, to put it mildly, magnificent. Two perfect, heavy globes of flesh that seemed to have a life of their own. They were plump, round, and so ridiculously jiggly that they announced his presence long before he entered a room. They clapped together when he ran, creating a soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump that was impossible to ignore. And the sweat… dear god, the sweat. His ass was a swamp. After practice, his shorts would be soaked through, a dark, noticeable stain that clung to the curve of his cheeks, outlining their shameful perfection. The chairs in the classroom, the bench in the locker room, everywhere he sat, he left a damp imprint, a ghostly reminder of his anatomical anomaly.
His teammates, being teenage boys, were merciless.
“Hey Dylan, you forget your sports bra?” Jake yelled from across the room, snapping a towel in his direction. “For your ass-tits!”
A chorus of laughter erupted.
“Seriously, man,” another player, Mark, chimed in, “you gotta get that thing under control. It’s a safety hazard. Someone’s gonna trip over the aftershock.”
Dylan’s face burned. He tried to ignore them, turning his back as he fumbled with his locker, but it was no use. The shame was a physical weight, settling low in his stomach. He could feel their eyes on him, on the two fleshy mounds that strained against the fabric of his compression shorts. He hated them. He hated his body. He hated the way his cheeks jiggled with every step, the way they felt so soft and heavy, so… feminine.
He tried everything to hide it. Baggy shorts, long shirts, even, in a moment of sheer desperation, an athletic girdle that had only succeeded in making his ass look even more pronounced, like two basketballs stuffed into a sausage casing. Nothing worked. His ass was a force of nature, untamable, undeniable.
And then there was Coach Henderson.
Coach was a man carved from granite and machismo. Tattoos snaked up his thick arms, his voice was a gravelly roar, and his eyes missed nothing. Especially not Dylan’s ass. Dylan would catch him staring sometimes, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. It wasn't the same leering amusement as his teammates. It was something else, something more intense, more… possessive. It made Dylan’s skin crawl, but it also sent a strange, forbidden thrill through him.
Today, the thrill was closer to terror.
“Dylan! My office. Now,” Coach Henderson’s voice boomed across the locker room, silencing the last of the jeers.
The other players exchanged curious glances, but no one dared to say a word. Dylan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting shorts, his hands trembling slightly. He walked the long, lonely walk to the coach’s office, every step a symphony of jiggling flesh that he was sure the whole world could hear.
The office was small and smelled of old coffee and leather. Trophies and framed team photos lined the walls, a testament to years of masculine achievement. Coach Henderson was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He watched Dylan enter, his eyes dark and intense.
“Close the door,” he said, his voice low and calm. It was a stark contrast to his usual bellow, and somehow, it was even more intimidating.
Dylan did as he was told, the click of the latch echoing in the silent room.
“Take a seat,” Coach said, gesturing to the hard plastic chair in front of his desk.
Dylan sat, his cheeks spreading uncomfortably on the cold surface. He could feel the sweat starting to prickle on his skin.
Coach Henderson leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled. He was silent for a long moment, just watching Dylan, his gaze unwavering. Dylan squirmed in his seat, the movement causing a slight jiggle that he was sure the coach noticed.
“You know why you’re here, Dylan?” Coach finally asked.
Dylan shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. “No, Coach.”
“No? You have no idea?” Coach raised an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about your… performance. On the field, you’re a star. A leader. Off the field… you’re a distraction.”
“A distraction?” Dylan’s voice was barely a whisper.
“A distraction,” Coach repeated, his eyes dropping to Dylan’s lap, then lower, to the source of all his misery. “That… thing you’ve got back there. It’s a fucking circus act. The other boys can’t concentrate. Hell, I can’t concentrate. It’s all anyone talks about. Dylan’s big, fat, jiggly ass.”
Each word was a slap in the face. Dylan’s cheeks flushed a deep, burning red. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
“I… I can’t help it, Coach,” he stammered.
“Oh, I think you can,” Coach said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “I think you’ve been letting it get out of control. Flaunting it. And I think it’s time we did something about it. It’s time for some… discipline.”
The word hung in the air between them, charged with a strange, electric energy. Dylan’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“Stand up,” Coach commanded.
Dylan obeyed, his legs feeling like jelly.
Coach Henderson rose from his chair and walked around the desk, stopping right in front of Dylan. He was so close Dylan could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was massive, a mountain of muscle and authority. Dylan felt small and weak in comparison.
“You know, I’ve been watching you, Dylan,” Coach said, his voice a low growl. “I’ve been watching you all season. You walk around here, with that thing bouncing and clapping, leaving your sweat all over my benches… you think I don’t notice?”
He reached out and, with a startling gentleness, placed a hand on Dylan’s hip. His fingers were rough and calloused, and they sent a jolt of something hot and confusing through Dylan’s body.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Dylan,” Coach murmured, his other hand coming to rest on Dylan’s shoulder. “And bad boys need to be punished.”
He slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton Dylan’s shorts. Dylan’s breath hitched in his chest. He was frozen, a deer in the headlights, caught between terror and a strange, burgeoning excitement.
The shorts fell to the floor, pooling around his ankles. He was left in his thin, sweat-dampened compression shorts. They did nothing to hide the outrageous size and shape of his ass. In fact, they seemed to accentuate it, the stretchy fabric clinging to every curve, every dip, every jiggle.
Coach Henderson let out a low whistle. “Jesus Christ, son. It’s even bigger up close. A real work of art.”
He circled Dylan slowly, like a shark circling its prey. He stopped behind him, and Dylan could feel the coach’s hot breath on the back of his neck.
“You’re ashamed of it, aren’t you?” Coach whispered, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. “You’re ashamed of this big, fat, girly ass of yours.”
He punctuated the sentence by giving one of Dylan’s cheeks a hard, stinging slap. The sound echoed in the small room, and Dylan yelped, a jolt of pain and pleasure shooting through him. The cheek jiggled in the aftermath of the blow, a quivering, shameful display of its own softness.
“Don’t you worry,” Coach said, his hands now resting on Dylan’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh. “I’m gonna teach you to appreciate it. I’m going to teach you what it’s for.”
He began to peel the compression shorts down, slowly, torturously. The fabric clung to Dylan’s sweaty skin, and with every inch that was revealed, Dylan’s shame grew. Finally, the shorts were down around his knees, and his ass was bare to the world, pale and monstrously large in the dim light of the office.
Coach Henderson let his hands roam freely over the vast expanse of Dylan’s buttocks. He kneaded the soft flesh, squeezed the heavy globes, his rough fingers exploring every inch of the shameful, quivering mounds.
“So soft,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice. “So goddamn soft. Like a woman’s.”
He guided Dylan towards his desk, pushing him forward until he was bent over it, his hands flat on the cool, smooth surface. His ass was now the highest point of his body, a perfect, offering to the man who stood behind him.
“Now,” Coach said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “The real discipline begins.”
He took his position behind Dylan, his thick, muscular thighs pressing against the back of Dylan’s legs. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against Dylan’s back, one hand on the small of his back, holding him in place. With the other hand, he began to spank him.
At first, the blows were gentle, almost playful. Just a light, steady rhythm of open-handed smacks that sent a warm, pleasant sting through Dylan’s cheeks. But then, the intensity began to build. The slaps became harder, sharper, each one landing with a loud, wet crack that echoed in the small room. The sting deepened into a hot, burning pain that made Dylan gasp and squirm.
“That’s it, boy,” Coach growled in his ear. “Take it. Take it like the good little slut you are.”
Dylan’s ass was a riot of jiggling flesh, each slap sending ripples and waves across its surface. It was a humiliating, mesmerizing spectacle of softness and submission. The pain was intense, but underneath it, something else was stirring. A deep, shameful arousal that was making his cock, pressed against the hard edge of the desk, begin to stir.
Coach Henderson seemed to sense the shift. He chuckled, a low, guttural sound. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? You like being punished. You like having your big, fat ass turned red.”
He grabbed ahold of one of Dylan’s cheeks, his large hand easily encompassing the entire globe. He squeezed it hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Then, he spread it apart, exposing the delicate, puckered pink of Dylan’s anus.
“You know this is a puckhole, dontchah!” he snarled, his voice a harsh rasp. “Not some girl pussy you fat ass clapping faggot!”
He punctuated the sentence with a series of hard, vicious slaps right on the exposed, tender flesh. Dylan cried out, a high, thin wail that was half pain, half pleasure. The humiliation was exquisite, the arousal, unbearable.
As he continued the relentless assault on Dylan’s ass, Coach began to rock his knees back and forth, rubbing his thick, denim-clad thighs against Dylan’s. The friction was right on Dylan’s already hardening cock, and he moaned, a long, shuddering sound that was torn from the depths of his soul. He was being spanked, humiliated, and now, he was being jerked off. It was too much. It was everything.
The spanking went on for what felt like an eternity. Dylan’s ass was on fire, a throbbing, cherry-red mess of abused flesh. His cries had subsided into a series of whimpers and moans, his body trembling with a mixture of pain, pleasure, and exhaustion.
Finally, the blows stopped. Coach Henderson’s hand, however, did not leave his ass. Instead, it began to move in a slow, gentle caress, his rough palm stroking the hot, tender skin. The sudden change from pain to tenderness was almost as overwhelming as the spanking itself.
“Shhh,” Coach murmured, his voice now soft and soothing. “It’s okay, boy. It’s all over.”
He continued to rub Dylan’s cheeks, his touch a strange mixture of comfort and possession. Then, he sent the other players out of the room, his voice a low command that they obeyed without question.
The door clicked shut, and they were alone.
Coach Henderson moved closer, his body pressing against Dylan’s from behind. He spread Dylan’s still-throbbing cheeks apart again, but this time, there were no harsh words, no angry slaps. Instead, he lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.
Then, with a shocking intimacy, he slid a finger into Dylan’s anus.
Dylan gasped, his whole body tensing. The finger was thick and rough, and it felt strange and invasive, but also… good. Incredibly good.
Coach began to move his finger in and out, a slow, steady rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through Dylan’s body. At the same time, he quickened the pace of his rocking knees, his thigh now rubbing against Dylan’s cock with a firm, insistent pressure.
“Shhh,” he whispered again, sensing Dylan’s impending climax. “Just let it happen, boy. Let it all go.”
Dylan couldn’t hold back any longer. With a strangled cry, he came, his body arching against the desk, his hot seed spilling all over himself and the coach’s lap. The release was so intense, so overwhelming, that his legs gave out, and he would have collapsed if the coach hadn't been there to hold him up.
He sagged against the coach’s strong body, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind a whirlwind of shame, and pleasure, and a strange, terrifying gratitude. His ass was a fiery, throbbing testament to his punishment, and his body was slick with the evidence of his shameful release.
Coach Henderson held him for a long moment, his hand still gently stroking Dylan’s ass. Then, he pulled him upright, turning him around to face him. He looked down at the mess on his lap, then back at Dylan, a slow, knowing smile on his face.
“See?” he said, his voice a low, triumphant rumble. “I told you I’d teach you to appreciate it.”
He reached out and wiped a stray tear from Dylan’s cheek with his thumb. “Now, get dressed. And remember, Dylan. This ass,” he gave it one last, proprietary pat, “belongs to me now.”
Dylan just nodded, unable to speak. He knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that the coach was right. His big, fat, jiggly ass was no longer just a source of shame. It was a source of pleasure, of punishment, of a dark, thrilling submission that he was just beginning to understand. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he would be back for more.
It wasn't that he wasn't one of them. He was the team captain, a senior, one of the best players on the field. He was respected for his skill, for his dedication. But in the past year, something had shifted. Puberty had hit him with a strange, almost cruel sense of humor. While the other guys were bulking up in their chests and shoulders, Dylan’s growth had concentrated somewhere else entirely. His ass.
It was, to put it mildly, magnificent. Two perfect, heavy globes of flesh that seemed to have a life of their own. They were plump, round, and so ridiculously jiggly that they announced his presence long before he entered a room. They clapped together when he ran, creating a soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump that was impossible to ignore. And the sweat… dear god, the sweat. His ass was a swamp. After practice, his shorts would be soaked through, a dark, noticeable stain that clung to the curve of his cheeks, outlining their shameful perfection. The chairs in the classroom, the bench in the locker room, everywhere he sat, he left a damp imprint, a ghostly reminder of his anatomical anomaly.
His teammates, being teenage boys, were merciless.
“Hey Dylan, you forget your sports bra?” Jake yelled from across the room, snapping a towel in his direction. “For your ass-tits!”
A chorus of laughter erupted.
“Seriously, man,” another player, Mark, chimed in, “you gotta get that thing under control. It’s a safety hazard. Someone’s gonna trip over the aftershock.”
Dylan’s face burned. He tried to ignore them, turning his back as he fumbled with his locker, but it was no use. The shame was a physical weight, settling low in his stomach. He could feel their eyes on him, on the two fleshy mounds that strained against the fabric of his compression shorts. He hated them. He hated his body. He hated the way his cheeks jiggled with every step, the way they felt so soft and heavy, so… feminine.
He tried everything to hide it. Baggy shorts, long shirts, even, in a moment of sheer desperation, an athletic girdle that had only succeeded in making his ass look even more pronounced, like two basketballs stuffed into a sausage casing. Nothing worked. His ass was a force of nature, untamable, undeniable.
And then there was Coach Henderson.
Coach was a man carved from granite and machismo. Tattoos snaked up his thick arms, his voice was a gravelly roar, and his eyes missed nothing. Especially not Dylan’s ass. Dylan would catch him staring sometimes, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. It wasn't the same leering amusement as his teammates. It was something else, something more intense, more… possessive. It made Dylan’s skin crawl, but it also sent a strange, forbidden thrill through him.
Today, the thrill was closer to terror.
“Dylan! My office. Now,” Coach Henderson’s voice boomed across the locker room, silencing the last of the jeers.
The other players exchanged curious glances, but no one dared to say a word. Dylan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting shorts, his hands trembling slightly. He walked the long, lonely walk to the coach’s office, every step a symphony of jiggling flesh that he was sure the whole world could hear.
The office was small and smelled of old coffee and leather. Trophies and framed team photos lined the walls, a testament to years of masculine achievement. Coach Henderson was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He watched Dylan enter, his eyes dark and intense.
“Close the door,” he said, his voice low and calm. It was a stark contrast to his usual bellow, and somehow, it was even more intimidating.
Dylan did as he was told, the click of the latch echoing in the silent room.
“Take a seat,” Coach said, gesturing to the hard plastic chair in front of his desk.
Dylan sat, his cheeks spreading uncomfortably on the cold surface. He could feel the sweat starting to prickle on his skin.
Coach Henderson leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled. He was silent for a long moment, just watching Dylan, his gaze unwavering. Dylan squirmed in his seat, the movement causing a slight jiggle that he was sure the coach noticed.
“You know why you’re here, Dylan?” Coach finally asked.
Dylan shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. “No, Coach.”
“No? You have no idea?” Coach raised an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about your… performance. On the field, you’re a star. A leader. Off the field… you’re a distraction.”
“A distraction?” Dylan’s voice was barely a whisper.
“A distraction,” Coach repeated, his eyes dropping to Dylan’s lap, then lower, to the source of all his misery. “That… thing you’ve got back there. It’s a fucking circus act. The other boys can’t concentrate. Hell, I can’t concentrate. It’s all anyone talks about. Dylan’s big, fat, jiggly ass.”
Each word was a slap in the face. Dylan’s cheeks flushed a deep, burning red. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
“I… I can’t help it, Coach,” he stammered.
“Oh, I think you can,” Coach said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “I think you’ve been letting it get out of control. Flaunting it. And I think it’s time we did something about it. It’s time for some… discipline.”
The word hung in the air between them, charged with a strange, electric energy. Dylan’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“Stand up,” Coach commanded.
Dylan obeyed, his legs feeling like jelly.
Coach Henderson rose from his chair and walked around the desk, stopping right in front of Dylan. He was so close Dylan could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was massive, a mountain of muscle and authority. Dylan felt small and weak in comparison.
“You know, I’ve been watching you, Dylan,” Coach said, his voice a low growl. “I’ve been watching you all season. You walk around here, with that thing bouncing and clapping, leaving your sweat all over my benches… you think I don’t notice?”
He reached out and, with a startling gentleness, placed a hand on Dylan’s hip. His fingers were rough and calloused, and they sent a jolt of something hot and confusing through Dylan’s body.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Dylan,” Coach murmured, his other hand coming to rest on Dylan’s shoulder. “And bad boys need to be punished.”
He slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton Dylan’s shorts. Dylan’s breath hitched in his chest. He was frozen, a deer in the headlights, caught between terror and a strange, burgeoning excitement.
The shorts fell to the floor, pooling around his ankles. He was left in his thin, sweat-dampened compression shorts. They did nothing to hide the outrageous size and shape of his ass. In fact, they seemed to accentuate it, the stretchy fabric clinging to every curve, every dip, every jiggle.
Coach Henderson let out a low whistle. “Jesus Christ, son. It’s even bigger up close. A real work of art.”
He circled Dylan slowly, like a shark circling its prey. He stopped behind him, and Dylan could feel the coach’s hot breath on the back of his neck.
“You’re ashamed of it, aren’t you?” Coach whispered, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. “You’re ashamed of this big, fat, girly ass of yours.”
He punctuated the sentence by giving one of Dylan’s cheeks a hard, stinging slap. The sound echoed in the small room, and Dylan yelped, a jolt of pain and pleasure shooting through him. The cheek jiggled in the aftermath of the blow, a quivering, shameful display of its own softness.
“Don’t you worry,” Coach said, his hands now resting on Dylan’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh. “I’m gonna teach you to appreciate it. I’m going to teach you what it’s for.”
He began to peel the compression shorts down, slowly, torturously. The fabric clung to Dylan’s sweaty skin, and with every inch that was revealed, Dylan’s shame grew. Finally, the shorts were down around his knees, and his ass was bare to the world, pale and monstrously large in the dim light of the office.
Coach Henderson let his hands roam freely over the vast expanse of Dylan’s buttocks. He kneaded the soft flesh, squeezed the heavy globes, his rough fingers exploring every inch of the shameful, quivering mounds.
“So soft,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice. “So goddamn soft. Like a woman’s.”
He guided Dylan towards his desk, pushing him forward until he was bent over it, his hands flat on the cool, smooth surface. His ass was now the highest point of his body, a perfect, offering to the man who stood behind him.
“Now,” Coach said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “The real discipline begins.”
He took his position behind Dylan, his thick, muscular thighs pressing against the back of Dylan’s legs. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against Dylan’s back, one hand on the small of his back, holding him in place. With the other hand, he began to spank him.
At first, the blows were gentle, almost playful. Just a light, steady rhythm of open-handed smacks that sent a warm, pleasant sting through Dylan’s cheeks. But then, the intensity began to build. The slaps became harder, sharper, each one landing with a loud, wet crack that echoed in the small room. The sting deepened into a hot, burning pain that made Dylan gasp and squirm.
“That’s it, boy,” Coach growled in his ear. “Take it. Take it like the good little slut you are.”
Dylan’s ass was a riot of jiggling flesh, each slap sending ripples and waves across its surface. It was a humiliating, mesmerizing spectacle of softness and submission. The pain was intense, but underneath it, something else was stirring. A deep, shameful arousal that was making his cock, pressed against the hard edge of the desk, begin to stir.
Coach Henderson seemed to sense the shift. He chuckled, a low, guttural sound. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? You like being punished. You like having your big, fat ass turned red.”
He grabbed ahold of one of Dylan’s cheeks, his large hand easily encompassing the entire globe. He squeezed it hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. Then, he spread it apart, exposing the delicate, puckered pink of Dylan’s anus.
“You know this is a puckhole, dontchah!” he snarled, his voice a harsh rasp. “Not some girl pussy you fat ass clapping faggot!”
He punctuated the sentence with a series of hard, vicious slaps right on the exposed, tender flesh. Dylan cried out, a high, thin wail that was half pain, half pleasure. The humiliation was exquisite, the arousal, unbearable.
As he continued the relentless assault on Dylan’s ass, Coach began to rock his knees back and forth, rubbing his thick, denim-clad thighs against Dylan’s. The friction was right on Dylan’s already hardening cock, and he moaned, a long, shuddering sound that was torn from the depths of his soul. He was being spanked, humiliated, and now, he was being jerked off. It was too much. It was everything.
The spanking went on for what felt like an eternity. Dylan’s ass was on fire, a throbbing, cherry-red mess of abused flesh. His cries had subsided into a series of whimpers and moans, his body trembling with a mixture of pain, pleasure, and exhaustion.
Finally, the blows stopped. Coach Henderson’s hand, however, did not leave his ass. Instead, it began to move in a slow, gentle caress, his rough palm stroking the hot, tender skin. The sudden change from pain to tenderness was almost as overwhelming as the spanking itself.
“Shhh,” Coach murmured, his voice now soft and soothing. “It’s okay, boy. It’s all over.”
He continued to rub Dylan’s cheeks, his touch a strange mixture of comfort and possession. Then, he sent the other players out of the room, his voice a low command that they obeyed without question.
The door clicked shut, and they were alone.
Coach Henderson moved closer, his body pressing against Dylan’s from behind. He spread Dylan’s still-throbbing cheeks apart again, but this time, there were no harsh words, no angry slaps. Instead, he lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.
Then, with a shocking intimacy, he slid a finger into Dylan’s anus.
Dylan gasped, his whole body tensing. The finger was thick and rough, and it felt strange and invasive, but also… good. Incredibly good.
Coach began to move his finger in and out, a slow, steady rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through Dylan’s body. At the same time, he quickened the pace of his rocking knees, his thigh now rubbing against Dylan’s cock with a firm, insistent pressure.
“Shhh,” he whispered again, sensing Dylan’s impending climax. “Just let it happen, boy. Let it all go.”
Dylan couldn’t hold back any longer. With a strangled cry, he came, his body arching against the desk, his hot seed spilling all over himself and the coach’s lap. The release was so intense, so overwhelming, that his legs gave out, and he would have collapsed if the coach hadn't been there to hold him up.
He sagged against the coach’s strong body, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind a whirlwind of shame, and pleasure, and a strange, terrifying gratitude. His ass was a fiery, throbbing testament to his punishment, and his body was slick with the evidence of his shameful release.
Coach Henderson held him for a long moment, his hand still gently stroking Dylan’s ass. Then, he pulled him upright, turning him around to face him. He looked down at the mess on his lap, then back at Dylan, a slow, knowing smile on his face.
“See?” he said, his voice a low, triumphant rumble. “I told you I’d teach you to appreciate it.”
He reached out and wiped a stray tear from Dylan’s cheek with his thumb. “Now, get dressed. And remember, Dylan. This ass,” he gave it one last, proprietary pat, “belongs to me now.”
Dylan just nodded, unable to speak. He knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that the coach was right. His big, fat, jiggly ass was no longer just a source of shame. It was a source of pleasure, of punishment, of a dark, thrilling submission that he was just beginning to understand. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he would be back for more.
