Filthy Surrender:The Forbidden Files

File 6: Coach's Disciplinary Action (1)

Chapter One –

I had been running drills for two hours.

My muscles were already screaming and my lungs were burning, but Coach Vasquez kept calling out more reps, more laps, and more effort from the other side of the room where he leaned against the weight rack.

His arms were crossed and he was watching me like a hawk.

He was always like this.

He punished harder than anyone else and he f*****g criticized everything from every mistake, every wobble, and every moment of hesitation as long as they all came from me.

Other girls got praise but I got corrections. Other girls got water breaks but I got "again, from the top".

But today, something snapped. I had had enough.

I dropped the barbell causing it to clang against the floor, echoing through the empty gym and matched across the mats with a hot face and clenched fists.

“What the hell is your problem?”.

He didn't flinch. Instead, he just raised an eyebrow. He had gray slicked back hair and dark steady eyes.

“Excuse me?”.

“You heard me”. I stopped inches from him, chest heaving as sweat dripped down my neck. “You ride me harder than everyone else. You never let up. I've been training three hours straight while the others went home. Why? What did I do?”.

He studied me for a long moment, then his lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. “You think this is punishment?”.

“I think you enjoy watching me break”. I deadpanned.

“Break?”. He pushed off the weight rack and stepped into my space. I backed up instinctively, but the wall stopped me and cold cinderblock pressed against my back. “I haven't even started breaking you”. He paused then added, "Yet".

My heart hammered.

He was close enough that I could smell his cologne—Sandalwood and sweat. I could also feel the heat radiating off his body.

He was older, maybe fifty, but still built from decades of training.

His hand came up, not rough, but deliberate enough to press against my throat in a way that was not choking, but just holding me there.

“You want discipline?”. His voice dropped low and rough. “I'll give it”.

Then before I could react, his other hand grabbed my hip, spun me around, and slammed my palms against the wall. My cheeks scraped the cinderblock.

His body pressed against my back so that I could feel his erection hard through his sweatpants, and he started grinding against my ass.

“Wh-what are you—”.

“You came to me, remember?”. His breath was hot against my ear. “You wanted to know why I pushed you. I push you because I see you. I see the potential. And I see the entitlement”.

His hand slid down, yanking my shirts and panties down to my knees, both at once. Cold air hit my exposed skin and I gasped, trying to twist away, but his grip on the back of my neck was like iron.

“Stop—”.

“No”.

He kicked my feet apart, forcing my legs wider. The rubber mat was rough beneath my knees as he pushed me forward, bending me over.

I heard the rustle of his zipper, and the sound of him spitting into his palm.

“You want to know hard?”. He lined up, the head of his c**k pressing against my entrance.

I was dry and terrified, but when he pushed, just the tip of his c**k, a wet sound betrayed me.

“Uhhhh…”. My stupid and traitorous body, responded to the heat and pressure.

“Already slick”, he muttered, and slammed in.

“AHH!!”. I cried out in a sharp and broken sound. He was so thick and was stretching and filling me up in a way that ached and burned and woke something deep inside me.

He didn't pause. He didn't let me adjust either. He just started thrusting deep and punishing thrusts, one hand on my hip, and the other fisted in my hair.

“This is discipline”, he said, each word punched with a thrust. “This is what it means to be owned by your training. Every part of you—your body, your mind, your cunt, belongs to me”.

“Ohhh godddd…”. I cried, my breasts moving out of the inner shorts bra I was putting on.

I knew I should have fought and screamed but my hips were rocking back to meet him. My mouth hung open as moans that I couldn't control spilled out . The friction, the heat, and the dominance of him overwhelmed me.

It was too much.

“That's it”, he growled. “That it. Take every inch”.

“Uhhhh yeahhh…ohhhhhh….ahhhh

tssss”. I moaned.

His hand snaked around, and his fingers found my c**t. Then he started rubbing tight circles that made me sob and shake as I was caught between pain and pleasure.

“I can't—”.

“You can”. He cut me off, driving deeper and hitting a spot that made my vision go white. “You will. You'll come in my c**k, and then you'll get back to practice”. His hand moved to squeeze my breasts through the sports shirt I was putting on before going back to rubbing my c**t.

I didn't want to come.

I wanted to stay angry and stay defiant but his rhythm was relentless, his touch was merciless, and my body was a traitor.

It kept responding very much against myself and the orgasm built like a wave, crashing through me without permission.

“Ohhhh f**k, it's coming. No—f**k, it isssss….”. I screamed, bucking against him as my walls clenched, milking him.

He groaned, thrusting harder, and after until he buried himself deep and spilled heavily inside me. We stayed there, breathing ragged, and his weight pressing me into the mat.

Then he pulled out, tucking himself away, stood up and stepped back.

I collapsed to my knees, shorts still around my ankles as I continued shaking. He grabbed a towel from the rack and tossed it at me.

“Clean up. You've got two more hours of practice”.

I looked up at him, eyes wet. “I hate you”.

He smiled that cold smile. “Good. Hate makes you strong. Now get back to work”.

I pulled up my shorts, legs trembling, and walked to the b

arbell. My body ached as I was still wet and was still burning.

And somewhere, buried beneath the shame, I felt something else I didn't want to name.

Hunger.