Story Two - Monday Taylor Tries Again

My right foot smashes into the leather, my arms fly to the side, the grey ceiling beams move into focus before a bang jars my ears, and my elbow explodes in pain.

I refuse to cry. Instead, I stand tall, thrust out my chest, and stomp to my best friend, Lasha.

Her arms enfold me, helping me stay strong and not cry. I turn back to the balance beam, glaring at the offending apparatus.

“You got this,” Lasha says and rubs my shoulders.

Yeah, maybe. Blue and yellow glassy mats surround the long, brown, suede-covered beam, which looms innocently in wait. I stare at the darker brown end where someone left water to dry on the beam. A blue springboard awaits my bounce onto the beam, my hands to land just before the darker patch.

My tailbone itches. I open and close my hands as I stare at their placement spot. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and visualize the mount. Five powerful strides, double leg explosion, head tuck, hips up, feet to the ceiling, hands placed just past the beginning of the beam, fingers spread with a light touch of the supple, firm suede, arms spring, hips rotate, left-foot ball then heel, right foot beside - overspin, yelp, and hard landing on my ass. I fight the image to stay on the beam.

Lasha’s toxic, musty air tickles my ears. “You got this.”

Caring fingers dig into my tightening shoulders, causing pain to shoot down my spine. Yeah.

Stride, bounce, hands, fall. No fall. Stride, bounce, hands, stay on the beam, don’t fall. Don’t fall.

I open my eyes to the beam and wait for my hands to steady.

I begin my approach - right, left, right, left - my hip tightens. I won’t make the spring. Growling, I clench my fists and hobble to the side, smashing my feet on the unforgiving plastic mats. No! I smack the beam and stamp my foot where my ass landed two months ago, two months of hobbling, texting instead of doing, watching instead of doing, and missing all the lead-up competitions.

My teammates visited when they had time.

I turn and force myself not to limp to Lasha. My tailbone itches with each step while I avoid Lasha’s concern.

Yesterday, I made the spring before my hips failed. Saturday, I touched the beam. Friday, I placed and rotated.

Lasha’s hands grip my neck. “You can do this.”

“Yeah.”

I turn back to the approach. Smokey, woodsy breathes comfort me. I study the lead up - right foot there, left foot there, right, left - a sharp pain wiggles up my spine.

Her fingers dig, pressing and hurting tight muscles. Her shoulder ministrations meet my tailbone’s shivers in the middle, at my stomach, which contracts, and bile fills my mouth.

“You got this.”

“No,” I shake my head, “not today.” My tailbone needs more time to heal.

“It’s ok. It’s just nerves,” Lasha offers her arms. I turn into them, crying.

The doctor told me the tailbone had healed, allowing me to return to practice. The doctor reassured me and showed me the X-rays. Yet, I can’t do a simple but dangerous jump.

Her hands rub up and down my spine, soothing my soul. I let out a sigh and forced my eyes shut.

Her concern, fear, and doubt drip from her voice, “You’ll get it.”

She rubs my lower back as Natalie joins the hug.

“It’s just nerves. You’ll figure it out.” Natalie whispers. One arm goes around Lasha and the other around me. She kisses my ear and squeezes tighter. Mint covers her musty, rotten egg, breath, “You’ll be ok.”

Lasha kisses my forehead as Natalie rubs my tailbone.

“Enough girls, back to practice!” the coach yells from across the gym.

Natalie squeezes my bum before returning to her visualization.

“You’ll get this.” Lasha kisses my forehead before returning to her stretching.

“When?” I ask no one. I move to practice rings. Flawless. Bars. Floor. Flawless.

“Are you going to be ready for Saturday?” coach limps over, slightly favoring his destroyed knee.

My heart sinks while my body stands taller, arching my back for more height. I gaze up at V-shaped eyebrows, narrow eyes, and a frown behind a well-trimmed beard.

“Sure,” I mumble.

My heart rate falls, slowing to a thudding beat in my ears. Coach offers sturdy arms accented by a too-tight shirt, and I slump into them. His soft belly and musky cigarette scent comfort me. To curb the cravings, I have recently taken up the foul habit. I borrow Lasha’s because I find the coach’s cigarettes too harsh and toxic.

“Is it the tailbone still? Does it hurt?” He asks as he rubs my back, pressing his fingers up and down my spine. I shiver and moan as his fingers press between each vertebra.

“No, it’s...” I frown and visualize the brown, well-used balance beam.

“You’re still tight in the lower back. I’ll massage you and loosen things up.”

I nod. Coach’s comforting arm leads me to the office and the massage table in the center. I glance at myself in the full-length mirror. I need a haircut before the weekend. The twin ponytails have split ends, and I need a better cover-up for the dark bags under my eyes. Lasha says she has a foundation trick. Last time, I used too much of the wrong color and looked like a clown.

I agree with Natalie. My breasts do not thrust out enough. I can use padding to make them more pronounced as modern judges like larger breasts now.

I pull off my leotard. Maybe I need a lighter-weight leotard for the competition. My puffy nipples stick out nicely when naked. Padding will obscure them, while an ultra-thin material will enhance them. I’ll get Mom to buy a white Organza silk outfit to show off my bright red nipples. My vagina will need a better shave to show off my tiny slit.

“Enough gawking. Up on the table,” coach rubs massage oil between his hands. Peppermint fills the efficiently spaced room.

I bounce up. Why can’t I do that on the beam?

The unheated plastic of the table tickles my stiff nipples and sends shivers up and down my body, smashing into the dull ache of my tailbone. A familiar, tiny, sharp crack presses against my left thigh while the table cools down my sweaty, warm body.

I missed these sessions while I recovered. Just laying on the table slows my heart further and calms my breathing.

Coach’s fingers begin between the toes of my feet. His strong hands press deep, causing me to moan as he releases the knots in my body.

“How’s school?”

Oh, the right calf releases unexpectedly. “Good. Ms. Barrett says you can’t get pregnant from anal sex.”

His strong fingers press along my foot, almost tickling but soothing my reforming calluses. I forgot how strong my coach’s fingers can press into my flesh.

“Have you had anal sex yet?” Coach asks while shaking my feet.

“No. But it’s still good to know. Nat’s worried.”

I have contemplated anal sex and have talked extensively about it. Lasha claims a person remains a virgin if they only engage in anal sex. Technically, I could have anal sex and remain pure, but I will not want to take shortcuts with my spiritual health.

Mmmmm, my left hamstring releases, and I slip deeper into relaxation.

“Chasity affects your score,” he tells me as his thumb slides painfully up the side of my leg, which tenses before releasing and going limp.

I moan, and the coach moves to the other side, finding the hidden knots, as he adds, “Judges score higher if you have a reputation.”

A sharp pain from my left quad jumps from his fingers to my crotch, up my spine, and into the back of my brain.

“Yeah. I was. Oh. Thinking about a thinner leotard. Lasha’s scores improved.”

Coach lightly glides his fingers up and down each leg, almost a caress, before finding a secret spot just above my right knee where he places his knuckle and leans down. My leg thrashes, I moan, and the tension in my leg dissipates. My body lays harder on the table.

I allow my eyes to close before forcing them half open.

“Good idea. You need to shave and get a haircut,” coach moves to the left side, trailing his fingers up my left ass cheek.

A shiver runs up and down my leg, which tenses before sinking deeper into the plastic. “Okay,” I mutter, focused on staying awake.

Coach’s hands softly dance up and down my back. Leaning over, he presses hard on my tight upper and lower back, cracking my tight spine and further releasing the tension and aligning everything. My body sinks further into the table, held up by only my rigid bones.

“Lasha had sex with Marty. That’s why he scored her so highly,” coach hints.

I know, she bragged to me. I still beat her score, but she did move from her usual third to second. Her parents bragged to Mom, and we went to the doctor’s office for an IUD the next day.

“My soul’s more valuable than gymnastics.” I groan out, my heart rate slowing to a steady beat every couple of seconds, my breathing slower still. I might lie here forever, growing into the table while the world goes on without me.

His fingers press between each vertebra, and the small muscles complain before releasing.

“But if you want to win.”

Up and down. I moan with each trip between my neck and hips.

“I want to win. I don’t want to end up in hell.”

He shakes my left arm before moving to my right and agreeing, “Of course.”

My jello arms sprawl on the cool, malleable table while peppermint overwhelms me, and my heart rate increases slightly.

I disappoint him. I win the local competitions but haven’t cracked the top three at the state championships. Coach claims I have the talent for the National team. I agree, but our lives remain fleeting while fire and brimstone punish us forever.

He moves to the head of the table. His strong fingers work my neck. His erect penis presses against my shoulder. The naked head leaves a pre-cum slime trail against my cheek while a tart, sour odor overlays the peppermint.

“I respect your integrity.” Small pauses, slightly harder pressing, his fingers betray his frustration.

“Thanks, coach.”

He wants my success but understands my beliefs. I trust him for not pressuring me and allowing me to stay despite the frustration.

He lifts my head and shakes out my neck. “How’s your mom?” he asks as he pulls my head towards him, elongating my back. The vertebrae stretch. My heart rate lowers.

“Good. Mom wants you for dinner on Wednesday.”

He lifts higher, and my back arches. A soft pop and the warm, moist plastic releases my nipples. The cool air excites them, and tiny shivers shake my chest.

“Can’t. Coach’s call about the competition. Thursday?” He lowers me to the table, my small breasts squishing into the table.

“Sis has hockey.”

He moves my head from side to side, twisting, and my neck loosens. “Maybe next week.”

Facing me from the top of the table, he rubs down my back. His penis slides up and down my nose with each deep press along my spine. I inhale the citrus smell while his penis leaves a trail of pre-cum. I want to help with his erection, but my body refuses to move. It must weigh a million billion pounds.

“Your sister made the team?”

His penis bangs my ear. I have never touched it. Coach will not allow his athletes to touch him.

“Yeah ... oh ... she ... Did.” Even my face fully relaxes, my cheek warming the plastic surface.

He moves around the table, lifting my left leg to shake it out and place it wide on the table.

“Good. Does Natalie’s sister play with yours?” he asks, shaking the right, placing it opposite the left.

“Sometimes, when she’s over. They giggle in her room.” The cool air begins to dry my moist kitty, paradoxically increasing the heat in my crotch. My heart grows up my throat and into my face and ears.

“I meant hockey. Natalie’s sister also plays hockey.”

His hands shake my legs from my ankles, moving air over my sweating kitty, increasing the flame burning inside it.

“Oh. I don’t know. Maybe,” I groan, the shaking moves up my whole jelly body.

“Your hips are extremely tight. Did you stretch at all when you were off?”

I repress a shudder at the memory, the worst period in my life.

The coach rotates my left leg, stretching from knee to hip.

I reply, “A little.”

I tried to stretch. When home on the weekends, Mom helped, but on those long, lonely weekday nights, I ate ice cream and scrolled Tic-Toc instead of rehabbing.

He moves to my right, “You need to do it more.” His hands run up and down my legs, spreading them further. He slips two fingers into my kitty, pressing against the walls, “You either do this at home or get someone to help you. Your hips are way too tight.”

I shift to allow him better access to my favorite part of the massage. My hips remain tight but move better. His fingers press to the right, left, deeper, before pulling almost out.

My kitty purrs with his fingers. I whimper and press my lips together to muffle my whimpering.

“I can barely move your pelvis. I know you had a broken tailbone, but...”

At the mention of ‘tailbone,’ my eyes tighten, and I focus on the sensations from my hips and kitty. I will not cry.

He pushes them in further. Oh, he’s much better at this than Lasha. She just wants to play while coach knows all the buttons to press. He creates a large void inside me as he removes his fingers.

“I will need the vibrator for this,” he says and rustles around behind me before the cold plastic rod slips into my burning kitty. My body warms and relaxes further.

“I will set it for ten minutes, pulsating.”

How long? I have only ever done five minutes before.

I can only nod. The vibrator sends fantastic pulses into my kitty to help loosen my hips. Coach lights a cigarette. The air grows toxic with his brand. “Do you need one?” he asks as he blows out towards the humming ceiling fan. “No ... I’m ... good...” The vibrations make it hard to talk or think.

I stare at his erect penis with its angry, red, wet tip. The long thin penis hangs down from his bushy belly, pointing at me, daring me to use it. I force my eyes to close. I must remain vigilant and focused on my chastity vow.

“Coach,” Natalie’s voice calls from the office doorway. I twist my head. Our gazes meet, hers above a slight frown, while my mouth hangs open.

“Will we have time for my massage?” she asks him as she takes a puff from his cigarette.

I close my eyes, focusing on breathing and allowing my body to relax. Each increase in vibrator speed causes my body to tense before the drop in speed loosens all my muscles. My heart thunders into the plastic, increasing and decreasing with the vibrator.

“Taylor’s hips are extremely tight. She will be longer than usual. The program has another eight minutes.”

“Ok. Taylor, I will see you at practice tonight.” Natalie leaves, skipping away from the doorway. She loves these massages, from the coach, Lasha, or me after every practice. I grunt at her departure.

“How are you doing?” Coach taps my left shoulder, lower back, and my left butt cheek.

“Great ... my ... are ... getting ... looser.”

I have to time my words with the pulsing of my body, only able to speak on the downshift.

He spreads my ass cheeks, exposing my little flower to the toxic air, “Let’s see.”

A cloud of blue smoke tickles my nose and face. Coach sticks a finger in my too-tight ass. The sensations cause me to buck up and down, orgasming on the table.

“Better, but you will need longer yet. I’m going to add another five minutes.”

Coach removes his finger and increases the vibrations within my pussy.

“Bye, coach, bye, Taylor.” My teammates appear and disappear in the doorway as I lay quivering on the table.

“Coach, my mom needs to ask you something.” The new girl stands briefly in the doorway before an older lady, very busty, dressed in a business suit, replaces her.

“Coach, what’s this?” She enters the room as the vibrator cycles between longer and shorter pulses. My body shudders, and my second orgasm arrives.

“Loosening up. Broke the tailbone, and we need to loosen the hips.”

My tailbone doesn’t hurt, but my whole body tingles. I try to focus on my tailbone but fail, distracted by the pulsing vibrator in my flowing kitty.

“Oh, and why are you naked?” the lady asks.

Coach stubs out the toxic white stick and answers her, “Massage oil gets everywhere.”

The lady asks, “Do you need help?”

I almost call out that I need help, but the vibrator goes on a long, large pulse, and my third and fourth orgasms rip through me. My legs flop wider.

“Sure, but what did you need?”

I open my eyes to stare at the little girl, who stands wide-eyed in the doorway, holding her hands together over her crotch. The lady stands in front of the coach, jerking his penis between her thin, creased fingers with bright red tips.

“Just wondered about payment. Can we change the payment days? My work pays on a weird schedule.”

The vibrator pulses faster, but all energy has drained from my body, leaking over the slippery synthetic surface.

She steps closer, moving her hand faster, while her daughter discreetly rubs her crotch with her knuckle.

“No idea, talk to Mrs. Pollyanski, our treasurer.”

Coach glances at me, the daughter, and then back at the well-manicured lady.

“Sure. Are you going to do this with my daughter?” she asks the coach as she jerks faster.

I glance at the girl, maybe a year younger than me. Her gaze jumps quickly between my flushed face, the vibrator sticking out, coach’s penis in her mom’s hand, and her mom’s red-lipped grin.

“Depends how tight.”

The vibrator slows down. “Oh, oh...” My hips move on their own. I have no control over my body.

The girl’s eyes widen at my legs vibrating.

“I think she’s tight,” the lady coos.

The girl presses harder against her blue jeans-covered crotch. The girl’s gaze flicks back and forth between her mom, who jerks coach, and my withering body.

“Likely, yes, but I will have to check,” the coach says.

The lady licks her lips as coach thrusts his hips in time to her jerks while the girl rubs harder in time to the two. I can only stare, my mouth leaking as much as my kitty.

“How do you check?”

Oh, the vibrator increases tempo again. Oh, another shudder, and more fluid leaks from my lower and upper holes.

“They are almost always too tight. Easy to test with two fingers in their vagina. I can’t show you with Taylor. The next best is one finger in their ass. Like this,” coach’s finger slips in my ass, again and again, and an orgasm vibrates my body. The girl gasps as he pulls out.

“Can I try?” the lady asks coach as she releases his penis and steps over to me.

What does she mean? Visions of her doing this with her daughter in the doorway jump around my head—the cute, ponytailed, pink-cheeked girl giggles.

“Sure, put some lube on and slide one finger in. Taylor’s still too tight.”

She rustles behind me, and her thinner finger slips in. The pressure increases, not much, more of a massage than a stimulation.

“Oh, I forgot, your fingers are much thinner than mine. You need two,” coach pushes the vibrator further in. The combination of the deeper vibrator and her extra finger, I shudder and have the biggest orgasm since my first one.

My gaze finds the girl’s peach-colored open lips, glistening in the fluorescent lights.

“Mmmm, her orgasm felt good. I liked the way her ass muscles gripped my fingers,” the lady removes her fingers.

My hips raise, wanting the fingers back before I remember to relax, letting my weak hips fall into the hard cushioned plastic.

“That’s a good sign. Almost finished.”

Almost? Finished? Finally. Sweat rolls off me, and my legs can barely move, yet still vibrate with the vibrator inside me.

“You can do this with your daughter to loosen her hips.”

Coach glances at the daughter. The girl unabashedly rubs her crotch, staring at his penis. I follow her gaze. His penis head bounces in her mom’s hand, the slime increasing, highlighting her index finger.

“I will coach. Did you want help loosening up?” the lady asks as she strokes his penis harder.

The girl glances at me, licks her lips, and refocuses on her mom. My hip movements slow down.

“Sure.”

The lady kneels and engulfs the coach’s penis in her bright red mouth. Her silky, shining hair obscures his crotch; the strands reflect brown and red in the harsh white light.

“Mom, I’m going to be late for school,” the new girl stands flushed in the doorway, no longer rubbing.

“Just a minute, dear, I’m helping your coach.”

The lady continues to suck our caring coach, who does not have the stamina for blowjobs. He holds her head as he cums down her throat. The lady stands wiping her mouth, and I have another orgasm, more firecracker than a bomb.

“Thanks,” coach says to the lady and touches my shoulder.

His burning hand shifts a bead of sweat off.

“No problem, coach,” the lady waves from the doorway.

“Mom, we have to hurry,” the daughter whines as she pulls at her mother.