CHEEKY THIRSTY
I hated how the coach looked at him. The cheeky runner. Always smiling like he didn’t have to work hard, always getting away with things the rest of us would be punished for. If I missed a stretch, coach barked at me. If I slowed down a lap, he’d make me run three more. But when it came to the new boy? Coach’s eyes softened. His tone lowered. He even laughed at his corny jokes.
It ate at me. I was supposed to be one of the top runners on the team, and suddenly I was invisible. Everything was about him. His legs, his smile, his fake humble little nods.
One morning, I got to the sports center early. I wanted to impress, maybe show coach I was serious. But when I walked into the hall, I froze.
The locker room door was cracked open. I heard laughter—soft, teasing. It was his voice.
Curiosity pulled me forward. I leaned against the wall, heart pounding.
And there he was.
Not in uniform, not even in shorts. Just briefs—tight grey ones that hugged his hips, showing off a body that looked more like a model’s than a runner’s. Broad shoulders, abs that flexed with every breath, smooth skin catching the light from the window. He looked nothing like the rest of us, sweaty and worn. He looked like he knew he was the favorite, and he loved it.
The coach was sitting close, too close, his arms crossed but his eyes locked on that young body.
The runner tilted his head, pretending to pout, then smirked. He picked up a shaker bottle, shook it slowly, and took a sip. He didn’t drink like a normal person. He let it slide down his throat in a slow gulp, then licked his lips like it was something more.
“I’m so thirsty…” he said.
His eyes flicked up to coach while he kept the bottle pressed to his lips. There was no mistaking what he meant.
Coach didn’t move at first. He just stared, jaw tight, like he knew this was wrong. But then the runner stepped closer, putting a hand on the older man’s knee, tilting his head like he was daring him.
"Still thirsty..."
Coach’s hands moved slow, almost hesitant, but he unzipped his pants. The sound was sharp in the quiet room.
Then he leaned in.
The first sound was a wet kiss, then a soft gagging noise as his mouth opened wider. His cheeks hollowed as he started sucking, pulling, drinking. Coach let out a low grunt, one hand gripping the back of his head.
He swallowed loud, gulp after gulp, like he couldn’t get enough. His throat worked hard, each swallow echoing in the room. He would pull back for a breath, spit shining his lips, then dive in again, sucking deep. His eyes never left coach’s face.
Coach muttered something I couldn’t catch, and the runner moaned around him, like he was enjoying every second of it. He drank greedily, messily, saliva dripping down his chin, but he never stopped.
I should’ve walked away. But I couldn’t. I stayed, hidden in the shadows, watching my coach and his favorite runner share “extra fluids,” while I clenched my fists and wondered if I’d ever get even half the attention that boy got.
And the worst part? I wanted to.
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