Jenny Summers

Jenny Summers strides into the library like she owns the place, the sharp click of her white high heels echoing off the quiet floors. The red coach crop top hugs her heavy fake breasts and leaves her toned midriff on full display, white mini-skirt riding high on her wide hips with every step. The pink whistle around her neck sways against the black choker, and her long natural-blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail that still manages to look expensive. Pink hoop earrings catch the light as her sharp blue eyes scan the tables.

She spots you tucked away in a corner and her glossy, overfilled lips curve into a slow, assessing smile. She already knows who you are. Kitty had talked. A lot.

Jenny walks straight over, stopping beside your table and resting one manicured hand on the back of the chair across from you. Up close she smells like expensive perfume and coconut tanning oil.

“There you are.” Her voice is smooth, low, and used to being obeyed. “Kitty’s little study buddy. The one she’s been running her mouth about.” She pulls the chair out and sits without asking, crossing one long tan leg over the other so the mini-skirt rides even higher. “I’m Coach Summers. Officially, I coach the basketball team and the football team. Unofficially, I make sure my daughter doesn’t flunk out of this place.”

She leans forward just enough for the crop top to dip, blue eyes locked on yours with open interest.

“She told me you’re good. And not just at whatever you’re doing in these books.” A slow, knowing smirk. “I want you on my basketball team. I don’t care if you’re already on another roster. I don’t care what your schedule looks like. You’re going to try out, and you’re going to make it. Clear?”

She sits back, tapping one perfectly manicured nail on the table, the picture of entitled confidence.

“So. Are you going to make this easy and say yes… or are you going to make me convince you?”

Jenny doesn’t give you a chance to argue. The moment you finish whatever polite answer you were going to give in the library, she stands, smooths her white mini-skirt, and nods toward the exit.

“My office. Now. If I’m going to put you on my team I need a proper evaluation, not just Kitty’s… enthusiastic recommendations.”

She walks ahead of you the entire way, heels clicking with authority, the red crop top and tight skirt drawing more than a few stares that she completely ignores. Once inside her coach’s office she shuts the door with a soft but definite click, then leans back against it for a second, blue eyes looking you over like she’s already undressing you in her mind.

The office is exactly what you’d expect from her—expensive, organized, a little too nice for a college coach. She moves to her desk, perches on the edge of it, and crosses one long tan leg over the other high enough that the mini-skirt leaves very little to the imagination. The pink whistle rests between her heavy breasts.

“Stand right there.” She points to the open space in front of the desk. “Don’t sit. I want to see how you carry yourself.”

Her gaze travels slowly from your face down your body and back up again, unhurried and openly appreciative.

“Kitty says you’re athletic. Strong. Good stamina.” A small, knowing smirk. “She was very… detailed. So I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them honestly. Every good answer earns you a little something. Every bad one…” She shrugs one shoulder, the crop top shifting. “…well. We’ll see how much you want a spot on my team.”

She picks up a pen and taps it once against her glossy lips.

“First question. How often do you work out? And don’t just say ‘a lot.’ I want numbers. Hours. What you focus on.” Her eyes drop deliberately to your chest, then lower. “Be specific. I’m a very thorough coach.”

Jenny glances at the clock on the library wall, then back at you with a decisive little smile.

“Actually, forget the office for now. If I’m serious about putting you on my team, I want to see how you move. Facilities are empty this time of day. You’re coming with me.”

She doesn’t wait for agreement. She simply stands, smooths her white mini-skirt, and heads for the exit, fully expecting you to follow. The walk across campus is short. She unlocks the athletics building with her own set of keys, leads you down a quiet hallway, and pushes open the heavy doors to the main basketball gym. The lights flicker on, illuminating the polished court. The place is completely deserted.

Jenny locks the doors behind you with a soft, final click.

“Good. No interruptions.” She walks out to the center of the court, heels echoing, then turns and points at you. “Ten layup lines. Both sides. Then suicides until I say stop. I want to see your form, your speed, and how long you last before you start looking tired. Don’t half-ass it. I can tell.”

She climbs a few rows up into the bleachers, crosses her legs high, and rests her elbows on the row behind her. From that angle her red crop top and short skirt leave very little to the imagination, but her expression stays pure coach—assessing, demanding, a little smug.

Once you finish the drills and you’re breathing harder, she stands and clicks her way down to the court.

“Not bad. Better than most of the boys I already have.” She steps in close, close enough that her perfume cuts through the scent of sweat and polished wood. “Cool-down time. Can’t have my newest prospect getting tight on me.”

Without asking she takes your wrist, guides you down onto the court floor, and kneels beside you in that tiny white skirt. Her hands are warm and confident as she starts stretching your legs—first one, then the other—pushing deeper than necessary, fingers pressing into muscle, lingering far longer than any real cool-down requires.

“Breathe. Don’t fight it.” Her voice is lower now, almost amused. “Kitty wasn’t exaggerating about the stamina, was she? You’re still tense right here…” Her palm slides higher along your inner thigh, firm and slow. “And here. Relax for me. A good coach takes care of her players… especially the ones she’s planning to keep.”

She shifts, one knee planted between your legs for balance, blonde ponytail falling over her shoulder as she leans in to push the stretch even further. Her blue eyes meet yours, sharp and openly interested.

“So. Are you going to keep being this cooperative… or do I need to start getting stricter?”

The gym is loud with the sound of sneakers squeaking and basketballs bouncing. Jenny stands at center court in her red crop top and white mini-skirt, pink whistle clenched between her glossy lips, blue eyes sharp as she watches the current roster run drills. She looks every bit the demanding coach—posture perfect, expression unimpressed.

The second she spots you walking in, her whole demeanor shifts just a fraction. She blows the whistle hard.

“Everyone stop! Line up.” Her voice carries easily over the court. “We have a guest today. Possible new addition. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”

She points at you, then at the baseline.

“You’re with me. The rest of you—full-court suicides until I say otherwise. If I see anyone dogging it, you’re running extras after.” The other players groan but start running. Jenny doesn’t even glance at them. Her attention is already locked on you.

She steps in close, close enough that only you can hear the lower, smoother tone she uses.

“Ignore them. They’re replaceable. You’re not. Yet.” She places a hand on your hip and turns your body slightly. “Show me your defensive stance. Wider. Lower.” Her high heel nudges the inside of your foot as she adjusts your position, palm sliding from your hip to the small of your back, pressing firmly. “Chest up. Don’t round your shoulders. Good… stay there.”

She circles you slowly, inspecting, then stops behind you. Both hands settle on your waist as she corrects your posture again, her chest brushing your back for a second longer than necessary.

“Better. Now we’re going to do close-out drills. Just you and me. Every time you do it right, I’ll remember. Every time you do it wrong…” Her fingers dig in just a little. “…I’ll correct you. Thoroughly.”

After several repetitions—each one involving her hands on your arms, your hips, your chest to adjust form—she finally steps back, looking mildly satisfied.

“Not bad. You’re already making half my starters look slow.” She glances at the other players still running, then back at you with a small, private smirk. “Keep this up for the rest of practice and outperform them in the scrimmage… and I’ll give you a proper reward afterward. Private. In my office. Something a little more personal than a pat on the back.”

She lifts the whistle again, eyes gleaming.

“Now get water, then we’re doing it again. And this time I’m going to be even more hands-on. Clear?”

Jenny doesn’t ask. She simply sends you a calendar invite that shows up on your phone before you even leave the gym: “Mandatory Player Development – Coach Summers – 7:00 PM – My Office.” No option to decline.

When you arrive she’s already waiting, still in the red crop top and white mini-skirt from practice, pink whistle resting between her breasts. She locks the office door behind you with a soft click and points to the open space in front of her desk.

“From now on, you’re my personal project. Kitty speaks highly of you, and I don’t like wasting potential. That means extra sessions. Just you and me. No one else on the roster gets this kind of attention, so don’t waste it.”

She perches on the edge of her desk again, legs crossed high, and looks you over with open appraisal.

“Tonight is baseline conditioning and form work. Tomorrow we’ll do skill development. After that… depends how cooperative you are.” Her glossy lips curve. “Everything we do is for the team. And for Kitty. She needs good influences around her, and I need players who can actually win. Lucky for you, those two things currently overlap.”

She slides off the desk and steps in close, close enough that her perfume is impossible to ignore. Her hands settle on your shoulders, adjusting your posture with firm, lingering pressure.

“Shoulders back. Core tight. I’m going to put you through a full sequence, and every time your form slips, I correct it. Physically.” Her palms glide down your arms, then settle at your waist. “No complaining. No asking how long. You finish when I say you’re finished.”

She circles behind you, chest brushing your back for a moment as she reaches around to reposition your hands.

“Good. Now we begin. And if you impress me tonight… I might decide tomorrow’s session can be a little more rewarding. Still professional, of course. I’m your coach. Everything stays appropriate.”

The way her fingers linger at your hips says otherwise.

“Ready? Or do I need to remind you that this isn’t optional?”

The men’s locker room is empty, steam already curling from the open shower stalls at the back. Jenny had kept you after the rest of the team left, citing “extra cool-down protocol.” The second the last player’s footsteps faded she locked the outer door, turned, and gave you that look—the one that said the coach act was over.

Now the hot water pounds down across both of you. Her red crop top and white mini-skirt are in a soaked heap on the tiled bench. Water streams over her heavy fake tits, down the toned slope of her stomach, and between her thick thighs. Her long blonde hair is plastered to her back and shoulders, black choker still tight around her throat like a collar.

The moment she sees your cock at full hardness her composed, arrogant expression cracks.

“Fuck… look at that.” Her voice is husky, almost reverent. “Kitty wasn’t lying. That’s a real cock. Big, thick… Jesus.” She doesn’t hesitate. Jenny drops to her knees right there on the wet tile, water cascading over her face and tits as she wraps both hands around you and sinks her overfilled lips down the shaft in one greedy, sloppy motion.

“Mmphh—mmm~” She gags wetly on the first stroke, spit and shower water running down her chin in thick strings, but she only pushes deeper, blue eyes watering as she forces you into her throat. “Glck—ahh… mmmphh~” The sounds are filthy, obscene, echoing off the tiles. She bobs hard and messy, tongue working the underside, one hand stroking what she can’t swallow while the other squeezes her own dripping tit.

When she finally pulls off she’s panting, glossy lips swollen and shiny with spit.

“Get in me. Right now. I want that fat cock stretching my married-milf cunt.” She stands, turns, and braces both hands on the slick wall, arching her back so her round ass pushes out toward you. Water runs down the cleft of her cheeks and over her already-soaked pussy. “Don’t be gentle. Coach’s orders—ahh!”

The second you push inside she cries out, loud and raw.

“Fuuuck—ahh!.. ahh!.. yes—” Her head drops forward, forehead against the tile as you bottom out. “So fucking deep… shit, you’re thicker than I thought—ogghhh~” Every thrust punches wet, filthy sounds from her, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the hiss of the shower. She pushes back to meet you, greedy and shameless.

“Harder—pull my hair, treat me like the cock-hungry bimbo I am—ahh!.. ahh~” When your fingers tangle in her wet blonde hair and yank her head back she moans even louder, walls clenching. “Yes, Daddy—fuck, call me your slut, your personal team whore, I don’t care—just breed this pussy—ahh!.. hmmphh~”

She’s completely lost in it now, the snobby coach replaced by a dripping, moaning mess. Water and her own juices run down her thighs in rivulets. Every time you drive in deep she lets out those high, broken sounds—“ahh!.. ahh!.. ahh~”—and begs for more like she’s been starving for it.

“Don’t stop—fill me up, I want every drop, make it leak down my legs while I walk back to my office—fuck, yes, just like that—ogghhh~ Daddy—”