Cheerleader Megan Rain fucks her coach

MeganRain bounced up the driveway in that tiny red-and-white skirt that barely covered her ass. Coach Thompson had said he needed one-on-one time to clean up her tumbling routine. Every instinct said this was trouble, but she rang the bell anyway. Door opened. He stood there, shirt off, sweat still drying on his chest. "Come on in, Rain. Routine's better on my floor. More room to spread out." She stepped past him, hips swinging, skirt flipping, tiny white panties flashing each step. He shut the door hard. "Knees. Hands. Flash that cartwheel." Megkn bent into a near-perfect round-off right in front of him, landing split-legged so her pussy was basically eye-level. Coach sank onto the couch and cracked open a beer like he was watching Sunday football. She spun, dipped, flashed the entire floor routine, bending so far her spine arched and her cheer top rode up. Each landing clapped her ass hard enough to jiggle. He swallowed another gulp. When she stuck the final toe-hold, thighs shaking, coach reached out and grabbed the meat of her inner thigh like he was checking grip tape. "That hips tight? Show me." Meg dropped into a wide straddle; the move slid her drenched panties aside. Pink lips, glistening, just inches from the coach, split open. Coach slid a finger along her slit, testing like it was chalk. "You sure like coaching this close, don't you Rain?" She smiled, that same mouthy cheer grin that screamed "whistle if you can." He yanked the hem of her skirt up and stuffed two fingers straight inside her, no pretense. Megan gasped through still-perfect posture. "Fuck. Keep it like that—no shaking." Coach pumped faster; the whole scene sloshed with wet noise over the squeak of leather couch. Soon his cock was out, thick head shining, and the girl was straddling him reverse, skirt pushed to her waist. Sliding down inch by inch, pussy swallowing him to the balls right there in the living room. Her pom-poms clattered to the floor and he slapped her ass for cadence—three firm smacks that made her hitch. Coach pushed her forward onto all fours and drove in harder, metronome pace that rattled the metal springs in the old sofa, filling the empty room with the slap of skin and breathless cheers turned moans. When he flipped her to face him she hooked ankles behind his back; coach pinned those wrists above her head and rammed her until the tiny skirt bunched useless around her ribcage. Meg came first—sharp, loud, toes curling in white sneakers. Coach followed two pumps later, flooding her pussy till it leaked down her crack onto leather. He didn't pull out. Instead he held her still like game stats rolling across a highlight reel, and told her she could drop that routine's new ending anytime she wanted. All she had to do was knock.