New Raslin' Coach

New Raslin' Coach (Revised and Greatly Improved)

By hughgee

Sucks being a little guy. When she came out for our college wrestling team, we gave her to Ben Dayho, smallest guy on the squad, also the most inexperienced. Figured he'd make it the most interesting while still kicking her ass, showing her that this was a man's sport, so go home, fix me a turkey pot pie, beat it, woman, that kind of thing. Plus they'd be about the same size, those two. That's what I mean about being the little guy--sucks being one of them and all, 'cause when guys want to show a girl she's making a big mistake by competing against men, they turn it into a circus. They pit you against her 'cause you're about the same size and all, so that means it'd be a more even fight, though still a mismatch, of course. Cock fight, only one of 'ems a chicken. Now, you take a big guy, and they don't even have to worry. No woman's their size, so you'd never pit a gal against him, just on a lark like that. Wouldn't be fair, nosirree.

So we done picked Ben Dayho, Mr. Welterweight guy of the squad. Go get 'er, Ben. Show 'er what's what. Still ain't fair, you know, but we'll get a good razz out of it, us guys.

She seems pretty sure of herself; I'll say that much for her. Has her hair all tied up in the back in a snazzy brunette ball, she says she's gonna get it cut, as soon as she makes the team. Yeah, right, soon as she makes the team. What the hell's she smokin'? Bodywise--'cause that's the only reason us guys’re even letting her on the mat in the first place--she's pretty good, I reckon. No tits at all, but a real fine and stickin' out butt, plastered on the back of some real wide, nice-looking hips, too. She really stretches that lower half of them "raslin' tights." We cat-call 'em "raslin tights," what she has on, just to sort of tweak her. Tweaking at her in other ways too, callin' her "little girl" and "hey now, momma" and "hubba, hubba" and whatnot--she seems to be takin' it all okay. Still seems all full of herself. All full of piss and vinegar and herself, ever since she bounded in all smiling like that, them lips all pouty and puffy like that, so that, smilin' everlastingly and all, a bunch of kindergarten gums and just the specky whites of some teeth showing. Horsey gums. Horsey gums and puffball lips and a brown saddle of freckles riding high over tiny triangle of a nose. Say something to ruffle her. Nothing. Unfazed.

She's good. This girl's real sassy, even if she's about to get a lesson in testosterone-induced humility. So yeah, what a trooper, I'm thinkin', as she steps on the mat, dusts off her hands on them double-wide black-spandexed hips.

Couple of us slapping at Ben on the shoulders, rubbing down his neck and all like he's some real kind of champion in a title bout or something. Dork. He gets all into it too, twitchin' his head back and forth real quicklike, with this real serious look on his face, like he's about to fight some guy. Good ol' Ben. Little shit. He'd come out for the team only last year, and only had just advanced from being our sort of mascot for the team to being a full on member. He'd had his first couple of matches only that month, won one, lost the other. But he told good jokes and didn't mind taking a ribbing from the guys and I guess that's why we let him stick around this long. Course, the fact that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground on the mat yet--that and his being just a little shit, I tell ya'--them were the reasons we chose him. Go get 'er, Ben. Make it look interesting at least. Take your time, maybe we'll get a peep. Guys start taking down bets in a circle, couple guys joke about placing money on her, laying their money down, knowing they'll just be throwing it away. It's getting out of hand. Guess when you don't have a coach, guys just screw around. We been without a coach for about two weeks now. Old coach retired. Nobody else took his place yet, though the university's been looking, got ads posted in the papers and everything.

Somebody rang a bell we bring to screw around with. DIIING! and this match's on. Ben bolts to the center of the mat; this gal does ditto. Shit! Bip--bap--badda--bing--just like that--man, I mean like THAT, this gal just bent Ben into a pretzel, some kind of jujitsu maneuver or something--very unorthodox--has his shoulders pinned to the mat, Ben's head's all sideways in some kinda scissors vise between her legs; she has one of his legs wrapped around her head, propped on her shoulders. Got it pretty firm too. Real bitch of a position, poor bastard. Ben, get up. Ben, get out it. Nope. He's done, the idiot. Ben, oh Ben, dude, your butt's was facing the wrong way. Come on, man. Shit, she's all looking down at him, smiling. All gums again.

This ain't cool. She ain't lettin' him up. Come on, it's over, you won. She ain't finished. Dude, she's holding him down, just all bent and pinned back like that. Ben, your sack's showing. You can always see that guy's sack. She's got a free hand--she's waving it--got his leg still--she looking, looking right at us, goofy-gummed smile. Shit, it's a reach-around. Ben gulped.

Dude, that's what I been sayin'. Biggest balls ever on a little guy. That little shit. First time I ever had to take a shower with him after a wrestling match, how could you not notice?

"Geez, Ben," I remember sayin'.

"What?" he'd answered me. He had soap in his eyes or else he might've seen me stare.

"Never mind." Went back to washing my crack. You don't talk to a guy about his balls in the shower. You just don't.

Oh, dude. Sucks to be you, buddy. Can't hardly miss those things. Not in them tights. Dude, close your legs. He can't.

"Shit, she's gonna do it," I'm thinking, for one half-a-second.

But she didn't. Why didn't she smash 'em? Oh, shit. She's tickling him--check out where. Base of his balls, dude. Oh, dude, she's making baby noises, coochee-cooing his nuts, dude. Sh-i-i-i-t, like a baby under his chin. Don't look. Don't. Oh dude, she's looking. Stop lookin'. Stop. Don't laugh. Shit.

Ben's eyes're buggin'--is that from tickles, or is he just scared?

Go, Ben. There he goes. He's breakin' free. Nope. She's got him. He's f#cked, pantin' like crazy on his back.

Get up, dude. Get up. Shit. Should've put somebody up against her who knows what the hell he's doing.

No--lady--don't! AH!--Her hand's all flat and drawn and ready, like a mom gettin' ready to swat her kid--not on the butt. Dude, flippin' package hangin' out--how could you miss it? Come on. No--girl!--don't!--you don't know what that feels like. AHH!--Bunch of guys with baited breath.

She didn't--Whew--Just brought her hand down quick and round and stopped, right on it, grips it all around, fat peach in the palm, overripe and the fingers goin' in. She's looking again--f#ck, f#ck, f#ck--Why's she doin' this? Why that look?--She flippin' winked at me!!! Laughing! She's laughing! What next? Get 'er off--she's gonna squeeze! Poor flippin' guy, help 'im out, for crying out loud. There goes Ben, whining like a baby.

Finally some guys move in pull 'er off. Fine, you won, now get off him. Grabbing under her arms, let's go, but she gave his balls a vigorous jostling on the way, like mussing up somebody's hair. She's all chortling or whatever. Kinda sound was that? Check her out--all real satisfied with herself, the bitch. Dude, y'see Ben's eyes? They went up his head, like cherries in a slot machine or something; face went all scrambled-like. He don't know what the hell just happened. You mean jiggling'll do that to a guy? Just JIGGLING?!?! Shi-i-i-i-t.

"Not cool! That was not cool!" protests Jim Duncan, biggest guy on our team, as she's getting up. Jim's our captain. He's our best wrestler, too. He nearly won state last year in super heavyweight division. Went all the way to the quarterfinals.

"So, do I make the team?" she asks, all perky-like.

"No!" Jim shoots back.

"Why not?" she demands.

"Because," he says. "You cheated."

This'll save us. Get Jim against her. Go, Jim. Don't have a chick on our team. Dude, we got pictures in a week. What'll we tell our grandkids? She stands her ground. At her feet, there's Ben, pushing up awkwardly on elbows, holding his nutsack all real unabashedly, and with both hands too, like he'd just been socked down there like he could've been, instead of just jostled. He ain't talking. Just looking at her feet. Dude, talk about hammer toes. Her toes all curl in, just the middle ones. She crosses her arms over them bee-sting boobs of hers. There goes her head, cocked to the side like she's all innocent, just staring up at Jim across the mat.

"All right," she says proudly. "You're next. I take you down, I win a spot. You guys're takin' me."

"Screw this," mutters big Jim, stepping onto the mat. Go Jim. He goes, "You don't know who you're messing with."

"Oh, but do YOU, though?" the gal retorts boastfully. What's she thinking?!

Jim's stutters like this ain't what he expected. "Shit, le--well--let's get it on then."

There they go. Got her in standing-grappling position. Jim's huge. Look how much taller he is. His hands practically swallow up her whole shoulders. Hers only reach to triceps. Look at those triceps. I don't wanna fight that guy.

There he goes. Jim's got her down, swung his big leg around the side and she went, him on top. It's over.

Nothing. Why isn't Jim doing anything? Dude, you got her. Go, man. Finish it. His muscles're all showing, but something ain't right. Why's he all frozen?--like somebody just jammed a stick up his butt. Hear him breathe kinda funny, kinda shallow. What the f#ck?

See her squirm out from under. Jim's torso just falls, face down on the mat. She's all way out 'cept her hand--shit...look where her hand is. Dude, that ain't fair! No wonder! She yanks it out. Still kissing the mat, both Jim's arms slowly descend past his waist, then his hands bend inward till they're holding, and yeah, I guess kinda cupping the same exact spot where her hand just was.--Dude, what'd she do?! What'd she do to his balls?! Okay, yeah, great. Now she's pushing, all pushing at his shoulder like she's tryin' to flip him. Like moving a mountain. There she goes, pushing and a-shoving, fightin' against gravity. Here comes this hellacious high-pitched grunt now, like she's havin' an orgasm almost. She's got him. Check it, he's all paralyzed. There he goes over. Arms go all bouncy but still stiff on the mat. Like rolling a chopped-down tree. Jim blinks on account of the bright gym lights shining down; otherwise he's all f#cked up still. All rigid like a board. She scrambles up on both knees, straddling over at one side of him. She's holding up something at him. It's two fingers. She's got just her two fingers; she's all waving them in his face.

"See that?" she's breathes straight down heavy at him, her beesting boobs in black tight spandex bellowing in and out. "I beat you with just two fingers."

Shit. She's doing a pinching thing with her fingers. She pinched him--She did THAT to him just by PINCHING?!?! SH-I-I-I-I-I-T. Sucks being a big guy.

"You give up now?" she demands huskily.

He nods up at the gym lights, not even looking at her. Dude, he's never down. First time I've seen the soles of that sonuvabitch's shoes. First I've ever seen him on his back. Oh geez, there go the hands, cupping at his balls again. Dude. That's embarrassing. Come on.

She stands up, unhinges something on her head and let's her hair all down, flippin' it all around wildly like a video vixen from a cheesy old Van Halen video. She crosses both legs in her stance, presents both palms skyward, addresses us in a tone of authority. "Allow me to introduce myself," she starts off. "I'm your new wrestling coach."

Mats are soft, but you can hear a feather drop on this one right now. She continues, pacing slowly around the mat. "You've just learned an important lesson. Never underestimate an opponent."

Coming at me, me being dumbfounded and all, I just stand here. Stu-u-upid.

"Think you can remember that?" she says, saying right at me like she's moving in for the kill or something.

A few "Yes, Ma'ams" go murmuring around the gym but me, being caught in her incoming stare, I say nothing. I'm froze. Here she is, right in front of me.

She lowers her voice in this peeved-off, southern belle drawl at me, "I said, 'You think you can remember that?'"

I felt it. I felt that. A tickle, right up into my sack. Oh, it's going in, right where they hang. I didn't even see her hand go up. Fingernail playing bimble-bomble between both balls. Oh, oh, oh man. Million of thoughts racing in my head: Shit, I have balls down there; shit, this could hurt; shit, why d'they gotta hang so low? please don't hit me; don't pinch either; no jostling; go easy, go easy, lady.

Her eyes're black. So help me, her eye's're black all inside. You cannot mess with this woman.

Did I just gulp? I did--also shuddered. F#ck. I guddered.

Big smile and those gums and the crow's feet in her freckle saddle, smiling all over. And laughing. Now everybody. Everybody just laughing at me. Glad you guys think it's funny. You're next, assholes. You got these too--Oh! that tickles. Go easy, easy, easy...Whatever you say, coach. You're my new coach. Can't wait to tell my grandkids...if you let me have 'em...please...