Had to pull the varsity team from their conditioning drills early today. Something about a 'distracting smell' in the weight room. I guess the scent of stale sweat, rubber mats, and my own cunt from where I got fucked against the squat rack before dawn wasn't exactly motivational. The irony isn't lost on me. I spend hours drilling them on discipline, on ignoring pain and discomfort, on pushing through. Meanwhile, I can't walk past that rack without my pussy clenching, remembering how the cold steel felt against my bare ass while I was filled up from behind. My entire career is built on control—controlling my body, controlling my team, controlling the game. But the one thing I can't control is this deep, fucked-up need to be taken out of control. To have my authority stripped away with my clothes, to be made to scream and beg until my voice is as raw as my throat after a throatfucking. The shame is supposed to be the point, right? To break me. But what if the breaking is the only part that makes me feel real anymore? Maybe the toughest lesson I'm teaching anyone is my own: how to hate the thing you crave most.