Coach Cock Book

The hallway is loud and bustling. It is high school. It is what one expects when a mass of teenagers occupies a tightly packed corridor, as they do in the English wing of this high school. Girls snuggle up close to their muscled horny boyfriends, where they should not be, per school rules in the sardine-packed ‘C’ Wing, sneaking a passionate kiss while their boyfriend’s grind their erect cocks into them. Out of sight, of the lurking eyes of their teachers, in doorways, and brushing up against their noticeable bulges in their boyfriend’s jeans, wondering what lurks there, some hoping to see it, some wanting to see it and some wanting to feel it and some wanting more. Boys are banging on their lockers, showing how tough they think they are, or want to be. Football players are rough housing in their tight-knit group. Nerds are congregating in clusters, wondering who will be jumped on next, and shoved in a too small locker. Embarrassed and ridiculed by these same muscle-bound jocks.

“Miss Rogers, get off, Mr. Raines,” a teacher barks from her doorway,” This is not a brothel. Get your body off him. Do you hear me? Young ladies do not behave in such a matter.”

“GET TO CLASS, EVERYONE. QUIT YOUR LOLLYGAGGING IN THE HALLWAY, YOU ONLY HAVE…A FEW MORE MINUTES, PEOPLE! PEOPLE!” shouts the Spanish teacher, Mrs. Hare, “THE BELLS ARE ABOUT TO RING PEOPLE, BE ON YOUR WAY! BE ON YOUR WAY!”

The hallway begins to empty, as the students shuffle out. One student lags at his locker, a football player, he smiles, from ear to ear. He is waiting for something; a contained excitement is apparent in his foot-to-foot fidgeting.

“C’mon, get inside my classroom, Mr. Sanchez,” Mrs. Hare barks, “Class awaits.”

He walks across the hall and trudges into her classroom.

The bell rings as he walks over the threshold.

He hates her class. He knows more Spanish than she does, and she is the one who is supposed to be teaching him. He is third generation, his grandfather only speaks Spanish, and he learned it as a kid from him. He figured the class would be an easy ‘A.’ He was right. Mrs. Hare does not like him. It did not matter, though, he passes the class, with the highest of grades, besides, he needed a foreign language to get his diploma, so why not take the one that is his foreign language.

“Alright, class, simmer down, simmer down, and open your books to page 220…,” Mrs. Hare continues with her loud incessant barking.

The high school’s PA system interrupts her, mid-sentence. A male voice is heard making an impromptu announcement.

ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

THE FOLLOWING STUDENTS ARE TO REPORT TO COACH RAWLINGS’ OFFICE DOWN AT THE FIELD HOUSE. IMMEDIATELY. BRETT CORBETT. ALEX THOMAS. KENDRICK LEON. RANDY SANCHEZ. AND COLBY KALLEN.

“Alright. Alright, everyone calm down. Calm down.” she says from the front of her class, “Mr. Sanchez, you heard the announcement and your name. GO! GO!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sanchez says.

He stands from his seat.

“See y’all later,” he says happily, the grin on his face, turns into a toothy smile.

He walks out of the room.

Everyone’s eyes are intensely locked and lingers on the football player’s tight ass, which is one of the things he is most admired for, the others have already left the classroom, ahead of him. He suspects. There were rumors about that special part of him circulating through the school since he went out for the football team.

Once outside, the overhead sun beats down on him, he walks south, toward the football stadium, and the field house, which has a door out onto the football field.

In the student parking lot, he sees the other guys, that were told to meet up in the field house.

“Hey guys, wait up!” Randy shouts out as he runs to the pack of young men walking to where his destination is too.

“Hurry up, man, Coach Rawlings is waiting on us,” Brett says.

Randy huffs and puffs in a gait to the assembled football players.

“Where’s Alex?” Randy asks, noticing that one of the named is not among them.

“He had to leave early this morning, “Brett says, “Family business or something, he told me before he left.”

“Oh!” Sanchez says.

“Do you know what this is all about?” Kendrick asks.

“No,” Sanchez says, flatly. He has his suspicions, but he decides to keep them to himself.

The boys are drenched in sweat as they near the painted gray cinder-block field house. Standing at the open side door of the field house is Coach Rawlings.

“Get a move on, men,” Coach Rawlings says, “…times be a-wasting. Where’s Thomas?”

“He left early, Coach,” Brett says, “Something to do with his sick grandmother.”

“Okay,” the gruff Coach says, “I’ll deal with him later.”

The four young men storm through the steel door and into the weight room, and behind this room, is the empty locker room, to stand in the steaming hot un-air-conditioned weight room. The fans, which are usually on. Are silent at this early of an hour.

“Get to the locker room, and strip, men,” Coach says, “I will be back to fetch y’all in a bit.”

“What? Do we need to dress out, Coach?” Colby asks.

“Balls and cocks, boys, I wanna see y’all’s balls and cocks,” Coach says.

“What?” Colby says.

“You heard me!” Coach demands.

The young men lag about, puzzled by this request.

“MOVE! MOVE!” Coach shouts, “Balls and cocks, boys, balls and cocks.”

The four turn and make their way through to the next steel door, as they step through, they are greeted with a burst of cool air. They are in the main part of the building, the locker room.

“Shuck’em, men,” Coach says, “I’ll be back in a second.”

“What’s this about?” Colby asks.

“It must be some sort of physical, uhh,” Kendrick says, the only black student out of the four.

“We gotta do what the Coach says,” Sanchez says, as he pulls his sweaty tee over his shaved head.

The four young men are all a contrast in their appearance. Each is in a different stage in their maturity. All are grown, but some are more ‘grown’ in who they will eventually become as men.

Sanchez kicks his sneakers off his feet.

His best friend, Brett Corbett, stands next to him.

“You know what this is about?” Brett asks.

“No,” Sanchez says, “But we’d better do what Coach says, you know how mad he gets when we do not do what he says.”

“I know. I know.” Brett says.

Brett and Sanchez grew up together, both live on the same country back road, their fathers have been lifelong friends, just like them, and both sets of men, played on the same high school football team, together.

Brett is a towering six-three tall drink of water and built like a stone wall. He lifts more than the other guys in the weight room. His chest is covered in a thick and dark dense growth of hair. He was the first one in junior high to get hair around his balls, in his armpits and on his chest. This made him the standout among the other boys, back then. Then, he was the maturing oddity, and the subject of admiration by the other boys, and fawned over by the giggly schoolgirls. But once he got to high school, he was just like the other boys, who were in the same stage of their teenage development.

Brett is the first one naked and sits down on the wooden bench in front of the lockers. His legs are opened wide, his cock, hangs, nothing stirring, as he cups his balls, freeing the jewels from the thick mat of pubes that wrap around them.

“I am glad to have those things off,” Brett says, “Dammit! I do hate wearing clothes.”

“Looks like you need some sun, man,” Kendrick, says, “You are one pale-ass son of a motherfucker.”

Everyone laughs, including Brett.

“It’s my Irish roots, man, “Brett says, “We are the whitest of the white people.”

Everyone laughs again at the joke that everyone knows. And has heard repeatedly from Brett.

Kendrick is the next one, naked. He is the only one of African-American ancestry among this year’s graduating seniors. A little shorter than Brett at six foot, he is quite the specimen of manhood. His dad is the commander at the Air Force base in the northern part of the county. He plops down next to Brett, throwing his hair away from his face and across his back. Unlike Brett, he is of a soft brown color and heavily muscled, but lean. His dad was a football player back when he was in the Air Force. He taught Kendrick, everything he knows. Kendrick’s meat dangles down, in it is softened state, it is a tad shy of seven inches. Brett, however, seems to have an average size piece of man-meat, his cock nests deep inside his dense forest of pubes, hiding like a rabbit inside its rabbit hole.

Then, there is Colby, a studious boy, all of being a tall six foot-one teen, looking like a geek, a nerd, wearing his black retro-framed glasses and usually deeply engrossed in a book, which stays in front of his face, but surprisingly, he is one hell of a football player. He is the team’s secret weapon, only called upon, to the field when a surprise play is needed. He delivers when he is needed. Colby is muscled, he works out, but he is leery to show-off, although he has, he should not be so introverted. He is always the one to watch. Colby is this years, high school valedictorian. He seats himself next to Kendrick and the differences, between the two young men are striking. The lad’s proportions are not what you would expect from a bookworm. His chest is well defined, a patch of blonde wispy hair in the center of it. He is chiseled like the famed da Vinci’s statue of David, when his glasses are off, he looks like a virginal cherub, albeit, in the form of a virile and striking young man.

Sanchez is slow to remove his clothes. He knows what lurks inside his underwear. When he sits, the other three glare at him and bites their respective tongues.

“Oh, man!” Brett sighs and shakes his head in mock disgust.

He sits next to Colby. Four lads, waiting patiently on the wooden locker room bench, they feel the cool breeze blow from an overhead vent on them.

“Y’all boys, ready out there?” Coach Rawlings shouts out from the interior of his office in his deep baritone voice.

“Yes, Coach!” each of the boys’ answer in a learned unison.

“What is this about, Randy, do you know?” Kendrick asks as he fondles his balls amidst his wiry pubes.

From out of the back, from his office, Coach wrangles into the boy’s locker room.

“COACH!” Brett exclaims. “COACH!”

“Damn, Coach!” Randy says at the spectacle of their coach before them, but he cannot look away.

“It ain’t like you guys ain’t never seen a naked man, before,” Coach says as he stands before them, “I have a cock, too. You know.”

Coach fondles his cock and balls in front of them, letting his fingers linger among his pubes and roam the length of his dangling flaccid cock.

This is the first time that the four boys have seen their Coach in such an exposed state. During summer practice, he would often take off his shirt, as did some of the other coaches, Assistant Coach Earl did when he was on the field, but none have never been seen any of them look like this before. Naked.

Under his arm, tucked up deep into his armpit, is a tattered and worn spiral notebook, with its battered red cover.

“Boys, I guess y’all are wondering why I am naked and why you are naked, uhhh.”

Each of the boy’s nods their head, ‘yes.’

“Well, this is ‘why,’ boys,” Coach says, as he holds the tattered spiral notebook in front of his hairy muscled chest.

The boy’s strain to look at what is scribbled, in its barely illegible script, on the face of the notebook, written in black permanent marker.

“Boys, this is the Coach Cock Book,” he explains, “Every graduating senior boy, uhh, I mean, man, on the high school football team…their cock measurements are in this book, since this high school was built back in the year 1965.”

Randy looks at Brett, Brett looks at Randy.

“Yeah, Sanchez and Corbett, both of your dad’s cock measurements are in this here little spiral notebook, too” Coach says, “I must say, you both do your dad’s proud.”

Coach Rawlings’s knows each of the boy’s daddy’s cock measurements.

Each of the seated boys, sits upright from their relaxed leaning forward stance, chests puffed out in pride, legs still spread wide, accommodating what lies there, giving their cocks ample room to breathe. And grow.

“Men, and I can call you men, can’t I,” Coach says, “Y’all are all 18 years old? Aren’t you, you four?”

“Yes!” they say, boastfully and together.

“Boys! Boys!” Coach says, energetically, “…. uhm, I should say, men. Men! You are men. If you have fucked, you are no longer a boy. Have all y’all fucked?” Coach asks the group of football players.

“Yes, sir, I have,” Brett says with a toothy prideful grin.

“Me, too,” Kendrick says.

“Yeah, you have a girlfriend, so you best be tapping that sweet little thing.” Coach says.

“Yes, sir,” Kendrick answers.

“Me, too,” Randy says. Meekly.

“I am surprised anyone can take that monster, Sanchez,” Coach says, “The whole school knows ‘bout that cock of yours.”

“Yes, sir,” Randy says, sheepishly.

“What ‘bout you, Kallen,” Coach says, “You fuck, anyone?”

“I have, sir,” the bookworm says, proudly, “Yes, I have.”

Colby’s cock seems to come to life and twitches at the spotlight now on him.

“Good to hear, good to hear,” Coach says, “I knew you were all men. It is nice to feel a soft velvety moistness, wrap itself around your cock and squeeze, and squeeze, and then to milk your cock of all its creamy white baby-batter, ain’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” the newly proclaimed men say at the glowing support from their naked football coach.

“Okay, men, this is what is gonna happen. I am gonna measure each of your cocks, soft, as they are right now, so keep those boners down. I don’t wanna see any wood.” Coach Rawlings explains.

“Okay,” echoes from each of them.

“Then, I am gonna measure you with your hard-on. I am sure that will not be a problem for any of you. You are all virile young bucks.”

The four men nod their heads.

“Not a problem for me, Coach, I fight my boner down all the time,” Brett exclaims in his typical arrogant way.

Brett cups his fingers under balls, lifting his cock and balls into view.

“You ain’t hard now, Brett,” Colby says, “Your little fella done buried himself so far up in your pubes, all you see is your two little walnuts.”

The guys laugh, except for Brett.

“Fuck you, Colby!” Brett says, angrily.

“Enough,” Coach says, “Save it for later. When you get on the practice field.”

“In this book will also be my assessment of all of y’all’s body. Muscle. Strength. Pubes. Body hair. Etc. Beside your name, is where I will write about what I see.”

The boys say. The men say nothing.

“This book, “Coach says as he holds it up, for all to see, “…are the men that have passed before you in these hallowed halls of this fine high school. They went through this same test by the Coach they had. The Head Coach before me instructed me, he was, done the same by the one before him. This is an honor, a privilege, I take most humbly, I have to keep this for the men of this fine football program and the farmers and plowboys of this county.”

The words of honor stir these four men and the responsibility of such a task by the naked Coach Rawlings.

“Who wants to be first?” the Coach asks, as he fondles his balls and gives his ripening cock a gentle stroke, or two, as a clear drop of expelled essence coalesces on the crown from his leaking pee-hole.

The men notice but say nothing.

“I guess, I will just go in alphabetical order,” Coach says, “Corbett, stand up, and come here. Kendrick, will you get me a folding chair and the measuring tape off my desk.”

“Yes, sir, “he says as he bounds off to do what he is told by Coach.

He returns with a gray folding chair and the white measuring tape he found where Coach says it would be and hands it to the standing naked coach.

“C’mere, Corbett,” the Coach barks.

The pale young lad waddles up to the stocky muscled football coach, now seated bare-assed, on the cold metal folding chair, his cock drooping down between his legs, as a lazy flow of cum eases from his flaccid cock. Coach is unashamed of his powerful discharge that flows like a leaky faucet from the tip of his cock.

“Boy, where is that cock of yours, in those bushy pubes that you’ve got?” Coach needles the boy. Coaxing a reaction from the young football player. Idling him up.

Coach puts the cloth measuring tape up against the towering football player’s pubic bone, the hilt, the root of his barely visible male appendage.

“He’s in there, Coach,” Brett says, red-faced, “I promise.”

Colby giggles behind him, and the other boys ‘mmm’ under their breathe. Shrinkage can be embarrassing.

Coach does a casual fondle of the boy as he searches for the buried cock in the nest-like pubes of the lad.

“Okay. You measure a mere, two inches, bucko,” Coach proclaims as he scribbles this measurement under Brett’s name on the page. He was generous in his assessment. He has done so before on other players. What matters is when the cock is hard, anyway. He tells himself.

There are more snorts and awkward noises, behind the even redder-faced player, as the Coach shameless declares what he has measured.

“I am a grower, not a show-er, Coach,” Brett, says, “You’ll see. You’ll see.”

“Okay, Corbett,” Coach says, “We will see. We will see. Have a seat, now. Next.”

Kendrick Leon stands, as Brett Corbett resumes his seat.

“Leon, you are next,” Coach says, “Your ‘guys’ sure aren’t hidin’.”

“No, Coach,” Kendrick says, his head proudly up. And chest out.

“You are sure, you ain’t hard,” Coach says, “You are quite impressive.”

His cock droops down, flaccid but quite noticeable in its current state, like a loose brown snake.

“Naw, sir, he’s just relaxed,” Kendrick, says, “When he’s ready, he salutes like a mighty soldier.”

“I look forward to seeing it,” Coach says as he pushes the tape into the wiry hairs of the dreadlocked lad.

Coach looks to the measuring tape, traveling over the numbers…three…four…five…

“Five inches, mmm, and you are not even hard,” Coach says, “Your dad must be proud.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Kendrick says, “We have never talked about, such things. About our cocks.”

“He should be, “Coach says, “I imagine he has seen some awesome fighter pilots cocks out there at the base that does not even match up to yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kendrick says.

“No, thank you, Leon, it was an honor to touch such a fine piece of male specimen, “Coach says, as a steady drip comes from his slightly hardened cock.

Coach fondles his cock again, as the clear cum ooze covers his hand. And drips onto the concrete floor.

“Sorry, men, “Coach says, “…but I stay naked here in the field house when I am alone or when Coach Earl Hall is around and when ‘he’ gets hard, I don’t worry ‘bout it. I hope that is okay.”

“It is fine, Coach, “Colby says, “I do the same when I am at home, too.”

Colby spreads his legs in solidarity with Coach.

“So, you understand, Colby?” Coach says.

“So, do I, Coach, “Brett says, “I don’t like to wear clothes either.”

“Uh, huh. Who is next?” Coach asks.

“I think I am, Coach,” Colby says.

“Well, get that hairy blonde ass of yours over here, then, boy, “the Coach says.

The bespectacled young scholar stands and walks over to the seated man. He is chiseled like a statute in a museum. As he walks toward Coach Rawlings, his limp cock bounces about like a loose spring.

“Hmmm, these are heavy.” Coach says as his right hand fingers cup the boy’s balls.

Coach squeezes them, rolls them around in his lithe fingers, being caught up in the scholar’s blonde bushy pubes.

“Boy, boy, these are full!” Coach says as he continues with his fondling.

“Thanks, Coach!” Colby says, happily, spreading his stance, standing like a soldier at rest.

“Smart and an all-around athlete, a good combination,” Coach says, “…and blessed with such a fine, hard body.”

Colby stands taller, thrusting out his hips, while Coach works over his balls and still limp cock with both hands.

“Let’s see what you measure, boy,” Coach says with a broad smile on his face.

Like before, with the other two, Coach brings the clothe tape into the furry cluster that encircles Colby’s cock.

“Hmmm, hmmm,” a moan escapes Colby’s mouth.

Colby looks down, seeing where the tape ends at the cut-end of his cock.

“Impressive. Impressive.”

“What is it, Coach?” Brett ask from his place on the wood bench.

“It is more than yours, Corbett,” Coach says, “You’ll learn, you’ll learn.”

“Okay,” Brett sighs, “Okay. Okay.”

“It says, four…four inches,” Coach says,” …quite impressive for a soft cock. Be proud, man. Just a little less than Kendrick’s but no slouch, mind you. No slouch, at-all.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Colby says, as he turns and faces the other boys seated on the bench, a confident smirk on his face. And his cock flopping about.

The young man, with his low hangers, drooping like full sperm bags, they are, sway with every movement he makes. His cock swings about, too, as he strides like a rooster among the hens. Kendrick did the same when he was measured, too. The two exchange high-fives when Colby takes his seat next to his pal.

“You still do not measure up to Kendrick,” Brett says.

“You don’t either, Brett, “Colby says, “None of us do.”

Brett shrinks in his place, he claps his legs shut, hints of brown pubes peak from between his legs.

“Someone might,” Kendrick says.

“Mmmm, “Coach says, “Sanchez, your next, and the last.”

Everyone in the room has heard the rumors, about him, the football players have seen ‘it,’ and are the ones who started the rumors, now the truth can be recorded and saved for all eternity, the Coach ponders to himself, as he sees Sanchez saunter up to him.

“Get your ass, up here, Sanchez!”

“Yes, Coach,” Sanchez moans.

Randy walks towards Coach Rawlings, all eyes follow him and his ass. The rocking of his ass, their firmness, is mesmerizing in their magnificent sway. Some say, it is his heritage or the intense workouts that he carries out in his weight-room in the shed at home or the ones in the field house, here. He usually works out with Brett, his best friend, since the day, they met.

“I’ve been waiting for this, “Coach says, “…since the day you first stripped in the field house, your freshman year. Me, and the other Coach’s tried to look away, but we couldn’t.”

A lump goes down Randy’s throat, gliding over his Adam’s apple, he never realized, the gawking he got when he walked around naked.

Admittedly, he is curious, as to what he measures. He has attempted to measure his cock but the moment he puts the ruler up to his dick, he must stroke it, fondle it. So, he has never successfully measured his cock.

“Damn! I am envious of you, Sanchez,” Coach says, “All of us would be proud to have been blessed with this.”

Coach smacks his lips as he reaches for Sanchez’s limp dick.

“Hmmm, and this is soft.”

Coach smacks his lips again, a drop of drool eases from the corner of his mouth.

He cups Sanchez’s hefty balls with his right hand, lets his finger tickle the underside. He rolls them around in his fingers, testing their weight, squeezing them, feeling them and the power coursing through them. What he is doing is what he had done with Brett, Kendrick, and Colby. One of his ball sacs falls lower, than the identical one, just like they do with every man who has this equipment between his legs.

“Is your daddy blessed like you, Sanchez?” Coach asks.

“I don’t know, sir, “Randy Sanchez answers, “I have never seen my dad naked.”

“Oh!” Coach exclaims, “Let’s see.”

Coach lets loose the boy’s balls in his hand and picks up the spiral bound red notebook.

“You know what year your dad graduated, Sanchez?”

“No, Sir, I do not know.” Sanchez says as he stands splay-layed in front of the Coach.

“You are eighteen, so let’s go back, eighteen years,” Coach says, as he flips back in the spiral notebook, page after page, in the ‘Coach Cock Book.’

“Mmm,” he sighs when he finds it.

“What does it say, Coach?” Brett asks.

“The apple does not fall from the tree,” Coach says, “…but I have to measure it, to be sure. Exactly sure.”

Coach places the notebook back on the floor and picks up the cloth measuring tape.

Like the previous three, he places the tape amid the furry pubes against his pubic bone and stretches the tape from the base to the crown of the cut cock.

“Mmm, “Coach says, “Mmm.”

Coach is drooling. He did not do that with the previous three.

“What is it, Coach,” Randy asks, anxious to hear from his flaccid measurement is.

“It says, 7 inches,” Coach, says, “A soft cock measured at 7 inches. I am jealous. Most guys hard, are not this big.”

“What ‘bout his dad?” Brett asks, again, “What was his?”

Coach looks down to the open notebook with the page opened on Sanchez’s dad entry, with his right hand still clasped tightly to Sanchez’s nuts.

“Father and son are the same, that’s not a surprise, “Coach says, “…as you both share the same DNA. That is impressive.”

The more Coach squeezes his nuts, Sanchez feels the heat rise and radiate through his body.

“These boys are warm, “Coach says, “When was the last time, you busted a nut, boy?”

“Last night,” Sanchez says.

“You fuck someone, boy, with this monster?” Coach asks. “Today?”

“No!” Sanchez answers.

“You jack-off, today?” Coach asks.

“No, sir,” Sanchez says.

“Not today?” Coach asks.

“No,” Sanchez says.

“You have not jacked-off today?” Coach asks.

“No, sir,” Sanchez answers. “I have not busted a nut.”

“Back when I was in high school,” Coach says, “I would bust out a load between my classes, sometimes, every day and then be about my day, when I finished. I would sometimes stroke a nut out three times a day.”

Coach shakes his head, awestruck by these boy’s lack of cock stimulation.

“You and Corbett, do you two ever jack-off together?” Coach asks as his fingers continue to doddle with Sanchez’s nuts.

There is silence, no answer from Randy.

“Corbett! You and Sanchez. Do you two young bucks jack-off together?” Coach yells out to Brett Corbett.

There is hemming and hawing before Brett finally answers.

“Yes, sir,” Brett answers, “We usually beat off after we workout in the shed where his weights are at home.”

“I thought so, “Coach says, “Many young bucks, your age, have circle jerks with their friends. I did so as a youngster. We are going to have one today. So, I can measure your hard cocks.”

Coach looks from boy to boy to boy, seated behind him and Sanchez. The four players are on full naked display in front of him each of the young men enthrall him. With a hand still on Sanchez’s nuts and the other on his own, Coach begins to stroke his leaking cock to full mast.

“Boys, stroke those rods, get them rock-hard, so I can get those hard-on’s measured and written in ‘the book,’” Coach orders.

Randy’s hands are at his side, while the Coach glides up and down the rapidly hardening tool of the young man before him, with the boy’s hairy pubes at eye-level, while simultaneously bringing his erection to life.

Coach smears, his now flowing cream over the glowing red head of his cock.

“Mmm,” Coach sighs, “I like this, surrounded by four virile young men with rapidly inflating cocks, fueled by the testosterone that courses through your bodies. I LOVE IT!”

Each of the boys is working themselves into a sexual frenzy.

“You think you can cum, again, Sanchez?” Coach asks, “Since you did, last night?”

“I can, Coach,” Brett interjects.

Brett is frantically working his right hand, trying to match, stroke for stroke with Kendrick and Colby.

Coach leans out from Sanchez and sees Brett.

“Keep workin’ that cock, Corbett,” Coach says, “Show me that grower of yours you claim to have. Show me just how hard you can make that thing.”

The air smells of youth, teen sweat and a fierce longing for sex.

“C’mere, boys, stand next to Sanchez?” Coach says.

The boys walk up and encircle the Coach with their veils of manhood. Each boy enraptured by his stiffening cocks. Each looking to the other, next to him, their manhood’s grows with each hand action on their fleshy tool. Except for Randy, Coach’s hands are roaming double-handed like a mad man on the boy’s cock.

“Boy’s, you know what this experience is about? You cannot share it with anyone, not with a freshman, a sophomore, or especially a junior, as they, when their time comes will provide what is needed for their entry in ‘the book,’” Coach pontificates.

With Coach’s intense fondling, Sanchez’s cock snakes to its striking pose with its clear cream-like ooze leaking from the boy’s cock. Sanchez sighs loudly, the harder, and harder he grows.

“DAMN! DAMN!” Coach says, “This is much more than I expected.”

Sanchez sways on his feet, and rocks back and forth on his heels.

“Are you gettin’ dizzy, boy?” Coach asks, “With all the blood rushing from your body to fill up this piece of meat. I can see it. I am surprised you are even able to stand.”

Each of the other boys’ leers at Sanchez. They stop, mid-stroke and stare in awe at their teammate.

“Boys, this here is a cock, is like, no other, “Coach says, “You will probably never ever see a cock, as magnificent as this one.”

Coach squeezes Sanchez’s cock as if it were to burst in its ever-hardening stiffness.

“This manhood needs to be worshipped, heralded as a phallic god-like masterpiece,” Coach finishes.

Sanchez’s face is flushed, as all eyes are upon him.

“Walk-about, Sanchez, let us bask in this ‘God-tool’ betwixt your legs,” Coach says.

“I’d better stand still, Coach,” Sanchez says, “I am a little light-headed.”

“Aren’t you going to measure him, Coach, “Brett asks, “Before he deflates.”

“Corbett, son, your friend, is truly a remarkable man,” Coach says, “Feast upon the visage of your best friend’s cock.”

“I’ve seen it many times, Coach, “Brett says. “I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, that’s right, you boys have stroked off a many a load together, haven’t you, “Coach says.

“Yes, Coach, I have,” Brett answers.

“Jealous?” Coach says.

“No, sir, “Brett says, “Randy says it is more a burden than a blessing.”

“Where’s my tape?” Coach says as he searches for the tape.

All the boys, and Coach, have throbbing erections between their legs.

“Y’all boys, ever edge, or do you jack-off until you bust your wad?” Coach asks.

“Bust my wad,” Brett says.

“Bust my wad,” Kendrick says.

“Bust my wad, “Colby says.

“So, none of you, know what it is ‘to edge’?” Coach asks.

Each boy-man shakes his head, no, at the question.

“Let me, show you, follow me, what I mean,” Coach says as he stands and walks to the steel door that leads to the field house weight room.

They follow behind him like lap dogs.

Their cocks swing with each step they take, bouncing about as they go into the weight room.

“This room always make me horny, “Coach explains as he smears his cock with a mouthful of his own spit onto his raging hard cock, “Knowing that each of you grind in the seats, that you sweat all over each piece of equipment and most of y’all are nearly naked when you are out here.”

The fan whirls in the side of the room, moving the warm air about.

Beads of sweat form on the bodies of each of the five standing about, as each man continues to stroke their cocks.

“I want each of you, to bring yourself to the brink, STOP, when you feel that you are about to bust out your load, you drop your hands, to your waist and you, STOP!” Coach orders the boys, “You hear me, you, STOP! Don’t any of you fuckers unload that cum from those balls.”

They stand around the weight bench in the center of the room. The same beach where the whole team clusters as they pile into room. The weight bar is loaded down with the steel round weights on it.

Coach walks around the four who stand in a circle. Each have signs of hair running the length of their cracks. Sanchez has a rivulet of hair from his bellybutton, up his ass, and on his lower back. He likes that they are more men, than adolescent boys. He can smell them, like the Indians circling a wagon train, the four young men reek of sweat and masculine hormones. The more they yank on their cocks, the sounds of their frustrations fill the room.

“Keep it up, boys, “Coach says, “Keep it up. Keep beating those cocks!”

He toys with his cock, as he watches them, matching the boy’s stroke for stroke.

Cream slowly seeps from his cock, a weeping volcano of man-juice, as he watches each boy stoke his rod. He watches their sweat-drenched faces, their muscles tensed in their spry young bodies, and their pride swelled as they pump their hard meat.

He can smell his own anxiousness. The excitement of the building momentum as his bare feet hits the coldness of the concrete floor as he walks about this spectacle.

Each of the boys is a study in masculine contrast, a make-up of the men that roam the countryside.

He longs to run his hands over each of the boy’s firm ass, as they are a testament of their intense labors in this weight room. Their cocks glisten with the spittle from their mouths and the juices freely flowing from each of their cocks.

“Yes, Coach, “the four-answer concerning their circle jerk.

As they pull on their cocks, they are brought to stand on their tippy toes, like puppets on a string.

He walks to the weight bench, which they circle and takes a seat. He has wished to have the football team workout in the buff in this masculine hall of power, but he has never ventured to make it happen. But it is still his wish.

“Corbett go get my tape and ‘the Cock Book,’” Coach barks like a drill sergeant.

Brett nods his head and sprints back to the locker room, that boy’s cock in so unlike the others. He does not measure up like the others, but he is one hell of a ball player, just like his dad. His cock hits his treasure trail, spilling pre-cum into the lad’s furry nest.

“Come on over here, so I can measure you, “Coach says to the boys.

He cannot look away. He can feel the rising dew well up from his balls. He twitches in his groin as the sap rises in his fleshy branch. There is a slowly forming puddle at his feet. He does not touch himself, he wants to, but the sight of the young manhood about him, is all he can see.

“Here, Coach,” Brett, says as he trudges wildly back into the room and hands the tape and book to him.

Brett stands in front of him, he knows he is to be the first.

Coach flips to the pages of the book that contain the information on these four graduating seniors. Brett’s excitement is barely containable as he feels Coach, once again tuck the clothe tape against his cock.

“What does it say, Coach?” Brett begs.

“Mmm,” Coach says, “…a little over six inches, Corbett, but that knobby head is sure to be a hit. Is a hit? I bet.”

Juices ooze out of Brett’s cock. He wants to shoot but Coach wants them to wait. When the Coach lets his fingertips, rake, and glide over the boy’s pee-hole, smearing the masculine juice on his fingertips. He can feel his body react, tense, a bolt of electricity fires through ever nerve in his body.

“OH FUCK! OH FUCK!” Brett screams as his swelled cock explodes all over the Coaches’ hand.

His cream slathers onto the hairy arm of the man, he calls Coach.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Brett screams as wad after wad of his cum dumps from his cock onto Coach’s arm.

Brett is dancing about, slinging his cum, with each bound of his body.

Coach brings his cum-soaked hand to his mouth and licks the boy’s baby batter-milk from his arm and hand. It is sweet, and salty, that boy’s juice, untainted.

“I’m sorry, Coach,” Brett squawks, “Sorry. Sorry.”

“No problem, boy,” Coach says as he licks the last of the boy-batter from his hand and arm, “You were primed to shoot. It happens. It happens.”

Coach figured Brett would be the first to unload his pent-up jizz. He was more than happy to be the one creamed in the young man’s juices.

Coach turns his attention from the frazzled boy to the next one.

“That’s quite a curve, you’ve got there, “Coach says as he stares at Leon’s cock.

“Is this normal, Coach?” Kendrick asks.

“Yeah, it’s normal. You gonna be a hit, this thing is going to be able to reach places that other men wished they could.” Coach explains as he runs his fingertips over the topside of the curve, feeling the blood pump in the vein that runs along its course.

The clothe tape easily follows the bendy portion of the ebony-hued football player.

“Damn! A good eight-incher, “Coach says, “Has your girlfriend been fucked by you, Leon, lately?”

Kendrick Leon does not answer. He does smile a bit mischievously.

“C’mon, Leon, you, can tell me? You have, haven’t you?” Coach demands.

“Naw, Coach, she is a good girl, “Leon says, “…but I am fucking one of the other cheerleaders.”

“I betcha I know who.” Colby says, a smile on his face, too.

“Who?” Coach asks.

“Fish,” Colby says.

“Fish Martin?” Coach asks.

“Yes, “Leon answers.

“Everyone has taken their turn on ole Fish,” Colby says, happily.

“Boys, there is usually one cheerleader that puts out for the entire football team,” Coach explains, “We have Fish. Have all of you, fucked that girl?”

Leon and Corbett raise their hands and nod enthusiastically.

“You two have not fucked her?” Coach asks as he looks over at Sanchez and Colby.

“No, sir, “Sanchez says.

“No, sir, “Colby answers, “I haven’t.”

“Do you want to?” Coach asks.

They both nod their heads.

“Well, both of you need to jump on that thang,” Coach says, “I am sure she wants to be fucked by you, Sanchez. I just not sure how tight that twat is going to be once you are fucking finished with her.”

Coach feels his own ass tighten, at the notion of a girl being fucked by Sanchez’s monster cock. He can imagine his hole being stuffed with such a beast. But he cannot tell anyone.

A noticeable shiver shoots through his body as a dollop of his clear cum expels itself from his throbbing cock.

“Yeah, yeah, I am fine,” Coach, says, “I am just amped up, all this masculine energy in the room has me primed. And ready to go.”

                                                        Unfinished 

The ‘Book,’ as it was casually mentioned in a previous story, A Trucker & Mack, this is the prelude to what transpired with Sanchez in that story. And this story mentions Coach Phineas Rawlings, who is Finn’s dad, and a friend of Benjie. This is a Benjie’s Stepdad World story.