“What the fuck, dude?” shouted Greg, body splayed on the ground, covered in mud.
He looked pissed, but I hardly cared. He’d been a prick all afternoon, checking me round after round during our scrimmage. All I had to do was extend a foot and trip him, the slightest gesture landing him flat on his back.
Sure, it was a dick move—after all, I was the captain—but the rage inside me had bubbled over, undeniable. I couldn’t let it go.
I stared at him, satisfied with myself, until I heard Coach’s voice from the sidelines.
I looked over at him, his face livid.
“Boys, finish up with some drills,” Coach Kennedy bellowed. “Steve. Inside. NOW.”
I threw my stick on the ground and followed, wiping the dirt off my face and spitting some of it through my teeth as I walked back towards the gymnasium, just a few paces behind.
When we made it just inside the building, Coach turned to me.
“Go clean yourself up and meet me in my office,” he said sternly, before adding, “when you’ve cooled down.”
I hardly acknowledged him, making my way to the locker room and ripping off my clothes. I stood under the shower head, my body shaking, the anger in me hardly subsiding.
I’d felt like this for weeks, a simmering cauldron of resentment. I’d been pushing myself hard, harder than almost anyone else on the team, and day after day, I showed up, delivering, nobody else seeming to match my efforts.
Sure, my attitude was probably shit, but then so was everyone else’s. My teammates, they weren’t stepping up, and why the fuck was I gonna maintain all this work, be a leader, if they wouldn’t do the same?
I’d been training twice a day—lifting in the morning, attending practice in the afternoon. I’d barely taken a day off all season, and I could feel it. My body was a wreck, all tight muscle with no release.
I turned off the water, toweling myself down and throwing on a fresh pair of shorts and a tee. But when I looked in the mirror, I realized I hadn’t mellowed out. In fact, I was still boiling. And I was ready for a fight.
I made my way down to Coach’s office at the end of the hall, pushing the door open to find him sitting on his chair in that sparse room, barren save for a few pieces of furniture—a desk, a cabinet, and a long treatment table.
“Close the door,” he ordered, “and sit down.”
I made my way to the table, hopping on to face him, and to face the music.
His expression was serious. He was pissed, too.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked me, his eyes meeting mine.
“The guys—” I started.
“I don’t want to hear about the guys,” he interrupted. “The guys aren’t acting like pricks. The guys aren’t tripping people. What’s going on…with you?”
I stared back at him, uncertain of what to say.
Coach K had always been good to me. Hell, he’d recruited me from the local high school, attending my games senior year and charming my parents into letting me stay in town for college rather than going somewhere further afield.
He was just the kind of guy I hoped to be one day. Probably no older than 45, married with a couple of kids, looking younger than his years. He was still in great shape, hardly missing a day of training despite his own athletic career being long behind him.
He was tough, but he was fair. And he wasn’t letting me off the hook.
“I’ll tell you what I see,” he continued. “I see a guy who’s lost his positivity, who’s all anger and fire with no ability to connect with anyone around him. Who’s ready to be pissed off without even being provoked. Who’s looking for a fight.”
I stayed silent. He was right.
I hardly knew how to reply, and so instead I broke, almost tearing up.
“I’ve just been working so hard...,” I started. “I’ve been training every day, pushing myself, and it’s just not coming together.”
He stared me in the eyes. “It’s not enough.”
The words landed like a thud. I was shattered.
All that work, and it still wasn’t enough?
And then his face softened. “It’s not enough because you’ve gotta take care of you.”
I looked up at him, hopeful.
“If you don’t take a break,” he continued, “you’re gonna break. And you’re gonna break the will of everyone around you.”
I nodded back at him.
So, he did get it, after all.
“How does your body feel?” he asked.
“Beaten down.”
He glanced down at himself.
“You know how I look like this?” he asked, nodding at his body.
He was big, broad, a solid mass of muscle — biceps pressing against the hems of his t-shirt’s sleeves, legs tight against the fabric of his shorts.
I shook my head.
“I take breaks. I take care of myself.” I nodded. “You’ve gotta release some of that tension. You’re a fucking live wire.”
He was right. I was gripping the sides of the table with my fists, still amped, barely able to calm down.
“So what do I do?” I asked.
“You learn some better habits,” he replied. He looked me straight in the eye. “You trust me?” he asked.
“Of course,” I muttered. “You got me here in the first place.”
“Good. Turn around on the table, and bend over.”
I stared back at him blankly. What did he want me to do?
“I said bend over,” he replied. “On the table. On your knees.”
I didn’t move. There was something about him I trusted. I practically idolized him. But I was instantly self-conscious, uncertain.
“You said you wanna learn better habits,” he continued. “This is one of them.”
I nodded, pretending I knew what he meant. But I still didn’t move.
“You said you trust me,” he repeated. “So get on there.”
Hesitantly, I did as I was told, assembling myself on the table on all fours, peering over at him on the office chair next to me.
“Pull down your shorts,” he muttered.
Further surprise washed over my face.
“My—” I stammered.
“Your shorts,” he replied again. “Pull ‘em down.”
I did as I was told, awkwardly reaching down and lowering them between my legs, letting them rest along the face of my thighs.
“Briefs too,” he pressed.
Begrudgingly, I did as I was told, repeating the motion with the thin microfiber underlay, until both were pulled down just above my knees, my ass fully exposed.
It was cold in the room, my skin reduced to goosebumps as my lower half fully met the air. I felt uncomfortable, being so bare, my dick and balls hanging low between my legs, my ass clenched tightly behind me, trying as I could to keep my cheeks together without fully exposing myself.
Surely he didn’t want that.
Coach K could sense my intensity, every muscle activated in anticipation, a cat on a hot tin roof.
“Just relax, dude,” he said. “You gotta calm down.” He rolled the chair over closer to me. “Spread your legs a bit.”
Against my instinct, I did as I was told, widening the placement of my knees, allowing my ass cheeks further apart, opening to reveal my hole.
“How does that feel?” he asked.
“All right,” I replied tentatively. “A little uncomfortable.”
“That’s good,” he replied. “It should feel uncomfortable. It’s what you need.”
He then wheeled himself over to a drawer within the cabinet beside him, reaching inside and pulling out what looked like a long glass prong and a small bottle of clear liquid.
My eyes widened.
And then he turned around.
“You need some release or you’re gonna explode.”
“Coach—” I started to protest.
He ignored me. “I can’t have you doing that on the field. So we gotta break that cycle. From within.”
He stood up from the chair, placing the prong on the table by my knees and popping open the top of the plastic bottle, expertly squeezing some of its contents onto the tips of his fingers.
“This is going to feel cold for a minute,” he started, “but it’ll warm up.”
And before I could reply, I felt him on me, his hand going straight for the node at the center of my ass—my hole—running his middle finger along it softly, gently, his touch belying the gruffness with which he normally comported himself.
My body shook at that first touch, that sensation of him on me. No one had felt me there, ever, and certainly not in that way. Hell, I’d never even touched that part of myself in earnest, only brushing against it after taking a shit or rubbing past it with soap in the shower.
It was a place rarely ventured to. Instead, it remained glossed over, ignored.
Until now.
And as he touched it, almost massaging it, I could recognize how tight it was. My body felt like a knot, a tangled ball of tension, a valve in need of release, and it all seemed to emanate from this place, the very center of me.
It had been there all along. I’d just never recognized it to be so.
He went from massaging it more deliberately to almost teasing it, tapping it, my body doing something I’d hardly expected. Instead of feeling relief as he pulled away, it was the opposite—I missed it, I missed him, as if now that I’d felt him I couldn’t unfeel him, his finger tapping just along my face.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Good,” I let out swiftly, like a low yelp, swallowing to hold back my breath. I was nervous to admit how much I liked it.
“This is the spot,” he told me.
He pulled way his hand, the first instinct that I wanted nothing more than for him to come back.
I could feel my cock awakening between my legs, its girth almost doubling in size, now half-hard. I took some solace in the fact that Coach could hardly see it, my thighs and the shorts that rested just below my cheeks concealing the fact that I was enjoying this, even more than I wanted to let on.
“You hard?” he asked, as if reading my mind.
I blanched at being asked so deliberately, so directly.
“No,” I replied without thinking, my denial immediate.
“You sure?” he asked expectantly. “You should be.”
I blinked, surprised at his insinuation that my body’s response was somehow natural. That it was okay to be enjoying this, fully in heat next to another guy, spread wide.
Not just a guy. A man. A man who embodied the kind of masculinity that I had been modeling myself after most of my life, all the while feeling like I was forever failing.
“Maybe a little,” I admitted, acquiescing.
“Good,” he replied. “That tells me you’re ready. I’m gonna give you a little more.”
He reached for the plastic bottle again, this time squirting even more liquid into his hand, and then reached for the glass prong that lay beside me on the table. Placing it in his hand, he enwrapped it in his palm, using his fingers to coat it fully until it was slicked from top to bottom.
It was pretty thin, probably the same thickness as his middle finger, but still daunting in its size and shape. It’s end curved just ever so slightly, forming the smallest bend.
My breath quickened in anticipation.
“All you have to do is breathe and relax, you got it? I’ll do the rest.”
I nodded back, affirming him wordlessly, as my hands gripped the table, my body slightly trembling.
He lifted the prong up and began running it along the crack of my ass, starting at the very top and extending down until it found my opening, that bud that had ever so slightly opened up at his first caress.
He circled gently around it, teasing me in the way he had with his finger, until he found its middle, resting it there.
Bullseye.
The rounded top of the prong met me effortlessly, as if made for my body, and ever so lightly, he pushed the tip of it inside, pressing apart my inner walls by just a half inch.
My body’s initial response was to clench down, prohibiting it from going any further, but Coach could sense my resistance.
Silently, he took his other hand and placed it on my shoulder, the feel of his palm—warm, firm—sending a shockwave down my body.
“Breathe,” he told me, massaging my shoulder. “Relax.”
I tried to do as I was told, but I couldn’t. My body was even tighter in anticipation, worse off than when I’d arrived.
“You know when you take a shit?” Coach asked.
I laughed heartily, his bluntness catching me off guard.
“Sure,” I replied, still chuckling.
“Think about doing the same thing,” he continued. “Don’t clamp down,” he advised. “Do the opposite. Push out.”
I took in his words, the analogy revealing something to me, the way he talked about what we were doing, just like other guy stuff, providing me the courage to keep going.
I understood what he meant.
And so I did as I was told. Taking a deep breath, I did the opposite of what I’d initially thought right—I pressed from within, imagining myself doing the most natural thing in the world—sitting over the toilet, relaxing my insides, and releasing.
The second I did so, I felt the rod make its way further in, as if swallowing that next inch instinctively, the seamlessness of the glass and the lubricant affording it easy entry.
The moment it was inside, I felt my cock tighten, the nervousness that had left it at half mast dissipating, arriving at a full hard-on.
It was clear to me now what he was showing me—an invisible line suddenly drawn between my hole and my dick. And so, each time I pushed out, I felt myself further open, taking another inch and another inch, until I found that it had slid all the way in, resting inside me, the widened ridge of its base resting comfortably between my cheeks.
I gasped, my body adjusting to this new sensation, the newly inserted instrument somehow doing just what Coach had said it would—releasing that tension that had been so primal and consistent within me that I’d hardly been aware of it.
Something was shattering, diffusing inside me. That tangled knot was coming undone, every nerve ending on my skin newly set alight, the goosebumps giving way to a low heat, my body electrified.
My ass was the lock, and this was the key, the very thing that could bring calm to a body that knew only brute force, labor, and punishment.
“How’s that feel?” Coach asked again, his eyes looking deep into mine, no hesitation or uncertainty, only total self-assuredness and confidence.
“Feels good,” I stammered, finally unable to do anything other than give myself over to the sensation. “It’s….different.”
“It’s new,” he replied, reframing it. “It’s new.”
I nodded in agreement.
It was new.
And with that, he took his thumb, placing it on the very end of the prong, pressing it just that little bit deeper inside me, until its tip met a place that I hard known existed within myself.
There, deep within, it found a node, a throbbing place somewhere between my dick and balls, the slight tap sending a shot through my cock from base to tip, a tingling resonating just at its slit.
“Fuck,” I said in surprise, my dick now the hardest it had been maybe in my entire life. “I feel like I have to piss.”
“That’s normal,” he replied, his certainty a balm. “But you won’t. That’s all a part of it.”
It was as if I was on the cusp of busting a nut, living in a purgatory where I hovered just shy of release, the head of my cock suddenly all I could feel. It was flushed with sensation, tingling. Alive.
“Put your hand on yourself,” he instructed me.
I looked over at him, surprised at this next suggestion. It seemed a bridge too far.
“It’s all right,” he told me. I looked back at him, confused. “This is the point,” he continued. “To give you that full release.”
And so I did what I was told. Using my one hand for greater purchase, I lifted my other off the table and lowered it to my cock, placing my fingers around it and giving it a light squeeze.
I whimpered at that first sensation, the feel of my palm a balm. How nice it was to be held. I ran my thumb over the top of the head, finding to my surprise that it was leaking pre-cum, its expanse already slicked and wet.
“That’s it,” Coach said, egging me on, watching me, his voice low, almost a growl.
I gripped myself harder, this time squeezing just underneath the head, as if choking it; the pressure I was applying only increased my sensation.
“Go ahead,” he said, noticing that I was hardly moving, at stasis. “Jerk yourself.”
And so I did.
I began running my palm up and down the length of my cock, its expanse finding its way down to the base, my balls rising tight to meet it. With each str,oke I became more confident, massaging around the ridge of the head in the way that I’d been doing since I was a boy. It felt awkward at first to be doing this in front of Coach. But then I further relaxed, giving in to it, allowing myself to feel every inch.
I opened my eyes, looking over at Coach, whose own darted back and forth between my face and my exposed ass behind me, my hand gaining speed as it jerked back and forth, up and down, the plug still fully lodged.
With each thrust, my ass bore down further onto the toy, my hole puckering and enclosing in quick succession, rising and falling between my cheeks, as if willing my body to fuck myself with it, each time it went back inside, tapping against that node, that beautiful node that I’d only just discovered.
I stared at Coach, his face betraying nothing but confidence in me, in what we were doing. He maintained an air of complete professionalism despite the unorthodox methods he was applying, reassuring me that this was not about taking advantage or exploiting my vulnerability.
He was doing something else.
And then I realized it.
He was coaching me.
Just like on the field.
I searched him for any measure of his own arousal, but he betrayed nothing. Or did he? Was I imagining it, or was there the slightest tightening that I could observe between his thighs, the faint outline of his manhood visible through the light folds of his shorts?
I couldn’t tell for certain, but the mystery sent me spinning. All that aspiration I’d felt in his presence. I didn’t just want to be him. I wanted him. His body. His hands. His dick. I wanted to see what was beneath that t-shirt and within those shorts.
And the way that he was denying me the privilege only made me want it more.
“That’s it,” he said quietly, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Keep going.” He nodded in further affirmation.
My breathing quickened, the mix of sensations between my legs building. I started imagining him doing the unthinkable—reaching for his belt, opening up the fly of his trousers, and pulling out his cock, letting it fall in front of him, watching him jerk off while he watched me do the same.
The sensation of the plug in my hole, my hand on my dick, and the image of him stroking his cock—big, imposing in my imagination—amounted to something foreign but overwhelming.
And then he only encouraged me further. “It’s all right,Steve,” he said. “Just…let…go…”
My body shook as I heard those words, moving closer to a finish, my eyes finally resting on Coach’s, refusing to look away.
He held my gaze, unflinching.
And then deep within, something gave out, the tension having grown to the point of boiling over. My knees shook as I felt my ass contract, the lips of my hole grinding together so tightly that, as I let out that first shot of cum, the plug shot out from behind me, flying out into the air as if a ball from a cannon, landing with a sharp clang to the ground.
Coach’s eyes followed it and then returned, grinning, back towards me, watching as I fell entirely apart, my dick convulsing, my load brimming, ream after ream filling up the pouch of my briefs with more and more seed, the thin fabric the only barrier stopping me from making a mess on the examination table below,
My ass quivered as I finished, body bucking back and forth, feeling for the beautiful hold that was now long gone, the void where it had been now an emptiness where it had once felt like the opposite, a violation.
I lowered my head down onto the table in exhaustion, the tingling of my body receding, my breath returning to equilibrium. The tightness that had been building in me for months, maybe years, had finally given way to a release.
He was right.
I did feel better.
“Fuck,” Coach said, letting out a low laugh.
He stood up from the chair, making his way over to the discarded toy and picking it up with his hands. I could barely move, my body feeling like it had run a marathon.
“I’m sorry,” I started, mildly embarrassed, still a bit breathless.
I didn’t know I had that in me, any of it, to be honest. The ability to take that thing, the ability to come so hard, like my entire body was orgasming. The ability to shoot a four-inch glass toy halfway across the room with my own sheer force.
“Don’t apologize,” he replied, walking over to the sink and running the plug under the running water, using some soap to rinse it off before grabbing a piece of paper towel to wipe it all clean. “Clearly, you needed this.”
He set it aside and then grabbed for another handful of paper towels, handing it over to me to clean myself off. Gingerly, I received it and reached down between my legs, doing my best to wipe off my cock, only just receding, and the pool of cum that was now residing below.
When I had done my best to clean up, I pulled my shorts back up around my waist, sitting my ass down on the face of the table, sensitive but still tingling from what had taken place.
“How do you feel?” he asked me, his face still smiling.
“Good,” I said, somewhat sheepish. “Better.”
“It’s all connected, you see,” he continued. “All these parts of your body. You can work out all you want, you can train all you want, but if you don’t train yourself to relax and actually let go, it’s all for nothing.”
I nodded back at him. The intensity of the moment receding, I suddenly felt even more bashful.
What the fuck had just happened?
He read my face. “This is all normal stuff, for guys your age,” he told him, his gaze softening. “Takes some people a while to learn it. Hell, I was probably twice your age.”
I took in everything he was saying, all that it suggested.
So he did this stuff too? On himself?
He turned away from me, rolling his chair back to the desk.
“This was a good start,” he told me.
A good start? I thought to myself. There was more?
“I think we’ve got a little more work to do.” I stared back at him. “That is, if you’re up for it?”
My mind was reeling, still internalizing what had happened.
I had liked it. I had enjoyed it. It did feel, somehow, like what I needed. But it was pushing against boundaries. More than that. It was shattering them entirely.
Was this a training tool, or something else?
The kindness of it struck me, and inspired something within.
It made me want to give it back to him. To give him something, too.
“I’m up for it,” I said, newly emboldened.
“Good,” he replied, satisfied. “Come back tomorrow after practice, and we’ll try it again.”
I nodded at him. “Thank you,” I said quietly.
And I meant it.
“Of course, Steve,” he replied. “You know I’ve got your back.”
And with that, I left him, making my way back to the locker room to grab the rest of my things, finally walking outside.
The autumn day having given way to the low light of sunset, the air crisp, I took a seat on the bench outside of the athletic center, still somewhat lightheaded, watching the steam of my breath rise before me with every long exhale.
I thought back to the way Coach had looked at me. His certainty, his laser focus, the knowingness behind his stare that indicated something else, exactly what I wasn’t quite sure.
The way he’d been so disciplined, so restrained.
My mind raced.
And then I thought of that moment just before I’d busted, his eyes searing into me. I’d wanted more than just to feel better. I’d wanted him, all of him.
I could feel the familiar ache between my legs, my cock slowly rising again and meeting the confines of my shorts, still wet from the load that had been only half cleaned up.
I couldn’t believe I was already hard again. I’d barely had a break.
But I guess Coach was right.
We had a little more work to do.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Substack.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
