[Updated and Expanded]
7 a.m. - Phi Kappa Beta Fraternity House
I woke up already feeling it—the game, the weight of it, the pressure to win - before my feet even hit the floor.
Starting quarterback. Regional playoffs. Final practice tonight.
I kissed my boyfriend goodbye, threw on my clothes, and headed to campus. My mornings usually start earlier than most of my frat brothers—but today, it was even earlier.
Every eye on campus is already on me. But this morning, something else was there too. And that was the problem.
I had to eliminate anything that might pull my focus. It only takes a second—a misstep on a play, a late throw, a mistake you can’t take back.
Too much was on the line. I had to take care of this. Before the final practice. Before the game. Or it would take care of me.
And I get it. You might not think my problem is anything to worry about. But it has kind of overtaken my life.
From the start of the fall semester, I’ve had an itch. In my ass.
I discovered that if I touched my asshole while I jacked off, I shot like a volcano. Just rubbing my pucker and putting a finger up my hole made my nuts fire so much harder.
In no time, I got hooked on doing it: so hooked that I couldn’t last an hour without slipping my finger down the back of my pants to tease myself.
This morning, the itching was unbearable and nothing I did took care of it.
I needed Dean Evans and I needed him now.
7:45 am - Dean Evans Office – Hope Hall
As I entered, I winked at the dean’s secretary, Miss Havins, who never misses a chance to flirt with me—even though she is old enough to be my mother.
But I’ve always had that kind of charm; it draws people in, girls and boys alike. I don’t mind. Honestly, I like it.
With sorority girls, it might be something simple - holding the door a little longer, giving them a compliment about how sexy they were looking, or even, with some, something a bit nastier, about how beautiful their pussy is – if we’ve fucked before. I just want everyone to feel special.
With the guys, it’s different. If it’s a teammate, I’ll slap a shoulder pad in the hallway or crack a joke about practice or do a little ass grab. You know the way athletes do. For some of the non-sports guys, the star quarterback just remembering their name means a lot and it makes them feel good.
Now, the theatre department boys, or the ones that look at me all over campus a little longer than they really should; they can’t disguise how they watch how I move or stare at the way I fill the crotch of my pants.
I’m not blind. I’ve heard the gossip. Everyone knows I’m hung.
I flirt with them. Who does it hurt?
I let them squeeze my muscled arms and then pat their asses playfully. I’ve even let one or two of my special ones, touch my cock and my ass.
My boy, Sammy, senior star of the drama department, even blows me, taking my cock in his mouth and swallowing my load. I give him a peck on the cheek in thanks. He’s a bud. He loves it. I love it. It’s all good.
It’s never about putting myself above anyone, it’s about letting them know I see them.
I guess that’s the part that matters most to me. Everybody wants to feel noticed, like they’re more than just another face rushing through the halls.
I headed into the dean’s office without knocking, because the door is open.
“Good morning, Billy,” said Dean Evans. “Excited about tomorrow night’s game?”
“Yes, sir!” I answered. “Can’t wait!”
“What’s on your mind, my boy? Why so desperate to see me?” inquired the dean. “Can’t have our star quarterback preoccupied before the regional playoffs.”
“That’s what I was thinking too, Mr. E,” confessed Billy. “I’ve got that problem I’ve told you about before. It’s really bad. It itches like a motha’.”
“Better lock that door,” said the dean. “This seems serious. Is it worse than before?”
“Yes, sir, it is. It’s so bad, I feel like it’s on fire!”
I ripped opened my jeans and shoved them and my underwear off, stepping out of them, and leaving them on the floor with my flip flops.
I couldn’t help it. I leaned forward over a chair, sticking my hand between my legs, opening my hole and rubbing it as hard as I could. Fuck. It was unbearable.
“I’m going to try what’s worked before, my boy,” he told me.
Mr. E went behind me, knelt and spread my ass cheeks. He smelled the crack and then licked my hole.
“Oh, Mr. E, that’s it. Your mouth always works!” I told him as he eats me out.
He licked and sucked around my hole, kissing the cheeks and even biting them. He knows I love that.
“Really get in there, Mr. E! Make love to Billy’s hole!”
He slurps all over my pucker and the area around it. He even goes under my crack and licks my balls, which is something he knows I especially like.
He’s told me he loves eating ass and anytime I need his help, all I have to do is ask. This morning was an emergency.
Mr. E is doing what he does best. Forcing his tongue up my ass. My fingers are back there too, rubbing, to get rid of the itch.
“Just how deep do you stick your finger, Billy” he asked as he tapped the finger in my pucker.
“Up to the first knuckle usually,” I moaned.
“You ever try more than one, my boy?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Add another finger,” he suggested.
I pushed my middle finger in next to my index finger, as he suggested.
“Like that, Billy?”
“Fuck, yeah.“
“How about this?” the dean purred as he wormed his long, fat index finger in next to mine.
“Oh, yeah. Go deep, Mr. E!”
I let out a grunt and precum poured out of my dick. He pulled my dickhead toward me, felt how wet it was with his thumb, took a taste and grinned.
“Please, sir,” I moaned. “I get so horny during the day, I can’t help myself.”
Mr. E answered me by starting to fuck me deeper with his finger, pushing my two out of the way and replacing them with three more of his. That was four. Four goddamn fingers. All the way in and coming out. Ramming them into my ass. The burn was amazing. I’d never felt anything like it.
“Mr. E, fuck me deeper. All the way in!”
He picked up his rhythm. I laid down on the floor and opened my hole with my hands to give his fingers better access. He just increased the pressure.
I grabbed my cock. Mr. E slathered it with my precum and I started wildly jacking.
“Cum for me, Billy! Give me that big load!”
I felt my body shaking. My breath was ragged, and he kept ramming his four fingers into my hole. I pushed down to meet every thrust. I let out a cry and cum blasted out of my dick.
“That’s it, Billy! Let it out for the team!”
White liquid went everywhere. All over my chest and abs. Some even hit Mr. E in the face. He was wiping off his glasses as he stood up. I was laying on my back on the floor panting.
“There you go, my boy. Problem solved!” he said.
“You better believe it, sir. You’re the real deal!” I panted.
“And if you ever feel that itch again, as usual, you know where to go,” Mr. E. said. “Our little secret.”
“My friend, I sure do. I can’t thank you enough,” I told him.
The dean cleaned himself up, wiping some cum from his suit jacket. He wet a washcloth in his office sink, handing it to me to wipe myself clean as I came back to myself.
He went over to unlock the door as I quickly put my underwear and pants back on and grabbed my flipflops. I had to make sure I didn’t look like I’d just had my hole wrecked.
“Now put all your attention on winning the game, my boy!” Mr. E. said, opening the door.
We high-fived as I went out into the hallway. I couldn’t believe how good I felt and that my itch was totally gone.
My head was already moving on to the next stop—the counselor’s office.
I’d been hearing whispers about some vision shit some of the college athletes did, training not just their bodies but their heads too.
I asked Dr. Jennings, and he said we should try it - so my passes would come sharper, cleaner, like your brain had already run the play before you even touched the ball.
Sounded kind of out there, but I couldn’t shake the curiosity. If there was even a chance it could give me an edge, I wanted in.
8:30 am – Dr. Jenning’s Office/College Counselor
Out in the main office, Mrs. Havins slid me a miniature Snickers because she knows I love them. “Just in case,” she said and winked. “You’ll make the whole town proud.”
“Trying,” I said, kissing her on the cheek and tucking the Snick into my jacket pocket for later.
The halls were filling now - locker doors banging, laughter rising, as I threaded through clusters of students. I got a “Yo” and a few nods from my teammates, Lenny and Wally, “Tomorrow night, QB1!” We fist-bumped.
Then I saw my special boy, Sammy, standing by his locker, we clasped hands and I pulled him in quick as I leaned into his ear and whispered, “Hey, beautiful. This big knob might need some attention after the game. You in?”
“Absolutely, dude. Maybe I’ll bring a little company for the back door,” Sammy promised.
“That right there, I love it,” confided Billy.
“You coming to see me in Oklahoma next weekend. I have the lead.” Sammy asked.
“Count on it,” Billy said, and then leaned in again to whisper, “Everyone knows boys suck better,” patting Sammy on the ass affectionately.
This day, which had begun with an itch I couldn’t scratch, is looking up so I can stay focused on tomorrow night’s game.
At the end of the corridor, a freshman stood staring at a campus map, backpack at her feet. I paused. If I had an opportunity to hit on a freshman, I was going to take it. The girl looked up, round-faced and panicked.
“You, okay?” I asked, noticing her big tits filling out her sweater, but she didn’t see me looking. One of my specialties. I never want to seem like a perv.
The freshman blew out a breath. “I can’t find Hope Hall. And—uh—I have biology in like two minutes.”
“Here,” I reassured, dropping to one knee, picking up her backpack. “Hope Hall is a little further down this path,” I said. “The one with the large, white columns. Can’t miss it.”
“You’re a life saver,” the freshman girl gushed. Then, after a beat, “You’re Billy Harper.”
“So, they tell me.” I grinned. “And you’re rushing Tri Delt, aren’t you? Terry Kinsworth?”
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
“That’s what I do. You keep on being as beautiful and sexy as you can’t help but be, gorgeous!” I teased, gave her a wink, her shoulder a squeeze and kept moving down the hall.
The counseling office door was propped open, a small fountain burbling in the corner. “Fang shoe” or some other shit is how Dr. Jennings describes his office vibe. He looked up from his iPad as I came in.
“Billy. I was hoping you’d stop by.”
“I’ve already almost missed one class,” I said, “Meeting with Dean Evans. Do you have time to show me… whatever you call it?”
“Visualization,” he said, ushering me in and shutting the door. “That’s what we’ve been working on.”
So, I’ve been seeing Dr. Jennings for some weeks now - Sweet Dr. J, He loves that I call him that – We kick back in his office, trying this whole mind-game thing for real. He’s grinning like we’re both in on some secret playbook nobody else knows about.
It’s not about running faster or benching more, he keeps saying, it’s about staying cool when the heat’s on, about seeing the game before it even happens.
I have to admit, it feels different. Not like practice on the field, but like practice in my head.
I’m not sure I buy it all, but Sweet Dr. J seems to love it as much as I do.
Like our typical session, I sit on the sofa in his office and lean back against the left arm. He has a special pillow for me. I throw my left leg over the back of the sofa, put my right on the floor. Dr. J sits by the right arm.
“Lean back, Billy and close your eyes,” he says gently. “Picture the field. Start with your breath.”
I do and for the first time all week, the noise in my head eases enough to let me focus on the upcoming game. I slow my breathing and picture the field.
Dr. J’s hand lands lightly on my knee, the weight of it lingers, and suddenly every nerve in my leg seems awake. His touch drifts in slow circles, climbing higher, his nails tracing fire along my legs. Every second is like a new test of control because, man, he loves to tease me and watch me slowly get hard.
When one of his nail’s skims upward, feather-light, on one of my inner thighs, I have to shift in my seat and readjust my cock. It’s just semi-soft but still expanding and, Big Billy and his Boy’s nestled underneath, need some room when they grow.
His finger dragged another line upward, drifting up and pushing against my sack. Teasing me, for sure.
He softly presses against my nuts, pressing down on my sack and fingering my hard cock.
The man is focused, loving that the growth of my rod totally depends on his fingers. SDJ doesn’t seem to be able to live without my impressive junk.
“Good. Hear the crowd. See your teammates lined up. Feel the weight of the ball in your hands,” Dr. J instructs.
My jaw unclenches. The image is surprisingly clear. I could almost hear the bang of helmets, the low shout of the snap count.
His hand skips over my lap until it lands lightly on my hard cock, a finger outlining the shape through my jeans, squeezing my shaft, clutching the head, pressing hard on my balls.
I can’t help it. I thrust up a little bit to meet the press of his hands. I’m looking for friction.
Suddenly, Sweet Dr. J removes his hands, falls to his knees and thrusts his face directly into my crotch and starts licking, sucking and biting my cock and balls through my jeans.
The dude is such a slut, he fucking tries to suck my cock through the goddamn denim.
He comes up for air, his breathing a little heavier, and says, “Now, Imagine the perfect throw. Don’t rush it. Watch it leave your hands.”
Unzipping my jeans, he dips his hand in my underwear and pulls out my cock and balls. The man is crazy about my nuts. He settles them in the bottom of the zipper, making sure it holds up my junk where he can easily get to it.
“Take a breath,” he murmurs. “Open your eyes.”
I blink. Sweet Dr. J smiles and, in one movement, takes my knob down to the root, pressing his nose into my pubes.
“Oh, baby. Take it all the way down, you little cock hound.” Sweet Dr. J loves nasty talk.
He comes up for air – but he never gags – the dude has skills - He goes down one more time, lodging my pole into his throat and sucks on my shaft. He then pulls up and starts licking and sucking on the head, slathering my precum all over his face. He loves to bury his face in it.
“Love on that meat, Dr. J. You know how much Billy loves his favorite cocksucker!”
The bell rings in the distance, giving us the five-minute mark. I don’t care. Need to give Sweet Dr. J the time he needs to work his magic.
I pull out and slap his face with my cock. He keeps trying to lick it, suck it. I tease him, keeping his mouth from getting a taste.
I personally like it when he’s a little desperate - suction stronger, pumps tighter. He sticks out his tongue, begging for it. I lay my knob on it and let him lick it.
Grabbing the back of his head, I start jamming my dick into his mouth. He opens his throat for me, and I fuck the shit out of it. Tears are streaming down his face, but he’s a champ.
Spit comes out of both sides of his mouth and I watch my cock pumping in and out. I push his head down to my pubes, pressing his face into them. The motherfucker can sure worship a cock.
“Dinner time, baby! Eat up!” I say.
Unsnapping my jeans and opening them, he pushes his face back into my pubes, starting to lick, suck and eat like a madman. Then he goes for my balls.
This is really my favorite part. He always takes one nut into his mouth. Sucks it. Drops it. Licks it. Sucks the other one. Licks it. Drops it. Over-and-over. They’re too big to get both in at once but he sure tries.
“Oh, fuck, yeah. That’s it! Lick those juicy balls!”
He then starts licking that goddamn place between my sack and my asshole. This is a first. Licking it like a lollipop and dipping his tongue into my asshole, jerking my jeans down so he can get at it.
“Ahh, Dr J, I know you must be a master rimmer, but you gotta leave my ass alone! It’s already had a workout this morning.”
Immediately, he jumps back to my cock, slurping the head, licking it, suckling it. He tongues up and down the shaft, from the bottom to the top. His hand is at the base, jacking tight and fast. He spanks it.
I told you the fucker is nasty!
“Take it, bitch. I’m going to blow. Eat me! Fuck!”
Sweet Dr. J covers the head to catch every drop. He’s jacking me furiously. A blast erupts from the slit and he begins to swallow impressively. Spurt after spurt. Not a single drop gets out. Guzzling the cream like his life depends on it.
I need to pull back a bit because the sensation is too much, but he tries not to let me. He’s like a vacuum.
“Damn,” I say, “Dude, no one’s going to take it away, you little fucker.”
I pull out and put the last spurt onto his face. He likes that too. It’s in his eyes, on his cheek, on his nose.
Without wiping his face or saying a word, he proceeds to lick and suck my cock clean, placing my dick and balls back inside my underwear, zipping me up and closing the button of my jeans.
“Remember Billy, visualization is important, if you want to be a winner! It requires sessions at least once a week.” Sweet Dr. J advises. He stays in his seat, covered in cum.
I thank him and give him a kiss on the cheek not covered in cum. I mean, I do love the taste of my own juice but I’m not licking it off his face. Jesus, he’s a nasty perv but the dude has killer cock sucking skills.
I call him the Master Blower, but only to myself and maybe one or two of my special boys. Sammy has certainly experienced Sweet Dr. J. He’s got a big dick too and the man is obsessed.
I head out the door, late for history class but I know Dr. Mason will forgive me. I love history. It’s my favorite subject. The halls are clear and I run to his room, which is only a few doors away, opening the door silently and sneaking into my seat.
10:30 am – Guild Hall - Dr. Mason
I never ditch Dr. M’s M/W class. History’s my jam, and Mason? Brother is straight fire. Walk in his class and it’s like the walls are alive - maps everywhere, all faded and frayed like they’d been on more adventures than any of us stuck in these halls. Mason’s up front, sleeves rolled, chalk spinning in his fingers like he’s about to conduct a damn orchestra. Guy doesn’t teach; he performs.
He scrawls TRUST across the board, and I swear it burns into my head. That’s what we have between us: TOTAL TRUST. Me and Mason. He winks at me with a big smile, glancing at my crotch that I’m gripping under my desk where only he can see. Why? Because I know it drives him wild.
I’m trying to focus on what he’s teaching but I can’t help but notice how tight his pants are today. He’s casual. Wears jeans. They’re “fuck me” jeans. Tight enough to know if he’s circumcised or not. He is.
He starts sketching a fort, soldiers looking half-dead. “Trenton, 1776. Washington crossing the Delaware in the middle of the night.” I mean, the dude is magic in the classroom but all I hear is Blah. Blah. Blah. I’m thinking about the relationship that Mason and I have and the mutual secret that is at the foundation of it.
Some kiss ass cunt up front throws out an obvious answer – “Cause retreat looks weak?” - and Mason nods, with a frown on his face. “Deeper than that. Trust. His men trusted him enough to follow, even when it felt hopeless.”
Mason is married with three kids. He’s a family man who loves his wife and adores his children. Lives in the suburbs. Perfect family. Perfect life. But just one thing complicates that: He has to get fucked up the ass to stay sane. He just loves a cock up his chute. Anytime. Any place. He can’t get enough. That’s our secret. I get to fuck him and he gets to ride my big fat dick that he worships. Total trust. We keep the secret and he lets me fuck him.
He’s also got a great bubble butt for fucking. It’s sweet. The beast fills his jeans like a mother fucker. Total animal in the gym. Working those goddamn glutes for Billy Boy. It’s a beauty. I know it’s just for me.
What’s not to love? I call him my “butt boy.” I think it fits.
Mason’s eyes drift across the room and lock on me for a split second. I stare at his ass and lick my lips. Yeah. He’s my butt boy alright. He nonchalantly wipes some chalk from his hands on the back of his pants, gripping his ass cheeks, quickly, just for me.
Bell finally rings, everyone bolts like usual. I drag my feet, because I can tell he’s got something lined up. Just for me and I think it might be warm and tight and wet.
“Hang back a sec, Billy.”
Mason stands in front of his massive desk, turns his back on me and then pretends to need a file on the other side, leaning toward it, showing me his beautiful butt cheeks.
I saunter up to his desk. He turns his head toward me and asks, “What’s your favorite piece of history, Billy?”
“That right there, butt boy. That beautiful ass that belongs to me!”
“Billy Boy, I’ve been needing your cock all morning. When you missed most of the class, I panicked. How could I not have my Billy Boy up inside my hole today?!”
I reassure and tell him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, baby. Billy’s big fat cock needs a warm place to land. And I bet you have just the right spot picked out.”
Mason’s face lights up. He’s been waiting to hear those words. He turns slowly, showing off his ass, and walks into the storeroom that’s behind his classroom. I follow, closing and locking the door.
I mean, we could still get caught but I think it makes it hotter. I mean, not to be a total dick, but he’s the one that would get in trouble, not me.
There are books shelves lining the walls of the storeroom but there is only a single stool in the center of the room. He begins his usual reveal. Shoes. Shirt. Socks. I usually hum a stripper song, but he ignores me.
The pants come off and underneath are the most beautiful pink lace panties, bought just for me. He calls them his “boy pussy” panties. They have no crotch. Naked, he goes to the stool, sits and raises his legs in the air, letting me see what’s mine.
He starts fingering himself, and says, “Butt Boy needs you to please fuck his pussy. See how wet I am for you? Please, Billy Boy, please!”
Now he pops a butt plug out of his ass – no hands - that he’s been wearing all day. And he’s lubed up. The dude is always prepared, you gotta say that for him.
He continues fingering himself, opening his hole, moaning and groaning. God, that hole is fucking fine. I need it.
“How much do you need my cock, you little slut?”
“A lot, Billy, I need it a lot. My boy pussy needs it so much!”
I slowly unzip my pants and open them. Letting them hang open showing my cock inside my underwear. Wet spot at the tip. Mason starts fucking himself with a finger.
“Nah,” I smirk. “I don’t believe you. Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Big Billy, please,” he pleads.
I take out my cock. It’s pulsating. Hard as steel.
“It’s so beautiful, Big Billy. Please pierce my little pink eye.”
Mason gets off the stool and crawls over to my feet, begging me, “It’s all yours, baby.”
I start to spread the pre-cum all over the head, pumping my cock right above him. Harper reaches up to touch it.
“You know the rules. No touching.”
I shake my cock right above him, slapping it in my hand, the sound loud in the silent room. Mason is breathing hard. Fucking himself and begging for my cock.
I walk away from him and sit on the stool, cock pointing at the ceiling and I pull out my balls and hang them from my jeans. Can’t forget those two boys.
“Bring that twat over here and look at Big Billy’s cock,” I say teasing him.
He loves it. Every word. I can’t talk dirty enough or humiliate him enough. The dude would lick the floor if I asked him.
Mason crawls over, sitting at my feet, and stares at my cock, licking his lips.
“My little whore wants Big Billy’s cock, doesn’t he?”
Mason nods his head vigorously.
“Well, I’ll let you sit on this cock only if you take it down to the root in one plunge. Can my pussy boy, do that?”
“Yes, Big Billy. Yes.”
I lean back. Mason gets up and climbs on my lap, lifts himself and with one plunge engulfs himself on my cock, his ass touching my pubic hair. This whole routine of ours is all him. It’s done the same every time. He’s the one in charge. My dick is his and he uses it like he wants.
I just put my hands behind my head, lean back and sit with no movement – that’s the way the nasty fucker loves it and who am I to object – as Mason fucks himself on my cock. As high as he can up. As hard as he can down.
Grinding his ass on my cock, he moves from side to side to make sure his hole is stretched as wide as it can and then he plunges down onto my cock.
“Pop it, whore! Roll on it! Ride!”
Mason just moans and groans unintelligibly but never speaks. That’s the way he likes it. I talk dirty. I do nothing but sit and let him ride. My cock is like steel.
As he spikes up and down, his ass makes the hottest wettest sounds.
“OK, baby, ride that fucking tool!”
The action of Mason’s ass gets even more crazy. The intense look on his face, his glassy eyes, the unintelligible groaning and moaning are growing louder. That’s the signal that he’s about to blow. Now he never touches himself, but he likes for me to blow first, fill his hole and then he goes. He gets a little pissed if it doesn’t work that way.
Mason starts to use his ass muscles. Squeezing and working my cock. His balls start crashing into mine.
“Open up that snatch for me, Princess! I’m blowing!”
Only with Mason do I see flashes and stars. I blow inside him and load after load spurts inside his ass. He goes down as deeply as he can on my cock, feeling every sensation.
A scream erupts from Mason. I put my hand over his mouth. He can be sooooo loud. His cock – not small – erupts like a volcano and he shoots spurt after spurt of white cream. He’s in pure ecstasy.
My cock is rammed so far up his ass, it might come out his throat and he grinds harder. His spurts finally subside, and he sits on my lap, breathing hard.
After a second or two, he hops up and the sound his ass makes when my dick comes out is the hottest. He hurries and tries not to get his mess on my pants, but he does, as it drips on the floor. My lap is still a mess.
Without a word, fully naked, Mason goes to a drawer and pulls out a freshly laundered pair of my jeans and special underwear he only buys for me. He always washes and dries them keeping them for the next time because it wouldn’t be the way he wants it – dirty and pervy and crazy – unless I can change my jeans for the rest of the school day.
I stand. He kneels. It’s almost like a dance. He pulls my jeans and underwear down. I step out of them; he tosses my jeans aside and puts my underwear into a plastic bag and seals it.
What he does with that I have no idea and don’t want to know. I told you he was a pervy fucker.
With a wet cloth, also from another plastic bag, he cleans up my crotch.
He then shows me my special underwear he’s bought for me – this one is a thong – Yellow – it looks like it’s holding a big banana with a string up my ass crack – I don’t give a fuck. I’m just glad it isn’t a speedo today - he holds my new underwear, I step into them and he pulls them up, adjusting my cock.
He opens my new, clean jeans, I step into them, he pulls them up and buttons them. He then gives a soft kiss to the front of my jeans and gets up, and without a word, he leaves. I just grin. You know how I love making other people feel seen.
I’ve got a noon class. Economics. I don’t go because I know that Mr. Ramirez, our band director, wants to see me about the music for the halftime show.
1:00 pm – Orchestra/Band Room – Reed Hall – Mr. Ramirez
The orchestra/band rehearsal room was already stupid loud, even before I pushed the door open. Brass notes spilled into the hall, a trumpet then a trombone. My fucking ears were vibrating, music stands leaned every which way, sheet music clipped down so it wouldn’t blow off from the box fans in the corner.
“Billeeeeee!” Mr. Ramirez, emphasizing that slight Latino accent that he knows is very sexy, spotted me the second I stepped in.
Guy always acted like every day is a pep rally and always wears his shirt with one button too many open so you could see the thick black hair that covers his pumped pecs. His pants are always tight, his cock apparent.
“Oh, Billeee, its European. Men like to make sure everyone knows we have the size to give pleasure.” This showoff was a looker and he knew it.
I squeezed past a bunch of clarinet players and said “Hey, Music Man, Coach said you wanted to see me?” Ramirez loves my nickname, almost everyone has picked it up and it makes him feel closer to everyone.
“Not Coach—me.” He clapped his hands, buzzing with energy. “Listen, halftime isn’t just notes on a page, my Billeee. It’s the heartbeat under the game. So, because you always give me my favors, I want to know what you think. Billeeee’s halftime.”
I smirked. “You’re asking the quarterback for music advice?”
“Exactly.” He grinned like that was the smartest idea in the world. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulls me, close whispering in my ear. “What makes that part of you that is so special get tall and thick?”
I thought for a sec. “We’ve got a playlist. Some old-school rock that linemen swear by. Couple country songs too. Don’t ask me why, but the guys go crazy for anything they can yell along to.”
“Perfect. Text it to me.” Ramirez said. “This is just for you, Billeeee. Your special show. A thank you for understanding me and letting me play with you and coach.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s cool, Music Man. You do you!” We fist-bump and I go toward the door.
“Play well, Billeeee. I’ll be watching your every move!” sounded in my ear as I headed into the hallway.
One more class and then time for practice. And the day before a big game was intense. Coach made sure of it.
3:00 p.m. – Faber Hall – Dr. Kensington
My 3:00 class is Beginning Statistics and Dr. Kensington is a blowhard bore and he always makes you stand at the board to solve equations.
Everyone knows he’s a douche. And ugly as fuck. His clothes are too tight because he’s a loser and doesn’t know how to dress. Tiny, sad little peepee, I’m sure. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to bang that. It would be the kind of fuck where the fuckee says, “Is it in?!”
Only 60 minutes but the hands on the clock in the back of the class don’t seem to move at all.
4:30 p.m. – McKensey Stadium
Our last practice before tomorrow’s big game. I see Coach on the field, standing alone, at the 50-yard line. He’s never needed to bark to get a room’s attention. The man fills a space just walking into it. Instant respect. He has the kind of build that comes from years in the weight room – the dude knows he’s hot - broad shoulders, thick chest, insane arms, legs planted like tree trunks. And between those trunks, in his athletic shorts, is a piece of meat that anyone would envy. Not long, but thick as shit. Like a Red Bull can. I have seen and touched it. It is a thing of beauty.
I tightened my laces, pulling my jersey over my shoulder pads, and jogged to the huddle. Practice before a big game always began the same way: stretching lines, warm-up runs, the whistle’s sharp blast cutting the air. Coach was an animal.
Scrimmage time came, the practice field suddenly came alive with noise—helmets clashing, players yelling, cleats cutting the turf. I called the play and let the ball fly. Clean spiral. Perfect arc. The receiver caught it in stride, slicing toward the end zone.
The team whooped, slapping helmets and pads.
Coach said, “Quite a throw, my man. Beautiful as always. On and off the field.”
The fucker winked at me. I grinned despite the sweat dripping into my eyes. Practice flew by. For a moment, I could hear Music Man’s band kicking in, practicing my special tribute.
Coach blew the whistle, calling everybody in. “That’s the energy I want tomorrow!” he shouted. “Stay sharp. Stay hungry.”
As the sun dipped lower, with practice over, I pulled off my helmet, letting the cool air dry my damp hair. Coach yelled my name.
“Harper, you seemed tightly wound during practice, let’s get you on the table after you shower.”
“Yes, sir, Coach!” I breathed.
I was used to it. A massage by Coach was a regular occurrence after practice, and the Music Man usually joined us.
6:30 pm - Locker Room – Coach Donnelly and Mr. Ramirez
The locker room always hits me like a punch after a practice before a big game. Thick air, sweat, and crotch. Nuts always have a unique smell unlike anything else. Cocks smell but not like balls. And who should I see over to my left side, but the Music Man, chair leaning against the wall, whistling a tune but not missing any of the sights he’d come for.
My jersey clung like plastic wrap as I yanked it over my head, pads dropping with a heavy thud on the bench. As I pulled off my jersey and my bare chest appeared, I couldn’t help noticing the Music Man staring with his usual thirst. The dude is a watcher. He rarely touches. His eyes don’t leave me until I’m completely naked and I hold and shake my cock at him, putting on a show. It makes him smile.
“My Beautifuuuuuul. Billeeeeeee!” he says.
Darnell, of course, was the first one to crack a joke. He’s also a devil with a popped towel on an ass.
“Harper, man, you run like a gazelle,” he said, “but you smell like roadkill.”
He always comes over and puts his crotch to my ass, acting like he’s fucking me. I feel that big tool right between the crack of my cheeks. It’s not hard, but it’s not soft either. All the guys laugh, because that’s Darnell—he’d be joking if the stadium was burning down.
Coach leans against the opposite wall from the Music Man. Their eyes meet. Coach always watches with a kind of spooky intensity.
Across the aisle, Grant groans like an old man, peeling off his socks, slow and dramatic, tossing them, always the last piece of his clothing. His usual routine. Always complaining. He just sits there.
Huge hunk of meat. 6’3” and made of muscle and steel. His big soft cock has some size while it hangs off the bench in front of him, but it doesn’t compare to those humongous balls, hanging right below them.
My big friend has a secret, though: my stepbrother, Jason [who clearly worships Grant] has a gifted mouth. I got Coach to make him the team’s equipment manager and Grant begs my little bro to suck his balls while he jacks off. Jason always pleads with him to let him suck his cock, but Grant won’t go there claiming ‘he’s no fag’.”
The Music Man misses nothing. Every muscle. Every move. Every cock. Every sack. Loves them all. He’s in heaven. Most of the guys know, but no one cares. They kinda love it, putting on a show for him.
Grant even sometimes pretends to drop something in front of him and leans way over with his ass only inches from the band director’s chair. The look on his face is priceless.
Darnell, bouncing on his toes, always has his shirt off before his pads even hit the ground. He can’t get naked fast enough. He loves standing naked and having everyone admire him.
“We own them boys! Will OWN ’em tomorrow night!” He slapped the lockers for punctuation, hyped up still from practice.
His cock is beautiful – long and thin. He jokes that it always comes out the lady’s mouth when he fucks them.
But there’s a secret there too. Darnell, my man, loves getting fucked. The bigger, the better. He begs for it. He has no shame, but the cock hound needs it. Hey, you be you! No judgement.
Then the showers roar to life, and within seconds, everyone surges inside. Water hammers the walls, and steam takes over the small enclosure.
The Music Man moves his chair closer to the opening of the shower and Coach, having stripped, stands there naked at the entrance beside him, casually resting his hand on the band director’s shoulder.
He sees broad shoulders, bent necks, raised arms, curved backs, legs stretching under the spray, cocks bouncing in the air, balls swinging underneath them. Sweet, tight asses showing holes as players lean over to wash legs and feet. Nirvana for MM.
I saunter in, following the crowd. The heat swallows me. We crowd under the nozzles. I tilt my head back, let the water hit full force, muscles unspooling under the heat.
Soap bottles are passed back and forth. Legs are raised to clean holes. Everyone helping each other. Balls are lifted to clean crotches and backs are rubbed by players around you. Soaping and washing.
There is motion everywhere: hands sliding soap to underarms, fingers kneading sore shoulders, backs arching into the spray.
We brush past each other, shoulder to shoulder. In the rear, barely perceptible through the steam, my little bro is sucking on Grant’s balls. I don’t stand in his way. My boyfriend needs to be able to share his gifts.
Coach walks slowly into the middle of us.
Every player begins soaping him up and washing every part of his body. He just stands there. Players kneel. Special attention is paid to his cock and balls and ass.
He lifts a leg when he has to. Leans over when needed. Every player joins in to make sure Coach is clean. All we see are hands working every inch of Coach’s body. Darnell is massaging his ass. I can’t see who’s cleaning his cock and balls through the steam.
When they’re done and Coach is completely rinsed off, he always exits to stand in front of the Music Man, who begins to dry him off. Every inch. Every crevice. Coach smiles slyly.
The Music Man kneels when he as to, doing his job, until Coach is dry. The last thing the band director does is spread powder over Coach’s cock and balls. That’s his favorite part. Coach winks at him and the Music Man beams.
I leave the crowd to make sure I’m ready for my massage when Coach arrives. We all know he doesn’t like waiting. I lay face down with my head in the cradle, anticipating the feel of Coach’s hands.
The door behind me opens and I know it’s the Music Man. He gently slides his finger across my ass cheek, and I shudder.
“Oh, Billeee, like a marble statue,” he whispers, dragging his chair between the hot whirlpool and ice bathtubs, getting ready for the show. Twisted fucker but sweet. That’s our Music Man.
I think I hear Coach and I spring up, blowing the Music Man a playful kiss before sliding onto the edge of the table, legs spread in invitation. My pulse quickens. Coach finally steps inside. I don’t move—I want him to see me like this, waiting, ready.
“Are you ready, Billy?” Coach teases, his voice low and knowing. “Coach is here to ease your tension… and keep you focused on what’s coming tomorrow.”
We hear the Music Man move his chair closer to the table to improve his view. There was a faint but audible hitch in his breathing, as he watched Coach begin, groaning, looking at his ass.
No matter who was there, the Music Man always holds a special place for Coach. We’re all pretty sure it’s a “Daddy thing.”
My cock is big like the rest of me. Coach tries not to stare. I’ve also got hairy nuts like baseballs. He asks me to turn over so he can examine my leg. I roll over and get up on all fours.
Over my shoulder, I say, “Like this coach?”
“Yeah, like that,” say Coach, slapping me hard on both cheeks. My big hairy ass and my giant sack are now staring coach in the face, as I ramble on about tomorrow’s game.
Music Man always says he loves this particular view.
Coach spent about ten minutes massaging my hamstring, kneading my big leg, every so often letting the back of his hand hit my ball sack as he worked the inside of my leg.
My balls would kind of stick to his hand because they were so sweaty. Finally, he just left his hand in there, with my balls dragging against the back of his hand and forearm as he worked.
Coach has large and merciless hands, and it is painful because he works the muscles so hard. I didn’t mean to, but I kept inching away from him on the table. Twice he asked me to move back and I did.
The third time, Coach said, “Come back, Billy, you’re sliding down the table again.”
But this time he cups those huge balls in his hand and gently pulls me back by my nut sack. I love it. Music Man loves it more. You can even hear an audible groan coming from his chair.
For the next few minutes, he just keeps massaging my leg and pulling on my balls, but I’m beginning to squirm around a little. It was like I was in heat.
Coach says, “Quite a set of gonads you got there, Billy. Damn those fuckers are huge.”
I spread my knees a little bit wider and say, “Yeah, my dad calls them horse balls. His are even bigger.”
He was now milking my nuts with both hands, churning them, pulling hard on them, and scratching them.
“Yep, bet those fuckers need to be milked a lot. You must shoot a lot of juice with these big things.”
I groan quietly, spread my legs wider, hiking up my butt to give him even more access to my scrotum.
“Yeah, I need to be fucking milked, Coach. I really need it.”
Pulling hard on my sack, feeling one and then the other roughly. He lifts each one, squeezing them, pressing them against each other almost to the point of pain. He leans down to give a little lick on each one, inhaling my scent. He knows how I love when someone plays with my nuts.
Coach rubbed a little oil between his palms, warming it before he pulled my hard cock between my legs and begins to jack it slowly, taking his hand up and down my shaft, teasing me. He used his oily hands to pull and play with my balls. He knew he was driving me crazy.
“All in good time, Billy boy. All in good time,” he said, pulling his hands away.
“You’re killing me here, Coach,” I said. “I need to nut. I’m leaking.”
Coach put his finger to the tip of my cock, grabbed a wad of precum and brought it to his mouth, tasting. He dipped again and walked over to the Music Man, offering it to him. He licked the Coach’s finger clean with gratitude, sucking hard, making sure he gets every drop.
“Flat on the table, Harper,” Coach said. “On your stomach, head in the cradle.” He put more oil on his hands, warmed it up, set to work on my broad shoulders across my back. He starts with long, sweeping strokes from the base of my neck down to mid-spine, slow and steady, heat building under his palms. He brought my hand down to his cock and I hold it as it begins to harden.
I may be big, but Coach knows the star of the show is always the incredible gift he has between his legs. It’s a beauty. 8 inches. Fat. Tasty. Gorgeous head. Little curve to the right near the top.
My cock was so hard, it ached. But it was a special table, and like the cradle, this one had a special hole for your cock that you couldn’t see but felt it open when you laid down. Gives you room for your cock to grow, floating in the air where no one can see. His thumbs trace the inside of my shoulder blades, pressing deep until they find the tight cords knotted up there. He circled them slowly, coaxing them to give.
“You were a nasty boy in practice, Billy,” Coach says, voice low and practiced. “Staring at my cock in my shorts and imagining my big balls when you should have been focused on the game.” Coach gave a hard slap on my naked ass. “Bad boy, Billy! Bad boy!”
I start jacking his cock. Spreading some of the precum to lubricate it, I grip his shaft tightly. Moving it from side to side. Playing with its length. A grunt escaped me.
“I couldn’t help it, Coach. You always tease me with those shorts.”
I try to shift against the cradle, wanting to get closer to his cock, but the breath leaves me in a hiss when his thumb digs behind my scapula, right into the knot that has been burning all night.
“That’s right, nasty boy,” he says, moving those last inches so I can lick the head of his cock. I tried to grab the head with my mouth, but he backed away. “One lick is all you get, bad boy Billy.” he said.
He moved to my other arm, repeating the same slow motion, and I let out a reluctant sigh as the tension bleeds away.
“That’s it, Billy Boy. What do you want for your reward?”
“Please touch my hole, Coach,” I whimper.
He slapped my ass hard, once, twice, three times.
“Do you need Coach to play with your pussy, Billy?”
“Please, Coach. I need it bad.” I beg.
Coach focuses on my ass, squeezing and pinching and working my cheeks. He then spreads them and pops his three fingers against my pucker. Pop. Pop. Pop. Fuck that feels good.
He climbs on the table and straddles me. I try to reach behind me and grab his cock.
“No touching,” he snarls, circling steady with his knuckles, pulling me up on all fours. “Keep your hands to yourself until Coach gives you permission.”
I move my hands back down to the table and settle them.
“Spread your thighs for me, you little whore,” instructs Coach.
I comply and he starts to use his fingertips to gently draw lines up the inside of my thigh to right under my ball sac and then back down to my knee.
“You like that, Billy?”
Before I could answer, he lays his body on top of me, making sure his cock is right between the cheeks of my ass, moving his cock slowly up and down, teasing me.
“Fuck, Coach. Hell, yeah,” I whine.
He pours massage oil all over my ass, my cock and my nuts, letting one finger go into my hole, playing with my cock and balls with the other hand.
“Oh, that pussy feels so juicy, Billy. Going to let Coach ruin you?”
I just moaned, “Fuck yeah!”
This is the point in our routine where the Music Man gets up from his chair and stands by the massage table so he can have the best view.
Coach pulls my cheeks apart, spreading oil all around my hole and fluttering his finger right on the pucker, then dips a finger a little bit inside, one knuckle, moving it from side to side, stretching my hole.
“Yeah, right there,” I say. “Ram that hole. Kill me with it.”
He adds a second one, stretching the opening even more.
“Come on, Coach, quit teasing me! Go fucking deep!”
Coach plunges his cock into my ass in one big push, pressing me into the table, with his full weight, not stopping until pubes hit my ass.
And then he begins to take my ass.
“Milk Coach’s cock with your ass, Billy. Open up that cunt for me.”
The Music Man is up by the table, he gets on his knees, crawling under the table, pumping my cock, while coach pummels my ass. My balls hang down and he plays with them, popping them with his hand until it hurts so good. He knows I love it.
Coach pumps away. I begin to move my ass upward, meeting his downward thrusts, enabling him to go deeper and squeezing my ass muscles just like he loves.
I know what Coach needs. I go up on all fours, without losing his cock. I squirm, clutching the table and grabbing his prodding dick with my sphincter as tight as I can.
“I’m gonna breed you boy. Make me cum.”
The Music Man comes out from the under the table grabbing both our sacks, playing with the balls, rolling them between his fingers and pulling on them. He was working both sets of nuts together. He reached between my legs and started pumping my rock-hard cock.
Coach starts bucking like a man gone wild, holding onto my shoulders, grabbing two handfuls of my hair and riding me like a bronco. The harder he fucks, the more his cock grows! He is stretching me to the limit. The Music Man, covering his hand with oil, was jacking my dick like a madman.
“Take my fuckhole, Coach! Oh, yeah! Right there!”
Coach begins to crank his fuck engine to full steam, his driving strokes smooth and strong.
I push back against him and then something goes off like a flash inside me.
“Coach, Fuck! Yes. Yes. Yes. I’m cumming!”
I begin spurting out gobs of seed. I’m not even sure Coach knows that I’m cumming, but he suddenly freezes, convulses and starts growling.
“Awww shit! Goddammit! Take it!”
Every muscle in his body tightens and I can feel his cock throbbing thick blobs of cum in my guts, collapsing on my back, breathing hard.
I am in fucking heaven.
Finally, Coach gets up and slowly moves to the floor. He’s like a sweaty, beautiful god, just standing there, legs spread. Cock half hard. Huge balls hanging below.
The Music Man goes down on his knees and starts licking Coach, sucking on his nipples, cleaning his pubes and cock. His balls. Then he fucking attacks his ass. Eats it up! I told you he was a nasty fucker.
Coach leans over and kisses the Music Man on the top of his head, while patting his face, and then moves to the shower.
I roll onto my back and sink into the massage table, my whole body floating—loose, light, and humming with new energy. Coach has worked me past the edge of exhaustion, every knot unraveled, every ounce of tension gone.
Now I’m locked in – fully dialed in for tomorrow night’s game. Nothing matters but that. We’re going to finish on top. I feel it.
Can’t forget it’s Little Sister Night back at the house. Change. Make an appearance. In and out. No distractions. Stay sharp. Don’t slip.
I don’t know who I think I’m fooling. The only real distraction is Josh.
In the back of my head, he’s always there.
And the more I try not to think about him… the worse it gets.
The door opens.
He walks in.
I see him searching the room.
Our eyes meet.
Game over.
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