Jocks & Cocks

“Bring that sweet, candied ass into my office…now!” Coach Leavenworth snarled, standing in the door of his basement office athwart from the showers and locker room I was exiting.

I knew it was coming. I felt it. I went off his script, off his plan. And although we won the game based on my defiance, in his eyes it was still defiance.

He knew I knew what was coming. He thought he was getting an early start getting under my skin, knowing how badly I hated being called Sweet Candied Ass, so I looked at him dead on. What was he going to do? Sit me out next game? I tried to contain the anger boiling inside of me along with the clouding fear one of my teammates might have heard him. I tried, but I couldn’t stop myself from cutting my eyes and mean-mugging the short bastard with the Napoleon complex.

“I don’t give a shit about you rolling your fucking eyes at me! Because the next place they will be rolling is out your head and on the floor!”

I limped into his office, fully comprehending if he had to repeat himself it wasn’t going to be good for me.

“What kind of shit was that, Wes?”

 

Shit that won the game! I could’ve easily thrown in his face that we, as a team, were victorious because of my move. I could have reiterated the picture was weak and that we were scoring homeruns off him as if was a bitch in heat and everybody up to bat was taking a turn. There was absolutely no point to hit as sorry as he pitched, being a bunt or anything sort of weak swing.

“Leadership,” I paused after some heavy consideration. “Leadership you’ve taught me in this program, coach. It’s a decision I standby.” I said, remembering his infinite speeches that if anybody went off script it better be a good winnable move.

I knew though, no matter what I said to him, what I did, his way or my way, he was going to find fault with it.

Like the saying goes, we were at the end of our road.

I bet our story plays out on college campuses everywhere, every year:

Small town boy stars as a big fish in his small-town pond, soon discovers as a freshman at a big university he is nothing more than a guppy swimming in an ocean. As a freshman, he is the rookie of the bunch. He receives little if no love on campus. Because his regimen is so strict to keep his scholarship, he is restricted to study and playing ball. He has no room to fraternize. His books and his playbooks become his frat brothers. His coach notices his eagerness and puts him in where another player is out. He is good, but not great. He has great potential however but lacks practice and discipline for advance skill. The coach takes him under his wing and gives him the tools. The player lives for this. The coach becomes the mentor he needs, learning the ins and outs of his player, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their intricacies. He comes across the golden nugget that his player is lonely, very lonely, and homesick. He is lonely because he is at the bottom of the totem pole, and he hasn’t quite yet learned that for him to come up that there’s a cost to pay to be the boss.

A couple of attaboys here and a few congrats there along with a pat on the shoulder that moves from the broad of your back to the small of it mixed with a couple of in-your-face pleasantries and soon enough there is new narrative to your story. Warm breath kissing his sweet young player face, gives him something to think about for a few nights alone in his dorm room tossing and turning with an incredible hard-on in his hand. The coach makes his moves pressing close against his pupil, holds him in a way a man in authority shouldn’t hold his underling with his long thick erection jabbing right their at his inner thigh.

‘I’m not gay,’ his naïve player says or tries telling himself.

The coach says something to the effect like ‘nobody has to know’ or ‘I’m not either’ or ‘if you’re secure with your manhood you can’t be gay.’

He reaches out and touches the nervous scared eighteen-year-old dick before him, trapped in its prison of polypropylene doubleknit.

The coach goes for broke. Touching and feeling, groping and caressing that doesn’t feel like anything the boy has ever felt before—not even when he jerks off. The emotions are so strong, so raw, that it is all an orgasmic blur.

He knows his subordinate is got, ready to be had.

He wants his reciprocation.

He somehow talks his player to drop to his knees to face the enormous flesh monster that belongs to neither human nor beast, attacking his groin. He tells his player that for now he needs not to worry about anything but the tip, the head, or the technical term, the glans.

His player nervously but enthusiastically obliges, taking instruction well, licking as if it was a cool flavored Popsicle. Round and round, back and forth; almost as if he’s got an itch that can’t be scratched at the roof of his mouth.

His player goes at it.

The coach comes.

No warning.

Coach wants the thrill of watching his player try and spit it all out. He knows a drizzle with seep down his throat. Peters out long before it enters his stomach. What excites him most is regardless of how much his player tries to scrape the taste of him off his tongue, here is always the hidden knowledge that he came there.

His is the first to have the boy like that.

He will be remembered a long time from now, at night, at a bar over beer when he coaxes a married trucker out for a spin outback with his acquired skills over the years.

His player is highly confused. What the hell just happened?

In that day or that night or a week or two or a month later, the coach convinces his curious player it is only fair they go all the way. It is only fair. He knows the trucks, suck and then finger fuck. Eat him out to let his inner banshee out and finger fucks him again. A rubber and a lube pack just happen to be nearby. Ass up face down in the soft suffocating pillows and pow! stuck him right in his sweet tender ass! It feels like a mighty python is snaking up the unforgiving tubing of guts as the coach tells him that once he gets it all in that ‘it’ll feel real good.’ But all that is there, at first, is a head-busting headache and the inescapable feeling of being clipped in two.

He hurts, yet he starts to feel good. Pleasure and pain and pleasure again. He stays in the player like this, for a really long time, being he wants to be the one remembered as the one that unequivocally shatters his sweet boy-cherry.

He grabs his player by the waist, spends him on his meat and onto his back. He wants his player to watch him; because of age and inexperience, he wants to watch him do the number three after he loses himself after a few thorough strokes in this new position. He moves faster, demon force-thrust. Sweat pours from him, plowing hard and more deliberate, letting his once innocent player know that he belongs to him, body and soul and butthole.  Their breaths and screams are manic. His player groans. He grunts, pulls out, pulls off and uses the hard stomach below him as a cobblestone cum rag.

The virgin, the virgin-tight hole works loose and is sloppy and open and sounds like queefing when it is not deliberate. He looks at his player, fascinated by the country-boy naivety once again. He loves he could talk him on to his big dick, without even knowing it was incredibly huge by standards.

I was so turned out by the experience, needing him inside me, I allowed Coach Leavenworth to till my furrowed pride almost every day for the past four years. And now that I was on the verge of graduating, he was certain that our frequent assignations were coming to an end, and he was angered by it.

I sat there, listening to him, my first, rant about my defiance of him. He was hoping to get some sort of rouse out of me. After four years, I knew the routine. It’d been a while since we last fought and fucked hard. I was trying to wean myself off the potent drug that was him. Even when he flipped the script and became the sweet-talking man that knew he could get this young country bumpkin ass anytime he thought about it.

But things changed. I was no longer that freshman. I was a cock of the walk senior that quickly discovered the semester before last that while I loved getting my ass stuffed with his big boner, I loved poking in between some tight oven-warm buns of my own.

Coach Leavenworth gave up after an hour and allowed me to go about my day.

Not a moment after I came up the stairs to cut through the gymnasium to get back to my dorm there was Tuck, a sophomore, sitting in the stands.

Tuck was a teammate of mine that was also very lovesick with me. He was like a moth to a flame, believing every word that came out of my mouth was like the golden gifts from the gods. He looked at me as I probably did at coach in the beginning—except I was the full package from head to skills to toe.

I’m not saying Tuck was an ugly mofo. He was one of those kinds of dudes that just by looking at him at first sight that ‘good-looking’ wasn’t a phrase that came naturally to mind. Yet, he was still attractive in a masculine way with his square head, long face, full lips, and hard jaws line that sandpaper couldn’t have smoothed out. Once you got to know him though, and his unwavering loyalty, it was hard for me not to fall. This made me feel both happy and sick the first time I got him on his back to call me Big Bat.

But after taking one good look at his tight athletic body and his shelf-like phat booty, I was hooked and still grinning.

“What did he say?” Tuck inquired.

I looked at him. I had been telling him for weeks the reason the coach was so preoccupied with me was because he was trying to transition me into the pros.

Tuck hadn’t a clue that Coach Leavenworth and I were continuing fuck buddies. And I didn’t want him to think otherwise, as he was deeply in love with me with his wild hopes of me giving up my dreams of going pro to settle down and build a life with him after he graduated.

 

Yeah, right!

I wrapped my powerful arm over his neck, leading him back to my door and said, “He told me if that boy is sucking your dick like that and you’re hitting homeruns like its water flowing freely, you need to find a way to keep your dick in his mouth.”

Defiant? Deceptive? Absolutely not!

It is how everyone learns their lessons at the university level.