"Bring that sweet candied ass into my office...now!" Coach Leavenworth snarled, standing in the door of his basement office, across from the showers and locker room that I was coming out of.

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

He knew I knew. He thought he was getting under my skin, knowing how badly I hated Sweet Candied Ass, so I looked at him dead on. I tried to contain the anger that was boiling inside of me, along with the clouding fear that 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! Roll them fucking eyes all you fucking want! Because the next place they will be rolling is out your head and on the floor!"

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

"What kind of shit was that, Wes?"

I could have easily throwing it up in his face that we, as a team, was victorious because of my move. I could have reiterated that the pitcher was weak. And that we were scoring homeruns off of him like he was a bitch in heat with everybody taking a turn at it. So there was absolutely no point to hit as sorry as he pitched, being a bunt or any other sort of weak swing.

"Leadership," I paused. "Leadership you taught me, coach. A decision I stand by." I said, remembering his infinite speeches that if anybody went off script that it better be a good and 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 some kind of fault with it.

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

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

Small town boy starts out as a big fish in his small town pond, soon discovers that 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 regiment 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 buddies. His coach begins noticing his eagerness, and puts him in when another player is out. He is good, but not great. He has potential, but lacks practice and advance skill. The coach takes him under his wings and gives him the tools. The player lives for this. The coach becomes the mentor he needs, learning the ins and outs of his players, 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 hasn't quite learned, naïve rather, that in order to come up that it costs to play to be the boss.

A couple of congrats here and there. A pat on the shoulders, from time to time, moves from the broad back down to the lower back mixed that in with a couple of in-your-face pleasantries. Warm breaths kissing his sweet young face, gives him something to think about for a few nights alone in his dorm tossing and turning with an incredible hard-on in his hand. The coach makes his move pressing close against his pupil, holds him in a way that a coach shouldn't hold a player with his long thick erection jabbing right there at his inner thigh.

'I'm not gay,' his naïve player says or try telling himself.

The coach says something to the effect like 'nobody had to know' or 'I'm not either' or 'if you're secure with your sexuality you can't be gay.'

He reaches out and touches the nervous scared eighteen year old dick before him, trapped in a denim-clad prison.

The coach goes for broke. Touching and feeling, groping and caressing that doesn't feel like anything that has ever been felt before—not even when he jerks off. The feelings are so strong, so raw, that it is all an ecstatic blur overcome with automatic orgasms.

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

He wants his reciprocations.

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

His player is nervously but enthusiastically obliges, taking instruction well, licking it as if it was a cool flavored Popsicle. Round and Round. Back and forth, like he got an unscratched-able itch at the roof of his mouth.

His player goes at it.

The coach cum.

No warning.

He wants the thrill of watching his player try and spit it out. He knows a drizzle will seep down the back of his throat. What excites him most however is that regardless of how much he tries to get it off his tongue, there is always the hidden knowledge that he came in his mouth.

His is the first to have him there.

He will be remembered.

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 that they go all the way. It is only fair. He knows the tricks, suck and then finger fuck. Eat him out to unleash his inner bitch and finger fuck him again. A condom and some lube happen to be nearby, ass up face down in the soft suffocating pillows. Pow! Stuck him right in his sweet tender ass! It feels a mighty python is snaking up the unforgiving tubing of guts as the coach tell 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 player like this, for a really long time, being that he wants to be the one remembered as the one that unequivocally shatters his 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 lose himself after a few hefty strokes in this new position. He moves faster, almost in demon force. Sweat pours from him, thrusting hard and more deliberate, letting his player know that he belongs to him, body and soul and butthole. Their breath and screams are manic. His player groans. He grunts, pulls out, pulls off and uses the hard stomach below him as a cobblestone cumdump.

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

I was so turned out by the experience, needing him inside of me, that I allowed him to fuck me almost everyday for the past four years since we met. And now that I was on the verge of graduating, he was certain that our rendezvous was coming to an end and he was angered by it.

I sat there, listening to Coach Leavenworth, my first, rant about my defiance. He was hoping to coax out some sort of rouse out of me. After four years, I knew the routine. It had been awhile since the last time we fought and fucked. It was my sad attempt 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 ass anytime he thought about it.

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

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 was there Tuck, a sophomore, sitting in the stands.

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

I'm not saying that 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 word that came easily to mind. Yet, he was attractive in a masculine way with his square head, long face, big lips, and hard-lined jaws that sandpaper could've smoothed out. Once you got to know him though, and his unwavering loyalty that 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 Daddy.

But after taking one good look at his tight athletic body and his shelf-life phat round basketball-dribbling booty, I was hooked and still smiling.

"What did he say?" Tuck asked after he ran up on me.

I looked at him.

I had been telling him for weeks that the reason the coach was so preoccupied with me 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 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 dorm, and said, "He told me if that boy is sucking your dick like that, that you're hitting homeruns like its water flowing freely, you need to find a way to always keep your dick in his mouth."

Defiant? Deceptive? Absolutely not!

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


Mike Shannon


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