Stroke Story

Some things are just not that complicated. Sometimes a guy needs something that takes the edge off and that's what he's for. Let's call him "Jason."

I pull up to the place he shares with a roommate. It's a palace for what they pay, but it's in a shitty neighborhood. Good thing I'm not here to fuck the neighborhood. 

I text him when I'm outside and see a light turn on in the apartment. He greets me at the door in a beat up ball-cap and a faded band tee practically spray-painted onto his meaty jockboy frame.

And a jockstrap. Grr.

"Roommate still out?" I ask. 

"Yeah, Coach." Coach? This is new.

"How long we got, sport?" I pitch my voice lower, slip into the role. 

"Forty five minutes?" He raises an eyebrow. "An hour?" 

He's got the shaggy blond locks and  slightly vacant look that scream southern California transplant. He's also got arms that could strangle a rhino and a lean waist, but that ass… 

I step inside the threshold and reach around him to put my hands on that ample, delightful ass. "Then we'd better get started, kid." 

A lot of guys run hot and cold, but Jason has one temperature: all the way up. In his bedroom I get my hands on him and become convinced that he wore this tight shirt so I'd have to peel it off of him. I'm more than up to the task. I press my body to his, kissing him while I pinch and pull the shirt up and up. I've got a full on rock-breaker underneath my jeans, which I'm sure he can feel the way we're smashed together, but he's playing it cool for now. We'll see how long that lasts. 

Once I've gotten his shirt up over his head, I marvel at his body. It's maybe even a little bigger than last time, more defined. I feel a little envious of his flawless skin and incredible body, but I was that young once and I didn't waste any time either. In fact, if he's anything like I was, then I may not be the last guy he texts tonight. The thought of that gets me a little harder. I hope when the next dude tongues his hole he can tell that I opened it up for him. 

But thinking of Jason's hole gives me a real bad need to feel it for myself so I reach around that bubble butt again and dig my paws in. He moans. He's got a deep, rumbling voice that calls to mind every frat brother who ever failed out of their program for chasing pussy and beer instead of studying. I love making him moan. Exposing the warm, soft medium-rare center between his thick cheeks. My finger dips in and he shivers against me. Actually shivers. Christ!

"You're something else, kid." 

"Thanks, Coach."

"You wanna' thank me? Get on the bed."

His hole clenches against my finger. Jesus. Like it wasn't already waterworks in my pants. I'm pretty sure the wetspot spread in my boxer briefs has made its way out onto my jeans.

"How do you want me?" he asks. 

"Hands and knees." 

"Fuck yeah, Coach."

His mattress is firm, which is good for what's going to happen later. It's no good when you're sinking into the damn thing. You've gotta have leverage for the thrusting and the bucking. Every young, hungry hole should invest in a nice firm mattress. Trust me: your tops, Daddies, and Coaches will thank you for it. 

Jason climbs up on the bed and shows off his ass. It's more beautiful than I remember somehow. It's dusted with a little of that blond hair, just enough to tantalize. My mouth waters, but I make him wait while I take off my jeans. He's facing away from me with his ass in the air, so I know he can hear my zipper, the jingling of my belt, the rustling as my jeans fall down to my ankles. I take my time walking up to the bed and lay a stinging slap on his ass. He grunts and takes it. What did I do in my past life to deserve this bounty, dear Lord?

I put my hands on his ass again and appreciate the way the muscles flex and tense under my fingertips. I spread him open and dive in. His hole is all musky sweetness and he loves the way I use my tongue. After all, there's no way to fake how his jock is practically soaked through when I reach under him and rub my palm against his pouch. He kind of humps my hand while I grunt and groan my appreciation for his sexy athlete's butt directly into his hole. 

"Oh yeah, Coach. Eat me out. Fuck me with your tongue."

And I do just that. There's a specific kind of pleasure derived from tonguing out a hot ass. Especially when the guy is totally into it: bucking and grunting and pushing back against your face as you try not to drown in his slick backside. 

Maybe I'm a little delirious, but I start saying some stuff. 

"God, I'm gonna seed your hole, kid. I've gotta shoot my babies in your guts. Your hole is too delicious…you're killin' me." 

"Yeah, coach. Do it. Fuck me raw. I want to feel you."

I pause. Just a short pause. I think of the condoms in my pocket of my jeans. We've never done it bare. Turns out the coach bit isn't the only new spin on things tonight.

I pull my face out of his spit-soaked crack and wipe some of the juices off my face. I pull him back toward me so that my fat cock is pressed between his cheeks. Feeling him around me makes my head a little hazy. I grind up against him, rubbing so that when my dick oozes precum it greases his crack. He moans every time he feels a new bit of slickness. 

"You sure you want it raw, kid? It's up to you. No pressure," I say.

Maybe it's coercive to let him feel my cock rubbing against his winking jockhole while asking him to decide whether he wants me to fuck him raw, but I think we both want it and I'm not above advertising. 

He turns around, looks in my direction. "I want it bad, Coach. Pop my cherry. Please, Coach. I wanna' really feel you in me." 

And who am I to say no to an earnest plea? So I line myself up and grab the bottle of lube that's been rolling around at the foot of the bed. This guy, always prepared.

Despite our dirty talk, Jason is no novice, but I apply the lube pretty liberally to my cock anyway. I want to make sure it feels as good for him as it does for me. Once I'm all wet, I start to finger him. He's so tight and hot that my mouth goes dry and my dick bounces. I can still taste his ass on my tongue and I'm about to plow into his hole. It's a little surreal, but in the best possible way. 

"I'm ready, Coach." 

"Alright, kid. Let's do this." 

I have to go slow. Surprisingly slow. I watch as my cock start to split him and his hole begrudgingly opens for me, widening enough for the head and then snapping back a bit as the shaft—nearly, but not quite as thick—starts to make its way inside. Jason is pawing at himself, fully boned in his jock, which I suppose is still white in spots but for the most part has taken on a sodden grayish color as he leaks into it. 

"Nothing like a virgin hole," I say. 

"Unh," he replies. He's been moaning steadily since I started to push into him. I can't tell whether he's in pain or not, so I start to slow down, only for him to pull me back in even faster. I get all of me into him and just linger, enjoying the satisfaction of him all around me and letting him take in the pleasure of a fully stuffed ass. "God, Coach. You're so big. How can I take all of it? Will it hurt?" 

I start to rock my hips a little, mostly staying buried, but giving him an inch or two of thrust. He returns with little grunts and shallow breaths. "You can handle it, big guy. You're doing so good. You're gonna make the team if you keep this up. Just show me some hustle, OK?" 

He likes this. I can feel him fluttering around me. I give me a little more speed and little less leniency. My cock slides in and out of him, careful not to completely slip out. He feels so good, so tight, and I love the way the strap of the jock frames his out-of-control ass. I'm keeping a rein on my speed though, I don't want to go too fast before I've gotten a chance to make him beg. 

It doesn't take long. 

"Am I doing good? Do you like being in my butt, Coach?"

"Yeah, sport. You're good as gold. I'm gonna' put you in the game for sure if you keep this up." 

"Oh, fuck, Coach. Please use me. Please make yourself feel good with my hole. Fuck me like you fuck your hand." 

I consider myself a gentleman: I hold doors, I walk on the street side of the sidewalk when I'm with a companion, I actually know the difference between fancy forks. But in the dark of this guy's bedroom, slicked up and half-buried in his thick, muscled ass while looking down at his backwards cap parked over his fuckboy haircut, I start to kind of Mr. Hyde out a little. 

"If you want it. Then. Take. It." 

I grab his shoulders, plant my knees, and fuck the ever-loving hell out of him. Jason starts moaning "aaaaahhhhhhh" in a steady, stream, while I bang his hole like it's the first piece of ass I've ever had. His body vibrates, the bed shakes, and sweat pours off of us in sheets. I start fuck-babbling calling him names that I'd never say aloud otherwise and he rewards me by begging for a deeper, harder fuck.

I'm half breathless, thinking: Harder? Than this?

But I dig deep and find it within myself to go harder. Jason's voice cracks when I turn up the dial. He puts his face into a pillow and makes a noise of anguish, but he doesn't stop, so I don't. He also never takes his hand off of the bulge in his jock, which doesn't flag even when I'm pummeling his hole into oblivion. 

This kid…

He doesn't announce when he's cumming, I just pick it up from his twitching and how his hole clamps down on me. I help him ride it out by switching to deep strokes that turn him into a staccato, grunting machine for the duration of his orgasm.

And me? I'm thinking I'll have to pull out, because I'm close, but not close enough and I know how Jason's hole clamps up once he's shot his load. But then I reach down and get my hand on his fucking drenched jockbulge and it's his huge load that gets me there. The load that I fucked out of him. I plunge deep, growl like a fucking animal, and give him his wish: an ass full of Coach-spunk delivered hot and fresh directly into his tight, firm ass. 

It's a long, powerful orgasm that leaves me worthless for a good minute or two after. When I finally have the wherewithal to pull out, a good amount of my cum oozes out along with me. I slap Jason's ass. 

"How'd I do, Coach?" he says, breathless. 

"Keep it up and you'll definitely make the team." 

He laughs. It's a cute laugh. 

I start to get dressed as he stays in bed, recovering. He checks his phone and its brightness lights up the room. 

"Hey, Coach?"

"Yeah?"

"Apparently, my roommate's not coming home." There's a pause. "Want to stick around? See if I can ace the next round of tryouts?"

Needless to say my jeans never make it up my thighs.

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