Tuesday practice was torture.
Not the physical kind—Dad had eased up on the drills since the team had actually won their game over the weekend. No, this was a different kind of torture. The kind that came from Derek Morrison refusing to even look in my direction, from Marcus Chen being called away for work before practice even ended, from my cock getting hard every time I caught a glimpse of hairy muscle or heard the deep rumble of masculine voices in the locker room.
It had been five days since Thursday night. Five days since Marcus had fucked me over that bench, since Derek had filled my mouth with his cock, since I'd been used and marked and threatened. Five days of replaying every moment in my head, of waking up hard with the phantom feeling of Marcus's thick shaft stretching me open, of tasting Derek's precum on my tongue even when I was eating breakfast.
I'd thought about it constantly. Obsessively. The weight of Marcus's hand in my hair. The burning stretch of Derek's cock pushing inside me for the first time. The hot flood of cum filling my insides, marking me, claiming me.
My ass was still sore. Not badly—just enough that I felt it when I sat down, a dull ache that reminded me of what had happened. What I'd let happen. What I'd wanted to happen, even if I couldn't admit it out loud.
Dad had noticed I was distracted. He'd asked me twice on Sunday if I was feeling okay, his eyes narrowing with that suspicious look he got when he thought I was hiding something. I'd told him I was fine, just tired from school. He'd accepted it, but I could tell he didn't quite believe me.
Now it was Tuesday evening, and I was in the locker room again, collecting towels while the team stripped down after practice. My hands were shaking slightly as I gathered the damp fabric, my eyes darting to the men around me even though I was trying not to stare.
Derek was in the far corner, his back to me, pulling off his jersey. I could see the muscles in his shoulders flexing, the light brown hair covering his broad back. He hadn't said a word to me since Thursday. Hadn't even acknowledged my existence. When I'd tried to hand him a towel earlier, he'd grabbed it without looking at me, his jaw tight, his face flushed.
He was ashamed. Terrified. I could see it in every line of his body.
Marcus had left twenty minutes ago, called away by dispatch for some emergency. He'd caught my eye as he was leaving, given me a look that made my stomach drop and my cock swell. A look that said next time. A look that promised more.
But next time wasn't now. Now was just me and the rest of the team, and my cock was so hard it was pressing painfully against my shorts.
I needed relief. Needed to touch myself, to remember, to imagine.
The towel closet was just off the main locker room, a small space maybe six feet by eight feet, lined with shelves stacked high with clean towels and dirty laundry bins. There was a small gap between two of the shelves where I could squeeze in, hidden from view if anyone opened the door.
I'd hidden there before. Not to jerk off—just to get away from Dad's constant scrutiny, to have a moment of privacy in a place where privacy didn't really exist.
Now I slipped inside, my heart pounding, and wedged myself into that gap between the shelves. I could see through the partially open door into the locker room, could watch the men as they stripped down and headed for the showers.
My hand went to my cock automatically, palming it through my shorts. I was so hard it hurt.
The first guy into the showers was Tom Brennan, forty-eight, a plumber with a beer gut and thick arms covered in faded tattoos. His cock was average, maybe six inches soft, nestled in a thick bush of graying pubic hair. His balls hung low and heavy, swaying as he walked. Not as impressive as Marcus or Derek, but still masculine, still powerful.
I squeezed my cock through my shorts, watching as Tom turned on the water and started soaping up his hairy chest.
Next was Ray Kowalski, fifty-one, who owned the local hardware store. He was shorter than Tom, maybe five-ten, but built solid, with a barrel chest covered in salt-and-pepper hair. His cock was thick, uncut, the foreskin covering most of the head even when soft. His balls were huge, covered in wiry gray hair, hanging almost to mid-thigh.
I unzipped my shorts quietly, pulling my cock out. It was rock hard, dripping precum, and I wrapped my hand around it, stroking slowly.
More men filed into the showers. Carlos Mendoza, thirty-nine, a landscaper with bronze skin and a body that was all lean muscle and hard edges. His cock was long and thin, cut, with a slight curve to the left. His pubic hair was trimmed short, and his balls were tight against his body.
I stroked faster, my eyes moving from one man to the next, cataloging every detail. The way water streamed down hairy chests. The way cocks swayed as they moved. The casual intimacy of men showering together, completely comfortable in their nakedness.
Derek was in there now, standing under one of the far showerheads, his back to the room. I could see the muscles in his ass flexing as he shifted his weight, could see the light brown hair covering his thighs and calves. He was washing quickly, efficiently, like he wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.
I thought about Thursday night. About the way his cock had felt in my mouth, thick and hot and pulsing. About the way he'd groaned when I'd sucked his balls, when I'd licked the underside of his shaft. About the way he'd fucked me, hesitant at first but then harder, faster, losing himself in the tight heat of my virgin ass.
My hand moved faster on my cock, my breathing getting heavier. I had to be quiet, had to stay hidden, but it was so hard when all I wanted to do was moan.
Derek turned around, and I got a full view of his cock. It was soft now, hanging heavy between his legs, but I could still see the thick vein running up the underside, could still remember the taste of his precum on my tongue.
He caught someone's eye—Ray, I think—and nodded, then quickly looked away. His face was red, and I wondered if he was thinking about Thursday too. If he was remembering what it felt like to have my mouth on his cock, my ass wrapped around his shaft.
More men cycled through the showers. Big Mike Patterson, forty-five, a truck driver with a body like a bear—six-foot-four, three hundred pounds of muscle and fat, covered head to toe in thick black hair. His cock was massive even soft, had to be seven inches, thick as a beer can, with balls the size of eggs.
I stroked harder, my cock leaking precum all over my hand. I was getting close, could feel the pressure building in my balls.
The locker room was starting to empty out. Most of the guys had showered and dressed, were heading out to their cars, back to their wives and kids and normal lives. Derek was one of the first to leave, practically running out the door without saying goodbye to anyone.
Soon it was just a few stragglers left. Tom was still in the showers, taking his time. Ray was getting dressed, pulling on his jeans over his thick hairy legs.
I was about to come. My hand was moving frantically now, my hips jerking forward, my cock throbbing. Just a few more strokes and I'd—
The locker room door opened.
I froze, my hand still wrapped around my cock, my whole body going rigid.
Heavy footsteps. The sound of a gym bag being dropped on a bench.
I knew those footsteps. Knew the weight of them, the rhythm.
Dad.
My heart stopped. What the fuck was he doing here? He usually showered at home, in the master on suite. He never used the team showers, joking he'd seen enough naked men when in the military.
I pressed myself further back into the gap between the shelves, barely breathing, my cock still hard in my hand.
Through the crack in the door, I could see him. Coach Harrison. My dad.
He was forty-six, six-foot-two, two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle. He'd played rugby in college, had kept himself in shape even after his playing days were over. His hair was dark brown with streaks of gray at the temples, cut short and military-neat. His face was all hard angles—square stubbled jaw, strong nose, deep-set eyes that missed nothing.
He was still in his coaching clothes—athletic shorts and a polo shirt with the team logo on it. As I watched, he pulled the shirt over his head, revealing his chest.
Fuck.
I'd seen my dad shirtless before, of course. Growing up, it had been normal—him mowing the lawn without a shirt, walking around the house in just his boxers on hot summer mornings. But I'd never really looked before. Never let myself look.
Now I couldn't look away.
His chest was broad and thick, covered in dark hair that spread across his pecs and down his abs. Not as hairy as Marcus, but still substantial, masculine. His nipples were small and dark, almost hidden in the fur. His shoulders were massive, rounded with muscle, and his arms were thick and powerful, veins running up his forearms.
He had a few scars—one across his ribs from a rugby injury, another on his shoulder from surgery. His abs were defined but not ripped, a slight softness around his midsection that came with age but didn't diminish his strength.
He kicked off his shoes and pulled down his shorts and underwear in one motion.
My breath caught in my throat.
His cock was huge.
I'd never thought about my dad's cock before. Never let myself think about it. But now I couldn't think about anything else.
It hung thick and heavy between his legs, easily eight inches soft, maybe more. Uncut, like Derek's, with a thick foreskin that covered most of the head. The shaft was veiny, dusky pink, and it swayed as he walked toward the showers. His balls were massive, low-hanging, covered in the same dark hair that covered his chest and thighs.
His thighs were tree trunks, thick and muscular, covered in dark hair that thinned out as it went down his calves. His ass was solid muscle, two perfect globes that flexed as he walked.
He looked like a fucking god.
I shouldn't be looking at him like this. Shouldn't be thinking about him like this. He was my dad. This was wrong. Sick. Fucked up.
But my cock was still hard in my hand, and I couldn't stop staring.
He stepped into one of the shower stalls—the same one Marcus had been in on Thursday—and turned on the water. It cascaded down his body, streaming through the hair on his chest, running down his abs, dripping off his cock.
He tilted his head back, letting the water hit his face, and I could see the muscles in his neck, the strong line of his jaw. His hands came up to his chest, soaping up the thick hair there, fingers digging into the muscle.
My hand started moving on my cock again, slow and careful, trying not to make any noise.
Dad's hands moved lower, soaping up his abs, his hips, his thighs. He was thorough, methodical, washing every inch of his body with the same precision he brought to coaching.
Then his hand wrapped around his cock.
He wasn't hard. Not yet. He was just washing it, pulling back the foreskin to clean the head, soaping up the shaft and balls. But there was something about the way he touched himself, the casual intimacy of it, that made my cock throb in my hand.
He rinsed off the soap, and I thought that was it. Thought he'd finish his shower and leave and I could finally breathe again.
But he didn't turn off the water.
Instead, his hand went back to his cock. And this time, he started stroking it.
Slowly at first. Long, lazy strokes from base to tip, his thumb rubbing over the head. His cock started to swell, getting thicker, longer, rising up from the nest of dark pubic hair.
Holy fuck. My dad was jerking off.
His other hand came up to his chest, fingers finding a nipple and pinching it. His head tilted back, water streaming down his face, and he let out a low groan that echoed off the tile walls.
His cock was fully hard now, jutting out from his body at a slight upward angle. It had to be ten inches, maybe more, thick as my wrist, with a fat mushroom head that was dark red and glistening. The foreskin had pulled back completely, and I could see the ridge of his head, the thick vein running up the underside.
He stroked faster, his hand moving in long, firm strokes, his hips starting to thrust forward into his grip. His balls swayed with each movement, heavy and full, and I could see them tightening up against his body.
I was stroking my cock in time with him, my hand moving faster, my breathing getting heavier. I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
Dad's other hand moved from his chest down to his balls, cupping them, squeezing gently. He groaned again, louder this time, and his strokes got faster, more desperate.
I imagined it was me touching him. Imagined my hand wrapped around that thick shaft, feeling it pulse and throb. Imagined him bending me over the bench like Marcus had, shoving that massive cock inside me, stretching me open, filling me completely.
The thought should have disgusted me. Should have made me stop, made me realize how fucked up this was.
But it didn't. It just made me harder.
Dad's breathing was getting ragged now, his chest heaving, his hand flying over his cock. His balls were tight against his body, and I could see his thighs tensing, his ass clenching.
He was close. So close.
So was I.
His hand moved faster, his hips thrusting forward, fucking his own fist. His other hand squeezed his balls hard, and he let out a groan that was almost a roar.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, Chance."
My name.
He said my name.
And then he was coming, his cock erupting, thick ropes of cum shooting out and hitting the tile wall, the floor, his hand. So much cum, more than I'd ever seen, coating his fist, dripping down his shaft, running over his balls.
I came at the same moment, my cock pulsing in my hand, my cum shooting out and hitting the inside of the towel closet, soaking into the fabric of the towels on the lower shelf. I had to bite down on my other hand to keep from crying out, my whole body shaking with the force of my orgasm.
Dad kept stroking, milking every last drop from his cock, his chest heaving, his face flushed. Finally, he slowed, his hand gentling on his softening shaft, and he let out a long, shuddering breath.
He rinsed off quickly, washing away the evidence of his orgasm, and then turned off the water. He grabbed a towel from the rack—not one of mine, thank fuck—and dried off, his movements efficient and practiced.
I stayed frozen in my hiding spot, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock, my cum cooling on my fingers. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest.
Dad got dressed quickly, pulling on clean clothes from his gym bag. He ran a hand through his wet hair, checked his phone, and then grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
The locker room door closed behind him, and I was alone.
I slumped back against the shelves, my legs shaking, my mind reeling.
My dad had jerked off in the shower. That wasn't weird. Guys did that. It was normal.
But he'd said my name.
He'd said my name when he came.
Why?
Why would he say my name?
I cleaned myself up as best I could, wiping my cum off the towels and shoving them to the bottom of the dirty laundry bin where no one would notice. My hands were still shaking as I zipped up my shorts and tried to make myself look normal.
I couldn't stop thinking about it. About the way he'd looked, water streaming down his hairy chest, his massive cock hard and throbbing in his hand. About the way he'd groaned my name, his voice rough and desperate.
About the way I'd come at the exact same moment, imagining him fucking me.
This was so fucked up. So wrong.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Couldn't stop wanting it.
I left the towel closet and finished my duties on autopilot, collecting the last of the towels, wiping down the benches, making sure everything was clean for the next practice.
When I finally left the locker room, Dad was in his office, door closed, probably going over game footage or planning the next practice. I didn't knock. Didn't say goodbye.
I just got in my car and drove home, my mind spinning, my cock already starting to get hard again.
Thursday was the away game. Marcus would be there.
And now I couldn't stop wondering if Dad would be there too.
If he'd say my name again.
If he'd look at me and know what I'd seen. What I'd done.
What I wanted him to do to me.
I was so fucked.
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