Ken James Fiction
Thursday, September 13
It started with the head cheerleader flashing me in first period history class.
I was still a hero to everyone who'd stayed in Conner, as the star quarterback who took the Cougars to State and wrecked his knee making the winning touchdown, instantly ending a promising career.
Five years later, I was back at Conner High, as the junior assistant football coach. All those people from before were watching and waiting to see what I did. They were rooting for me, but that just increased the pressure of living up to their expectations. We take football seriously in Texas.
At Conner High, Assistant Coaching positions aren't full-time, so I also teach history, health, and physical education. First period every day is history. On Tuesday and Thursday, I spend the rest of the morning teaching P.E. Since it was Thursday, I was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a tee-shirt, so I could go to the gym without changing.
Sandy Oakes, the Cougars' head cheerleader, sat in the front row, wearing her usual tight blouse stretched over her big breasts and a skirt that barely covered the tops of her muscular thighs. She'd been a leading member of the barely-teen legion who'd worshiped me in the glory days. Back then, Sandy had been kitten-cute. She'd become a full-grown woman, with long thick curly black hair, flashing dark eyes, and a ready smile.
I was boring the class with the Wars of the Roses. Sandy diligently took notes, but also spent a lot of time gazing at me with a dreamy expression. I finished talking about Henry Tudor and asked for questions.
Sandy had been holding her knees together, but she opened them as I looked in her direction, showing bare skin. Her dark folds stood out against her hairless vulva.
It was a good thing I was sitting behind the desk, because my shorts and jockstrap did nothing to hide my instant immense boner.
I froze, staring at her. Then, Ralph Richards asked how Shakespeare's history plays related to the wars, breaking the spell. Sandy closed her legs, smiling mysteriously. She continued smiling through the rest of the class, but didn't open her legs again.
For the rest of the day, I couldn't get Sandy and her bare pussy out of my mind. Not until after football practice.
Our starting quarterback, Bill Harris, was always hyper on the day before a game. He was the Cougars' best hope for winning State since . . . well, when I was quarterback . . . and I knew what the pressure on him was like.
I'd tried to cope using the old classics: booze and sex. Bill rarely drank and gently rebuffed the girls swarming around him, claiming he was saving himself for marriage. He was friendly and social, but spent most of his spare time hanging with a handful of guys he'd grown up with.
Last week, we'd been overconfident and lost the second game of the season to the weak Porter Falcons. We weren't calling them the "Porter Pigeons" any more.
Tomorrow was our Homecoming game, against the always-formidable Boulder Buffaloes, putting even more stress than usual on all of us, especially Bill.
Today, he did three more laps after the rest of the team had finished, then ran wild in the locker room, snapping towels, tunelessly singing the Cougar Fight Song at the top of his lungs, dancing naked on one of the benches with his long thick cock swinging in the air, darting into the shower to get wet, then coming out to shake like a dog, scattering water over the other boys.
Finally, everyone else had run away, leaving me alone with Bill. He dried off, but didn't get dressed. Instead, he wanted to talk about the new plays we'd been practicing.
It was hard to focus on football, rather than Bill's muscular body, shaped by years of running, weightlifting, and ballet. He was 6' 2" tall and weighed 220 pounds, with a light brown crewcut and green eyes which twinkled every time he caught me glancing at his dick. It was heavy with blood and getting hard. I knew he could see the giant bulge in my shorts.
In high school, I'd always liked looking at the other boys in the locker room. I told myself I was just checking out the competition's equipment. It wasn't until college that I learned better.
"Don't worry about the plays. You understand them better than the coaches. You'll do fine tomorrow." I left him in the locker room and went outside to walk off my erection. After that, I kept walking up and down the field until I was sure he was gone.
The locker rooms and coaches' offices were in a single-story concrete block building behind the end zone. I used my key to unlock the door. The building seemed to be empty.
The label maker tape stuck to the black plastic plate on my office door read "Travis Williams, Coaching Assistant." As always when no-one was watching, I ran my fingers over the raised letters, still not quite believing they were real.
After a final glance at the words, I went inside and let the door close behind me. A desk, office chair, filing cabinet, and two straight visitor chairs were crammed into the converted storeroom.
There was no point in getting the playbook from the locked filing cabinet and reviewing it again, or watching more game video on my laptop. Instead, I leaned back in my desk chair, letting the memories Sandy and Bill had stirred up swirl through my mind.
Girls threw themselves at me, starting when I was in freshman football. As an extra-horny teenage boy, I wasn't about to turn them down. I used condoms and didn't knock any of them up, except for the married lady who wanted my baby. She had twins, a boy and a girl. It's spooky how much they look like me.
In our early teens, Kevin Barclay, my best friend, and I spent almost every Friday and Saturday night together, sleeping in the same bed.
One night, we were in bed with the lights out, talking about pussy and getting super horny. He asked, "Want to fuck?" I didn't even have to think about it. "Sure. How?" He showed me. We took turns fucking each others' butts until we started messing with girls.
A few years later, Andrea Donne and I took each other's cherries and Kevin started dating Susan Cramer. We figured we were through with guys. In my junior year of college, I learned different.
It was a Saturday night and I was staying at home with Rick Brant, my roommate. Our girlfriends had been wild about sex when we'd met them the preceding year, but they'd lost interest over the summer and spent more time with each other than with us.
The girls had canceled again. We got loaded and started fooling around. It was a joke until we started making out on the couch. Then, it wasn't. Especially not when Rick tongue-kissed me.
We hadn't showered or shaved that day. His beard stubble felt strange at first, but the roughness against my lips and cheeks quickly became an extra turn-on. His strong male smell was hot and sexy.
Kevin and I had never kissed, or sucked cock. That was too queer. In my bedroom, I sucked Rick off and fucked his ass. Then, he butt-fucked me. It was fantastic. Even better than it had been with Kevin.
Funny thing. After Rick and I realized we didn't need them, our girlfriends got more enthusiastic about putting out. A lot more enthusiastic.
When I closed my eyes, Sandy's and Bill's images were photo-sharp in my memory: her big breasts under the skin-tight blouse, the bare flesh between her open thighs, her puffy purple pussy lips, flush with excitement; his big muscular body, long swinging dick, heavy balls, tight ass . . .
My hard cock stretched my shorts. I pushed them down around my ankles, followed by my jockstrap. My hand closed on my stiff pole and I stroked it slowly, gradually gaining speed and feeling the pressure build in my balls.
I imagined Sandy on her back, big breasts rolling as I fucked her, with Bill behind me, driving his stiff prick up my butt. The rhythmic sound of my hand rubbing my dick grew louder and faster. My breathing became deeper and more ragged as I got close to coming.
There was too much noise in the room for me to be making by myself. My eyes snapped open. Bill stood on the far side of my desk, stark naked, jacking his stiff dick as he stared wide-eyed at my crotch. A steady stream of precum ran over his bullet-shaped cock-head and down his shaft.
I've always had one of the bigger cocks in the locker room; long and thick, with a broad plow-shaped head and a flaring Vee running down to a deep corneal ring. My shaved balls and close-cropped pubic hair make it look even bigger. Bill's hard rod was almost as long and thick as mine.
"Let me help you with that," he said. I stayed silent, frozen between responsibility and desire, as he walked around the desk. Even though I was one of his coaches, I was only five years older than Bill. Besides, I hadn't done anything but jack off in the last two months and I was horny as hell.
I'd stopped beating my meat. Bill sank to his knees, wrapped one hand around my stiff pole, and gripped my balls with the other. I couldn't tell him to stop.
He held his lips closed. I slowly forced them open with my cock-head, like I was entering a pussy or asshole. When my swollen head was in his mouth, he kissed its tip and teased my cum-slit with his tongue, while slowly jacking my stiff shaft and playing with my balls.
I gasped as Bill took my entire length in his mouth. He bobbed rapidly over my dick, roughly stroking my shaft and squeezing my balls.
I rose to my feet, pushed his hands away from my crotch, and drove my unrestrained rod all the way down his throat while gripping the sides of his head to keep him from moving. "Here's what you really want."
He choked a little when I started fucking his face, but adapted quickly. Bill was getting off on the rough treatment. I'd figured he would. Punishment is a big turn-on for a lot of tough people, like athletes and soldiers.
Bill jacked his hard rod as I worked my throbbing dick in his mouth, going harder and faster. "Suck it, quarterback! Keep it going! One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . . Hike!" He gulped as I fired shot after shot of hot cum down his throat.
When my nuts were finally empty, I let go of Bill's head and gripped his shoulders. My dick had softened, a little. He let it slip out of his mouth and looked up at me, grinning. "How was that, coach?"
"A good start." I glanced at the big blobs of Bill's cum on the concrete floor, then pulled him to his feet and took him in my arms. He moaned and thrust his tongue against mine. The taste of my cum was strong.
His cock was still rock-hard, rubbing against mine as he kissed me roughly. Everything about him was rough, strong, hard, and male, so different from a woman's softness . . . and so sexy.
"That was great," he whispered. "Even better than I'd imagined." He stepped back, caught my hand, and guided it to his crotch. My fingers closed on his stiff pole. I ran my index finger over his head, smearing the thick juice oozing from his tip.
"I'm gonna shoot this bad boy again," he said. "Up your ass. Okay?"
Visions of bending over the desk with Bill's cock up my ass tempted me. "We're already pushing our luck."
"Door's locked," Bill said.
"Mr. Skinner has a master key." Len Skinner was the Senior Assistant Coach. He was a deacon in a local church and the biggest homophobe in the Athletic Department. "He checks our offices to be sure we've locked the playbooks up."
Bill looked disappointed when I let go of his cock. He brightened up when I said, "Come to my place. It's out in the woods. Nice and private."
Copyright © 2018 by Ken James