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 and 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?"
Copyright © 2017 by Ken James