Date: Fri, 22 Apr 2016 15:14:39 -0600
From: Jordan Bradders <jordan.bradders@writeme.com>
Subject: Jordy Stories - My Coach - Part 2 - The Initiation
My Coach – Part Two - The Initiation
The following is a work of fiction meant for adults. If you are under 18
stop reading now and do not download this story.
This work of fiction involves sexual contact, including bondage and
discipline (BDSM), between a man and a teenaged boy. The story is set in
the early 1970s, so even if this was a true story the teen would be in his
50s now. Nevertheless, if such stories offend you, stop reading now and do
not download this story.
If such stories are illegal where you live stop reading now, do not
download this story and consider moving to a less repressive country.
If you enjoy reading stories like this one please consider making a
donation to this forum so that we can continue to enjoy sharing these
stories.
I really like SPECIFIC feedback on my writing (i.e., what did you like,
what did you not like?). Good or bad, it helps me improve. I also like
story ideas, though I can't guarantee that I will use every suggestion.
Email me at jordan.bradders@writeme.com
If you just want to tell me I'm a sick son-of-a-bitch, save your breath; I
already know that.
Part one of this story, as well as all of the other fiction I have
published can be found on the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository at
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Jordan_Bradders/
------------------------------------------------------
My Coach – Part Two - The Initiation
By Jordan Bradders
(c)Copyright 2013 Jordan Bradders. The author reserves all rights.
Permission is granted to download this story for personal use only. It may
not be published in any other forum, web site, magazine, granite block,
golden tablet parchment, papyrus scroll, or book without my prior
permission.
NOTE: You will find that this story makes more sense if you read part one
first. It is creatively titled "Jordy Stories - My Coach - Part One -
Freshman Year" and can be found at
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/jordy-stories If you can't find
it that way, just do a search for "Jordan Bradders"
During my freshman year in high school I involuntarily joined the
football team. For various reasons, I was the only 9th grader on the
varsity team. Toward the end of the season we were invited to play an
out-of-town away game. I was assigned to room with an assistant coach.
While showering, I suffered a massive leg cramp. The coach stretched out
the muscle then massaged my legs. This led to our first sexual encounter.
The next day I suffered my first major injury, which sidelined me much of
the rest of the season.
I attended most of the practices over the next few weeks, unless I
had an appointment with the doctor or for physical therapy, and the coaches
kept me busy keeping stats and the like. In the second week, the doctor
cleared me for some light exercise, but no contact. Coach Duffy hardly
spoke to me but he seemed to treat me with less disdain than he had before.
Finally, towards the end of the second week, he called me over to
where the coaches were gathered and told me to meet him in the trainer's
room. I grinned and asked "You gonna let me play?" He just rolled his
eyes and pointed at the locker room and turned his attention back to the
head coach.
The rest of the team was on the way out to the field as I pushed my
way past them into the locker room. Alone, I stripped off my clothes, put
on a pair of gym shorts that hadn't been washed in far too long, and sat
down on the floor with my back against the locked door to the trainers'
room. After about ten minutes, Coach Duffy unlocked the door and led me
inside. Pointing at the examination table, he gruffly said "On your back."
Then he carefully unwrapped my knee and spent several minutes poking,
bending, and prodding it, much the same way the team doctor and physical
therapist had done.
I was thrilled when he casually put one big hand on my upper thigh
and started kneading the muscle while he examined my knee. Then he moved
his hand up and pressed it against my balls, which were hanging out of the
shorts, and looked at me, the same questioning look in his eyes, as if to
ask 'You still okay with this?'
In answer, I shifted my position, grinding my genitals against his
hand. The outline of my erection was clearly visible through the thin
material of the gym shorts.
Grinning, he motioned for me to turn over and went to the cabinet to
get a tub of an analgesic ointment called "Atomic Balm" and a smaller tube
of K-Y Jelly. He smiled when he saw my look of alarm but simply said
"Don't worry."
Then it was my turn to grin. He pushed my shorts aside and squeezed
some of the K-Y into the crack of my ass, squeezed some more onto the
fingers of one hand, then plunged the other big hand into the tub of what
the players called "liquid heat." He started to massage the thigh of my
injured leg with the analgesic, as he used the other hand to work on my
anus. I shuddered when he said "We have to work on loosening you up, boy,
or I'm gonna end up splitting you in half." I'd seen his huge cock, so
thought I knew exactly what he meant.
He pushed one finger, then two, then three, into me, wiggling and
thrusting, and occasionally pressing against my prostate. It felt
wonderful, and just like before, it didn't hurt at all. I lay there, limp,
as he worked on my leg and my ass, my cock stiff and throbbing under me.
After about fifteen minutes, he stopped, moved my shorts back into
place, and said "Don't move." He left the room for a few minutes, then
came back, apparently satisfied that we were alone in the gym. Locking the
door and blocking it with a chair, he carefully washed his hands. Then he
put a cushion under my belly, smeared more K-Y on one hand, and then put
the other in the small of my back, pressing me down against the table.
Without warning, he plunged his thumb into me. Wrapping the fingers of
that huge hand under me and gripping my balls, he proceeded to fuck me with
his thumb. This was the first time he hurt me, but it was a good kind of
hurt. Within seconds, my cock was spasming, pumping hot boy spunk onto the
vinyl of the examination table.
He stopped when I collapsed, spent, but didn't pull his thumb out of
me. We had hardly exchanged a word until that point, but he leaned down
and whispered "You think you can handle my cock back there, boy?" as he
squeezed the most intimate parts of me between the thumb and fingers of his
huge hand.
I moaned loudly and nodded as my eyes teared up with the pain. When
he relaxed his grip, I whispered "Yeah, coach. I want you to fuck me with
that huge cock. Do me now. Please!" I know that sounds like dialogue
from a bad porno movie, but I'd never seen any porn. I meant it; and he
knew it.
Coach turned without a word, washed his hands, and started towards
the door. His voice gruff, he said "Clean up that mess before you go."
With that, he was gone.
I felt so alone. I struggled to my feet, wiped off the table with
rubbing alcohol, and limped into the locker room. I took a long shower,
careful to wash off the analgesic ointment before I touched my balls. I'd
made that mistake once and knew how badly that would burn. Then I
carefully washed my very tender ass, pushing my finger into it to check for
injuries. As before, there were none. Then I got dressed, threw my
aromatic gym shorts and some other things into a bag, and walked out into
the gym. I could hear the whistles signaling the end of practice, so I sat
in the bleachers to wait, the painful throbbing in my nether regions
serving as a reminder of what had just happened. I knew only that I wanted
more.
When the team had gathered in the gym I joined them in a circle
around the head coach. He made some announcements, including the fact that
I'd be "on the bench" another week. I was gratified to hear some groans at
that. Then the equipment manager asked for volunteers "from the bench" to
paint helmets after practice the following night. I knew this was a weekly
ritual that often lasted late into the night, or even overnight. I looked
up to see Coach Duffy's eyes on me. When I put up my hand to volunteer, he
nodded and turned away. I moved my gym bag in front of me as I felt my
dick stiffen in my pants.
When my mom picked me up after practice, I told her I'd been asked to
stay late to paint helmets the following night. I said I'd either get a
ride or sleep in the gym, explaining that some of the boys did that every
week and the adult equipment manager stayed to supervise. She initially
said "no," but when I explained that I hadn't been feeling like part of the
team since my injury, she relented. "Okay, but if you're not coming home
by 10, I want a phone call." When we got home, I washed out my shorts in
the sink before tossing them in the hamper, not wanting to explain a cum
stain on my gym shorts. That had been embarrassing enough with my pajamas
after my first "wet dream."
Friday night after practice, Coach Duffy took me aside and told me
he'd called my mom and told her I'd be staying overnight in the gym. He
then instructed me to meet him across the street at 10PM. He didn't wait
for my answer, but walked away to join the other coaches.
The helmet painting party was actually fun. We spray painted 50 or
so helmets in a small room, and probably got a bit high from the fumes. At
about 8PM the equipment manager sent out for pizza and Cokes, saying he
didn't allow anything other than Coke in his domain, "and none of that diet
weasel piss." We all laughed like we thought that was very funny, though I
suspected that most of the other boys had heard it before. We talked and
ate while we waited for the helmets to dry so we could apply new decals.
The party broke up at about 9:30. Some of the boys were old enough to
drive so almost everybody was gone when I slipped away just before 10PM.
I stood where the coach had directed, almost invisible in the shadows
of some trees at the edge of a supermarket parking lot. When he pulled up
I jumped in his car and we were gone.
He took me to his apartment, which showed signs of a roommate. When
I asked, he explained that he was away for the weekend. It scared me a bit
when he said "If he was here, we could really have some fun with you," but
I shrugged it off, assuming he was joking.
He told me to "make myself comfortable," then walked into his
bedroom. Not sure what that meant, I just sat on the couch to wait. When
he returned, he stood staring at me, an incredulous look on his face.
Sternly, he asked "Why are you still dressed, boy?"
I jumped up and pulled off my clothes as quickly as I could, then
stood in front of him, naked. He sat down, pulled me into his lap, and
kissed me full on the lips. When I gasped in surprise, he slapped me –
surely not as hard as he could have, but it stung – and said "When you
are here, I own you. I want you naked from the moment you get here till
the moment you leave. And I'll do what I want, when I want. Got that?"
I nodded, trying hard not to tear up as I waited for instructions. I
was excited but scared. When he told me to kneel at his feet, I did so
immediately. Then I waited, puzzled, while he read a magazine.
Eventually, he put the magazine on the table and smiled at me.
Patting my head like a dog, he said "Good boy. Very good. As a reward for
your patience and obedience, you may lick my toes."
I froze, not believing what he had said, and then I opened my mouth
to speak. He slapped me, a little bit harder this time, and said "Have you
forgotten the rules already, boy?"
I bent down and removed his shoes and socks, then started to lick his
toes very tentatively, only flicking them with my tongue. He reached down
and pulled me up by my hair. "I want to feel your tongue between my toes.
Or you can suck them, one at a time. Your choice, boy."
I was revolted and feared I would vomit, but did as I was told, tears
of embarrassment and humiliation running down my face and onto his feet.
Because my tongue doesn't extend past my lips, I was forced to suck each of
his toes. When I'd finished, I remained in position, my face by his feet,
until he told me to stand up and put my hands behind my back.
Once again, he picked up his magazine and read. I noticed for the
first time that it was a gay porn magazine. I hadn't even known there were
such magazines. I stood there, thinking `What have I gotten myself into?
Nobody even knows I'm here.' I shuddered in fear.
After a few minutes, he looked up at me, said "Get me a beer," and
went back to reading. Sensing that it would not be okay to get something
for myself, I brought him a can of beer and a glass, and then returned to
my subservient position in front of him.
There were no clocks in the room, so I have no idea how long I
stood there. My injured knee was starting to throb by the time he gave me
my next instruction. Standing up, he said "Strip me, boy." My fingers
fumbling, I unbuttoned his shirt, and then undid his belt. When I found
that he was wearing button-fly jeans, I knelt down in front of him,
thinking `He wore these on purpose to make this harder for me.' For some
reason, I took a perverse pleasure in that realization, perhaps
understanding for the first time that I was important to him. `This is all
planned,' I thought, wonderingly. I pulled down his briefs, for the first
time freeing that huge cock that both fascinated and frightened me.
Without a word, he pushed me back to my knees. Spreading his legs
wide, he said "I know this has been hard, but you've done well so far. You
may not touch my cock, but I want you to lick and suck my balls."
I moved under him and tilted my head back as far as it would go,
then started to lick at his balls, my visual field filled by the immensity
of his genitals. My back and knee ached as I licked and sucked, but I
didn't stop until he told me to.
"Stand up, boy," he said as he sat down on the couch. "You've done
well, but I don't know if you're really ready. If you tell me you want to
go, I'll take you now. But if you stay, there's no stopping until I'm
finished with you. Do you understand?"
I stood there staring at him for what felt like a very long time.
A placid expression on his face, he gazed back, waiting for my answer.
Finally, I said "Tell me what you want me to do now, sir."
Smiling, he said "Maybe I was right about you after all." He stood
up and walked into the bedroom, but I just stood there, my hands folded
behind my back, awaiting instructions. After about a minute, he said "Very
good. If you'd followed me without permission, I would have taken you
home. Now, come in here."
I was only barely able to stifle a gasp when I walked into the
bedroom. The bed was outfitted with leather restraints, and he was holding
one of them in his hand. "Come lay down, boy. We're going to have some
fun now."
Without hesitation, I climbed onto the bed and offered him my
wrist. My erection was throbbing and my heart was beating like I'd just
run a mile. I had no idea what was going to happen next but I wasn't
scared anymore; just excited.
I was a bit disappointed when he motioned for the other wrist.
Apparently, he wanted to bind me face up. To be honest, though, I was also
relieved, because I was still terrified of that huge cock.
Once he'd secured my wrist he bound my other limbs. I smiled when
I found that I could move about pretty freely because of slack in the lines
and thought `I guess he was never a Boy Scout.' Then he reached under the
bed and I felt the straps pulling tight. Finally, he ran a strap over my
waist, firmly securing me to the bed. Reaching into the bedside table, he
pulled out a red rubber ball and something that turned out to be a gag.
Pushing the ball into my mouth, he secured the gag over it. He laughed
when I looked up at him, terror in my eyes, and said "I told you we were
going to have fun. I guess I should have said `I'm going to have fun.'"
Coach Duffy stood at the foot of the bed studying me for what
seemed like forever. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my
chest as he started poking and prodding me all over, examining my feet and
my legs and my genitals and my belly, gently stroking the still relatively
sparse hair between my legs and under my arms. I'd never been so scared in
my life as I thought of how helpless I was and what he could do to me.
What he did next amazed me. He climbed onto the bed, put his arms
around me, and cuddled with me! He did that for what seemed like about ten
minutes, but could have been longer – there were no clocks visible in
this room, either – then he started to gently stroke his hands over my
body, kiss my face, and nuzzle my neck. I was just starting to relax when
he reached down, grabbed my balls, and squeezed hard enough that I tried to
scream into the gag. Then he got up, turned off the lights, and walked out
of the room. I heard the familiar sounds of Johnny Carson on the
television, then the door closed, and I was alone in the dark with my
throbbing balls.
Remarkably enough I fell asleep, in spite of the pain and the terror.
Or maybe because of it. When I woke up, I wondered if all of this had been
a dream, but then I felt the restraints and the gag and knew it was all
real. It must have been the sound of my captor moving around that woke me,
because he walked in at that moment. A huge smile on his face, he asked
"Did you have a nice nap? Are you ready to play some more?"
He attached something that looked like a winch to the head of the
bed. Then he went to the foot of the bed, unhooked one of the ankle
restraints, and attached it a ring on the winch cable. He did the same
thing with the other ankle restraint, and then turned the handle, pulling
my legs up over my head, my body bending at the waist but held in place by
the waist strap. `God,' I thought. `He's done this before.'
He went to the closet and brought back a blue plastic tarp, which he
worked under me, apparently to protect his mattress. When he returned to
the closet, I was afraid he'd come back with scalpels or saws, but he
didn't. Instead, he carried something I'd only seen in my grandparents'
bathroom. It was an old-style enema bag.
His voice still cheerful, he excused himself to go into the kitchen.
I could only barely hear water running over the sound of my own pulse
thudding in my ears. When he returned, I could see that the bag was full.
Looking at it closer, I could see that it had several feet of orange hose
coming out of it, with a clamp and some kind of nozzle at the end. I knew
that my grandmother used one of these things, so it couldn't be dangerous,
but I wondered `What's this freak gonna do to me now?'
He didn't explain. Attaching the enema bag to the ring over the bed,
he moved the hose over my body, taunting me. I flinched when he squirted a
little bit of the warm fluid onto my belly. He laughed. Then he put some
K-Y Jelly onto the nozzle. `At least he's not trying to hurt me,' I
thought irrationally, as he skillfully pushed the nozzle into my anus.
He pulled a chair to the side of the bed, opened the clamp on the
hose, and sat down. I immediately felt warm fluid running into me, but was
still mystified by what he was doing. His eyes never left mine, an avid
almost scientific curiosity apparent. I looked back at him, my eyes
pleading.
At first, it felt good, but over time, I felt some discomfort as my
belly seemed to fill with fluid. I felt an overpowering sense of needing
to go, and was relieved when he closed the clamp and pulled out the nozzle.
Then he shoved in something hard and left it there. He sat down, the same
calm but somewhat amused look on his face, and stared into my eyes. I
stared back, my eyes pleading with him for release, as I was wracked by
increasing abdominal pain. I felt like I was going to explode but realized
that he'd plugged me up!
I must have passed out from the pain because I woke up in the
bathtub, the blue tarp under me. The stench was horrible. I reached down
and found that the plug was gone from my ass, and my lower half was covered
with a thin mixture of water and feces. I was completely grossed out, but
there sat Coach Duffy, that same serene look on his face. "You might want
to get yourself cleaned up, boy. I called for pizza. It should be here
soon."
I tried to stand up but found that I was unsteady on my feet, so I
turned on the water and cleaned myself up as best I could. Coach Duffy
stood in the doorway watching me while he pulled on some jeans and a
tee-shirt. When the doorbell rang, he went to pay for the pizza. I
thought about yelling for help, but . . . didn't.
Duffy came back in and helped me up. "Good boy," he said. "I knew
you wouldn't call for help. Now let's go have something to eat." He
helped me into the other room and sat me down at his very typical looking
kitchen table. `You'd never know this was a torture chamber' I thought
ruefully.
We had a very normal meal together, except that he allowed me to
drink beer and I was naked. I didn't ask about any of the things he'd done
to me and he offered no explanations. When we'd finished, he said "Let's
go sit on the couch and talk," in an amazingly reasonable tone.
I followed him in, waited for him to sit, then took a position at the
far end of the couch. He looked at me, a wounded look in his eyes, and
patted the seat next to him. I obediently moved where he'd directed and he
pulled me close.
"You've done really well, but I guess you're wondering why I did all
that to you."
I nodded, but didn't say anything.
"That first night in the hotel, I knew something about you that you
didn't know. You still don't know." He sounded sad.
I looked at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"You remember when you rolled over on your belly for me?"
I nodded.
"I knew then that you are a `sub.' That's short for "submissive."
That you'll never be happy until you figure that out and learn what it
means. What it'll take for you to be happy."
I turned my head and looked at him for the first time. "So . . .
all that was to make me happy? You really hurt me, Coach!"
Coach Duffy turned me towards him and kissed my cheek tenderly.
"Stand up. Walk around. Check yourself over. Touch yourself everywhere.
Are you hurt? Nothing I did tonight caused you any harm . . . just pain."
He gestured at my knee. "Football has done you more harm than I ever will;
and that's a promise."
I did as he said and checked myself over as he watched me closely. I
could still feel some pain in my balls but there was no swelling. The same
was true of my belly. The only real pain I had was in my knee, and that
had happened weeks before on the football field. I sat down and asked
"Will you hug me now?"
The Coach wrapped me up in his arms and pulled me close. "I want to
tell you something. I didn't like you when you first joined the team. But
I saw something in you that night in the motel and over the past few weeks.
You're something special and I want to help you find yourself." That was a
phrase we used back then so I just nodded.
"You said I could have left. Did you mean it?"
He nodded. "I'd have driven you home if you asked me to; but once we
moved into the bedroom, I couldn't let you leave until you understood. I
hope you do, cause you could do me a lot of harm now . . . not just hurt."
I nodded seriously. "I still don't understand what you're telling
me, but I can see that you didn't mean me any harm. I'm not gonna tell
anybody about any of this." I laughed and said "Who would believe me,
anyway?" I was starting to feel the same sense of safety and security I'd
felt in his arms in the motel.
"When I was about your age, I met a man who helped me to figure out
that I am what they call a "Dom."
I interrupted "I guess that means `Dominant,' as compared with the
`sub' you say I am?" I couldn't help but think that this sounded weirdly
like a seminar at school.
He nodded. "It doesn't mean I think you're weak or cowardly or
anything. I think it takes more courage to be a sub. But it means that
you have needs that you can best meet through allowing yourself to be
dominated. Does that make sense?"
I nodded slowly, my mind churning away. "So what you did to me
tonight was to teach me about myself? Why couldn't you have just told me
all of this? Or had me read a book?" This was many years before the
internet made this kind of information readily available to anyone who can
click a mouse.
Coach Duffy laughed. "Do you really think any of this would have
made sense? You'd have thought I was nuts ... or called a cop."
I turned and kissed him on the cheek and wiggled my butt back against
him. "I never would have called a cop. From the first time I saw you in
the shower, I wanted you." I told him about my previous relationship with
my Scoutmaster, leaving out details to protect the man who had meant so
much to me, and admitted that I'd been missing the sex. I explained that I
knew that I needed it to be with an adult man, but hadn't understood why
until now.
He stopped me and said "No, it doesn't have to be with an adult. It
needs to be with a Dom ... and that could be somebody your age or younger."
I nodded. "Can we just go to bed? No sex. Will you just hold me
like this while we sleep? I promise I'm not gonna tell anybody. I trust
you and still want to learn more, but I can't take any more right now."
Coach Duffy nodded. "One more thing. You know how I kept checking
with you to see if it was OK?"
I nodded, but looked towards the bedroom.
"That's called `consent.' Even though you're a sub you're always in
charge. You have to remember that."
I stood up. "I didn't feel in charge when you had me tied up, but I
think I understand. Please? Can we go to bed? I want you to hold me
while I sleep."
Then he took me to his bed. Not the bed he'd used to torture me. He
didn't really have a roommate, though he did have some friends I would meet
later; that room was used for `play.' He took me to his own bed, where we
slept, my body cradled in the hollow of his like I was a toddler. He was
nothing but gentle and loving that night, and many more after that.
In the morning Coach took me to breakfast then drove me home. This
was not the end of our adventures by any means. Those continued for almost
two years. But this seemed like a good place to end this installment.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Part one of this story, as well as all of the other fiction I have
published can be found on the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository at
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Jordan_Bradders/
If you enjoyed this story, please do two things. first, let me know by
emailing jordan.bradders@writeme.com
Second, PLEASE DONATE TO THIS FORUM. Websites like this do not run
themselves and are not free.