Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2005 17:28:19 -0500 (EST)
From: FrereJaques <frerejaques325@yahoo.ca>
Subject: On My Knees In Athens: Prologue and Chapter One

Warning: This story contains descriptions of sex between consenting men.
If you are underage or are offended by homosexual material, leave now.  All
characters are completely fictional, and no implication of or allusion to
actual persons is intended.  No reproduction of this story is allowed
without permission.  I've combined the Prologue and the first Chapter --
ideally, the story will continue in further chapters.  I'm new to all this,
so I'd love any feedback.  Send all comments to the above address.  Thanks,
and enjoy...

***************************
Prologue -- Convincing Coach
***************************

Urgent, high-pitched gasps -- yelps, almost -- escaped his throat as his
knees began to give out.  A surprising response in so gruff a man.  His
hips were bucking so violently I was genuinely worried he would fall on top
of me, but his hands found the edge of the sturdy wooden desk just in time.

"Oh fuck, Logan--" he began, but seemed to quickly change his mind as his
breath caught in his throat.  It was too late to correct the mistake.  His
whole body flexed and his thrusting stopped as I felt the first shot hit
the roof of my mouth.  Making an executive decision about how best to win
him over, I pulled him out of my mouth and aimed him at my right cheek.  I
stroked quickly and firmly as, in perfect silence, he rewarded me with two
or three more sizeable spurts across my face, followed by a dribble that
slid over my thumb and landed on the carpet between his feet.  Only then
did his breathing resume, in the form of loud gasps.

Gently fondling him, I looked up in search of a reaction.  He was around
5'8", 180 pounds.  Though he was pushing 40, his body looked like it had
once resembled those of the young men he trained.  His shoulders were
broad, his back strong and his arms thick.  The belly emerging from his
t-shirt, however, betrayed his years spent not in the pool, but on the deck
calling out commands.  Neither pot-bellies nor the middle-aged men sporting
them are my cup of tea, but larger things were at stake.  I looked him
straight in the eye, reached out with my tongue and teased the last drop
from him, hoping to cement my position on the team.

"So, do I get the job?" I asked.

He didn't answer.  All he could manage was a sort of noisy wheezing, and he
was still clinging to the edge of his desk.  I took this as a good sign.

I gently folded his softening dick back into his shorts and carefully
fastened his pants.  I stood up and faced him.

"Look," I said.  "I am qualified for this job.  And we both know you
couldn't disagree with me even if you could breathe right now.  You also
know how stressed those guys get before a meet.  What better cure for
stress than a hot blowjob and a good hard cum?  These boys are too busy for
girlfriends, and besides: no girlfriend deserves to be treated as a
pre-swim stress reliever.  Right?"

"Sure," he murmured.  Still trying to catch his breath, he practically fell
into the black leather chair behind his desk.

"I am proposing that you hire me for exactly that purpose," I asserted,
wiping the cum off my face with the kleenex he kept on his desk.  "No,
`hire' is the wrong word because I'm not asking you to pay me anything.
All I'm asking for is the enjoyment of doing for these guys what I just did
for you.  Think of it as my opportunity to provide a well needed service to
my country and its athletes."

The racing of his heart still showing in his neck, he sat back and laid his
hands over his belly.  Try as they might, they did little to hide its
corpulence -- much less his labored breathing.  He fixed me with the best
intimidating stare he could muster.  With neater clothes and a tidier desk
he might have pulled off the "unconvinced" look he was going for.  But I
knew better.  The flush was leaving his cheeks, but beads of sweat lingered
at his temples.  I know the effects of my work on other men.  I held my
ground.

Finally, he smiled.

"Listen, Blake..." He shook his head slowly as he said it.

I knew I'd won.  But just in case, I added, "Mr. Morden, if you let me do
this, I won't tell anyone what you said as you shot your load all over me."

Now we both knew I'd won.

"Blake, Blake, Blake," he crooned, as though repeating my name might undo
the mistake he'd made.  As though it might erase the other name he'd
called, the one that still hung in the air, mingling with the smell of
sweat and semen.  His smile widened.  "I'll talk to the boys.  Why don't
you meet me here at three p.m. on Thursday, and we'll see if we can't work
something out."

"Thank you, Mr. Morden," I said, barely restraining the gleeful swelling in
my throat.  "You won't be disappointed."

"Thursday, Blake.  Don't be late."

As I closed the office door, I wondered, How will the guys respond to the
idea?  I wasn't worried: I knew how they'd respond to the treatment.

But a more interesting question lurked at the back of my mind.  I searched
my memory, but nothing came up.  Morden obviously thought pretty highly of
him.  And what an interesting name...

Logan...

********************** Chapter One -- Before and After **********************

There are many great pleasures to be had while showering.  Particularly
when showering at a pool where Olympic-level swimmers are trained.

It was Wednesday night: the night before my big follow-up meeting with
Coach Morden.  Too distracted to be productive, I headed for the gym to
blow off some steam.  I had a good, hard workout, and was standing at my
locker when I heard one of the showers turn on.  Thought I'd take a peek in
on my way to the urinals, just to see who it was.  Hey -- I've never
claimed to be subtle.  It's a good thing I looked, too, because upon seeing
what awaited me, I decided to skip the pee and head straight in to clean
up.

Standing there, shrouded in the soft focus of locker-room steam, was Jacob.
I stepped under a shower on the opposite wall and watched him close his
eyes, tilt his head back and pull his hands through his short, black hair.
I grabbed my shampoo and started lathering up as I watched the water pour
down over his face and neck, collecting in a stream that flowed over his
shoulders and around his ample chest, feeding rivers that ran between the
ridges of his abdomen.  He wore a trunk-cut swimsuit -- think boxer briefs'
teensy, spandex cousin -- and it was soaked and clinging to him; the strong
diagonal lines cutting across his hips dipped below the waistband, coyly
inviting me to come along.  He was just covered enough, as though a
compromise had been reached between the senseless prude overwhelmed by the
perfection of his nude body and the loving sculptor who couldn't bear to
part with a single curve or crevice.  The suit gave way to two of the
shapeliest, most powerful looking legs I have ever seen.

I would once have argued that this might be the greatest pleasure to be had
while showering: enjoying an unobstructed view of Jacob, the star of the
Olympic swim team.

After Monday's events in Coach Morden's office, however, I knew that the
best was yet to come.

Let me bring you up to speed here.  I've always loved the water.  I was in
swimming lessons before I could walk; I've been on teams since as I was
ten.  I wasn't the fastest kid in the pool, but my boundless enthusiasm was
matched only by my massive stamina.  I could swim for hours, revelling in
every stroke.  That's why I kept it up.  Well, that and the fact that
somewhere in my adolescence I realised that being a swimmer had benefits
beyond getting exercise and participation credits.  About the time I
started noticing how hot boys were, I also noticed how much hotter they
were when they swam a lot.  At the tender age of fifteen, after my first
time -- yes, with one of the other swimmers, and yes, in the locker room
after practice -- I vowed always to maintain close relationships with swim
teams.  This, I figured, would allow me to spend the rest of my life around
extremely hot, naked and nearly-naked men.

And true to my vow, here I was, facing the pinnacle of male perfection;
watching him run his soapy hands all over his soft, tan skin; imagining the
taste of those traps and those biceps; and rapidly losing hope of
concealing the ever-growing problem between my legs.

I turned around.  Think un-sexy thoughts, right?  Ah, yes.  Monday
afternoon with Coach Morden.  There's nothing quite like giving head to
someone completely repulsive.  The way he leered at me as he told me to
"demonstrate my qualifications."  The stink of his crotch as he opened his
pants and shoved his dick in my face.  The way he barked curse words at me
as I sucked him, his beer-gut staring down at me as if making sure I was
doing my job.  Not to mention the taste he left in my mouth -- I'd only
swallowed one shot, and yet I had to brush my teeth twice to remove his
essence of leftover protein, caffeine and nicotine.

Well.  Doesn't get much un-sexier than that.  My dick dormant once more, I
thought I'd sneak another peek at the Adonis across the room.  He was now
facing away from me, and the water was rushing down over his broad, smooth
back, stopping by to pay its respects to his beautiful, suit-clad butt
before crashing to the floor.  This made up for Monday.  Despite the odds,
Morden had received one of the best blowjobs in my long history of
cocksucking, and from the sounds of things, it had landed me the job of my
dreams.  Soon, I would be providing my dear Jacob -- not to mention his
teammates -- the care they deserved.

I wondered how they'd all react.  I looked at myself as I rinsed the soap
off.  I'm no Jacob, but I do keep in shape.  Standing nearly six feet tall,
slim and lean at 170 pounds, I make a pretty convincing
swim-team-look-alike.  That is, barring the fact that I don't bother to get
rid of my body hair.  Too much work, I say.  I'm no Sasquatch, but I'm a
long way from Teen Beat posterboy.  Still, most of the guys on the team
were straight as far as I could tell, so it was unlikely that my looks
would win them over.  Fortunately, I was confident that talent and
dedication would.

Suddenly, Jacob's eyes caught mine.  My throat closed.  Carefully
concealing my heart just below my Adam's apple, I gave him a quick nod and
looked away.  I grabbed the shampoo and started lathering up again -- hey,
lots of people wash their hair twice.  As I busied myself with my tresses,
I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.  He was soaping up
again, too, running his hands over his chest and stomach, massaging the
muscles that strained against his taut skin.  Then the fingers on his left
hand disappeared into the suit.  I could see the cords in his forearms
flexing as he played with himself.

I could also see that he was still looking at me.

Since my heart was now somewhere in the vicinity of my tonsils -- and my
cock was rapidly rising to meet it -- I decided that it might be a good
idea to find a towel before I got myself into trouble.  I reached for the
tap.

It was his thumbs that stopped me.  They had tucked themselves into the
suit and were working their way towards the floor.  My brain was ordering
an immediate retreat, but an alliance of eyes and hormones was making a
play for control, and my mutinous feet had made their choice.  Wild horses,
man, I tell you.

I stood there, letting the hot water pour over me as Jacob inched his
swimsuit down over his apparently hairless groin.  The lines across his
hips got longer and closer together, and I could just see the divot at the
base of his cock peeking out from between them.  I almost cried out when
his thumbs suddenly stopped: evidently his skimpy trunks were too small to
make it over the curve of his butt.  He slipped his soapy hands around
behind himself to release his cheeks from their restraints; he worked
gently, as though coaxing a skittish animal out of hiding.

Once his butt was liberated, he looked down at his half-exposed groin,
grasped the front of his suit with his left hand and pulled it away from
his body.  His right hand hovered, undecided, over his abdomen.  By this
point I had given up all pretence of showering.  I watched, transfixed, as
he reached in and pulled out a few inches of semi-hard cock.  He looked up
at me and paused again.  I didn't look back: my eyes were riveted to his
crotch.

Nobody moved.  The water slid down his arm, over the ripples in his biceps
and forearms into the palm of his hand, as if drawn there by the same force
that drew every speck of my attention.

His voice cut through the drone of falling water.

"You're Blake, aren't you?"

The sound of my name shattered my trance, and reality crashed down on me
like a giant anvil on a Looney Tunes character.  I thought my legs would
give out, but I forced myself to meet his eyes.

"Ye--yeah," I croaked.  His crystal blue irises bore holes in my brain.
"How do you know my name?"

"Coach told me about you.  I hear you have a... meeting tomorrow afternoon."
His emphasis on the word meeting implied that he knew the reason for said
meeting.  Did he know about Monday, too?  I began to see through haze of
bewilderment: he makes a big show of taking out his cock, and then tells me
he knows about Morden ...

"Ye--yeah," I repeated, my heart racing.  "F--four o'clock, I think."

"Three, actually.  He told me to come along; says he wants my two cents.
But, uh..." His lips curled into an irresistible little smile as he glanced
suggestively at his crotch.  "I prefer to try something out before making
judgments."

I swallowed hard, summoned all the bravado I could muster and matched his
gaze for the first time.  Better to meet him at his terms, I thought.  "And
I prefer to examine the goods before making offers."

Look, it wasn't clever, but it was the best I could manage.  He chuckled.

He must have been fondling himself through this exchange because when I
looked down at his dick it seemed larger, and another inch or so had
escaped the confines of his trunks.  His hand delved deeper, he wrapped his
fingers around his growing member, and at last, he pulled it out.

It continued to grow as he held it there, gently massaging it with his
right hand.  He made a sweep of his chest with his left hand, gathering
some suds and depositing them between his legs.  He worked the lather over
his cock, stroking firmly as though trying to squeeze as much blood into it
as he could.  He used both hands: now jerking with one and holding his
balls with the other, now grasping his meat in both palms and kneading it
with his slender fingers.

I could tell he was proud of his piece.  It wasn't the biggest one I'd ever
seen -- probably six and a half inches long and moderately thick -- but it
was gorgeous.  He worked it with care as I watched him: his tanned forearms
bulged as he tugged; his chiselled abs rose and fell with his breathing;
his sturdy legs formed a powerful foundation for a living sculpture of
inconceivable beauty.

He crossed his arms over his chest, letting his dick hang there in all its
glory.  It was a beautiful cock.  Cut and perfectly straight, it stuck out
about forty-five degrees from his belly.  He looked up at me and raised an
eyebrow.  Still feigning composure, I met his gaze.

I took a mental snapshot of Jacob in that moment.  It remains a highly
prized treasure in the album of my memories.  Underneath it in my mind is
written the single word, "Before".

My eyes never left his as I swivelled, turned off my shower, and crossed
the room.  I stopped less than a foot from where he stood.  I reached
forward with my right hand and tentatively ran my middle finder down the
groove between his crotch and his hip.  As I snuck my fingertips under the
waistband of his trunks, I touched his ball sac with my thumb.  My heart
skipped a beat, but he didn't flinch.  I raised my other hand and gently
ran my fingers up the underside of his shaft, my knees nearly giving out at
the feel of his hard dick.  He gave me a cocky smile, but he still didn't
flinch.  I wanted some evidence that he was enjoying this -- I wanted to
tease him the way he'd teased me -- but he wasn't having any of it and that
made me even crazier with lust.  I wrapped my hand around the head of his
dick and squeezed lightly, sliding it slowly downward over the shaft.
Finally, as my palm ran over the sensitive underside of his swollen head,
he let out the tiniest of gasps.

That was it.  I couldn't take it any longer.  I grabbed his trunks with
both my hands and pulled them off as I dropped to my knees in front of him.
Before I even reached the floor, I took his head between my lips.  Once
he'd stepped out of the suit and I'd tossed the vile thing away, I took
hold of his shaft with my left hand.  I ran my tongue over his sensitive
bits, licking up the underside of the shaft and around his crown.  The hot,
slightly soapy taste of his meat set the blood to pounding in my ears.  My
own cock was throbbing between my legs but I knew I was liable to shoot if
I so much as touched it.  Instead, I ran my right hand over his rock-hard
stomach, revelling in the smooth skin and the ridges between his abs as I
worked his cock.  I jerked it with my hand, teased it with my tongue and
sucked it for all I was worth.

The feel of his cock was incredible: so hard and straight in my hand, so
hot and smooth in my mouth.  Its warmth radiated against my tongue, making
me want more of him inside me.  I bore down on him until my nose pressed
against his hairless crotch.  I held it there for a moment, enjoying the
feel of his pulse in the back of my throat.  I began sucking hard and
slowly inched my lips up the shaft of his dick as I pulled lightly on his
ball sac.  I stroked the underside of his head with my tongue and then
pulled my lips off his cock.  I opened wide and took the whole of his shaft
again, burying his head once more in the depths of my throat, and again
slowly pulled my tight lips off of it.  I repeated the process,
deep-throating, sucking and receding; he rewarded me with a sharp intake of
breath every time his head popped out of my mouth.

I looked up at him, wrapped both hands around his cock, and started milking
it as I'd seen him do.  He was enjoying the treatment.  His broad, muscled
chest was rising and falling in time with his quickening breathing, his abs
tightened in mild spasms as I worked his pleasure centres, and his eyes
were closed.  He was probably imagining I was some girl, but I couldn't
have cared less.  In fact, all my cares evaporated when, as I opened my
throat to receive him once more, he placed his hands on the back of my head
and began thrusting his hips into my face. He didn't start slowly or
anything, either; he just started ramming his cock into my mouth.  I gagged
a couple of times before I regained control of my reflex and took the
face-fucking like a champ.  I grabbed his hard ass cheeks and held on for
dear life.  I couldn't hear anything as he slammed into me but the blood in
my brain and the low, persistent moans he had begun to emit.

He ploughed me like that for what felt like hours.  His gasps and moans
increased in volume and frequency as he fucked me, as he laced his fingers
through the hair on the back of my head for a better grip.  Between the
shower-water running down into my face and the large piece of meat
repeatedly blocking my throat, I think I was actually on the verge of
drowning.  I pressed on his hip with one hand and made a fist around his
shaft with the other, thereby managing to slow his thrusting.  I made a
pretty seamless transition from sucking to jerking, and pulled my lips off
his dick to catch my breath.  I met his eyes as he looked down at me.  I'm
not convinced the face of god could be any more beautiful.

"Oh fuck, man, don't stop now," he managed between grunts.  His fingers
were still clutching my hair and he was still thrusting, fucking my fist
has he had my mouth.  "I'm gonna blow!"

I will never forget the urgency in his crystal blue eyes, or how fucking
crazy it made me.  I leaned into it, wrapping my lips around his head once
more, and sucking with everything I had.  While I jerked his shaft into my
mouth with my left hand, I decided to answer the plea of my aching cock.  I
took hold of it with my right and began stroking very slowly, pulling the
foreskin of my uncut dick up over the head, squeezing, and pulling it back
down.  I could only afford about one stroke every ten seconds because the
cum was boiling in my balls and I knew how little it would take to push me
over the brink.

I squeezed his dick hard and pressed it against my tongue as he continued
to thrust into my mouth.  I sucked with all my might as his hips bucked
more and more furiously.  His right hand let go of my hair as he leaned on
my shoulder, to compensate for the shaking in his legs.  His grunts got
louder and quicker, and I could tell he was nearing release.

"Oh fuck, man--oh fuck!  That's so good--oh, so close...  Fuck--"

That was my cue.  I took the hand off my cock, reached up and tugged on his
balls.  I pulled firmly downward as I jerked him into my mouth.

"Oh fuck--that's it!  Agh--"

At the peak of his final thrust, his entire body became solid as a rock.
His balls pulled up into his crotch and he began to unload his cum.  I
swear, if I had let him go, he would have shot clear across the room -- but
nothing in this world could have convinced me to let go of that cock.  I
just kept on jerking him into my mouth, feeling spurt after spurt as he
filled me with his hot, bitter juices.  I sucked and sucked; I tried to
swallow as much as I could, but he shot at least nine times.  My poor
little mouth couldn't contain it all and some of his cum slipped out
between my lips and dribbled down over my chin.

All this was too much for me.  As soon as I'd swallowed his first shot, I
let go of his balls and started pounding my cock.  Within four strokes, I
started to climax, and Jacob's continued shooting into my mouth pushed me
completely over the edge.  The mingled sensations of the water pouring over
me, the cock in my mouth, the spunk in my gullet and the pain in my knees
picked me up and dropped me into one of the most intense orgasms of my
life.  It lasted at least fifteen euphoric seconds, and I think the force
of my repeated shooting made a crack in the tiled wall behind where Jacob
was standing.

When I came to my senses, Jacob's dick was softening in my hand, his cum
was dripping down my face, and his weight was on my shoulders.  Apparently
he was too exhausted to stand.  He was nearly doubled over, his ass braced
against the wall and his hands gripping me as though he might fall.  We
stayed that way for nearly a minute, our ragged breathing the only sound
apart from the perpetual falling water.

Finally, he regained some of his strength and leaned back against the wall.
Though my knees were glad of the respite, I missed the feeling of his
weight on me.  With some difficulty, I stood and shook my legs out a bit.
Jacob was still just standing there, propped up against the wall.  His eyes
were closed, and his whole body was trembling in the wake of his release.

I was just thinking how beautiful it would be to hold his hard, wet body
against mine and press my lips to his, letting him taste himself in my
mouth, when he opened his eyes.  He just looked at me for a second, his
face a mask of exhausted pleasure.

I took another mental snapshot.  In my album, it sits on the page facing
the one I took earlier, and is even more prized than its counterpart.  The
title of this one is, quite simply, "After".

In silence, Jacob stepped away from the wall and walked over to where I'd
thrown his trunks.

"Well," he said, stooping to pick them up.  "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I asked.

"I told you.  Your meeting with Morden.  I think he'll be pleased to hear
what I've got to say."

"Oh right... So will I, I hope," I ventured.

Grinning, he turned and strutted out of the room.  I watched his broad,
glistening back as he walked away.

After he'd gone, I turned to face the shower and adjusted the taps.  I
stood under the cold water, letting it rinse off the cum and sweat.  The
chill rejuvenated my spent body and discouraged my cock, which was already
swelling again, this time in anticipation of my imminent acceptance to the
team, not to mention my introduction to the rest of the boys.