Date: Sun, 21 Oct 2007 21:32:47 EDT
From: Glaucon55@aol.com
Subject: Masturbation Chronices 1

The Masturbation Chronicles: Tale No. 1
Steve's Unknown Needs
By Glaucon

Disclaimer:

If you are not yet 18 years of age, or if it is illegal to read materials
of this kind where you live, then please stop now. This story is for
adults, and contains descriptions of sexual activity between teenage boys
with older men.  This story is completely fiction, all descriptions and
names are also made up, and any similarities are truly just that, purely
similarities.  These are fantasies for sexual private sexual enjoyment, not
for emulation in real life.

This current story line is entitled "The Masturbation Chronicles" and will
be a series of discreet stories focused around the theme of uncontrollable
masturbation and its consequences.  I would truly appreciate suggestions
from others for scenes or settings, and of course descriptions of real
scenes.  Often my stories have been woven from tales shared with me by
those of you who comment on my stories.  So please consider writing to me.

Please contact me at glaucon55@aol.com.


Steve Wilson was the no. 2 wrestler in his weight class at Central Florida
University; 150 lbs.  But at 5' 6" inches, that meant he was a compact,
hard body, chiseled into perfection by years of practice, sweat, and weight
lifting.  As he stood in front of his bathroom full length mirror, he
admired the nineteen years of investment he had made in body.  His feet
were broad, and surprisingly large for a guy 5'6", size 10.5.  His toes
were long and curved in, not pudgy.  His ankles were muscled and narrow
from his heels to his muscular calf, and he pronated slightly accenting the
way his toes gripped his flip-flops and grass, and rugs, whatever was
beneath his toes.  His body was thickly furred with a thatch of strawberry
curls from ankles to the tops of his thighs, turning auburn as it trailed
deeply into his ass crack.  From the dark thatch above his cock, to the
branches circling his jutting pectoral muscles, the hair remained darker
red, and then lightened on his arms and fingertips, only to darken again in
his arm pits, eyebrows, and in the roots of his otherwise strawberry blond
butch hair cut.  His blue eyes, long eyelashes, and turned up nose made him
look almost boyish, but there was nothing boyish about his cock.  Five
inches soft, straight and thick, so that when Steve threw a bone the head
on his cock looked like a fat plum, with a smooth glans, a wide flange and
deep piss lips.  Erect, Steve's cock was 7.5 rigid inches thrusting
straight out from his hanging balls, always covered with a soft sheen of
ball sweat from his sperm filled nut sack.  Steve put his arms behind his
head, and pushed out his chest, his diamond chip nipples jutting from the
edge of his pecs through the soft halo of hair that circled each one, and
sucking in his washboard stomach.  As his eyes scanned from his feet up his
legs, to his cock and navel, then up to his handsome face, Steve wondered
if others lusted for his body as much as he enjoyed looking at it.  His
cock rose, like it always did when he posed in front of the mirror, rising
slowly up and out, a pearl of clear fluid filling the pisswell and drooling
down the sensitive glans.  Steve Williams might be the no. 2 wrestler on
the Concordia, Division III wrestling team, but the body he sported was
no. 1 in the eyes of many on the campus.

Steve wanted badly to grasp his boner and begin a systematic masturbation
of the thick prong.  But his wrestling ethic and his upbringing provided a
convenient way to keep him horny, and helplessly stiff.  Each day, whether
boxers or briefs, he had to change them from the dry pre-fuck that dripped
from his fat knob.  But that's the way Steve liked it...knowing that his
body was a sex crazed machine that was always just on the edge of some
abyss of fuck indulgence, needing to spurt wads and wads of cum before he
could be calmed and sated.  Steve Williams was a walking wet dream, and he
was also walking wet...often leaking from just the hunger to cum...a hunger
that he managed so that when he did shoot his sticky starch, it would fill
a small dish.

In the library on campus, late at night studying, he would slide a hand
down under the table, under his jacket, and slowly massage his prick knob
into a frenzy, making it slick with sticky boy juice.  Sometimes he would
have to close his eyes, and put his head down, needing to continue to
masturbate in that position because the sensations on his cock head were
driving him so close.  But before he could make a mistake, he would
stop...his hands sometimes shaking from the need to squeeze his boner into
to submission.  Good Catholic boys knew it was a sin to jerk-off, and all
those years in parochial school from 12 to 18 had burned into his brain
guilt for his inability to control his sexual appetite.

Steve would wait until Friday night, or Sunday morning before Mass, to
finally relieve himself.  Sure he'd go out with the guys and drink brews,
stare at chicks, and make fuck talk on Thursday and Saturday nights.  But
he knew that what he wanted more than anything else was to fuck the pillow
or have someone sneak in to his room and tie him down and milk him.  He
could have the former, but he could only dream about the latter, and it
would make his boner throb with anticipation.

There was that time at Boy's Camp, run by the parish church when Steve was
almost twelve.  Already, he had a thick boy spike, almost four inches long
when erect, with a nice fat knob that leaked sap.  He had never cum though,
dry or wet, and learned what masturbation was that summer from his
bunkmate, Carey Larson.  Carey had the blondest hair, and the bluest eyes,
and at thirteen, he had already blossomed with a deep voice and hair on his
well proportioned teen body.  The first night, Steve had felt their
bunk-bed bouncing, and he leaned out to see what was happening.  He could
dimly see that Carey was grinding his torso on the bed above.  He quietly
slipped out of his bed, thinking that something was wrong and he should
help the boy he already admired and looked up after the first day at camp.
Carey's eyes were shut, and his hips were driving into the bed, rising and
pushing forward, his big boy feet had slipped from under the sheet and
blanket, and the long, muscular toes were flexing as he continued to force
himself against the bedding.  Steve watched mesmerized, when suddenly
Carey's eyes opened for a moment as his breathing had become labored, and
he saw Steve standing in his pajama bottoms watching him.  He looked around
furtively to see if anyone else in their six person cabin was awake, and he
put a finger up to his mouth immediately, signaling Steve to be quiet.  He
motioned Steve over to the bed, and spoke, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I was worried, I felt the beds moving, and I saw it was coming from your
bed.  I thought maybe something was wrong, maybe you were sick cause of the
way you were rolling around..." Steve said innocently.

"Fuck no... I was jerking off?  Haven't you ever screwed the bed?  Jeez
dude, now my nuts are in a knot...I gotta cum," Carey said in a
straight-forward manner, his deep voice sounding like god to Steve.

Steve knew about jerking off, and cum, he had heard about all about it from
guys as school, and their older brothers.  But he had been too shy to let
on that he had not done it, and did not know what to do.  Fortunately,
Carey broke the silence and helped Steve cross that barrier.  "Shit, you
wanna come with me to the john, we can do it together...maybe we can use
some soap?"  Carey's long legs, and size ten feet slipped over the edge of
the bunkbed silently, and down to the floor.  He waved to Steve to follow
him his, once again putting his finger to his mouth to indicate that they
had to be quiet.  But what was most conspicuous to Steve, was the way that
Carey's pajama bottoms thrust out obscenely from his crotch when he stood,
and the dark wet spot that had collected on the front of the pants.  Once
again mesmerized, Steve just followed the older boy.

Their bare feet padded into the cabin latrine on tip toes, to keep their
movement as quiet as possible.  Steve followed, trusting Carey implicitly.
The older teen motioned him into the disabled stall, required by law even
at the camp.  The light was dim, but the emergency/night light cast enough
of a glow to allow the two boys to see each other.  Carey whispered to his
new friend: "How often do you jerk it?"

Even in the darkness, Steve blushed.  He looked down to his feet as he
answered in a hushed tone: "I don't jerk off, I, ah, I never learned how."

"Dude, you haven't spanked the monkey...fuck...you don't know what you've
been missing.  I've been working my boner since I was ten...that's when my
cousin showed me.  He stayed at my house for a week during the summer, and
we shared a bed.  Jeez, he started the first night, sliding his fucking
hand inside my pajamas when I fell asleep.  When I woke up, he had given me
a boner, and had slicked up his hand with spit.  I almost yelled out, but
he clamped a hand over my mouth and told me if I wanted to be a big boy, I
should shut up.  Damn, he just kept strokin' me while he talked, and by the
time I tried to protest, he thumbed my knob till I went rigid and had a
fucking cum.  It was the best...and so I did what he said.  He made me cum
two more times that night, milking my boner like a champ, and for the rest
of that week, we jerked each other off.  He was twelve, and he could cum,
so he showed me what gism looked like.  He also showed me how to make
myself cum by rubbing my boner into the sheets.  He said it was like
fucking a cunt, so that's what I was doing.  I'll show you how to do it
with slick stuff, and then you can practice in your own bed."

Steve's boner leaked copiously as he thought back on how Carey's firm teen
hand had taken charge of his four inch pricklet, and using spit since they
had forgotten to get soap as they entered the latrine, he has grasped the
younger boy's prong after pulling it through his pajama fly, and began to
masturbate him.  Steve remembered how his eyes opened wide, and then closed
from the overwhelming sensations, as Carey's fingers slid up and down his
shaft, and his thumb rolled back and forth over the boy's sensitive glans.
Steve tried to grab Carey's hand when he concentrated attention on Steve's
throbbing dick knob, but the older boy whispered to him to stop acting like
a kid, and then pulled him around and forced Steve to rest against him.
With his back leaning on Carey's chest, the older boy also slid his free
hand up the boy's chest and found one of his nipples, stiff but previously
unexplored territory for Steve.  Again Steve gasped as Carey's fingernail
scratched across the stiff teat tip, and then gently pinched it, and forced
his pricklet into his new friends milking hand.  Steve had closed his eyes
tight, leaned back on the older boy, and gasped, his head thrashing back
and forth as his pricklet wet rigid, the glans expanded, and his boy dick
throbbed for almost fifteen seconds as Carey held him tight and made him
almost faint from the sensation.

Carey smiled as he felt the younger boy writhing against him, making his
own boner throb, and as his cousin did to him, he held Steve tight and
continued to slide his slick fingers over and over the fevered prong tip,
almost making Steve fall to the floor from the incredible tickle once he
had his dry cum.  Finally, Steve pried his friend's finger off of his still
stiff pricklet, Then Carey had whispered to him to help him out.  He
dropped his pajama bottoms to his ankles, and Steve saw the six inch dick
on his older buddy, thicker than his, and with a pale fat knob and a deep
pisswell.  He showed Steve how to lick his palm and put the younger boys
hand over his sticky prick, wet from his own pre-fuck that had leaked since
he had started rutting the bed earlier, and dripped copiously once he began
to beat off the younger boy's pricklet.

Steve followed his friend's direction and awkwardly began to slide his
smaller hand up and down the thick teen fuck stick.  As he followed the
older boy's directions, it became easier, and with the copious lube that
was drooling from Carey's cock head, Steve moved his wrist faster and
faster.  Soon, the older boy leaned back against the partition of the
stall, and thrust out his hips, letting the younger boy's fist take control
of his fevered prick.  Faster and faster Steve moved his hands, his eyes
glued to the head of the bigger boy's cock, getting red and ruddy from his
chaffing fist.  Carey closed his eyes, and bent his knees slightly as four
thick spurts of boy spunk squirted across the stall and hit the opposite
wall, then dribbled over Steve's still moving fist.  Like his mentor, Steve
refused to let go, and milked the older boy's prong until he hunched over
and finally grabbed Steve's had and pulled it off his aching cock knob,
stopping him from crying out from the agonizing tickle.

That night, after they returned to their beds, the two boys once again
rutted against their respective bedding, grinding their stiff boy prongs
into the soft material, wringing one dry cum and one wet one from each of
them.  For Steve, the idea that his friend was fucking the bed above him,
made his own pricklet throb with pleasure as he learned how to grind and to
batter his sensitive prick tip into the sheet and blanket, fucking the bed
as nature intended.  From that night on, Steve used frottage to satisfy his
constant fuck lusts, day and night.  He and Carey never played with each
other's dick's again, but even seven years later, that experience made
Steve's cock weep lube, making the material of his boxers tickle his prick
tip whenever he let his memories flood back.

Now, with Friday here, the hunky college wrestler looked to his bed for
relief.  The guys had gone to a local bar and ogled the pussy that was
there looking for prick for the night.  At least two of the guys had left
with girls who they met, the rest of the guys staring with hungry envy
knowing that their buddies would be soaking their stiff pricks in wet pussy
later than night.  The others, including Steve, adjusted their half hard
cocks during the rest of the evening, finally leaving around midnight,
drunk and horny for their respective sessions of masturbation.  Steve
walked in the door, his cock already ramrod stiff by the time he got out of
the elevator and let himself into the door of his apartment, the one-eyed
brain already focused on its pleasure.  He quickly closed the door, and
kicked off his flip-flops, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and unzipped
his shorts, sliding them and his boxers off in one movement.  His raging
erection flopped up to his stomach, splattering his hard abdominal muscles
with the sticky residue of his fuck-lube, now coating the tingling knob.

He was glad he had pissed in the bar john before he came home, because he
did not have the will to make his prick go soft now.  He moved quickly into
his bedroom, and went to the closet to pull out his favorite fuck toy, his
pillow.  The soft cushion came from a yard sale near his apartment, red, an
appropriate color for a stud fucker like Steve.  When he purchased it, he
cut a four inch slit, then used some rubber cement to seal the opening from
tearing without creating a hard edge around the opening.  Then he used
skills he had learned in a home economics class during summer school in
high school to reduce his requirements for wrestling.  He sewed a cotton
wash cloth with firm button snaps that connected it to the material around
the slit in the pillow, beyond the rubber cement lips.  Now he could remove
the soft terry cloth lining each time he used the pillow, and then return
it.  Eventually he made three replacement linings so he could wash them at
his leisure.  Now, Steve was ready.

Before he dove onto his bed, he stood before the closet door mirror and let
his beauty sink in, his thick turgid erection, his short but almost perfect
form; from his large feet to his classic face.  Steve opened the drawer to
his nightstand and pulled out a tube of lubricant.  He squirted a large
amount onto his pulsing boner watching it melt and drip on his hot prong,
and then he squirted more into the slit opening of the pillow and onto the
washcloth lining inside.  His head still heavy and groggy and reeling from
the beers he had consumed earlier.  So he half-climbed and then fell onto
his bed, sliding his hands up and down his torso and making sure to flick
his stiff teats, that caused him to groan out loud from their delicious
sensitivity.  Then he raised his hips, maneuvering the pillow under his
body and angling his slightly upcurved shaft so he thrust it into the hole
of the cushion, and began a frenzied screwing.

"Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhh fuck...oh shit, yes...yesssssss......ah jeeeeeezuz, fuck
you, you bitch, take my fat cock, take
it...aaaaaggggghhhhh..... oooooooohhhhhhhh, fuuuccckkk, oh yessssss, work
my prick you bitch, work it...!"  His throbbing prong was covered in sticky
lubricant and each thrust made it tingle with excruciating sensations that
caused the shaft to stiffen and the knob to swell.  Finally Steve had the
opportunity to say what he wanted to say every day all day long, what he
wanted to grunt and groan and cry out if his fantasy of someone taking over
his prick and milking it.  The cushion opening was just large enough to
cram his eight inch prick deeply inside, and the consistency of the filing
around the cotton lining created enough friction with the lubricated and
sticky terry cloth, to simulate a pussy or cunt, masturbating the itchy
surface of Steve's prick and making him writhe and drive his dick even
more, like some Pavalovian dog, into the pillow and down against the bed.
He had to hold onto the pillow so that he did not lose the it.  As he
lifted his hips and drove down firmly, grinding his prick into the cotton
lining, his asshole appeared between his flexing ass cheeks, revealing the
wet, dark auburn hairs protecting his itchy anal knot.  The beautiful
dimples on each of his butt cheeks, filled and hollowed as he flexed and
fucked.  Steve was fully focused on his prick grinding into the sticky
material, tickling and scrubbing his prick knob and shaft to sweet heights
of sensation.  He did not think of other parts of his body like his ass, or
his nipples, or all the other ticklish and sensitive spots from ears to
toes.  Since he was eleven and learned from Carey how to masturbate, he
indulged in this guilty pleasure on the weekends, justifying himself by the
desperate sacrifice he made waiting all week for his ejaculations.  Oh, he
would soap his prick in the shower, and tickle his knob till he was
breathless, but he denied himself the lustful cums he craved until his
appointed nights.  For Steve, driving his fuck stick into the pillow was
what he needed, what he wanted twenty-four hours a day, and finally he was
granting himself the privilege after making the requisite sacrifices for
days.  "OOooooohh fucking shit... aaaaaaahhhhhhhh, yeah, oh yeah...oh my
goooooooddddd, make me cum, make me, cum.... aaaggghhhh!" From behind
Steve's long toes bent sharply as he leveraged his muscular frame and kept
his fuck stroke going, his strong, hairy thighs making the nasty pillow
cunt pay for every day he had to wait for this fuck.

For thirteen long minutes he thrust his prick into that soft, sticky hole
working his prong tip relentlessly.  But the long days of abstinence, his
constant need and desire to ejaculate, and the sensitive cap of his fat
prick head were too much for him to continue to resist.  The time had
cum...."AAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH, SHIT, FUCK, CUNT, PRICK, OOOOOHHHH, MAKE ME,
MAKE ME CUM....OOOOOOOHHHHHH YYYEEEESSSSS ....NOOOOWWW, I GOTTA CUM, I
CAN'T HELP IT, OH FUCK MAKE ME CUM, MAKE ME CUM!" Like clockwork, volley
after volley of thick teen spooge bolted from the wide piss lips on Steve's
fat prick head.  His glans went glass smooth, and the cotton tortured him
mercilessly as his hips involuntarily continued to grind into the pillow,
until the entire wash cloth was completely soaked with the starchy, clorine
smelling gism.

Steve wanted to stop, needed to because of how sensitive his prick knob
was, but the sweet tickle was so amazing, he continued to grind his hips
into the bed, rolling the pillow around his tingling knob until he couldn't
take it one more second, and he suddenly rolled over onto his back and
pulled the sticky faux pussy off his prong.  When he did so, his shaft
stood tall, still pulsing, the whole shaft and head covered in a coating of
clear and white viscous clots of boy spunk.  Steve's chest continued to
heave, and his ass reflexively ground into the bed, even though his fucking
had ended.  He bent his legs and gripped the disheveled bedding with his
long, thick toes.  His nipples continued to just from the rounded mounds of
his pectorals, thrusting up from the halo of hair around them and animated
by his heaving chest.

He groaned one last time, closed his eyes, and after a few more gasps and
grunts, soon began to snore.  He lay nude on his bedding, a sheen of sweat
matting the hair on his torso, legs, and arms, his huge prick now softening
as it lay over his big duck egg balls, roiling in their sack and emitting
the ballsy sweat stink that makes boys, boys.  Soon enough, Steve's routine
on weekends would end, and he would find his life changed in ways he could
not even imagine.  But for the time being, Catholic jock punk and prick
obsessed, Steve Wilson had earned his weekly reprieve, and long days of
longing and need would begin again.

It was the next week that Steve's life changed forever.  He had worked hard
to make the team, but when the roster for the middle-weights was posted,
his name was not on it.  There were three at large spots on the team that
remained open, and the coach indicated on the bottom of the roster that he
would allow separate trials to determine how to fill the spots.  Steve was
determined to make one of those spots, but how would the coach determine
the tests?  Fuck, coach did not even know he existed.  How could he make an
impression?  For two days, Steve was depressed, even his half hard prick
was unable to get him excited. Then on Friday afternoon, as he showered
after a long work out with the weights, he heard someone call his name.  He
had to pause to listen a second time, because who the fuck would be calling
him at 6:00 p.m. in the showers... shit he thought he was the last person
in the lockerroom.  Then he heard the voice gain, booming his name.
"Wilson...god-damn-it, can't you hear?  Get a fucking towel and get into my
office you dumb-fuck."  It was coach, shit, what did he want....  Steve
grabbed a towel from the nearby bin, and wrapped it around his waist.  Then
he padded on his heavily muscled feet down the corridor of the lockerroom
to the coaching offices.  There was only one light on, so he opened the
door to the suite, and walked across the soft rug into the open door from
where the light was shining.  His body was still dripping water from his
hair and underarms, and he had the sweet smell of Irish Spring.  The thick
hair on his legs, ass, arms glistened.

"Hey Coach, what's up?"

"Get in and close the door Wilson...."

Steve followed the instructions, unconsciously pulling his towel tighter
around his waist.  Then he turned to face the forty year old man, with grey
sprinkled through his dark brown hair and sideburns.  His chest was covered
in dark hair with the same grey mixed among the dense mat, but his forearms
and legs which were similarly forested, were still dark and shiny.  Coach
only had on a pair of sweat pants, and his size twelve feet complemented
his 6' 3" frame.  Somehow Steve felt small in front of this man...who was
flicking the long thick toes on his crossed feet, his muscular arms resting
behind his head.  For some reason, Coach Barnwell had his dark glasses on.

"So Wilson, how're gonna make the squad?"

The question was so simple, so direct and so surprising that Steve just
stood there looking impassively at the dark glasses staring at him.
Finally, he said in a low tone, "I dunno Coach, I was hoping you could give
me some pointers and I could prepare for the test.  I really want to be on
the team Coach, so you tell me what to do and I'll get working on it...I
promise."  Steve hoped this earnest response would make the Coach think
better of him, and maybe he could find out if the test was going to be a
match with another middle-weight, or a time run, or maybe weights.
Whatever, he was ready to do what it took.  Now a slight hint of
perspiration under his arms began to join the remaining drops of soap and
shower water as the Coach's stern countenance behind those glasses unnerved
him.

"Would you do anything to make this squad Wilson, anything I asked you to
do?"  Coach's voice was steady and deep, ballsy.

"Sure Coach, you know how much I wanna be one of the guys...I worked my ass
off to get on the team...I won't stop now until you tell me I'm done."

"Well, Wilson, I know a way you can make the team...and you won't have to
bust your ass, so to speak...but I will."  Steve looked perplexed by Coach
Barnwell's comments.  The former Marine always seemed s aloof, so
distant...and now he was speaking in riddles.  "I'll give you a way to get
on the team but it's gonna be between you and men kid.  So if you want to
make the squad, knuckle me and say after me: "I Steve Willson [I Steve
Wilson], solemnly swear [solemnly swear], that I will do whatever Coach
Barnwell asks me to do [that I will do whatever Coach Barnwell asks me to
do], and I will never, never question his instructions [I will never, never
question his instructions]."

Steve didn't know why, but just the way the Coach made him swear
allegiance, and the deep voice tones of the Coach's timber, made his cock
swell slightly under his towel.  "Fuck he thought, what the fuck is that
about...Jesus Christ, I better now spring a boner now....shit..."  Now the
perspiration was forming on his upper lip, and he felt a drop roll down his
ass crack and find its way to his pink anal slit.

"Here kid, drink this little cup of whiskey, and I'll have one with ya, a
token of our mutual commitment."  Steve thought this was way strange, the
Coach offering him alcohol.  But he wasn't going to queer this deal...Coach
was giving him an opportunity to make the team, and he promised not to
question his orders.  Hell, why not toast to his good fortune, especially
if the Coach was making him a special guy on the team...hell, he'd drink
more than one toast to get that advantage.

This wasn't the first time Steve had followed instructions obediently, even
when he thought they were strange.  When he was fourteen, he attended a CYO
camp, and after hours, he had waited patiently until he was sure the guys
sleeping near him were asleep before he bunched a towel under his crotch,
and began a systematic if controlled thrusting to relieve his overwrought
boner.  His weiner was sticky with teen fuck lube, drooling from his piss
lips the moment the lights went out.  So after the appropriate time, and
the deep breathing of his near bedmates, Steve made deliberate and deep
plunges into the towel, grinding his itchy cock head into the soft cotton,
making the material swab and scrub his helplessly horny glans penis.  Then
suddenly, in the dark, his worst nightmare.  His blanket and sheet were
unceremoniously dragged from his body, revealing his pajama bottoms below
his thighs, at his knees, and exposing his strong, dimpled butt cheeks.
Steve turned over, and grasped the towel to his crotch, looking up in fear
as he tried to focus on dim figure silhouetted and looming over him.  The
hoarse but harsh whisper that followed made his realize it was young Father
Christianson.  "Steve, what in the name of the saints are you doing?  Get
out of that bed, right now, and come with me...you disgusting animal...get
up."  Steve wanted to say something, but he was so embarrassed, so
chagrinned, he just got up, and yanked his pajama bottoms up over his buns,
then followed barefoot behind the Father who walked quickly, but quietly
through the cabin.

"Get in here you sick pervert," the young father said in low, hushed tones
as he grabbed Steve's shoulder and steered him into the exercise room
adjacent to the cabins.  Steve looked down at his shapely feet, the thick
toes gripping the floor in nervous strain.  "Do you hear me, you little
bastard, what were you doing in that bed?  What were you doing?!"  What
Steve did not know was that under his tunic that hung down over his slacks
and crotch, the young father was sporting his own thick stiffie.  From the
time he went into the priesthood, the young Father fought with his demons,
and one of them was his uncontrollable lust for men and boys.  And standing
before him was this beautiful physical specimen, his turgid nipples
pointing out from his mounded pecs, his pajama bottoms bulging obscenely
from the rampant male member still hard from the earlier bout of frottage,
creating a wet stain on the soft, thin material.  Inside the Father's
trousers, underneath his white briefs, his eight inches of thick
Pennsylvania rural trash cock.  Like Steve, Father would retreat into his
room at night, and strip down to reveal his naturally well formed body, and
then lubricate his palm with liquid soap then begin to work his bloated
prong.  "Aaaaaaaggghhhhhhh, it felt so good to masturbate his turgid prick,
to exorcize the demons that lived within him, and to work his leaky penis
until it unloaded the wads and wads of sticky spunk that would shoot high
above his body in long ropey streams.  He would continue to punish his
unruly prick after these deliciously wicked sessions, in a post ejaculatory
guilt that continuing to manipulate his overly sensitive prick cap would
somehow assuage.  Of course, even that stroking would wring evil, nasty
writhing and grinding of his ass on the bed.  Father would milk as much
punishment as he could from his offending member, and so he would often
drag it out as long as he could without screaming out in his small
apartment from the excruciating fondling.

"Father, I'm sorry...I've got these boners, you know, guys get `em, and I
can't make them go away unless I, ah, you know, I ah relieve myself...."
Steve's voice trailed off, and he rocked from foot to foot as he spoke, his
eyes still looking down away from the Father's penetrating glare.

"I'm going to help you Steve, but you are going to have to trust me...and
do what I say.  Do you understand?"

"Okay Father, whatever you say, just don't tell my parents, I'm sorry, I'll
try harder, I won't do it again, please."

"Just do what I say Steve...."  So as Steve listened to Coach, he knew what
he had to do, follow instructions.  That night, when he was fourteen, the
Father had made him kneel on one of the exercise stools, and lower his
pajama bottoms.  Then Father took a ruler and told him he was going to
spank Steve while he milked the sin from his wicked penis.  That from now
on, every time he thought of masturbating, he would think of the pain of
being spanked and humiliated.  Steve had to put his hands behind his head,
and leaned down on the stool, he jerked and grunted as he felt the Father's
big paw close around his throbbing erection, and then the ruler hit,
"Thwack!"  Twelve straight time, Father brought the ruler down on the firm
buns of the fourteen year old hunk, and fourteen times Father's slippery
palm slid up and down the pulsing shaft and caressed the swollen knob, of
Steve's raging teenage erection.  Finally, on the twelfth swat, "Thwack..."
Steve shot ropes of boy spunk into the Father's roiling fist.  "Ooooohhhh,
oooohhhhhh.....Faaaatttthhhherrrr....pleaaassssseee... oooooohhhhh,
oooooohhhhh!" For almost half a minute after he had forced the young
athlete to ejaculate, Father Christiansen stripped the shaft and knob, over
and over, making the young boy squeal and whimper from the sensation.  Then
he stopped.

"Let that be a lesson to you Steve.  God has given you an athlete's body
and strength, and you have sinned a mortal sin.  I have given you a trial
of pain to show you that you must never do this sin again.  Man's seed is
to be shared with women in the sacred rite of procreation...not for
dissolute depravity.  So you will wash your hands for me every night of
camp, before dinner as I watch, to make you remember how nasty you have
been.  Now, go to bed."  Steve whimpered from the stinging sensation on his
ass, and pulled up his pajama bottoms, brushing his sensitive glans at the
same time, causing him to hunch.  But he followed the Father's orders, and
went back to his cabin and fell into a deep and fitfull sleep.  But back in
the exercise room, a trembling Father burst into ejaculation as he brought
his sticky palm to his face, breathed in the starchy, clorine scent of the
boy sperm, and then involuntarily licked his palm to taste the tangy sauce.
Oh God, he thought, what an animal I am, an animal...."

Now, standing in front of Coach Barnwell, Steve was ready to do what he had
to earn his keep, and be accepted on the team.  He was a good boy, the kind
of boy that all men want to marry their daughters, and he was ready to
prove that to his Coach.  The burning taste of the whiskey he swallowed too
fast hid the mixture coach had prepared for him...a combination of Viagra
and a roofie that made Steve sway a bit on his feet, feel light-headed, and
fuck...his cock was beginning to erect fully under his towel.  He placed
his hands down at his crotch, to make sure that his prick would not burst
through the opening of the towel folds, and humiliate him in front of the
coach.  But even as he felt like he might faint, he could see the coach
looking at him with a kind of crooked smile from behind his dark
glasses...."

Coach Barnwell had been waiting for this chance, for this opportunity to
put one of his boys under his thumb.  From high school, through twelve
years in the Marines, and then as a married man and coach at three
different schools, he had walked the straight and narrow, except once.  And
now, he was going to recapture that one time, but on his terms.  Twenty
years earlier, when he was 25 years old and a master sergeant, Brison
Barnwell was assigned to an arrogant Lt. in Supply Division.  Brison wanted
to be assigned to one of the armored divisions, or armaments.  But instead
he had been sent to Supply and to this tight-assed blond punk, Lt. Arness
Cameron III.  The Lt. was 30 years old, and had pale blue eyes that were
cold as steel.  Barnwell hated him after one week, and now, ten weeks
later, he was in his room stripped naked, blindfolded, on his knees with
his legs tied apart to the bed posts and his hands cuffed behind him.  A
film of sweat covered his hairy torso...knowing what was coming.

Cameron had discovered that Barnwell had been giving himself extra leave
and signing the Lt.'s name so he could go to town and meet his girlfriend
for a regular screw session.  For Barnwell, the relief of fucking his
girlfriend and asserting his manhood made it bearable to go and face his
shit-head superior, Cameron.  Worse yet, was Cameron's stature.  The prick
was only 5'8"...tightly built, and a mere runt from the perspective of
Brison.  But when the cool Lt. confronted him with the evidence of his
wrong-doing, and gave him the choice of resigning from the Marines or
spending a night with him for some "old fashioned" discipline, Barnwell
tightened his jaw, ground his teeth, and accepted the offer.  Now he was on
the bed in his room, stripped and bound, and ready to be humbled...all 6'2"
of big boy Marine.

Lt. Cameron was the youngest and smallest of three sons of a career Army
man.  His brothers, three and five years older had always teased him for
being the smallest and the weakest...his mother's favorite, her baby.
Whenever his parents were away, his brothers would make his life hell.
When he was eleven, they found out he was ticklish and they would gang up
on him, stretch his arms over his head, and while one would hold his arms,
and lock his legs, the other would move from his armpits, to his stomach,
to his knees and finally his feet and make him squeal with laughter and beg
for mercy.  When they discovered that the tickling made his four inch
pricklet turn into a rigid spike, they lubricated their fists and one would
masturbate him while the other tickled.  Arness hated the torture and
learned to love the masturbation....so much so, that he began to fantasize
how his brother's pricks' would look erect and feel if he could masturbate
them.  He would slick up his firm pricklet at night in his bed and
masturbate furiously wondering if his brothers felt the exquisite shooting
sensations and prickling when his boy fist slid over his bloated mushroom
cap.  Over the years, he would hide out hoping to sneak a peak at his
brothers when they jerked off their big boy pricks.  He caught his second
brother only once, when his older brother was out on a date, and after he
had come home from hanging out with his buddies.  Arness snuck down the
hallway and looked through the keyhole to see his well built brother lying
naked on his back, his feet hanging over the bed and planted on the floor,
and his fist sliding up and down his bloated shaft, and palming the
cockhead.  After ten minutes of frenzied jerking, using his free hand to
pull on his low hanging nuts, and to palm his chest and pecs, Arness saw
the thick ropes of sperm jettison from his brother's thick, fat prick.
Even as he watched, his own fist was gripping his turgid pricklet through
his pajama bottoms and sliding the soft material over the aching knoblet.
As his brother groaned and shot wads of sperm, Arness felt his own little
erection throb and pulse through a satisfying dry cum that made him squeeze
his legs together tight.  He would later see his older brother with his
girlfriend out in the driveway, late one night, driving his even bigger
boner in and out of the girl's tight quim, making her moan and toss her
head, as he sucked her rigid nipples, and fucked her senseless.  He pulled
out just before he came and she put a cloth over his spurting knob, milking
the sticky gism from the quaking penis, and making his brother writhe as
she cleaned him up and prevented the copious juice from soiling the car
seat.  Arness grew up, and kept his secret.  But when he got into the
military, he found a wealth of brainless boys whom he could dominate by
virtue of his rank.  Many a big boned straight boy had been reduced to a
whimpering dog, licking the feet of Arness Cameron III.  He rarely went
after the same man twice, and tonight, having the condescending big body of
his jerk sergeant, Brison Barnwell, was just what his leaky prick needed.
There was nothing like brining down big boys, boys like his brothers.

Barnwell was sweating now...drips of his fear leaking from under his
armpits and the dense bush there, to the table top.  The hair in his ass
crack was wet, wet from the drops of sweat that were dripping down his deep
crack from his lower back.  Suddenly, he felt the hand of his nemesis on
his neck, holding him steady...and down.  Then a thick, stubby finger was
trolling between the lush hair in his anal crack, rooting down to find his
half inch long, ragged slit.  "Fuck...no...not that...oh Jesus Christ...not
that, noooo, nnnooooooo...." Barnwell prayed.  Cameron spoke, "Open your
mouth fuck-face."  Barnwell turned and was going to tell the little shit to
fuck himself, and when he opened his mouth a ball-gag was inserted and
swiftly buckled behind his head.  He yelled, but all that came out was a
muffled....."AAAWWWWWWWWWGGGGGGGGG!"

"Now, you big dicked numb-nuts, I'm going to give you some special training
that will make you get closer to your `inner' feelings, so to speak."  His
hand went back to Barnwell's neck, and his curious digit went back to
scratching the nether lips of Barnwell's ass pucker...a place where no man
had gone before.  "Yeah, that's it big guy, squirm and buck a bit...I like
seeing those long toes curl up...ya scared...don't be.... I'm going to make
you feel amazing."  Cameron's blunt index finger used the perspiration in
Barnwell's crack to lubricate its insistent prodding of the resistant
portal.  He was patient, patient to a maddening distraction and to
Barnwell's eternal regret.  After ten minutes of tickling, scratching and
pushing, the thick fingertip slipped inside when Cameron strategically
reached under Barnwell and pinched one of the turgid nipples that had been
unmolested to that point.  Barnwell gasped in shock from the amazing
sensation at his rarely touched nipple, and forgot the stout defense of his
anus.  When the finger slipped in, Barnwell tried to break it...he clenched
his muscular glutes and squeezed as hard as he could.  But the ruthless
Lt. only laughed at his efforts, and waited him out.  When he finally
weakened, the finger slid in further, and further until it reached the
straight sergeant's fuck nut.  When his finger pad slid over the donut deep
inside Barnwell, the Sergeant squealed in pain and then groaned in...in
something Barnwell had never felt, did not understand.  In moments, he
realized that his penis was throbbing between his legs.  As he struggled to
come to terms with the sensations making him twist his hips, and even drive
toward the nasty finger fucking him, he heard something that made him feel
faint.  There was a buzzing-whirring near his ear... Cameron has switched
on a small vibrating dildo, and was running back and forth over Barnewell's
neck and ears.  The buzzing and the rubbing, deep up his rectum, made
Brison's pulsing boner drool copiously beneath him, creating a pool of fuck
lube that made his prick knob tingle as it slid back and forth in the
sticky residue on the smooth surface of the table.  By the end of the
evening, Barnwell had cum three times, the first from the slender vibrating
prod, and twice later from the thick cudgel of Cameron's unrelenting prick,
pronging the sergeant as the Lt.'s fist squeezed and milked his boner until
it spit and spit scum on the table.  From that night on, Brison Barnwell
hid his shame, and his lust.  Like Lt. Cameron, Brison Barnwell had
discovered something inside him that he wanted to feel again, but this
time, from the other side, the side of the top, not the bottom.

Steve Wilson was about to learn how long his coach had been waiting to take
another male of short stature, and dominate him into becoming his punk.
The effects of the whiskey shots, laced with both Viagra and the date-rape
drug were having an effect on Steve.  He felt drunk and dizzy, but his
towel kept inching open more and more, as his prick filled out, and began
to leak.  Shit, he pressed his hand more firmly to keep his erection from
showing, but the way his head felt, it seemed hard to concentrate.  "Ah,
Coach...I'm feel weird, can I sit down..." Steve asked, needing a place to
sit and then press his unruly boner down between his legs.

"Don't be a stupid fuck, Wilson...put your hands back behind your
head...both of `em, and spread your legs like `parade rest.' Do it Wilson,"
the Coach ordered without a cold, steely basso.  Steve began to rock on his
feet, his head swimming and his eye lids getting heavy, but his cock was
out of control.  When he lifted his hands back to his place them behind his
head, he almost stumbled, and worse yet, his thick, hard weiner poked
through the towel, it angry red head wet and sticky with his clear lube.
In almost a trance, he watched as the rigid prick climbed, pushing the
towel folds apart as it rose, and aiming up towards his Coach who sat in
the chair, expressionless behind those dark glasses.  At the same time,
even though he felt faint, it seemed to Steve that he could see something
happening in Coach's sweats...the thick cotton material was tenting, and it
seemed like a flagpole was rising in Coach's crotch.  Steve swallowed hard,
his throat going dry, his head beginning to sway and bob on his neck and
shoulders.

"You're horny Steve, look down at your prick, sticking out of your towel
like a faggot flagpole...look at it Steve...."  Coach Barnwell said evenly,
and without a hint of surprise.

Steve looked down at his angry erection, throbbing and leaking.  He blushed
deeply, but felt too weak and dizzy to do anything.  He moved awkwardly to
cover his boner, but Barnwell ordered him to keep his hands behind his
head.  Steve groaned out loud, and his head leaned backwards, eyes closed,
and his hips reflexively thrust out, droplets of his sticky lube dropping
from his wide pisslips to the floor below.  "Coach" he moaned, "please
coach, I can't....I can't stop it...jeeez...I dunno, I dunno why it's
happening Coach, please, lemme put some sweats on, pleeeaaaaasssseeee."

"You're a fuckwad Steve, a big dicked punk who needs to be supervised.  I
bet you play with that nasty fuck stick every chance you get...that right
Steve, are you a jerk-off?  Tell me, boy...you play with that dick all the
time...you wanna play with it...?"  Coach Barnwell knew that the
combination of drugs he had given Steve, the Viagra, the whiskey, and the
roofie, were all making him helpless to do anything but what the Coach
wanted.  Plus, Barnwell knew the kid wanted desperately to be on the team,
and to please him...he had little Steve Wilson just where he wanted him.

Steve continued to moan softly, and when the Coach asked if he was a
masturbator, like a man taking a lie-detector test, his prick fully erected
and pulsed, more lubricant drooling out of the lips and dripping down to
the floor.  Finally, Barnwell smiled, he knew he'd hit the nail on the
head.  "Coach, I know it's not right...I try Coach, I try to be good.  I go
to mass, I go to confession...but, jeez Coach, a guy's got needs.  I can't
be a monk.  I don't fuck chicks like some douche bag, so I try to be
good...."

"What do you do Steve, how do you masturbate...." the Coach insisted.

"Aw fuck Coach, pleaaasssee, I don't wanna say...please Coach" Steve
begged.

But Barnwell was unrelenting.  "I told you Wilson, you had to follow my
orders, do whatever I asked.  If you can't keep your word, then get outta
my office."  He was closing the trap.

"Jesus Christ...I dunno...common Coach, don't make me talk about this
stuff, I wanna be on the team, I want to be team player Coach, but
jeezus....you know...guys don't talk about this kind of stuff..."  Even as
Steve spoke, his prick throbbed and drooled more...the knob fully covered
in the sticky residue of his lube, beginning to itch as the goop on the
edge of his glans, around the flange, began to dry.  He wanted desperately
to touch his cock, but Coach had given him orders, so he stood upright as
best he could, his thick boy tool obscenely thrusting out towards the Coach
as he sat in his chair, his own erection tenting his sweats and making a
wet spot where his cock head was rubbing against the soft, scratchy cotton.

"Wilson, I want you to stick the index finger of your right hand in your
mouth and suck it...get it nice and wet."

"Steve opened his eyes and stared vacantly at Coach Barnwell...confused.
Why did he want him to suck his finger.  Anyway, it saved him from having
to describe to the Coach how and when he masturbated.  Reluctantly, almost
like a little kid, Steve put his thick digit into his mouth and suckled on
it, savoring the rough texture of the fingertip and letting his tongue lave
it in an almost erotic act of fellatio on a finger.

"Now Steve, I want you to follow my instructions exactly.  Listen
closely...I want you to take that finger and using it with our thumb, I
want you to take your right nipple between your index finger and thumb, and
role your tit.  As you do it, I want you to start slowly, and in detail,
and tell me how you masturbate that big fucking dick of
yours...understand?"

"Ooooooohhhhhhh shit....please coach....aaaaawwwwwww fuck....Steve's head
was really swimming.  But like an obedient son, his finger moved as if it
had volition of its own and joining his thumb, reached down and grasped his
already erect and coned nipple thrusting out of the mounded pec.
"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh" he groaned as the ticklish sensation of his fingers
twisting the turgid tit flesh made him shift from one foot to the other,
his head turning back and forth, and his fingers tightening, making the
whorish tit even more demanding of attention.

"Now speak you dickwad...tell me how you jerk your big dick...."  Barnwell
let his tongue slide across his lips, moistening them, his breath coming a
bit faster as he watched the young jock perform lewdly for him, the kid's
huge prick pulsing with each twist of the nipple, and the lube drool
dropping every few seconds from the fat, sticky plum knob.

Slowly, and reluctantly, Steve described how he would fuck the pillow, and
bring himself to shattering ejaculations on the weekends.  As he did so, he
was continuing to twist his stiff teat, grunting and groaning as he talked
about his uncontrollable masturbation.  The more he talked, the easier it
became, and his cock ached from the need to play with it...but Coach
Barnwell never gave him permission to do anything but flick his tit.  By
the time he finished talking, the Coach had him working both nips, pinching
them gently, and scratching his thick fingernails across them.  When he got
to the point where he described his cum, his hips involuntarily bucked and
the towel fell to the floor, revealing his heavy, hanging balls, and the
full boy prong, hard and wet.

Coach made Steve get down on his knees and crawl over to him.  The boy's
bubble butt thrust out behind him, while his thick prong swayed,
splattering lube on his thighs and the floor as he crawled over to do his
master's bidding.  Coach's heart was beating fast, even as his expression
remained cold and blank behind his dark glasses.  The kid was surrendering,
doing his bidding, giving him the kind of prick slave he had longed to have
when he masturbated in the shower, or watched the boys getting dressed
after practice or matches.  He had never acted on his desires, but there
was something about this jock punk a vulnerability, a naiveté, a dumb
innocence that made him so ripe, so perfect to meet Brison's needs.  When
he finally got between Barnwell's outspread knees, Brison lifted one of his
muscled feet still damp from his shower, and using his thick big toe, he
etched the features of the handsome athlete's face, his toenail gently
scratching the nose, eyes, ears, chin, Adam's apple, and finally, his lips.
Then he forced the big toe into Steve's mouth and in a hoarse, husky
whisper ordered the boy to look him in the face as he suckled on the thick,
hairy digit.  Barnwell remember how his cock lurched and dripped when
Lt. Cameron's thick toes were forced into his mouth to service.  It was
disgusting, it was nasty, it was pathetic, and his cock never felt so hard
as when Cameron would slide the thick big toe into his mouth, brush over
his teeth, scratch his upper palate, and stroke his tongue.  Now he had
this hard dicked wrestle jock on his kness sucking his toes.  Steve was too
far gone to do anything but comply.  He was mesmerized by Coach Barnwell as
he had been by Father Christensen and his teenage camp buddy, Carey Larson.
For some reason, Coach's big toe fucking his mouth made him feel so horny,
so ready to cum...he could hardly breathe.  Steve had been bred for sexual
domination, and finally, a man was taking control of his uncontrollable
needs and desires, a man who could help him supervise his big boy boner.

Later, after Steve had sucked both sets of toes on Coach's big feet, Coach
grasped him by his hair and pulled him up to sniff the crotch of his
sweats.  The heavy starchy scent of ball sweat made him feel faint, but was
nothing compared to what he had to do next.  Coach lifted his hips, and
ordered the subservient jock punk to pull his sweat pants to his
ankles...and then to service him like the faggot he was.

"Yeah, that's it Wilson...look at that cock, a man's big fat cock...that's
what you want, and that's what you need, in your mouth and in your ass.
Brison's big huge curved scimitar with is oversized knob, was sticky with
lube.  The thick cock root led down to a forest of thick hair.  The
circumcision scar was wide and wet with the Coach's sap. Barnwell lifted
his big legs and draped them over the arms of the stuffed chair, exposing
his hairy balls, drooling prick, and hairy asshole.  Barnwell had a long,
ragged split between his ass cheeks, clean and pink, buried in a forest of
hair and now wet with sweat from watching Steve Wilson debase himself.
"Lick it, Wilson...lick my hairy hole...show me just how much you want to
be my boy!"  Barnwell let his head rest back on the back of chair, his
fingers tweaking his tits, as the nasty scene unfolded and like a zombie,
Steve moved into to lave the Coach's anal slot.

Grunting from the intoxicating scent of the ball sweat, Steve closed his
eyes and let his long tongue snake out from his parted lips and troll
through the wet hair until it found the tight split of Coach's anus.  He
heard the big man groan helplessly from the sensation of the boy's tongue
dragging back and forth, and probing into the surrendering lips of the
asshole.  Coach's head was lolling back and forth, his tits were stiff
rivets thrusting out to meet his rough fingers as they tweaked and tugged
on the sensitive tips.  Steve's nose was resting under the Coach's heavy
nut sack, and the slimy balls, only just wet with ball sweat after his
shower and while watching the jock submit, made Steve feel helpless.

"Lick my balls, Wilson...yeah...oh fuck yes...lick `em....yeah, like
that...drag that nasty tongue of yours over my spooge sacks...oh shit...so
good...sniff `em Wilson...smell what pussies like to smell when I fuck
`em...smell by big nuts, oh yeah..... You're no better than the cunts I
fuck Wilson...you want my big body, want to service me, to please me... oh
fuck yes, that's what you are, a boy cunt with an oversized clit between
your legs.  Well, I'm gonna make sure you get what you need, and not let
you scratch that itch too much...cause cunts like you are spunk hounds, and
we can't let you get too much.  You'll lose concentration and become any
old whore.  No, I'm gonna train you Wilson, train you good."  Coach
Barnwell panted as he spoke, the boy's velvet tongue thrilling him and
making his cock throb.  Perspiration was beginning to drip from Brison's
temple, form over his lip and under his nose, join with his deodorant under
his arms.

The Coach's dirty talk only made Steve more drunk and horny, more unable to
control himself... he was lost in the smell and the power of Barnwell's
body.  It was a short route from the heavy, hairy testicles up the cock
ridge, to the spongy, fat knob of Barnwell's prick and the sensitive
circumcision scar.  Coach made Steve grasp the boner and hold it up and
away from his stomach, so Steve could stare at the Coach at the same time
he licked and swabbed the sticky, drooling knob of Brison's turgid prick.
When Steve was ordered to close his mouth around the fat glans, and suckle
it like a popsicle, Brison thought he might ejaculate...his toes curling
reflexively from the tingling sensation and the awful tickle.  But he
gritted his teeth, and squeezed his ass muscles until the sensation was
suppressed; only a little of his sperm burped out, and the closed his eyes
tightly as the boy twisted his head back and forth, slashing his tongue as
instructed by Barnwell to worship the pulsing prick knob and make the big
man ache for his ejaculation.

For Barnwell, the torture of allowing Steve to rape his cock knob was the
kind of pain and pleasure he loved, craved.  No woman had been able to
satisfy him, none could give him the thrill of being serviced like
this...like making the memory of Lt. Cameron get on his knees and suck his
cock.  Then, he ordered Steve to do something no one had done since
Cameron...he ordered the boy to lube his middle finger with Barnwell's own
cock lube, and then slowly, very slowly, put it in his ass.  Barnwell had
been waiting, needing, to feel something up his ass since the days of
Lt. Cameron's supervision of him.  He never forget the sweet ache of the
smaller man's thick, blunt fingers, prying into his rectum and seeking his
fuck nut, masturbating him from the inside out.  Just the thought would
make him clench his ass cheeks and squeeze his anus shut...and then, when
he was showering, he would soap and slip a pinkie in...making his cock go
hard and start to leak, just from the sensation of touching his anus, much
less penetrating it.  Now, as the boy suckled his over-wrought cock knob,
he flexed his toes as Steve's now lube coated fuck finger, slid ever so
slowly into his rectum...twisting and rubbing the walls until he found the
rubbery donut of the older man's prostate.  Gently, as instructed, Steve
rubbed the achey spot, unaware of how tightly Coach Barnwell was curling
his toes.  He did see the Coach reach up and twist his own tit so Steve's
other hand could hold Coach's cock steady as the jock punk worked his lips
relentlessly over the fevered glans of Barnwell's prick knob.

"Yesssssss.....oh fuck yes....you slimy Catholic runt-cunt....suck my fat
dick and fuck my ass, oooooohhhhhhhhh yeeeeeaaaahhhhh....oooooooohhhhh
ffffuuuuuuccccckkkkkk....!"  Barnwell tightened his ass muscles as his
ejaculation worked from the base of his balls and the sweet spot in his
rectum, up the cock root to the bloating glans penis and the ticklish
circumcision scar...expanding the overwrought tip and making it go glass
smooth.  The Coach's deep piss lips split open and rope after rope of
thick, viscous, white sperm bolted into Steve's siphoning mouth, his Adam's
apple bobbing as he swallowed, his eyes now closed from the humiliation of
being on his knees, sucking another man's prick and drinking his baby juice
as if Coach could get him pregnant from the thick sticky stuff just by
swallowing it.

Fifteen minutes later, Steve was on the Coach's desk, his head resting on a
towel, his feet tethered to the corners, his ass up and his cheeks spread.
Now it was Steve's turn to clench his toes and curl them tight in
anticipation.  Right behind Steve, Barnwell was rubbing his still erect
prick, back and forth against the split of Steve's tight boy quim...making
the teenager gasp and wheeze from the impending fuck.  Brison ordered the
boy to push out on his anus as if he was shitting, and as he did so, the
fat plum of Barnwell's prick knob pushed past the sphincter and popped into
the prostrate boy's rectum...snaking in, in search of his virgin prostate.
Barnwell reached round and opened a bottle of popper under the hapless
athlete's nostrils, rendering him weaker than the roofie and Viagra had
already man him; making his head swim even more.

"AAAAWWWWWWWW.....FUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK....COACH, AAAAGGHHHHHH, COACH, NO,
NO...OOOOOOOHHHHH GOOOOODDDDD DDDDAAAAMMMNNNN....AAAAAHHHH!" Steve
surrendered, and let Coach Barnwell slide his bloated prong deep into the
boy's sundered ass, screwing him in a steady rhythm and making sure to bang
against his sensitive and until his moment, untouched prostate.  The Viagra
had kept his prick wet and stiff, and finally, someone was touching it.
While coach used one hand to reach under the boy's chest and pinch his
tits, he used his other hand to form a corkscrew motion around the sticky
knob of Steve's unruly boner.  His calloused fist worked the sensitive boy
glans, making him wheeze and whine from the ticklish sensation, his
fingernail gently scratching the circumcision scar, making Steve's glans
bloat reflexively just from the sensation. And as his cock head expanded,
the Coach's fist twisted it mercilessly, torturing squeals from the big
dicked jock and making him beg for more.

"Oh yeah boy...that's it, be my slut...yeah, that's it Wilson, I'm gonna
make you my dog and yer gonna lick my balls, suck my toes, and drink my
spunk whenever I tell you to, and yer gonna get to be on the team so you
can do it when I want it.  Like that boy, like the way I'm fucking your
tight hole, and rubbing that needy knob...ooooohhhh yeah, you like that,
grunt for me baby...beg...beg for what you need!"

"AAAGGGGHHHHH, COACH, PLLLLLEEEEZZZZZEEEE....OOOOOHHHH GOOOODDDD, HELP
ME....HELP ME....AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH, YYYEEEESSSSSSSSS, THERE, PLEASE RUB ME,
JERK ME COACH, MILK ME......AAAAAGGGHHHHHH!"  Steve surrendered, just as he
had for Carey, for the good Father, and in his bedroom every weekend to his
pillow.  Steve's bloated prick knob was mauled in the roiling fist of Coach
Barnwell, his palm rough from weight-lifting and hard work that made his
pudgey fist the perfect prison for a boy's helpless, unruly glans.  Panting
like a dog and then gasping for breath, Steve's prick swelled on last time,
the knob becoming like a glass ball, then he squirted cum like he was
pissing, firing ropes of the sperm across the desk top, wetting the entire
surface and filling the air with the chlorine smell of teenage spunk.
Steve' squealed and squealed like a pig when the coach would not release
his knob, and continued to strip and palm it after the boy had cum.  He
fucked the boy for two more minutes, the tightening of the boy's rectum
when he came and from the relentless palming of his too sensitive cock
knob, bringing Barnwell close to his second cum in an hour... but it was
the whining and writhing boy beneath him that made him reach the plateau
his had wanted to climb.  Steve was unable to go soft after he had cum
because the Coach just kept working his helpless knob, and his brainless
cock would not go soft.  The teenage jock's cries for mercy were music to
Brison's ears, and he picked up the speed of his fuck, thrusting deeply and
firmly until the tingle came again, his cock went rigid and the cock head
bloated within the gripping, tight confines of Steve's rectum.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK.....YES, YES.....OOOOOHHHHH GOD
DAMN....YOU FAGGOT PUNK....I NAILED YOU, YER MY CUNT DUMP....AAAAAHHHH,
YEEEESSSSSSSS....OOOOOOHHHHHH FFFUUUCCCKKKK YEEEEESSSSSSS!"

That was the beginning of Steve Wilson involuntary servitude.  For three
more years he was Brison Barnwell's personal fuck punk...servicing the
coach discreetly.  Steve never showered with the team, except on road
trips, because his cock was caged and bound under his clothes.  Brison
never let Steve play with himself.  He could only piss through the mesh
cage, but the little lock underneath his balls kept hiM carefully
constrained and constantly horny.  He was able to achieve almost a full
erection, but not enough to achieve ejaculation.

His usual method of ejaculation was to be on his knees leaning backwards on
Brison's desk, his torso angled backwards towards his feet, with one hand
supporting him while the other masturbated in front of the coach.  Barnwell
liked to make the boy feel like a child, reduce him to a teenage punk who
masturbated in front of others because he was unable to manage his own
cock.  Sometimes Steve would have to do it with a batting glove coated in
lubricant focused only on his engorged cock knob and dragging squeals and
grunts from the helpless teen who was addicted to playing with his own cock
since that was the only sex he was allowed.  Sometimes Brison would make
Steve use a soft bristled brush, torturing his lubricated glans until he
spurted ropes of teen gism from the agonizing tickle of the cruel bristles.
Other times, Steve would be required to use a latex cunt, fucking it as a
substitute for the real pussy he would not be allowed to enjoy.  But
whatever the method, Steve was never allowed to cum on his own.  There were
times he would have to piss and shit in front of the coach, and he often
received enemas, self-administered while the Coach supervised.  Then after
he had been given an opportunity to cum, he would turn around and surrender
his asshole to the Coach's thick prong...letting himself get fucked into
another cum with his constantly erect prick being milked again, and
sometimes two more times before the coach ejaculated up his rectum.

Masturbation had led to Steve Wilson's surrender, and his sexual
enslavement.  An undersized boy jock, with a big bone and a need to cum,
had been captured by his inability to control the urges and demands of his
penis.  By the time he graduated, with two years of varsity letters and
three years on the team, and a grade-point average that would get him into
a master's program at a middling Midwestern university, Steve was fully
managed and manageable, especially if you had hold of his prick.  Over
time, a number of strong, big men would relieve the hunky former wrestler
of that responsibility.