Date: Mon, 28 Nov 2005 21:28:18 -0600
From: f.elliott <feebee3@houston.rr.com>
Subject: Athlete Tutor

I was nervous as I sat in the outer office of the Athletic Director. I'd
answered an ad in the college paper and come for the interview.  I was a
second semester freshman on academic scholarship, but that didn't provide
me with all I needed--I needed some cash, spending money if I was going to
really enjoy the total college experience.

I'd done some track in high school and had tried out for the swim team, but
I never made any of the varsity teams.  However, there were two main
benefits that I took full advantage of: the use of the weight room and
training facilities, and the eye candy in the showers afterwards when those
jocks were washing off the sweat and dirt of practice.

	In particular I was remembering Brandon, the halfback.  He was
gorgeous!  I guess he knew it and knew that I enjoyed it because he seemed
to always give me a show.  As he showered, he'd keep brushing at his dick
and balls until they became semi-hard. I'd be standing there trying to hide
my full-blown erection.  Every now and then he'd turn around and smile.  I
blushed and tried to think of anything that would get my thick 7 inches to
settle down. I was thinking about the time I was late getting to the
showers.  He and I were alone.  Only this time he wasn't just sporting a
semi-hard, but a full blown erection.

	"You want to touch it, don't you?" he'd said.

My reverie was broken by a deep voice, "Brad, come in."  It was the
Athletic Director inviting me in for my interview. He was a tall,
broad-shouldered man in his fifties, balding, with big wrinkles at his
eyes, probably from lots of squinting in the sunshine during a practice.
He'd been the head football coach before becoming Athletic Director.  I
could tell he'd once been quite muscular, but deskwork had added a layer of
fat on top of the once-toned muscle.

	I got the job because I was good in a wide variety of subjects from
English and foreign languages to math and science.

	"Your first job is a tough one," the older man said, rubbing his
chin, "You know the all ACC linebacker we've got.  We need him bad for our
defense, but he's not making the grades to keep eligible.  He's not the
sharpest knife in the drawer, but he can run down quarterbacks without even
breathing hard. He'll be All-American for sure--that is if we can keep him
eligible.  He needs lots of help, particularly in his English class."



The Linebacker

	Later that day somebody knocked on my dorm room door.  It was
he--Paulo D'Amico--dubbed the Italian Stallion from Paterson, N.J. I was
looking higher, expecting someone taller. He was a good three inches
shorter than I--around 5'9, but the rest of him looked like it belonged on
someone 6'5.  He had a big smile on his face as he introduced himself.  His
curly black hair surrounded large brown eyes.  He really didn't have a
neck--he was so muscled up.  His clothes were strained to cover the
well-developed body. He was wearing a white t-shirt that fit him like a
second skin and short gym shorts so tight there was little left to the
imagination.  And mine was running overtime.  I had to force myself to
maintain eye contact with him and not stare at the body under those eyes.

	We got down to work.  I was glad I'd been wearing baggy sweats
because I had the boner of all boners the whole time.  When he sat down to
start working, a hint of a hairy ball snuck out.  We spent a couple of
hours working on a paper he had to write.  He was concentrating very hard
on what we were doing and kept rubbing against my leg.  We got the paper
outlined and I showed him what resources he needed to research.  Then we
made an appointment for the end of the week.

	I was studying for an exam when Paolo burst into my room waving a
raft of papers. "I got a C+!  Can you believe it?  A C+.  He was bubbling
over with joy, then got very serious, his brow furrowing underneath the
mass of black curly hair. "Now we have to start work on the big paper I
have to write.  The C+ got me out of failing, but this paper's worth 50% of
the grade and I don't know where to start.

	For the next several weeks we worked together and he became more
and more discouraged. I even did some of the library work for him, but he
just couldn't get it written.  He'd come in with some drafts, but they
weren't going to cut it.

	Two weeks before the paper was due he came at the scheduled time.
But this time he was shirtless.  I was mesmerized by his muscles rippling
as he moved.  And his gym shorts were even tighter if that were possible.

	He got a big smile on his face, groped his crotch and said, "I'm
not so smart on academic things, but I've got a lot of smarts in other
areas.  I'm just an Italian street punk who has a talent for football.  I
got street smarts and I've been watching you watch me.  I know what you
want.  Here's the deal, you write me the paper and you get this," he said
fondling his basket and tweaking his already erect nipples." I was floored,
but managed a nod of agreement.

	I buried myself in researching and writing his paper.  It was tough
to make it acceptable, but not so good that it would draw attention.
Finally I thought I had just the paper that was mediocre, but would do the
trick.

	A few days later he came unannounced, again shirtless.  I could
tell he was starting to get aroused.  "Another C+!" he beamed as he began
slowly peeling off the tight gym shorts. Underneath he was wearing bikini
briefs that sagged with the load they were stuffed with.

	"Come here," he said as he removed the briefs.  What I saw almost
made me cream on the spot. His cock was already draped against his leg on
the way to a full-blown erection. I dropped to my knees and buried my nose
in the curly fur at the end of his pleasure trail. I breathed in his musky
scent and became intoxicated with it even before I'd laid tongue to the now
fully hard pole that greeted me.  I began dragging my tongue along the
underside of his dick, peeling back the foreskin to reveal a pinkish brown
head quickly turning red with a drop of precum sneaking out his slit.  I
licked that drop off savoring its tangy flavor while he groaned.  He lay
down on my bed with his muscular legs dangling over the side.  Slowly, inch
by inch, I stretched my mouth to encompass the meaty wonder. At first I
could only get a couple inches in my mouth.  His moans got louder.  Then
some instinctive force inside me relaxed my throat enough so that, after
several attempts, was able to take all of it in my throat and once again
nestle my nose in his curly pubes. Then I realized I was having trouble
breathing because my gullet was so filled up.

	"Breathe through your nose," he said.  It worked.  Obviously this
wasn't his first blowjob.  I ran my tongue around the head and was able to
get between the head and foreskin to run my tongue all around the head. He
grabbed my head in his hands and began to increase the pace.  His gyrating
hips synchronized with my bobbing head.  Each trip up and down his pole was
pure heaven.  His member began to get even larger and was leaking
copiously.  It was only then that I realized that my own dick was fast
reaching climax without my even touching it. He began breathing raggedly
and started making a hissing sound as he pumped jolt after jolt of man
cream down my throat.  As the spurts lessened, I felt the tingle in my own
balls that were drawn up tight. I too moaned as he finished spasming and
started spasms of my own that shot off in long ropes under the bed.

	Slowly sucking his rod clean, I grudgingly pulled my lips off that
magnificent specimen of manhood.  When I saw what I'd just taken down my
throat, I was dumbfounded.  Still staring me in the face was at least 10"
so thick I could barely encircle it with my hand.  How had I done it?

	"I'm not finished with you yet, I know there's something else that
you want--and I want too." He reached over for the gym bag I hadn't noticed
when he came in. "Let's see what goodies I have in here."  He pulled out a
tube of lube, a pack of condoms--and, to my consternation--a dildo, just a
little smaller than the real thing I'd been pleasuring.

	"Lie down on the bed," he ordered, "face down so I can get you
ready."  My ass starting twitching in fear and longing for what was next.
I couldn't see what he was doing, but soon felt the cool lube along with a
stubby finger invading my ring.  It hurt a little at first, but after a
while I realized my back was arching up to pull it deeper.  Then there were
two fingers.  They caused a slight twinge of pain, but much less than
before.  Then the third finger inserted itself and I was gyrating to greet
it. The three pleasure sources pulled out and I felt empty.  I could sense
my sphincter wanting more.  More lube followed, then something entered me
that I knew wasn't fingers--it was the dildo.  It had been well slicked and
slid right in, my muscles pulling it in greedily.

	After a few minutes of the dildo's ministrations, I felt the tingle
again.  This time it felt like it was rising up from my toes.  Crying out,
my second load emptied itself onto the tangled sheets.  As I was coming
down from that mountain peak, I heard a tearing sound.

	"Sit up," he said huskily, "I want you to do the honors with your
mouth.  He'd rolled a condom over the head of his love machine.  I realized
what he was wanting and began unraveling the rubber, rolling it onto his
stiff pole by pushing it with my teeth, my saliva easing the way. Soon my
nose was once again buried in his pubic hair.  I was reliving the musky
smell when I felt strong arms lift me up while he lay down on the bed. Arm
muscles bulging he lowered me onto his manhood.  I felt a small twinge as
the head entered me, but that passed quickly into pleasure until I was
impaled, my balls rubbing on his washboard stomach.  Deep in his throat he
gurgled a sigh of pleasure as I began raising myself, then lowering myself
to meet his rising hips. Then I tried moving my hips up and down his
stomach.  This brought more moans from him and I felt a bolt of electricity
pulse through me as the massive member touched my pleasure spot.  Our
gyrations massaged that magic place and my dick was once again at full
attention.  He put some lube on his hands and began to run his fingers up
and down my pleasure stick in sync with the gyrations that drove him deeper
into me than I thought possible.  His ministrations soon brought me to a
climax that made me limp.  My contractions stimulated his member until I
could feel the spasms fill the head of the condom deep inside my bowels.  I
crumpled over onto him our bodies glued by my cream.

	We lay there for several minutes catching our breath.  I felt him
soften and slip out of my with a gentle plop.  We got untangled and stood
up, both of us glistening with sweat.

	"I'm coming back again for more without needing you to write papers
for me," he said, smiling broadly.  And come back he did, many times.
Later I found out that he highly recommended my tutoring skills to other
athletes.

	Paolo came back one final time late the next semester.  I'd gotten
him through English, History, and Poly Sci, but calculus got the better of
us both.  So my Sicilian beauty had to return to Paterson, New Jersey from
whence he had come.



The Running Back



	I was still working with Paolo when the Athletic Director called me
in again, "I've got an easy one for you this time.  You know Jack Westin.
Well, he's got one course that's got him stumped.  He's never had any need
of tutoring until now.  This Philosophy class is the last requirement for
his major. He's a senior and needs it for graduation.  The Rams have been
calling me about him--they want him bad and he might well go in the first
round of the draft.  But there's something that's bugging me.  He seems
distracted.  Even in practice some of the time he seems in another world.
This surprises me because he's handled a lot up until now, what with being
married when he came here, handling a tough academic load, practicing
football, being a husband and a Dad.  The head coach has asked him about it
and he just shrugs his shoulders and says, `It's nothing, coach.' And turns
away. By the way, he asked specifically for you."

	The next day Jack appeared at my room.  He almost filled the door
as he came in. He was an imposing 6'4, at least 250 and muscles from head
to toe.  He was wearing geeky clothes--a windowpane plaid shirt and slacks
with tasseled loafers.  Nothing really went together.  I figured I'd also
have to give him some dressing lessons along with the philosophy.  But when
he spoke, it was so soft I had trouble hearing him.  Part of the problem
was that his chin was buried in his chest and he wouldn't make direct eye
contact.

	We set to work on the test he was preparing for.  Several times I
had to `bring him back' to the work because he'd be staring into outer
space. Finally, he spun me around to face him, "It's not Philosophy I'm
having trouble with--it's something else. He was blushing furiously as he
talked.  My wife's pregnant again and it's a difficult pregnancy.  I'm
worried sick that something will go wrong.  She's in her eighth month now
and has been told to stay in bed as much as she can.  That leaves me to
deal with Susie, our daughter, plus all the housework on top of everything
else. I can handle all that, but there's one problem..." his voice trailed
off, "Let's get back to work."  As we continued it was obvious that he
understood the material quite well, but just wasn't able to integrate it
internally enough to express his thoughts about the philosophy.

	He grabbed my arm, "I've got a problem I believe you can help me
with--that doesn't involve class work."

	This announcement had me stunned and wondering what he meant.

	"Paolo's a great friend of mine.  We used to play against each
other in New Jersey and used to go out for burgers back when I was single.
Since he's gone back to Paterson, I've really missed his friendship.
Before he left he told me a little about his work with you in many
areas--and I thought--I thought--you might be able to discretely help me.
You see, my wife and I haven't been able to have sex for five months now
because of the pregnancy.  And I'm horny as hell!  Walking by a girl sets
me off to where I hardly know where I am or where I'm going.  And during
class sex preoccupies my mind so much I'm in trouble. I can jack off, but
that just doesn't do it for me without the human body contact.  And I'm so
well known that if I did take advantage of the many offers sent my way, I'd
be so upset with myself because I've taken our marriage vows very
seriously. I was frantic until I talked with Paolo as he packed up to
leave.  Do you think you can help me?"

	Can I help you, I thought lasciviously.

	Putting on a serious face that I hoped would divert attention from
the throbbing member in my baggy pants, I said, "Yes, I think I can.  Just
lie back on the bed and let me take over.

	Carefully taking off his shoes, he hesitantly began to lie back.  I
started with the buttons on the geek shirt, slowly undoing them one by one.
I pulled his shirt out of his pants and he rose up enough to help me slip
it off.  What greeted my eyes almost made my tongue fall out of my
mouth. He a broad barrel chest that was heavily muscled and a dusting of
light brown hair on his pecs that looked like they'd been carved out of
granite.  I started with his quarter-sized nipples, taking each one in my
mouth, teasing it with my tongue and gently nipping on it. Both sprang to
full attention with just a little attention.  He stifled a moan with a huge
breath.

	Then I worked my tongue down the solid abdomen until I reached his
navel.  I swirled my tongue around it and tongued-fucked it a little.  I
happened to glance down his body and saw that my efforts were having the
desired effect: his pants were tenting up something fierce and a small dab
of wetness shown through.  I further explored his pleasure trail until I
reached his belt buckle.

	I started to undo the buckle and he tensed a little.  So I stopped
there to give him some time to get used to it.  After a while he nodded and
I resumed my work on his belt buckle, button and zipper. He lifted his hips
so I could slip his pants off.  I was surprised that he was wearing light
blue bikini briefs.  This didn't fit the image I'd expected. But that tiny
cotton material was being stretched to the max by what appeared to be a
huge dick and even huger balls. I gently traced the outline of his prong
with my finger and felt him shutter.  He arched up some indicating he
wanted things to speed up.  But I maintained my pace.  Putting my fingers
in the elastic I slowly pulled the bikinis down.  His hips were already
raised some so they came off easily. I pulled them over his feet
languorously and the sight almost took my breath away.  Staring me in the
face was a dick at least 7 inches long and more than half as wide.  It was
standing straight up with pre-cum pooling and dribbling down to rest on his
low hangers.

	I sensed his nervousness, so I began by burying my nose in his
pubes and running my tongue down the long avenue that led to his
balls. Taking each in my mouth I massaged them with my tongue and gently
chewed on each one.  With each movement of my tongue and teeth, he emitted
short hissing sounds.  His legs began to quiver in anticipation. So I set
about my serious work: I ran my tongue along the shaft from base to cut
head.  This got him to flinging his head from side to side. After tongue
bathing every inch, I lowered my mouth to just over the head and began to
blow on it without touching it.  This caused even more profusions of
pre-cum.  Slowly I lowered my mouth over the head, licking around the
sensitive part at the base of the head.  By now he was moaning so loud I
thought he could be heard two doors down. I had to do some serious
readjusting of my throat to take this hefty love pole, but after some
effort I was able to take it in until I nestled my nose in his soft
pubes. By this time he had put his hands on my head and was trying to set a
fast tempo.  I fell in with his tempo, moving up and down the magnificent
shaft, almost pulling off, then filling my throat once again.  I reached
down to play with his balls, rolling them around in my hand.  I noticed
them start to tense closer to his dick.  And it wasn't long before my mouth
got inundated with pulse after pulse of hot jism. Frantically I tried to
swallow every precious drop, but some dribbled out of my mouth and pooled
around the base of his cock.  The spasms continued one after another.  I
thought they were finished and pulled off his organ when one final gush
shot right in my eye. Jack was shuddering and moaning, "Yes, Yes!" and
running his fingers through my hair and pressing my head until I thought my
skull might break.

	As his breathing returned to normal, he sat up, slipped on his
bikinis and said, "Now I think we can get some work accomplished."  And we
did.

	When he came for our final session--his grade already in the
bank--he was carrying a small sack and had a smirk on his face.

	"Now it's my turn," he said mysteriously.  Since I was only wearing
some jersey workout shorts, it was easy for him to get me naked. Then he
took off his t-shirt and gym shorts, baring himself with a semi-erection in
progress. (Mine was completely hard).  He told me to lie down on the bed on
my stomach.  He took some warm lotion and started massaging it into my back
and legs.  Then he rubbed some on my buttocks.  He spread my legs apart and
began to massage my anus with the lotion too.  It wasn't long before my
love hole had completely relaxed.  Then I felt something hard touch it.  I
knew the feeling and shivered in anticipation. A sharp pain accompanied the
entry of his enormous mushroom head.  But it soon passed.  Then I felt the
rest slip into the depths of my guts and begin to push in and out, each
time, unbeknownst to him, touching my hot spot over and over.  It didn't
take long before I felt that familiar tingle move up from my balls and a
lake of cum spurted out of me onto the sheets.  I guess the spasms of my
orgasm him off, but his climax started because he started bellowing in
pleasure and pumping jolt after jolt of juice in me.

	After the bliss was past, he continued to lie on me, "Paolo told me
this is what you liked the best.  So I thought it was time that you got
your pleasure too.

	Later that week the college newspaper heralded, "It's a boy!" and
showed a picture of Jack holding a blanket-wrapped infant for the cameras
to take pictures of.  He was drafted by the Rams in the first round and got
a huge signing bonus. He became the premier blocking back in the NFL and
set a record for pass receptions by a running back.

	After the semester was over I was at home futzing around when the
mail came.  There was a letter for me with no return address.  I ripped it
open.  There was a note--Thanks for helping me through a rough time in my
life, Jack. Enclosed was a check for $10,000.  I guess that was my signing
bonus.



The Jerk

	I had a bad feeling about the next assignment the Athletic Director
gave.  I was to work with this basketball player named Roger Diaz.  He was
from a rough part of New York City--half Puerto Rican and half Irish.  He
was called the enforcer for the team.  Whenever any opponent got on a hot
streak, Roger was sent in to cool him down.  That sometimes meant an elbow
to the ribs, a knee to the balls or other such unsportsmanlike things.  He
fouled out of most games, but still averaged 15 points a game and 9
rebounds.  He was a big fellow--6'6--7 maybe around 290.  There was some
flab, but not much.

	But, money was money and I was running tight on funds.  I'd played
in this all night bridge game and lost my shirt.

	Roger came in with this surly face and a slight snarl to his mouth.
But I noticed that his eyes were quite protective--not showing anything at
all.  He looked like he had to be there and didn't want to be.  So we set
down to work on his English Composition course.  I'd asked him to bring me
what he'd done and the grades he got were generous.  It was awful.  It was
all he could to put a sentence together--and spelling, well that was
hopeless.  Spell check might not even be able to decipher what he meant.

	So I asked him to tell me about his family.  After some hesitancy,
he began and it was a sad story.  His father was an alcoholic and drug user
and his mother lived in some kid of fairy world where only she existed.
But his good looks and his size made him look older, so his mother came out
of her fairy world to pimp her son to older guys.  This had been going on
since he was 13.  His father was no help: whenever he was home he'd just
beat on the kid for some non-existent misbehavior.  Then as Roger became
aware of his own body and strength, his father came home drunk and high and
started beating on his Mom.  Roger would have nothing of it.  He interposed
himself between his mom and dad.  When his dad came swinging for him, Roger
proceeded to beat the crap out of him.  He even had to go to the hospital.
But the dad just said he got mugged.  Roger had gotten a scholarship to
St. Something or Another because he could play basketball and football.  In
basketball he led the league averaging over 30 points a game and, in
football, he led the team in tackles.  I'd heard two kids ended up in the
hospital after one of his tackles.

	Then I asked him to write what he'd just told me.  He slammed the
table with his fist and said that was stupid, I already knew what he was
going to say.  I asked him to humor me and he began writing gibberish.  I
told him that was all for the day and went to the Counseling Center to
learn more how to unlock this angry man.

	"He has a learning disability, probably from one of the beatings he
got as a child.  Knowing where to start, I did research on the subject and
found that this was common in a family in which both parents were
illiterate and the child was abused.  The child could communicate orally
with some success, but couldn't put those same thoughts down on paper.

Armed with my research, I went to the teacher to see what could be done.
We came up with the idea of him speaking his assignment into a tape
recorder, and then copying what he'd said.

	When Roger came back for the next session, I laid the suggestion on
him. He dismissed it out of hand.  So I began to ask him some questions:
Can your mother and father read and write? Can anyone in your family read
and write?  Shamefacedly he shook his head--no.  I read him about some of
the research I'd found and it piqued his interest.  He began to realize
that the problem wasn't him being stupid, but a family problem. Reluctantly
he agreed to the tape recorder idea.  Since the composition was due the
following day I wouldn't be able to proofread it.

	Next session he brought the paper.  He'd gotten a C--good, but not
good enough to get him eligible.  The comment the teacher had made:
excellent content, but not well presented.  That was kind to his spelling
and grammar.  So I went back to her again and asked if he could do his
assignments by tape.  Reluctantly, she agreed, but said that he'd need some
basic grammar coaching. Buoyed by success I approached his other teachers
with the idea.  All but one agreed to let him take exams orally if they
involved composition.  He did just fine on the multiple choice type exams.

	I went back to the Athletic Director and asked him to get someone
to tutor Roger on basic grammar.  He was impressed that I'd gone to so much
trouble to help out one of his guys.

	I didn't see Roger again until the next semester.  It was late one
Saturday night.  I'd had a few beers with some of the gay friends I'd
discovered.  I had a little buzz, but was feeling ready for bed.  I was
just taking down my jeans, trying to work them over my sneakers when I
heard this rustling noise at the door. Then with a slam it got kicked open.
There stood Roger, fuming with rage, his fists balled up and his nostrils
flared.  I could tell by smelling that he was drunk.  He staggered over to
me in my precarious position, lifted me up and slammed me against the
wall. Then he punched me in the gut and kneed my face as I came back up.  I
was lying sprawled out on my bed, dazed.  He rustled around in my closet
and came up with the two ties I own and a fresh pair of socks balled up.

	He flipped me over face down on the bed like I was a pancake and
tied my hands to the headboard rungs of the bed with the belt he'd whipped
off.  Then he spread my legs wide apart and tied them with the ties. I
turned to face him and he slapped me hard, his Sugar Bowl ring cutting a
gouge in cheek.

	"Why, Roger?" I asked, my voice trembling.

	"You know why!" he screamed, "It's about `my little problem'.  The
guys found out about it and have been teasing me something terrible,
calling me the big spic who can't write.  He slapped me again. I could tell
he was rustling around in my closet again.  I felt what he'd found--my
thick leather belt.  He smacked it on my ass over and over.  Then he
chuckled when he slapped lower on my ass and hit my balls.  I was
screaming. He was so intent on hitting me that he didn't see that I'd
slipped one arm free enough to reach my phone.  I punched 911.  After the
voice finished, I turned on the speaker part.  I was afraid to say
anything.

	It got quiet for a moment.  My ass cheeks were stinging and I
thought I could feel something wet seeping down the crevices of my legs.  I
could tell that I'd peed on myself and this was the most mortifying. I
heard the metallic whiz of a zipper and shoes being kicked off.  I turned
to see what was happening.  He was half out of his jeans.

	He cupped his balls, "I know what a faggot like you wants." He
lowered his jeans and briefs and tore off his muscle shirt.  His cock was
sticking straight out, pre-cum starting to pool on the slit.  His meat was
huge--at least 10 inches and almost as wide as my wrist. He was stroking it
slow, pulling the foreskin back and forth over the purple head.

	"Back in the city, the guys used to call this (he indicated his
meat) the faggot tamer.  It's tamed quite a few faggots and you're going to
be next."

	In fear my ass clenched shut and I began to shiver from both pain
and fright.  He rubbed pre-cum around he head of his dick and made a
purring sound. I thought he was going to fuck me dry, with just the pre-cum
on his head.  He spied a jar of baby oil and squeezed it up and down his
tool.  He spread it around, purring again.  Quickly he leaped over to the
bed, sat astride my outspread legs and started slapping my ass and balls
some more.

	Then with one vicious thrust he plunged his manhood into me. I
screamed because it felt like I was being split wide open.  Again and again
he slammed into me.  Most of the time, the pain goes away and the pleasure
takes over, but not this time.  He'd pull his tool almost out of my ass and
plunge it in until I could feel his curly pubes on my ass. Again and again
he stabbed my ass with a ferocity I didn't know was possible.  It went on
for what felt like hours, searing pain after searing pain.

	I felt him start to get larger inside of me.  Maybe when he came,
it would be over.  Bellowing like an ox, he poured spurt after spurt of man
cream inside my guts.  But he didn't stop.  He picked up his rhythm again
and started all over, slapping my ass to punctuate his forced intrusion
into me.  He started laughing some, then mumbling something in Spanish.  I
heard footsteps.

	"Freeze" a man barked, "Freeze, asshole!" Roger stopped in
mid-thrust and saw the police standing not three feet away their guns
drawn.

	"He likes it this way," Roger said in his own defense and began
slamming into me again.

	"Freeze, I said," the officer barked and stand up facing the wall
with your legs spread.  A punk like you should know the position.  Roger's
man meat had shriveled when he pulled out of me to comply with the
officers.  When they had him cuffed, he started flailing again.  Sputtering
over and over again, "That's how he likes it, just ask him."  It took four
hunky officers to subdue him.  They carried him out of the room kicking and
screaming.

	"Take it easy.  I'm going to untie you," a gentle female voice
said.  She freed my other hand and untied my feet.  She handed me my
t-shirt and sweats, turning her back as I put them on.

	"I'm with the Special Victim's Unit, let's talk about what
happened."

	In a deluge it all started pouring out of me in disjointed pieces.
But her calming presence helped a lot.  She was gently stroking my hand.  A
bunch of guys had gathered at the door.  She told them to disperse and
locked the door.

	I looked over at my bed and saw the bloodstains and the yellow
stain where I'd wet myself.  Glancing in he mirror I noticed that blood was
already seeping through my sweats and t-shirt.

	Soothingly she said, "We have to get you to the hospital to get
patched up and to take evidence.  It will feel humiliating.  I know it did
when it happened to me.  At this I turned to her and buried my face on her
shoulder, sobbing my heart out.

	"Is there anyone we could call?" she asked.  I told her a close
friend and the minister of the gay church I attend.

	When I got to the hospital, the Athletic Director and the
Basketball Coach were waiting.  They assured me that nothing would happen
to me and that Roger would never again play for the University.

	Later I searched the newspaper to see what had been written.  It
had been kind of hushed up.  All it said was STUDENT SEXUALLY MOLESTED BY
LOCAL ATHLETE.  All that was said was that Roger had had a season-ending
injury that would probably end his career.  I found out later that he
admitted to aggravated sexual assault and battery and later served time.  I
never found out how long.

	I took a semester break from tutoring, but the payment continued
the whole time.  After a while I knew I was ready to start again and I'm so
glad I did!





The Basketball Player

	I worked with lots of guys--even an All-American field hockey girl.
Some of the guys were great.

	The Athletic Director's secretary sent me an inter-campus memo that
I'd be having another challenge. He came the next day. When I answered his
knock on the door. He entered, ducking under the jamb he was so tall.  I'm
no shrimp at 6'2 and he towered over me, my nose being on a level with his
tits.  He needed help in Geometry.  I invited him to sit down and we began
work. He was pretty bright, but his vocabulary needed some work: about
every third word was fuck or fucking.  He'd grown up in a tough part of New
York City, so I guess opportunities for more creative word choice was
limited in his neighborhood. I decided that I'd take on that chore along
with the mathematical one.

	We quickly got to the problem he was having in the math and once
we'd gotten over that hurdle, it seemed to make sense to him.  I love it
when I see that "ah-Hah" light turn on in someone's face. So I began work
on my second project--language broadening, or should I say language
editing.

	During our third session, he whizzed through the material in no
time.  So I thought now would be the time to introduce the second tutoring
project.

"Kevin, there's something else I'd like for us to work on.  You know

that you'll be going to the NBA next year."  He gave me an aw shucks look
and nodded modestly. You're going to be interviewed on camera

lots and we need to work on your word usage."  He looked at me
quizzically. "It seems like you're awfully fond of using fuck and other
forms of that word over and over.  It doesn't offend me--I like fucking
very much, but it won't cut it with TV.  To start off with I want you to
describe the game against Clemson to me.  When you want to use fuck, say
fantastic. He stumbled through the task, having great difficulty, but made
it.

	Now I want you to describe the Georgia Tech game without using fuck
or fantastic.  It was starting to get easier for him.

	Then he looked me straight in the eye, "the problem is that fucking
is about my favorite thing besides basketball.  And I don't mean chicks.  I
mean guys.  You've been turning me on every time we meet.  I have to jack
off two or three times afterwards.  Here's my secret, you can't tell
another living soul--promise?"  I readily agreed because I'd spent all of
our sessions with a boner that wouldn't start.

	"I want you," he stammered, "I hope that won't made you mad or
anything, but I've noticed the bulge in your sweat pants that makes me know
the feeling's mutual.  I want to suck on your cock in the worst way and do
other things to you too.

	I smiled and pulled off my t-shirt and sweats and stood up in front
of him, my dick sticking straight out and beginning to leak.  He gave my
dick a tongue bath.  I had to force myself to not cum.  He sucked on my
balls and stuck his nose in my groin and nuzzled, enjoying it
immensely. Then he took my cock head in his mouth, running his tongue round
and round the sensitive portion just below the head.  I heard some voice in
the room groaning and realized it was me. He deep-throated my 8" pole with
ease, stopping every now and then to restrain his gag reflex and relax his
throat.  Before I knew it, his nose was buried in my pubes on each down
stroke. And OH! That tongue action--it was driving me wild.  Despite my
attempts to make it last, I felt that tingling in my balls that churned
through my dick and erupted volume of cum into Kevin's mouth.  I could feel
the swallowing sensation he made with each volley and it almost caused me
to cum again.

	After a complicate tongue bath to clean up my prong, Kevin looked
up at me with a gleam in his eyes that made me bend down and hug him and
kiss him, entering his mouth with the remnants of my sperm still there.

	We moved over to my bed, but it was short.  He dangled off the end
of it almost to his knees. So I whisked the blanket and some throw pillows
onto the floor and our lovemaking began all over again.  I wanted to suck
him off, but he insisted on a 69, which we accomplished by him bowing out
his back to make up for our height difference. In spite of the fantastic
blowjob, I was still rock hard and his long slender dick--I'd guess around
9" was plastered to his stomach, leaking precum into his navel.  We 69-ed
for a while, then he turned over with his ass resting on my pole.

	"Fuck me," he asked huskily.

	"I've never been a top before," I stammered.

	"Well, I guess this means I'll have to become the tutor.

	Only then did I see that he'd brought a gym bag with him. He
reached into it and pulled out some lube and a condom.  He tore open the
condom with his teeth and told me to lie on my back.  I couldn't help
looking as he unraveled the latex on my dick.  It felt wonderful.  A glob
of lube followed, him smearing it on me like he was jacking me off.
Another glob was inserted deep in his ass.  And before I could get my
bearings I felt his ass ring meet my cock head.  He winced a little as my
prong broke through, then deeper and deeper into him I went, reveling in
this new experience.  Perched stork-like over my groin, he began a circular
up and down movement that impaled him to my nuts and rose up until he
almost pulled off my love pole.  I reached out to jack his member.  It was
so slick from copious precum that I slid up and down it with little ease.
He started gyrating quickly and I could tell he was about to cum.  I eased
up on my elbows until I could reach his cock head just in time to feel
ropes of cum jettison out from deep inside him.  His spasms did a number on
my own cock.  I felt the tingle and it wasn't long before I filled the
condom so full I could feel it seep down the sides of my dick.

	He collapsed on my in sated exhaustion.  We lay that way for a
while until my cock softened and plopped out of his hole.  We helped each
other to stand because both our knees were quick wobbly.  We kissed and he
left.

	I continued to work on his vocabulary choices.  He became quite
good at expressing his thoughts.  He told me the coach even commented about
it after a post-game interview.

	I took it upon myself to tutor him in one final area--being a top.
He was tentative at first, but took to it like a duck to water.  My sore
ass bears witness to his willingness.

	Two years later he was drafted by the New York Knicks.  His
interview was quite lucid and to the point.  I was considering grad school
in New York and he knew it.  I got a letter one day including a ticket to
Madison Square garden--Knicks vs. Lakers.  I was flabbergasted when I
realized the ticket was second row center, right near the Knick bench.
Sometimes he'd look over at me and wink and I'd return it with a wink of my
own.  I ended up going for a doctorate at Columbia.  I was barely settled
into my meager efficiency apartment when a UPS guy came to my door.  I was
drooling at his cute basket when he said, "Please sign here."  There was no
return address.  I ripped open the packet and my jaw dropped in surprise.
Season tickets to the Knicks in the very same place I'd sat before.  A note
was attached. Hey guy, come over to my place next Tuesday.  We have a
couple days off and I'd like to see you again.  Kevin.

	I did what he asked.  A great meal was waiting for us.  "Don't eat
too much, I've got plans for you later," Kevin leered.  And did he ever!
In fact a week later I packed my meager belongings and moved in.  Kevin's
retired from playing and became a coach.  We keep our relationship pretty
much to ourselves, but a few special people know.  He's moved several times
for new coaching jobs and I went with him, teaching at colleges wherever he
went.  We had a happy--and a very passionate--life together.

	After twenty years of playing and coaching, Kevin and I went out
for a meal at a quiet restaurant.  I could tell there was something special
going on in his mind.  For dessert I had my favorite--a Napoleon.  I was
luxuriating in the layered pastry, when I bit on something hard.  I fished
around in my mouth and pulled out a simple gold band. It was then that I
noticed he was wearing an identical one.  He looked up at me with a
questioning gaze.  I nodded my head in agreement.

	"I've told the Nuggets I'm retiring from coaching at the end of
this season.  They wanted me to stay since I'd gotten them into the
playoffs for the first time in five years.  But I insisted.  I got an offer
from Sports Illustrated to write a weekly column about basketball.  I think
this could be a joint effort; I'll provide the details and you put it down
in writing.  What do you think?

	"Yes, and one more thing, I've been thinking about permanent living
quarters and found two great places.  I can't wait to show you.  We boarded
a plane for South Florida and drove to a deserted island on the Gulf shore.

	"It'll be a while for the developers to find this spot.  So I think
we could have some privacy.  I've contracted with a builder and have a
general idea about a plan, but will need your input to make it special.  It
won't be a big place--more of a bungalow. But I think it will be just right
for the two of us. And I can't wait to get your ass gritty with the white
sand while I have you on your back doing all sorts of delicious things to
your body.  That task was accomplished within an hour.  But I must tell you
that his ass was gritty too.  It took quite a shower, followed up by some
reveling in a hot tub before the sand was gone.  But I knew it would be
back.

   We made enough decisions for the builder to get to work.  Then it was
back to the airport.  This time Oregon was our destination.

	We rented a convertible and reveled in driving with the top down.
The coastal views took my breath away.  Then we turned down a narrow,
rutted road.  Quickly we were surrounded a dense forest.  Then the forest
opened up to a cliff.  Then there was the Pacific Ocean.  He took me by the
hand and walked down a little way. A fully furnished small log cabin was
found nestled in the trees.  He unlocked the door.  As we went in I noticed
things from the various places where we'd lived.  But what caught me eye
the most was a large mat in front of the fireplace. Pillows were scattered
all over it.  I couldn't help but lie down on the welcoming place.  Then I
noticed that Kevin was starting to unbuckle his belt. I followed his
example.  There was a roaring fire blazing that cut the damp chill.  Slowly
we explored each other's bodies with our tongues, leisurely enjoying the
feeling of the one we'd chosen to spend our lives with.  Foreplay was more
important for us now because now we were both in our late 40's, but arousal
came.  We flipped into position for a 69 and lasciviously tongued the hot
spots we'd come to know about each other.  Occasionally we'd stop and sip
the wine poured into a carafe on the rocky hearth of the fireplace.  Then
we were at each other again.  After several hours of play I placed my hand
on his tightening balls, knowing that his climax is near.  I can feel the
familiar tingle in my own testicles.  Soon we were filling each other's
mouths with love juice.  We kissed mixing the sperm together.  Then took a
sip of wine to add to the strange cocktail.  We fell asleep, entangled in
each other's arms.

	The sun beaming in a side window woke us both up.  Kevin stretched
and bounced up. "I want to show you the best place."

	"I can't imagine a better place than where we are."  He grabbed my
hand.

	First though let's check the bedroom out.  A huge over-sized bed
dominated the room, one long enough for him to stretch out.  There were
walk-in closets for each of us.  The bathroom had a Jacuzzi/tub combination
and a huge shower big enough for the both of us.

	With the enthusiasm of a young boy, he bounded up a spiral
staircase.  At the top was a room with windows on every side.  The views of
the ocean and dense forest were breathtaking.  In the center of the room I
noticed an antique, burled walnut, partner's desk.  Computers were at each
with a blotter with pens and paper clips and all sorts of stuff.

	"This will be the writing room," Kevin said with a thrill.  I just
happened to notice another love nest in one corner.  "I guess this is where
we go when we're too tired to go downstairs."  We both laughed.

	"I love it--and you," I said with tears of joy welling up in my
eyes.  We looked each other up and down. Sure there were some wrinkles, our
hair had the occasional silver streaks.  We weren't as toned as we used to
be.  But I thought to myself this is the most beautiful man I can imagine.

	Over the years we'd developed a sort of telepathy. "I think the
same of you," he said, the same tears of joy beginning to trickle down his
cheeks. We embraced, holding each other for a long time.

	Then he broke the closeness, "Wait till you see the kitchen.  And
I'm starving. One can't live on the blobs of protein supplements we supply
each other."

	And down the stairs we bounded, with me following a little more
slowly to take in this special place that's going to be--just for us.



	Dawn is just beginning to break.  I'd awoken early, tiptoed into
the kitchen to make coffee, then went up to the writing room.  It's here
that I'm writing this story about us for you.  I can hear some rustling
around downstairs and know I'll soon be joined.  And, of course, I'll have
to get him to add a few touches of his own.

	And it all started with me, scared to death, waiting for an
appointment to be a--tutor.

Copyright 2005 Frederick B. Elliott. All Rights Reserved.