Date: Fri, 22 Jan 2010 22:27:38 -0700
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Phalen III - Reputation and Honor 2

Phalen - Reputation and Honor

Chapter Two

By Roy Reinikainen


	Phalen, naked, bleary-eyed, and yawning, dragged himself into the
bedroom, the smell of freshly brewing coffee following close behind.  "I
friggin' hate mornings," he grumbled, before theatrically falling backward
onto the bed, his arms spread wide.  "I feel like I'm . . . forty," he
croaked.

	Jeff did his best not to laugh.  Phalen's morning antics had taken
on an almost comic consistency.  They were like a touch of improvisational
theater each morning.  "Your father is forty, Phalen.  He doesn't act like
you."

	Phalen raised his head and tried to focus on the source of the
correction.  "Okay, I feel like I'm . . . fifty."  He dropped his head back
onto the mattress, spoiling the effect by scratching his pubes.  "I'm a
fifty-year-old with crabs, or some other hideous disease.  My dick is gonna
turn green and get all mushy before it starts to smell and fall off.  It'll
slide down my leg as I'm standing in line at the cafeteria or something,
leaving a slimy trail behind, then land on the floor with a liquid splat."
Phalen shuddered.  "Ugh.  Very embarrassing."

	"Perish the thought!" Jeff couldn't help but laugh.  "By any chance
will mornings be any better after the loss of your crab-infested, green,
mushy, smelly, falling-off dick?"

	Phalen rolled his head from side to side.  "No, mornings'll be the
same, except I won't have a dick to scratch.  S'all your fault, y'know."
He paused for a jaw-splitting yawn.  "Keeping me up half the night,
squirming around on top of me."  He held out a warning hand.  "I know.  I
know.  I shouldn't have behaved like a floozy in heat.  If you weren't so
damned sexy, I wouldn't be so tired."  He raised his head.  "So, it's all
your fault.  Mornings are probably your fault, as well."  He dropped his
head back onto the bed.  "Nothing's my fault.  All yours.  If you weren't
such a great guy, things'd be okay."

	He turned onto his stomach, then quickly stole an alarmed glance
over his shoulder, and returned to his back, with both hands covering his
groin.  "Message to Phalen," he mumbled aloud, "do not ever lie on your
stomach when Mister Hung-Like-A-Hose is around.  He'll do one of those
disgusting medical procedures where some stranger sticks a twenty-five foot
garden hose, with a friggin' video camera duct-taped to the end, up your
butt, just for a look around.  Ugh."

	Jeff laughed.  "I'll ask my doctor-brother, but it seems like I
remember him talking about just that sort of procedure to help find out why
guys' dicks turn green and fall off."

	Phalen cracked one eye open and studied Jeff in disgusted silence.
"Very funny," he mumbled, before indulging in another prodigious yawn.

	"Sounds like the coffee's finished," Jeff observed, noting the lack
of sound coming from the kitchen.

	"Awesome!"  Phalen sprang from the bed and jogged toward the
kitchen.  "Don't worry," he shouted.  "I won't try to make breakfast!"


----------


	"Hmm, breakfast." Hank Osborn smiled at the waitress as she
distributed the heavily laden plates on the table.  Hank picked up a fork
and dug in, behaving like a man who was having his first meal in
days. Thanks for meeting with me, Ed," he mumbled around a bite of food.

	Ed Bowen, the head coach for the university's baseball team, smiled
and nodded, motioning for Hank to satisfy his hunger before trying to
speak.  He and Hank had been friends since they were in college, though
since each had become a head coach, him at the university and Hank at one
of Tempe's largest high schools, they'd not had nearly as much time as
either wished, to meet for their regular breakfasts.  'Of course, wives and
children probably had something to do with that, too,' Ed thought, thankful
they were both married to women who understood their husband's love of
baseball.

	Hank swallowed, then went on, enfolding his coffee cup with both
hands.  "I've been thinking for months about whether to ask for this
meeting.  I don't want to interfere with your duties or decisions, but," he
shrugged, "you know me; I always have had to say what I think."

	"So, we're here to discuss one of my duties or decisions?" Ed
asked, using his friend's words, and trying to speak in an attentive, but
otherwise neutral, voice.

	Hank nodded.  "About a decision . . . a scholarship decision."

	"About one of your players?" Ed's speculation was answered with a
nod.  "Which one?  Do I know him?"  Another nod.  "Well," Ed laughed,
"which one should I have offered a scholarship to, but didn't?  That's what
you're edging toward, isn't it?  Slowly, I might add."

	"Marty Kelly," Hank supplied.  "Without a doubt, the best player
I've ever had a chance to coach.  He's also smart, academically.  He
applied for a scholarship, but was denied."  Hank held up a hand, asking to
be heard.  "I know.  A line has to be drawn someplace, and you do have an
outstanding bunch of talent this year.  That shortstop of yours . . ."
Hank shook his head, "phenomenal.  I was at yesterday's game," he added.
"That final pitch - geez, Ed, I thought it'd burn a hole in the boy's
glove, it was moving so fast, but he nonchalantly did exactly what you've
coached him to do."  Hank shook his head in wonder.

	"Marty Kelly's one of our assistant trainers," Ed supplied.  "Good
man . . . really cares about the team.  I've heard nothing but good things
about him."

	Hank made a, "you see?" gesture with a hand, reinforced by raised
eyebrows.  "He's being wasted, Ed, wasted.  Almost anyone can be a trainer.
That young man, while he isn't as good as that shortstop of yours, he very
nearly is.  I know you don't have an extra scholarship to hand out, but, if
one should become available, would you at least take a look at Mr. Kelly?
I don't believe you'll be sorry."

	"That good?  He's not a nephew or anything, is he?" Ed laughed.

	"No, just a great player.  And, speaking of looking out for one's
nephews . . ." Hank began.

	Ed bowed his head.  "I know.  I know.  I probably shouldn't have
hired my sister's boy as an assistant coach.  I wouldn't have if he wasn't
any good.  Jackson's a little . . . prickly . . . but otherwise, a solid
man.  Not inspired, just . . . solid."

	"Inspired would be better." Hank's grin was answered by a wry
smile.

	"But, lacking inspiration, I'll settle for solid."


----------


		"No!"  Randy Shaw shouted into the darkened room, as he sat
up, his chest heaving, vainly trying to free his legs from the sweat-damp
bed sheets.  He raked his trembling fingers through his dark hair, and
willed his heart to slow, wishing the nightmare would fade, or, better yet,
that it wasn't a reflection of reality.  'What was that?' he asked himself;
'the third or fourth time I've dreamt that same dream, tonight alone.'  He
finally managed to free himself from the grip of the clammy sheets, and sat
on the side of the bed, cradling his head as he leaned forward, his elbows
on his knees.

	'I'm not left at peace, even in my own home,' he thought, looking
at the bedside clock.  'Only 2 o'clock?'  He shook his head as he stood and
walked to the bedroom window and stared, unseeing, at the darkened
buildings nearby.  'What have I gotten myself into?' he asked himself, for
the thousandth time, since succumbing to Coach Cline's advances. 'I thought
I was going to have a harmless night of fun with an incredibly sexy man.
Instead, I'm hounded by a laughing . . . sneering . . . sadist!'

	Randy pivoted and headed back toward the bed.  'Even though I'm
responsible for some of what's happening, I'm not afraid of going to the
authorities.  If all I had to do was take my own sensibilities into
account, I'd have already done it, but . . .' he took a stuttering breath,
'I just don't think I could deal with the parents, once they found out.
Mom would be hovering, wringing her hands as she talked about all the bad
people . . . out there . . . and Dad would be swearing, asking over and
over if I could possibly have a clue what the publicity of this sort of
thing is going to have on his business.  Margaret would be sympathetic, and
make all the moves she thinks appropriate, but she wouldn't understand
what's happening to me.  Still, talking about . . . all this . . . to my
sister, no matter how sympathetic, is not something I want to do,
especially since she's only fifteen.'  Randy tried to fill a glass of water
from the bathroom tap, but until he used both hands, he was unable to
steady the glass enough, either to fill it or to drink.

	'I've allowed him to control me.  My fears only fuel his need to
inflict more torment.  But, where does it stop?  What does he have to do to
me before he's satisfied that he's done enough?'  He paused in mid-stride.
'What if there isn't a limit?  What if he continues on until I have some
sort of emotional collapse, or kill myself, or something?  No matter what,
I lose.'

	Randy winced, as he downed one of his mother's sleeping pills, and
a pain pill he'd begged from a friend.  'Maybe these'll help me get some
sleep, and not hurt so much.'

	Randy had thought it was he who was the aggressor.  'Love 'em and
leave 'em,' had always been his motto.  There was no reason for him to
think otherwise.  He'd never been in a situation where he wasn't the person
in charge of any sexual encounter.  After meeting Coach Cline, his view, of
. . . everything, changed.  The coach had done his homework.  He knew
exactly which buttons to push to get Randy to do precisely what he wanted.
He knew what Randy wanted most, and had dangled the possibility of being
named to the baseball team's starting lineup in front of him.  'I'm like
the poor fish,' Randy thought to himself.  'I saw only what I wanted to
see, and by the time I snatched the bait, I was hooked, and it was too
late.  After spending the night with the coach just once, I knew I had made
a serious mistake.'

	He yawned, hugely, as he sat on the edge of the bed, with only a
slight wince.  'Gotta get some sleep,' he thought, as he lay back and
pulled the sheet over him.

	No sooner had he closed his eyes than the dreams returned.  "Sit on
it!" Coach Cline ordered, his voice like a whiplash in the darkness,
stinging raw and exposed skin.  He grabbed Randy's wrist in a vise-like
grip and pulled him close enough for Randy to be insulted by the alcoholic
cloud of his breath.  "Did you hear me, Mister?"

	Randy groaned in his sleep, and curled into a fetal position,
something the coach would never allow.  He flinched, feeling the slap on
his buttocks, even in his sleep.

	"You must remember," Coach Cline said, as he twisted one of Randy's
nipples, already raw from prolonged abuse.  "You must remember," he
repeated, with a viscous twist, "that I am the person who tells you when to
jump . . . and how high.  You are nothing without me.  I am the coach.
You, on the other hand, are a pathetic little bug.  I can crush you without
a second thought.  Your career," he sneered the word, "such as it is, can
end in a flash.  You, Mister, are not allowed to do anything unless I tell
you to."

	He pulled Randy astride him.  "And, I am telling you," he bellowed,
"sit on it!"

	Randy glanced at the monster penis, which had already stretched him
beyond endurance twice that evening.  He'd contemplated running, but there
was no place Coach Cline wouldn't be able to find him.  The coach followed
him, appearing in his classes, acting as an observer, always wearing a
knowing grin.  He was in the showers after practice, or in the weight room,
during training.  He was always nearby, always wearing a knowing smile,
always threatening by his mere presence.

	"NO!" Randy screamed into the night, as he dreamt of being invaded,
yet again.


----------


	Head Coach, Ed Bowen glanced around to see who else might be near
enough to hear what he was about to ask.  He didn't like being sneaky, but
there was no other way to find out if his college buddy and fellow baseball
coach was right about Marty Kelly.  Since their conversation, he'd paid
special attention to the team's assistant trainer.  Marty was invariably
friendly, not only to the individual players on the team, but to the entire
staff.  According to Greg Layson, the head doctor in charge of the
university's athletic programs, Marty was an exemplary student, never late
with an assignment, always looking for ways to make a contribution to the
baseball program.

	'Doctor Layson should know, if anyone should, how dedicated Marty
is to the program,' Coach Bowen thought.  'Hell, even the head trainer
could find nothing to complain about,' and, after working with that man for
the past four years, Coach Bowen found that fact alone to be amazing.  The
man did not suffer fools, or slackers lightly.  Bowen had come to believe
that, in the trainer's mind, nearly everyone fell into one category or the
other.  Everyone, that is, except Marty Kelly, and the man the coach was
about to speak with.

	Armed with his own observations, and the opinions of all those
people who were close enough to Marty to have a valid opinion, Coach Bowen
had decided to set up situations where he could evaluate the young man's
potential.

	"Hey, Phalen!" He motioned his star shortstop to his side.  If
anyone would be able to set up a situation to let Marty show his stuff, it
would be Phalen.

	"Hi, Coach!" Phalen smiled, trotting over, while he raked his
fingers through his black hair, coaxing the sweaty spikes into a semblance
of normalcy.  He perched on the edge of a nearby table in the team's
practice facility, one leg idly swinging.  "What can I do for you?"

	"I've been told by a good friend of mine, another baseball coach,
that I made a serious mistake by not offering Marty Kelly, our assistant
trainer, a scholarship."  Ed Bowen smiled.  'The head trainer's right,'
Coach Bowen thought to himself, as Phalen intently watched him.  'This man
is no one's fool.'

	"My coach-friend also spent quite a bit of time waxing poetic about
your skills as a player.  He thinks that you're one of the best he's ever
seen."  The coach watched for a reaction.

	There was none.  The flattery seemed to slide right past Phalen; a
smile and a slight dismissive gesture were the only indictions he'd
actually heard anything the coach had said.  'Immune to flattery, too,' the
coach thought, with a broad smile.  'I love it!'

	"Marty's a great trainer," Phalen spoke into the silence.  "You can
tell he loves the team by the way he watches everyone's moves, seemingly
analyzing them.  Since he's not the trainer I'm assigned to, I haven't
dealt with him since he joined the team, but I remember playing against him
in high school.  I only saw him the few times my school played his, but I
remember how he always stood out.  I had no idea, though, that his coach
thought he was consistently that good.  If he is, he should be on a team;
if not ours, someone else's.  It'd be a waste of talent for him to do
nothing but be a trainer.  I mean, trainers are great, but if Marty plays
great ball, he should be put in a position where he is able to play."
Phalen shifted position.  "What would you like me to do?"

	"I was thinking that maybe you, and a few of the other guys, might
invite Marty to 'substitute' for someone at a practice you'd set up.  Then
let me know when this is to occur; I'd like to see him put through his
paces."  The coach grinned.  "You know the drill.  Make it as close to real
game pressure as you can.  Don't go easy on him."  The coach held up a
warning hand.  "Don't make things more difficult than normal, though," he
grinned.  "You know what to do.  I'd rather no one but you and I know what
the true agenda for this exercise is.  To whomever you choose to work with
you, Marty is actually a substitute, or whatever.  Will you do that for
me?"

	"Sure, for you and for Marty.  I like the guy.  Everyone does."


----------


	"See ya, Marty," Paul Stevens, the team's left fielder called.
"Here's one for you!"  Marty reflexively reached out and plucked the damp
towel out of the air.

	"Great catch," someone called.  "You should play baseball!"  The
comment was met with rounds of good natured laughter, which floated on the
air, much like the warm mist hanging in the humid air, adjacent to the open
showers.

	"I am a baseball player!" Marty shouted.  "I am."  In frustration,
he kicked at a towel which lay in a sopping heap on the tile floor, then
silently chastised himself for the uncalled for display of emotions, and
picked it up.  "Not your personal maid," he finished, in a lower voice
while actually thinking that was exactly what he was.  "Not anyone's
personal servant."  The remaining sounds echoing in the large room faded,
as Marty passed up and down each row of lockers, picking up towels and
whatever debris the athletes on the baseball team had left behind.  The
team had returned earlier in the morning, from a road trip, adding two more
victories to their already impressive list.  The victories, and an
unexpected Friday afternoon without a practice, left the entire team in a
party mood.  The newspapers had ranked the team as the top in the country,
and nearly everyone was heading out to celebrate.  'Everyone on the team,'
he amended himself.

	In the distance, a single door closed, cutting off the last muffled
conversation.

	Marty shook his head in resignation, stooping to pick up another
towel.  "Slobs," he muttered, inhaling deeply of the humid air redolent of
old jockstraps and naked men.  The scents caused him to smile, as an
electric tingle sparked in a line directly from the animal portion of his
brain to his cock, which instantly began to thicken.  'Am I the only person
around here who enjoys the smells of a locker room?' he wondered.  'Well,
not only the smells, but the sights, too,' he admitted to himself.  He
stepped into the shower room and turned off the water from a still-spraying
shower nozzle, shaking his head at the laziness of some of the players.
"That's all I am to some people . . . a friggin' servant," he muttered,
scooping up a couple sodden towels laying on the ceramic tile floor.

	Stepping out of the shower, he tossed the towels, one by one, into
the soiled laundry hamper, as if he were shooting a ball long distance in a
basketball game.

	"Three-for-three," he shouted, playfully raising his arms and
dancing in a small circle, celebrating the game-winning throws before an
ecstatic crowd.  "Marty Kelly's game-winning shots will go down in school
history!  Woo-who!"

	The imaginary cheers faded, as did his smile.  'I should be on the
team, not cleaning up after them,' he told himself, in an argument even he
was beginning to find tiring.  He smiled as he snagged a sweaty jockstrap
from where it was draped over the top of one of the locker doors.  He
brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, as he slipped off his t-shirt
and wiped his chest, first with the wadded-up t-shirt, then with a hand,
loving the pure sensuousness of the act.  The sweaty t-shirt joined the
towels in the overflowing bin.  He pressed the jock to his nose and
inhaled; then bunched some of the stained and sweaty pouch; stuffed it into
his mouth; and sucked, closing his eyes in sheer pleasure, as he gently
pinched both of his nipples.

	"Fuuuuck," he murmured, as he rubbed the pouch over his chest,
neck, and face, sticking his hand beneath the waistband of his shorts to
grope himself.  "Pervert," he teased himself, aloud, draping the stained
jockstrap over his head, after briefly licking the garment's pouch,
imagining the cock it held in place.

	"Who are you calling a pervert?"  An amused, disembodied voice came
from a row of nearby lockers, in a room Marty would have sworn was
abandoned.  He stopped moving, and hunched his shoulders in embarrassment,
his eyes wide, not sure how he should respond to the playful tone in the
person's voice.

	"I was speaking about myself," he responded to the air.  "Sorry, if
you thought I was calling you names," he said, as he turned down the row of
lockers.  A heartbeat later, he stopped, as he saw who he was talking to.
"Phalen . . ."  His brain searched through an index of appropriate things
to say.  Foremost was a request for an autograph.  He'd never worked on
Phalen, preparing him for a game, or tending an injury.  The head trainer
had taken the star player on after he'd badly strained a groin muscle early
in the season, and Phalen had stayed with him since.

	He barely stopped himself from an open-mouthed exclamation of,
"you're freaking beautiful!"  Phalen continued to smile at him from where
he sat in a cross-wise position on the wooden bench running down the aisle
between the row of open lockers.  He leaned against the wall at the end of
the bench, his legs crossed, and his hands resting in his lap.  His
all-over tan glowed almost as brightly as his smile and sparkling blue
eyes.  It appeared that he'd not showered yet.  His hair stuck out in all
directions in sweaty disarray, while his neatly folded practice uniform lay
nearby, topped with the burgundy cap.

	'He folds his uniform?' Marty wondered, not quite believing his
eyes.  'I bet I've never had to pick up a damp towel or turn off a shower
when this guy has finished with them.'  He suddenly recalled that he'd been
half-hard, when Phalen had first spoken.  'Geez,' he thought, 'I've still
got the friggin' jock hanging around my neck!  At least he didn't see me
sucking on the 'strap!'

	"I don't mind being called a pervert," Phalen responded, his smile
becoming almost blinding, as his blue eyes danced, interrupting Marty's
runaway thoughts.  "In fact, I sorta like it."  He shrugged his shoulders,
as if settling a winter coat about them, then smiled broadly.  "It feels
like a perfect fit."  The eyes took on a mischievous look, hinting at a
fun-loving person, very unlike the man who seemed so serious when on the
field.  Marty liked him immediately; not as a baseball player, but as a
person.

	"Hi.  My name's Phalen."  He raised a well-muscled arm, causing the
muscles of his chest to flex, at the same time revealing the black hair of
both his pubes and an armpit.  "I'm just hanging out, waiting for a
friend," he explained.  "He sometimes heads over after getting out of
class, and we shower together.  Saves some on the water bill at home," he
grinned.  Marty felt a renewed tightening in his groin.

	"Um, yeah, I mean . . . you wait for someone to shower with?"  He
shook his head, hoping to impart some order into the words floating
meaninglessly between his ears.  "I mean, hi," he managed, feeling the heat
of a blush.  He shook Phalen's hand, then sat straddling the wooden bench.
"I'm Marty.  I'm, um . . ."

	"The trainer everyone thinks so highly of," Phalen completed the
sentence.

	"That's not what I was gonna say," Marty laughed, "but it'll do,"
he added with a smile, as he studied Phalen.  "Did you just make up that
bit about being highly thought of, or is it for real?"

	"Oh, it's for real," Phalen answered, as he scooted away from the
wall, uncrossed his legs, and rested his bare feet on the floor on each
side of the bench, shamelessly exposing himself, as he leaned to the left
and reached for something inside the locker.  Marty swallowed, willing
himself to tear his eyes away from the dense pubes and thick penis which
hung over a set of smooth balls.  Phalen's chest, arms, and legs were
smooth, but, mostly, Marty was attracted to the engaging smile, and
. . . of course . . . the crotch.  Phalen smiled and nodded toward the
plastic bottle of body wash and body scrubber he'd pulled out of his
locker.  "Well, I'm ready."  He made a face.  "I hate being grubby."  He
laughed, as he absently scratched his pubes.  "Sweaty is good; dirty is
not."  Phalen looked at himself with distaste.  "Today, I'm definitely
dirty."  He grinned.  "Sliding into base will do that to a guy."  His
carefree laughter seemed to hang in the air.

	'Damn, I've got masturbation fantasies for months, just looking at
this guy.  I wonder what it'd be like to nuzzle beneath those balls.'
Marty licked over suddenly dry lips.  'I wonder if he'd give me his jock.
Fuck, if he did, I'd strip-off right here and shoot a load.  I'm freaking
ready to pop just thinking about it!'

	"I remember playing against you when we were both in high school. I
went to McClintock High," Phalen said, breaking into Marty's daydreams, as
he once again leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs on the
wooden bench.  "You played for Pinnacle, didn't you?"

	Marty nodded, dumbfounded.  "You remember me?"

	"Sure!  You all beat us in the playoffs a couple years ago.  It was
your homer to right field that sealed the victory, bringing in two men
already on base."  Phalen shook his head.  "We couldn't come back after
your home run.  That hit was spectacular, by-the-way.  It's not often one
sees a high school guy hit a ball over the wall in that stadium.  I know
I've never even come close."

	"You do remember!" Marty laughed, inordinately pleased.  'Phalen
complimented me.  He remembers playing against me!'  The urge to ask for
his autograph was almost too strong to ignore.  'No paper,' he laughed to
himself, continuing to think about an autograph.  'No problem.  Tattoo the
message on my back!  For him I'd get a tattoo!'

	"Hey," Phalen scooted closer, suddenly growing more animated.
"From time-to-time, some guys and I get together for some practice.  Would
you consider joining us?  We're practicing for fun, but sometimes it gets
pretty intense.  You can handle it though.  You're a guy who can stand the
pressure."

	"You and your friends would really want me to work out with you?  I
mean, for real?"  Marty winced, as his voice rose in pitch.  Phalen nodded,
his smile brightening the room.  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't really
want it.  Once the other guys see what you can do, they'll want you as a
practice partner too."

	Marty squirmed in excitement.  "Yes!  I'd love to.  Thank you!"  It
was all he could do not to stand up and cheer.

	Phalen slapped Marty's knee.  "Awesome!  It's settled.  We'll have
to get you a uniform.  What number were you in high school?"

	"Hm, nine.  A uniform?"

	"Sure!" Phalen thought for a moment.  "No one on the team has nine
for a number.  I'll get a jersey for you with that number on it.  That way
you'll feel right at home."

	"Ah, but what about the coach?  Won't he get upset, me using a
jersey?"

	Phalen made a dismissive gesture.  "Nah, I'm sure it'll be okay.
I'll get together with the guys and we can set up a time that's good for us
all."

	"I'm free anytime," Marty laughed, his first truly light-hearted
laugh in months.  It was as if a cloud had lifted and he was suddenly
standing in the bright sunshine.  "Morning, noon, afternoon, night,
midnight . . . you name it!"

	Phalen held out a warning hand.  "No morning practice, that's for
sure."  He shook his head.  "I'm not at my best in the morning, at least
not until I've had some coffee and breakfast.  Jeff laughs at me, thinking
I'm putting on an act.  I'm not."

	"Jeff?"

	They both looked up at the sound of someone responding to Phalen's
voice.

	"Hey, Jeff!" Phalen shouted.  "Over here!  I was just talking with
a new friend about you."

	Marty stood, prepared to leave Phalen and his friend alone, but was
prevented when Phalen motioned for him to sit.

	"Hey," the newcomer, a guy Phalen introduced as Jeff, said in a
soft voice, shaking Marty's hand in welcome.  "It's nice to meet you."  He
opened one of the locker doors and placed his laptop bag inside, then began
to strip.  Marty returned to his seat, prepared to enjoy the show.

	"Marty's another ball player," Phalen announced.  Jeff grinned at
him, his green eyes sparkling, as he pried off his shoes and socks.  "He's
gonna join some of the guys and me for a practice."  Phalen grinned in
Marty's direction, as he continued talking.  "You should see how this guy
hits a ball.  All those chest and arm muscles aren't just for show."

	Jeff hung his shirt in the locker, then turned and flicked a finger
at the dirty 'strap still hanging around Marty's neck.  "Love the neck
ware," he said, in a wonderfully lilting accent.  "Since it looks like
you're a collector, you should ask Phalen for one of his extras.  He'd be
glad to give you one."

	"For sure," Phalen laughed, his eyes bright, as he searched his gym
bag.  "Clean or dirty?"

	Before he could stop himself, Marty blurted out, "dirty!"

	"Ah, a man after my own heart," Jeff laughed, as Phalen stood and,
with great solemnity, draped a dirty white 'strap over Marty's head, where
it joined the one from the unknown player.  Phalen seemed inordinately
pleased with himself, as he stood astride the locker room bench with his
arms crossed, and nodded his approval.

	"Give the man the one you're wearing." Phalen urged, as Jeff hung
his slacks in the locker, then grinned, as he turned toward Marty and
rubbed both hands over his chest and flat belly.

	"Hmmmm." Jeff closed his eyes and sighed, as he cupped the pouch of
his dark blue strap and gently squeezed with one hand, while . . . toying
with his nipples with the other.  Unlike his own or Phalen's hairless skin,
Jeff's chest and butt sported a slight covering of short dark hair, made
more prominent by his light skin.

	"Are you showing off for my benefit?" Marty murmured.  Without
answering, Jeff nodded once and stepped close enough to drag the full pouch
of his jock across Marty's face.

	"Y'don't even know if I like guys," he commented, as if hypnotized,
his eyes flicking from Jeff to Phalen.

	"You like to wear dirty jocks around your neck," Jeff murmured,
sensuously running his hands over his own butt cheeks.

	"You're gay," Phalen finished the thought, seemingly as mesmerized
by Jeff's show as Marty.

	"I'll bet you suck on 'em when you masturbate," Jeff murmured, as
he peeled the straps of the jock he was wearing away from his butt.  He
pushed the waistband of the 'strap down to just below his butt cheeks, then
paused a moment to run his open palms over the twin mounds.  After a
moment, he leaned forward and stepped out of his 'strap, exposing a tight,
pink, hairless hole, and dangling balls.

	"Holy, fuckin' damn," Marty exhaled, first in appreciation of the
erotic display being performed less than an arm's-length away, and at the
amazingly sexy man who was the star.  It was all he could do not to gasp at
the sight of the fine spread of hair covering Jeff's chest.  Since he
himself was almost totally smooth, hair on another man had always held a
special fascination for him.  The narrow line of hair, both above and below
Jeff's navel, spread to a pubic bush to rival Phalen's.  And, nestled below
the bush, hung a beautiful cock and balls, which swung with each of his
movements.  As Marty watched open-mouthed, Jeff ran the palm of one hand
over his flat belly, then toyed with his cock for a second, before cupping
his scrotum.

	"Show off," Phalen playfully mumbled, grinning when Jeff flicked a
glance in his direction.  "You're getting the poor guy so worked up, he's
not gonna be able to get it to go down until he shoots a load."

	Jeff grinned and raised his eyebrows, as Marty squirmed, trying to
find a position less constricting for his penis, which suddenly felt as if
it was tied in knots.

	Phalen nodded toward Jeff.  "He didn't used to be like this, you
know.  I used to have to wrestle him to get him outta his clothes.  Now,
suddenly," Phalen laughed, "he's 'bout ready to hire himself out as a
stripper."

	Marty could do nothing but watch, and think, 'I'm in lust,' as Jeff
hung his still-damp jock over his head. Then, as if Marty needed any extra
excitement, rubbed the sweaty pouch over Marty's face.  He wanted nothing
more than to suck on each of the sweaty jocks and slowly masturbate himself
to orgasm.

	"You like?" Jeff asked Marty, in a soft voice, grinning as Phalen
moved to stand next to Jeff, and began teasing his nipples.

	"Oooooh, yes," Marty said, on an exhaled breath, unable to tear his
eyes away from the two men in front of him.  Phalen was now caressing
Jeff's chest and belly.  When he reached Jeff's pubes and cupped his
thickening penis, Jeff inhaled deeply, leaning his head back.  "I like both
the show and the 'straps." Then, with both Phalen and Jeff watching, buried
his nose against the mesh-like fabric of both jocks, and inhaled deeply.
He grinned, after wiping the fabric over his face.  "The smell of a 'strap,
damp with sweat, is as much a turn on as watching you guys, or the smells
of a locker room."

	Jeff gently disengaged himself from Phalen, with an apologetic
look.  "We have to remember where we are, lover," he murmured.  "If we're
going to give a show, let's do it someplace where no one, other than Marty
and the two of us, can enjoy it."  Jeff turned to Marty.  "Maybe you'd like
to join us at our house?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in query.  "Not
necessarily for a continuation of the show," he grinned, "but for dinner.
Phalen and I love having guys over."

	"Great idea!" Phalen smiled, brightly.  "Join us for a shower, why
don't you?  Then, head over to our place for dinner.  I don't know about
you, but I'm starved, and Jeff's an awesome cook.  Besides, you look like a
guy who enjoys being naked."  Phalen slapped one of Jeff's ass cheeks,
leaving a pink hand-shaped imprint.  "We never wear clothes when we're at
home, do we, Big Man.  And, who knows, maybe Jeff and I can finish what we
started a bit ago, and you can," he nodded to the jocks adorning Marty's
neck, "enjoy those straps and shoot the load that you've been thinking
about.  Better yet, maybe Jeff and I can shoot our loads onto the jocks,
first . . . while you're wearing them, of course."

	'Big Man?  Show?' Marty wondered.  "Dinner?  Y'sure?  I mean,
you've already done so much for me, just by inviting me to practice, and,"
he smiled, "and giving me my new neck gear."  Phalen made a throw-away
gesture, as Jeff snorted a laugh.

	"C'mon, strip-off, and let's get cleaned up.  You're not
embarrassed by being naked, are you?" Phalen asked, making a hurry-up
motion.

	"Are you kidding?" Marty laughed, as he shook his head and dropped
his shorts and jock, freeing his erection.  He toed off his shoes, then
reluctantly placed the three 'straps in a locker, along with his clothes,
promising himself that he'd let his fantasies run riot as soon as he got
home.  'Maybe, by them, the 'straps will be smeared with the guys' jiz.'

	"Like I said, Jeff and I hang out naked, most of the time, when
we're at home," Phalen continued, smiling as Marty absently toyed with his
own penis.  "That's why I've got this fabulous tan."  Phalen laughed,
turning one way, then the other, giving Marty a good view of both the front
and back.

	"You're gonna have to excuse the erection though," Marty murmured.
He couldn't help himself.  Focusing first on Phalen, then Jeff, he slowly
stroked himself, pausing at his cock's head and squeezing.  "I'm thinking
that being around the two of you, I'm going to be hard, most of the time."

	Phalen laughed.  "I'm thinking maybe you're as much of a show off
as Jeff."

	Marty managed to tear his hand away from his erection, pleased to
see that his little show had caused both Jeff and Phalen's cocks to
thicken.  He grinned.  "I've never had a chance to," he shrugged, "do
anything like this, but I think I'll like showing off as much as I enjoy
looking."

	"Hey, guy!  I like the shaved pubes," Phalen teased, as they headed
for the showers.  Phalen looked down at himself, and ran his fingers
through the luxuriant growth.  "Y'think I should maybe shave mine?"

	"No!"  Both Marty and Jeff spoke at the same time.


~ to be continued ~



	Thank you for taking the time to read my work.  I welcome your
email and enjoy hearing your thoughts.  If you would like me to send a pic
of the character(s), please ask.