Date: Thu, 29 Oct 1998 19:07:36 -0800
From: silicondog <silicondog@earthlink.net>
Subject: "711"

Seven-Eleven
by silicondog@earthlink.net

The following story is intended for adults over age 18 interested in male to 
male sexual fantasy.  If that's not you, please read no further.  Practice 
safer sex.


Even though this story's been told and over, it's never been told right.  

You've certainly seen 7-11 for yourself by now, whether on the football nets or 
even on the porn sites.  Nowadays, no porn site is complete unless they have a 
clip of some actor's face morphed onto 7-11's body. He has had a fan club and 
fan web sites since he was 16 when he joined the WNFL, and is just about the 
hottest digital matrix (what was called a hot body when I was his age) on the 
Net.  He modeled for a line of underwear (which means, of course, that they 
morphed his body into the underwear image).

7-11 and I have had a fairly stormy history on the team.  Before he started, I 
was the assistant trainer for the team, and he was assigned to me along with 
some other guys.  We took a liking to one another, to our mutual surprise.  To 
me, not only was he not just one more guy in the same locker room I've worked in 
for years, because he was white (the marketing consultants had made him white, 
changing their minds at the last minute). 

Anyway, when he joined the team (on his 18th birthday), 7-11 already had a rep 
as a "discipline problem." Now jocks with "discipline problems" could be into 
anything from trashing hotel rooms on up, but with his background (a rather 
shadowy early childhood featuring genetic engineers, sports marketing 
consultants and committee-selected parents, all encrypted by lawyers) it was 
hard to scope out.  And the team has a policy against any kind of strong 
personal loyalty formation, so we were ordered to cool it.  I was reassigned; he 
got the senior team trainer.  

I was pissed but kept my mouth shut.  7-11 was pissed and did something about 
it.  7-11 got his nickname the day his height was measured as a high school 
freshman for the WNFL farm team statistical package.  Even though it's in feet 
and inches, the nickname stuck.  Anyway, he does not take frustration 
internally.  Especially a guy whose hormones apparently got boosted along with 
everything else in his body.  

And make no mistake: when 7-11 gets physical it is no secret, as his team 
learned the day of his tryout.  7-11 had intercepted a pass at the twenty yard 
line and returned it -- walking through the entire team who bounced off him 
trying to stop or slow him down, three and four grabbing him at once but only 
being dragged along as he calmly carried the ball under one arm and with the 
other grabbed one player after the other and crushed their breath out of their 
bodies with one great squeeze.  One of them told me that having 7-11's arm 
around you was like being under a car when the jack slipped.  When he walked 
into the end zone, he spiked the ball into the ground so hard it disappeared 
into the astroturf.  Psyched and pumped, he trotted over to the goal post and 
hugged it.  In one heave the post was uprooted out of the stadium floor until 
its concrete base, as big as 7-11's own torso, swayed in his arms and the 
aluminum goal post was waved back and forth like a flagpole.

"Wanna go out for a pass?" he asked.  There were no takers.  

After he joined the team for real, all learned that manhandling 200 kilo 
opponents on Sunday still left him healthy and horny the other six.  The first 
object of his attention was a running back who had started a fuck-buddy 
relationship the moment the coach had turned his back.  At 220 kilos he was a 
little light for 7-11, but I don't think he minded much as long as he didn't 
expect the guy to keep up with him in bed.  The day after I got reassigned away 
from him, a scheduled massage/blowjob escalated courtesy of 7-11 into a five 
hour marathon session, 7-11 on top, that almost jackhammered the guy through the 
slats of the hotel's bed.  He was on the disabled list for a month; the main 
office just said he had "suffered a training injury."

It wasn't until after the episode in the shower with the quarterback that I was 
re-assigned to him for good.  He had approached the team's quarterback (who was 
straight six days a week) and with his characteristic subtlety, snuck behind his 
back to grab the guy, sliding his sixteen-inch cock between his legs to forklift 
his 180 kilogram teammate right up in the air under the showerhead, hugging his 
torso in one arm, grabbing the QB's semierect dick in his other paw, and 
whispering into his ear, "Wanna get it on?" The quarterback, remembering the 
length of time the running back had spent on the disabled list after studying 
the playbook with 7-11, asked the coach to put me back on my job.  

That afternoon, getting up on a stool to stand eye-to-eye with him, I reached 
towards the release snaps of his helmet.  Gingerly (because that helmet is worth 
about a million dollars, with the video monitors and cameras), I snapped its 
locks off from his uniform.  

 "Here we go" I called, to warn him, and pulled the 20-kilo helmet off his head.  
I watched his brown eyes blinking in the first normal light he had seen in 
hours, and he shook his head after the weight of the helmet was off his neck.  
Short thick black hair in a dense tangled mass, matted with a heavy spicy sweat, 
glistened.  Next were the kevlar/plasteel shoulder pads, which he had to help me 
peel up and over his head; between them and the other pads that 7-11 hauls 
across the field, it adds up to 50 kilograms.

"Why do I have to wear this stuff?" he asked.  "I mean, nobody's gonna hurt my 
shoulders." That was probably true.  The pads probably protect the other side 
from getting bruised or at having bones broken by bouncing off of 7-11's body.  
That left the skin-tight shirt with the seams split across his shoulders, and 
where his chest had pumped up during the game.  He tore the shredded shirt off 
of his body as if it was paper, the heavy fabric ripping under his fingers.  

At last he was naked from the waist up, except for the medical monitor on his 
pec, a quarter-sized circle that made 7-11 look like he had a third nipple.  I 
carefully peeled it off of his plate of muscle.  As usual, he shyly smiled and 
reached up, his paw holding my hand on his muscle when I rubbed the spot where 
it had been glued to his body.  

"Good strong game" I murmured, as he shook his head back, forth, up and down.  
It's part of our ritual after each game; I'm his third (and longest) 
trainer/coach, and I learned first thing that this kid does not like certain 
kinds of surprises.  So I knew he wouldn't mind next when I slipped my hands 
down to his skin-tight trunks.  After several tugs I could get my fingers 
between the thick fabric and granite muscles of his belly and hips.  Pulling it 
down over the great tree-trunks of his upper legs, I was hit instantly by a hot 
odor of come and sweat from his groin protector.  I looked up and knew I would 
find him smiling and blushing, a combination of shyness and conquest.  

One of 7-11's trademarks (though you sure as hell won't hear about it on ESPN5) 
is the way he sacks quarterbacks.  In his freshman (first and last) year of 
college, he liked to pull the protective cup away from the sacked quarterback's 
basket, crush it like a Styrofoam cup in one quick squeeze, and let it drop back 
into place under the uniform, especially if he was on the bottom of a pile and 
the cameras couldn't catch him.  

In the WNFL, he loved to spook a quarterback he had just nailed by delivering 
some long, heavy dry humps into either his butt or basket if they were on the 
bottom of a pile; often 7-11 blew his load into his protector then and there.  
You can't see it on camera because of the uniform, but 7-11 told me that the 
quarterback sure as hell know what 7-11 had done.  "One or two, they don't mind 
at all.  Well, yeah, they mind, like, but they're not really freaked out.  
Having it done to them in public, that pisses them off.  Shit, once or twice 
they call me after the game but they can't get through.  Last week the guy tried 
to grab my goods to taste it but he couldn't get his fingers in there in time, 
you know?" 
 
Today I could tell that 7-11 had gotten lucky at least once, probably more; a 
heavy strong smell and streaking white leakage smeared by his tights over his 
pubes, belly and upper thighs, and even down into his legs.  While 7-11 opened 
up a ten-liter jug of protein juice and swilled it down, I tugged away and 
finally snapped off his jock and the kevlar cup, pulling down the come-soaked 
fabric and plastic, to say hello to about a foot (soft) of cut veined boner, 
with two orange-sized caked balls cuddled over his thighs.  Shaking my head (and 
7-11 chuckling), I took my time pulling the jockstrap and cup down his long, 
wide legs.  I even watched the company logos on his cup cycle back and forth 
from one to the other, their timing dictated in 7-11's contract.  

Having just chugged down ten liters of nutrient, I watched the tight, locked 
muscles of his belly ripple under his tanned skin as he pulled open another.  
When you're over 200 kilos (or over 400 pounds, for you rubes out there), that's 
a snack.  While I was tugging down his smeared jock, he tore the top off of a 
third jug and casually began pouring it down in one fell swoop.  I watched the 
swallowing down his pumping broad neck into huge traps, and I could imagine the 
protein being burned directly into muscle into his chest, the trees of his 
thighs and peaking biceps without even making it into his stomach.  

He belched and hit his own belly, a loud dull thunk of fist on muscle.  Like 
hitting the front tire of your car, except your care tire is probably softer 
than 7-11's abs.

"Could we hit the steam?" he asked.  

"No prob, my man" I answered, unbuckling my belt without his help.  At least 7-
11 lets me do some of the work.  We walked into the steam room (his, by 
contract), me watching the sweaty planes and mounds of his broad lats grind into 
each other under flawless skin, my eyes level with the middle of his back.  His 
butt was smooth curves of bunching muscle, not like the striations and grooves 
on the ass of professional bodybuilders.  It's a "bubble" butt that you could 
break a baseball bat on.

"How's your shoulder healing?" I asked, professionally.  He had dislocated his 
shoulder three games back; he had re-set it himself after the game by wedging 
his shoulder into a doorway and twisting.  His shoulder had snapped back into 
place.  The door frame had snapped in two.  "Healed" he purred, reaching with 
one great arm around me to clamp over my bare torso and lifted my 100 kilos 
without even straining the dense muscles of his arm and lats.  We walked into 
the steam this way, me carried by 7-11 in one arm.  We sat side by side in the 
dim steam, a light tree trunk of thigh against my smaller dark leg.  He left his 
heavy arm around my shoulder and I felt my right bicep vanish under the fingers 
of his huge right hand.

He was fascinated with my tats, old gang stuff from the last century.  His palm 
almost completely wrapped around my muscle, a thumb exploring the pattern on my 
inked skin.  I was careful not to flex my bicep in his hand; he gets excited 
fast and could clamp down, snapping my bone, even under the muscle.

"Wow, man, they did that with needles back then?" 7-11 asked, his thumb nail 
cautiously tracing the gang letters of my bicep.  I never had them lasered off 
like most people do.  The tats are thirty years old, but I'm not ashamed of why 
I had them.  They're better than the rodmans the basketball pros have to wear, 
logo tattoos of advertisers who buy career leases on their own skin by the 
square centimeter.

"Lean back and arch your neck" I said, watching him continue to work out some 
kind of cramp in his neck.  Reaching down I cradled in my hand one of his heavy 
balls laying on top of a hairless thigh.  Gripping it, I squeezed as hard as I 
could.  On a normal guy, I could crush them; but 7-11's heavy meat was a 
cannonball, hot and hard.  He treated me like a dog when you pet its belly; he 
just purred and arched his back to rub his head against the wall of the steam.  

Casually as his head bobbed back and forth, his great arm gently and without 
effort scooped me up in the air.  Thick fingers clamped around my hips and swung 
me over and around so we were face to face; then he let me down until only until 
only his arching cock kept me from sliding down to the floor, my hardening dick 
bumping down across his abs.

I reached out to begin massaging his chest, stroking lightly around the nipples 
with only my fingernails.  Each pec was a two-handed job, and mine couldn't even 
begin to cover it all.  He flexed each pec once at a time, the muscle yielding 
under my fingers one moment, as tight as a statute the next.  His great cock 
felt like a hot steam pipe under the cheeks of my ass, 7-11's pulse echoing in 
my butt.  In the dim steam, his eyes were closed and you could barely see the 
attempt at a fu-manchu moustache trail across his lips and chin.  A teenager 
grows one to reassure himself that his hormones will start working someday.  His 
hard cock contentedly supporting my 100 kilos, so hard that the skin along it 
had no slack, I didn't think 7-11 had much to worry along the hormone front.  

"Hey, man, did you remember what I told you about swallowing it?" 7-11 asked.  
In college, he told me that he had "hacked his own DNA" and discovered that his 
own cum could boost the muscles of whoever swallowed it.  I thought it was 
superstitious bullshit, even if I had started to have trouble fitting into my 
shirts.  His paw massaged my bicep, gauging its size.  "I still think you're 
growing, but you gotta take more of my loads."

I saw him calculating with his eyes.  There was no way to take the stream of 
that firehose all at once, and we knew it.  Last week, I choked on it and a shot 
from his cock flew across the steam room and knocked open the door.  

"I got the idea!" With that he stood and stalked out of the steam into the 
locker room, his cock swinging slightly in the mist.  A minute later he 
returned, with an old-style football helmet in one hand, the kind with holes in 
the side for hearing and a metal grid over the front for seeing.  He kneeled in 
front of me and shoved his cock into the helmet and held it there with one hand 
while curling his other arm around me, lifting me up while he swallowed my cock 
in one swoop.

Floating helplessly in one of his arms I started to lose it almost at once and 
he started to hump his cock inside the football helmet.  After only about thirty 
seconds I began to blow, wriggling helplessly in his arm.  Easily taking my load 
in his mouth, I heard the helmet's plastic creaking in 7-11's hand as his hips 
began to pump back and forth.  I heard his breath become random and with a sharp 
gasp and a loud moan that echoed in the room even around my still hard cock, 7-
11 began to shoot into the football helmet.  For what felt like minutes he held 
me in the air in his hand, a tongue slashing across the underside of my cock.

He put me back on the hot sauna steps and brought up the football helmet.  My 
mouth snapped open as I could see his pole in the steam, a dipstick smeared to 
its base with cum.  In his hand I could see the helmet bottom up, a thick white 
mass filling it up to the earholes.  

"Okay, man, let's lie back" 7-11 ordered, snaking one hot arm across my 
shoulders to hold my neck and head in a vice.  I was pulled back until I was 
almost flat on my back, his arm clamping my head in place.  A few inches in 
front of my nose I saw the helmet filled with his cum, held carefully to keep 
every drop inside.  He put the hot plastic of the helmet against my lower lip, 
gently opening my mouth and then tilted carefully and my mouth filled instantly.

"Come on, man, take it all" he started to chant in the heat and mist.  As I 
chugged mouthful after mouthful down I could barely see him over me, a huge hard 
shape in the mist holding me down and filling my belly.  I couldn't even focus 
on the helmet anymore so I kept choking it down blindly.  Only the changing tilt 
of the helmet against my mouth could tell me how much was left.  

I heard a sharp crackle over my head and felt on my lips the shudders of the 
helmet's reinforced plastic begin to break in 7-11's hand, his thick fingers 
crumpling the helmet as it emptied down my throat and into my guts.  My mind was 
almost gone, as I tasted only the thick column of come from my mouth down my 
throat into my stomach stretched full with his load and felt the hot slick oak 
of 7-11's arm holding my head in place.

At last my mouth gasped on air and not 7-11's load and he pulled the crushed 
helmet away from my gaping mouth, replacing it with his lips which brushed my 
own.  I heard far away the crumpled helmet drop to the floor and felt his huge 
palm pat my distended belly, by now stretched around the product of 7-11's great 
balls.  He traced my distended abs with his fingertips and I saw the sharp white 
of his teeth grin in the steam.  

By now you're asking: was I in love with him? It was a weird mix of protective 
mothering instinct, professional interest (I was his trainer, after all), 
father-son vintage pride and let's not forget ballcracking lust.  Even if this 
year is 2020, I'm still closing on fifty.  To 7-11, it doesn't matter.  "Why" he 
asked, when I talked about it, "why do you think you have to do something about 
it? You're healthy, right? And you look fine to me" he would add.  That's 
surprising enough, but when we started talking about my tattoos he convinced me 
of one last thing: he didn't understand racism.  Not at all.  He looked at color 
like whether you were right-handed or left- handed.  With his design and 
development (if it had been done by his parents and not genetic engineers, I'd 
call it upbringing).  Naive and, when I first met him, innocent.  John F.  
Kennedy? A president (but he wasn't sure).  Malcom X? Denzel Washington before 
he got into politics.  He had learned more about how to read the screen in his 
helmet than about the world and his size and muscles had given him the strength 
to start asking questions about himself.  

He was eager to learn.  I was eager to teach.