Date: Thu, 11 May 2017 00:55:13 -0500
From: Mister Dan <mcderosword@gmail.com>
Subject: The Whistle: Chapter 1

Tags: Gay threesome, oral, coach, modern day magic

*This story involves the use of a magic whistle, which results in hardcore
nsa sex between an adult male and teenage guys, and does involve some
scenes of incest. If you would rather not read about gay sex (why the fuck
are you on this sight then? GTFO.), or it is illegal for you to do so
because of your age or ridiculous laws, then I recommend you leave now and
go find something else on the internet to do. All the other usual legal
disclaimers apply.

**This is my second story to Nifty, but I am trying to practice my writing
skills with this story, and really with every story as I go along, so you
may notice that I am getting into descriptive paragraphs, trying to let the
characters stream of conscious free flowing thoughts fill in on their
emotional state and current psyche. I am not great, and I typically don't
do a lot of proofreading (so if you find mistakes, let me know) but I
normally don't make many truly noticeable grammar mistakes that should
interrupt you and jar you from the narrative as you're reading, and I
almost never make logic errors in my writings. By logic error I mean where
I mix up names of characters or change circumstances, I know I am not the
only one who's really into a story, and then notices the author called a
character by the wrong name, added a new last name, switched to character's
names, or just some other detail that doesn't fit right with the narrative
already present. Again though, if you find something let me know, and if
you ever want to proofread my stuff before I submit it, email me. I am
about to have a lot of free time on my hands, and am looking for a lot of
hobbies to fill my time.

***Finally, Nifty is a free story database that we all use to get our
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The Whistle By Mister Dan

Chapter One

	"Come on boys! Don't faint on me now!" Barked Coach Johnson at his
baseball team as the majority of the players, even his best ones, began to
falter and slow down, having been running laps for almost an hour at this
point. Coach Johnson was seething, and he knew his players knew it. If he
could he would have them run laps until they fainted, dumped water on their
sorry asses, and made them get up and run fifty more.

	It was all Dinaldi's fault, he knew it, but none of the other
players would give him up. Made him pissed and proud at the same time, too
bad this wasn't the circumstances to keep ranks. Damn kid couldn't keep his
head together if he fucking tried, same as his father and the rest of his
father's family. Coach Johnson practically grew up with Mario Dinaldi, he
was on first name basis with most of his family, but damn that Italian
blood flowed strong in all of them, and especially Jason Dinaldi, leaving
them strong and handsome, but also short tempered and brutish. Jason was
the only one Coach could think of that would pull this fucking stunt, but
since no one fessed up or gave him up, it was laps for all of them until
someone caved or a day of practice was wasted.

	Who the fuck thinks it's okay to dump shit—literal shit—God
fucking knows how the little fucks got their hands on that much shit, all
over a rival team's locker room and uniforms? Granted it was a team of
entitled ass-wholes who dumped all over his team, teepeed most of the
upperclassmen's houses, and egged the fucking water boy (poor kid refused
to leave his house for two days after that), but this was nasty and way too
extreme. Coach Johnson only prayed that it would scare the other team off
of retribution given how far his team went.

	Glancing at his watch with his green-blue eyes, he saw that there
was still another forty minutes to go until practice normally
ended. Thirsty, he hauled his considerable weight from the bench he had
been sitting on in the shade, and walked over to where the water boy, or as
they liked to be called nowadays team manager, was so he could refill his
water bottle while continuing to keep an eye on the team. The effort made
his joints pitch fits and nearly rebel, one of the consequences of knee
surgery from years of abuse in sports. He really wasn't even that old, just
having turned 38 last month, but the forced sedation due to extensive
sports injuries following years of heavy eating and intense physical
activities caused his body to rapidly deteriorate so that he looked and
felt much older than he was, and even his son, who was trailing behind
everyone else, could run laps around him.

	It was bad enough having a body that didn't move the way it used
to, but tack on a rebellious team that refused to listen and seemed shocked
every time they lost, taking it out on him when they never did what he
fucking said, and Coach Johnson was frustrated and exhausted, desperate to
do anything to get his boys in line, get his old body back, or just throw
in the fucking towel. It's not like he was even the toughest coach at the
damned school, and he never outright demanded respect just to make himself
seem like an ass, and he sure as hell never let them walk all over
him. Short of kicking out the worst offenders, who also happened to be the
most talented players, he truly was out of options at this point—and the
dick of a principal who put sports on a pedestal, was breathing down his
fucking neck to either make progress, or he'd be out of a job. Don't get
him wrong, Coach Johnson agrees that sports are important, but not every
team can be a winning team, and high school should be more about academics,
getting these kids prepared for college or the work force, sports should
only be an avenue to teach them some valuable life lessons and get
scholarship opportunities, the sports only philosophy the principal
fostered in his school would only lead the majority of his players for a
rude awakening when they left high school for the real world.

	"Finish this lap, get some water, and hit the batting cages!" Coach
Johnson yelled out, after tossing his broken whistle into the trash after
it failed to sound its shrill shriek to get their attention. He was sick of
watching them run and not wanting to completely waste a day of practice. He
saw some of his players visibly relax in relief now that their punishment
was over—Dinaldi wasn't one of them. Grumbling to himself he went to
observe their practice hits, belting out criticisms and compliments of
their form for the next half hour.

	By the time practice was done, every single player was physically
drained, and Coach Johnson was mentally drained. Exhausted and still in a
piss poor mood, he rounded up the players and harried them so that they
would be out of his hair as soon as possible. Most of them got the message,
but a few numbskulls, Jason Dinaldi included, were horsing around well
after the first teammate had taken his shower and scrammed.

	"Stop your messing around and get, or all of y'all that are still
here will be running suicides for the first half of tomorrow!" Johnson
growled, for once sending the mutinous little shits into a scramble of
getting changed and out of his war path. Most of them felt sorry for his
son, Sean, who would have to go home with his irate father and perhaps bear
the brunt of his frustration about the team.

	Once the last of them had disappeared from sight, Coach grabbed his
keys and bag, herding his son in front of him as they left the locker room
and he locked it up tight. Still fuming from handling the crap his team was
giving him all afternoon, Coach Johnson was silent for the short walk to
the car, and Sean did nothing to break that silence for most of the trip
home until they were almost at a strip mall where the grocery store where
they normally shopped was.

	"Don't forget, Mom wanted us to pick some stuff up at the store for
dinner on our way home," Sean gently reminded his dad, trying to be
delicate enough so his dad wouldn't snap at him.

	He needn't have worried, his dad just grunted in response as he
turned into the mostly empty parking lot and pulled into a spot close to
the store front. The grocery store was probably the largest storefront in
the strip mall, bookended on either side by a hair and nail salon and a
used book store/coffee shop. Really feeling the length of the day, and
groaning as he remembered all he had yet left to do tonight, Coach Johnson
decided he needed a little pick me up, and the coffee at the store was
normally pretty decent.

	Handing his son a forty dollars, he sent him into the grocery store
to pick up all the stuff his mother needed, while he strolled over to the
book store to give himself a pick-me-up. It was a quaint little store, run
by an almost nerdy looking fellow—almost because he reminded Coach
Johnson of most of the athletes he had known all of his life, looked and
acted like a confident stud with an angular and blocky face, muscular body,
and that swagger that only handsome men on top of the world can do, but at
the same time came across humble, demure, and academic, especially with the
thickly framed glasses that really showed off his cat like green
eyes. Coach Johnson enjoyed talking to him because they were similar in
that regard, they were both active and fit men (or in Coach's case he was,
and still would be if he had a choice) and yet placed great stress on the
importance of getting an education, and all the doors it could unlock for
you. As Coach Johnson liked to put it from a more practical point of view
for his athletes, a good athlete has success while he plays, a smart one
has success even after the game is over.

	Ian, the owner, looked up as the bell attached to the door clanged,
announcing his entrance, smiling as Coach Johnson made his way to the
counter, eager for some coffee and light conversation.

	"Hey Tim," Ian greeted him warmly, "what you looking to get?"

	"Other than a team that listens?" He quipped, "How about just a
normal medium coffee."

	"Still giving you trouble?" Ian asked remorsefully as he went about
getting the coffee and pouring him a cup.

	"Get this, one of them literally covered the entirety of a rival
school's locker room in, I can't even say it it's so disgusting just to
think about."

	"Hey man, you can't just leave me hanging like that." Ian jested in
response.

	"Fine but promise you won't say a word of this to anyone else,"
Coach leaned in and whispered, checking the room to make sure no one was
close enough to listen even though he knew it was empty when he walked in.

	"Scout's honor," Ian grinned, eager to hear what happened.

	"Shit. They somehow got their hands on a load of cow crap and
coated every surface with it."

	"Dude," Ian whistled, at the same time impressed and grossed out.

	"I don't know what I am going to do with them, I'm almost at my
limit." Coach Johnson sighed, thinking ruefully over his too few
options. "By the way, odd request, I know you sell knick-knacks and stuff,
but do you have any whistles? My last one went kaput at practice today, I
think I cracked it somehow."

	Ian paused, uncertain. While he didn't have any whistles on the
floor to sell, he did have a very special whistle that he had just finished
crafting. Even though he liked the man, he wasn't all to certain he could
trust him, however he had been in this game far too long to not know how it
worked. Ian was what's known as an enchanter, he crafted magical items that
perform certain tasks, and he'd been doing it for over fifty years, though
he had told Tim that he had just turned thirty. He'll admit he had designed
the whistle with the coach in mind, driving him to imbue it with some hot
fantasy he had in mind while solving the coach's problems, but never
imagine the universe would actually decide that the coach should be the
owner of the whistle, he didn't even mean to make it that powerful. You
see, the way an enchanter works is that they typically create only minor
artifacts that they can use to assist them in their day to day lives,
protecting themselves from danger, or just doing important tasks. However,
if they make an object powerful enough, it becomes a major artifact, and
the universe or artifact picks a person who is meant to wield it for
whatever reason. Coach Johnson asking him if he had a whistle was a major
sign that he was to be the true owner of the whistle.

	"Let me check in back," Ian managed to get out, hurrying to his
workshop to double check his hunch. Grabbing the whistle, he whirled back
around and slowly marched back to the coach, watching for any sign that the
whistle belonged to him. Just as he opened back up the door to the
storefront, he saw a brief, nearly imperceptible flash to most normal
people's eyes, but to Ian it was like a comet flying right in front of his
face, it was so bright. Without a doubt, the whistle belonged to the coach.

	Ian hesitated for a moment after he came back out to the floor,
unsure if he could really trust the man with such a powerful object, but
the universe always had its reasons. "Here," he said, handing over the
ordinary looking silver whistle to Tim, "On the house."

	"You sure? It would really be no trouble at all to pay for it." Tim
asked, mistaking Ian's hesitance for giving him the whistle for free.

	"I'm sure," Ian affirmed, giving him a solid nod as he convinced
himself that it was alright. A sly smile crept across his face. "Just be
warned, it might just make your team too obedient."

	"That'll be the day!" Tim said, giving a deep bellied laugh at the
absurd thought. Grabbing his coffee he waved goodbye to Ian as he stepped
out into the parking lot, looking over to the grocery store as he trotted
over to his car. He could clearly see his boy through the front windows of
the store, patiently waiting in line at one of the only two checkout
counters open along with what looked like half the city. Tim smiled
ruefully as he unlocked and got into the driver's seat of the car to wait
for his son, musing why grocery stores never seemed to have enough
registers open.

	After Sean got into the car, they took off for home, Coach Johnson
forgetting all about the whistle until the next morning when he saw it on
his dresser. He figured his wife must have checked the pockets of all the
pants in the hamper when she started a load earlier that morning; she
always nagged him about taking stuff out of the pockets, separating his
underwear from his shorts or pants, and turning stuff right side out after
he took them off. Coach Johnson put the whistle around his neck before he
began searching for the tests he graded last night for the AP Calculus
course he taught.

	Finding the notes under what looked like piles of paper for Sean's
unfinished report on the French Revolution, he got the rest of his stuff
together before marshalling his son out the door so they could make it to
school on time. So began the long grueling day of trying to explain the
basic principles of algebraic equations to remedial math students, a
majority of them who were mush-brained athletes still taking the class as
seniors, expecting that they would still manage to be able to graduate in
the coming spring as they were still taking middle school level math. If
the damned principal had his way, they all probably would, even if they
failed his class. The highlight of his day was going over the exams in the
Calculus class, which only consisted of eight students, who though the
cream of the crop at their school, Coach Johnson knew they would be in for
one hell of a shock when they met their college cohort, where they would
just be considered of slightly above average intelligence.

	After the final bell rang he sighed, as he somehow managed to
muster up enough motivation to tread off to the locker room and somehow
whip his team into shape. Luckily yesterday's message seemed to have taken,
as even Jason was getting into his gear without much fanfare. Coach Johnson
went and sat in his office soaking in the rare moment of tranquility,
though he kept a careful eye on his team so nothing did start. Of course,
that peace didn't last long.

	The door to the baseball team's locker room slammed open as their
short-stop Javier Gutierrez, a sturdy senior whose family moved here from
Guatemala when he was ten, stormed in with a murderous look.

	"Dinaldi!" He shouted, whipping his head from left to right in
search of the source of his wrath before spotting him standing amongst a
group of his buddies standing shell shocked at the sudden display, where
moments before they had been joking around. "You fucking stay away from my
girl before I pound your face in!"

	Everyone in the locker room held a collective breath knowing
trouble was about to really break as a smug smirk crept up Jason Dinaldi's
face moments before he opened up his mouth in retort.

	"You should be saying that to your girl. She was the one begging me
to pound her harder because you don't know how to even give it to her
right."

	Before anyone had even seen movement, Javier had already tackled
Jason to the floor as they grappled each other for dominance. It was
evident Javier was out for blood and it was fortunate he hadn't been
thinking too clearly when he tackled Jason, as only now was he trying to
unsuccessfully wrap his hands around his rival's neck and wring it. Coach
Johnson was out of his office in a flash and in the main room, grabbing his
new whistle and bringing it to his lips in order to shock them apart before
he would have to try and forcefully separate them.

	Time seemed to stand still as a shrill unnatural sound burst forth
sharp, clear, and demanding from the whistle. Coach Johnson felt it as his
body rippled, healing itself as it was restored to how it was in its peak
condition before going even beyond that. He felt years slough off his
shoulders, and witnessed in a nearby mirror as he transformed to an Adonis
version of himself that appeared to be in his late twenties. A flip seemed
to switch in his brain as he gained more confidence than he had ever had,
his shoulders straightened and he stood taller as he felt his personality
become more assertive and dominant, and he knew without a doubt that all
those who called him Coach and heard the whistle were his boys to control
and do as he wished with.

	The whole locker room stood still as the echoes of the whistle
reverberated, every player seemingly stunned as they instinctively felt the
change within their universe, yet unable to put a finger on what was truly
different. To the Coach, it seemed as if they were waiting for orders, and
he knew just what to say to them.

	"Everyone, drop what you're doing and line up now!" He barked out,
eyeballing every single one of them and just daring one of his boys to even
give him flack. All the players immediately snapped to attention, even
Dinaldi and Gutierrez, their spat forgotten as they joined the ranks of
their teammates, breathing heavily with excitement in their eyes. Coach
Johnson grinned as he saw them in their various states of dress, each one
of them with a throbbing erection that was also standing at attention.

	"All right, boys," He started, placing extra stress on the word boy
as if to remind them that he was the only man among them, "I have had it to
here with your shit and things are going to change from here on out. We are
going to establish some ground rules, and you all are going to follow them,
you got that?"

	All of them at least nodded in affirmation, with most of them
talking over each saying variations of yes.

	"First off, is whatever I say goes, whether that be on or off the
field. I am tired of your bullshit attitudes and not listening when I tell
you to do something in a game," He said as he began marching up and down
the line, staring at every single one of his players. "Second, you're all
gonna double your effort in classes and put your best foot forward. No
excuses, no whining." Here he poked one of the players in his remedial
algebra course in the chest. "You immediately go home after practice to
finish homework or study if you have a test coming up. I want to see all of
your grades improve, C's and lower aren't going to cut it. Third, start
spending time together as teammates and friends off the diamond in your
free time. Cut back on hanging out with your old friends and
girlfriends. We're going to make ourselves one cohesive unit. Finally, and
this one is my favorite rule, no getting off or unless I say so. I don't
want any you knocking up your girlfriends, and building up your
testosterone should amp up your game." Coach Johnson's grin grew even wider
as he marched to the end of the line where Jason Dinaldi was, delivering
this last rule as if it was specifically made for him, staring him dead in
the eye.

	"Team Manager."

	"Yes, Coach?" The pipsqueak said, shyly ducking his head down.

	"Go ask Coach Anderson to keep an eye on the team for me out
there. Tell him I have a discipline issue I have to iron out and I want the
boys split into groups to do catching and sliding drills."

	"Got it," he said as he ducked out the door in a dash.

	"Dinaldi, Gutierrez, my office, now. As for the rest of you, get
your uniforms on and get out to the field on the double. Diaz, make sure
the last one out there has to run five laps first."

	"Yes coach," Diaz said as he led the rush out into the diamond, no
one wanting to have to run extra laps.

	Jason and Javier followed Coach Johnson into his office, under the
effects of the whistle they were fearful and at the same time excited,
curious to discover their fates once Coach had them to himself. Luckily
they didn't have to wait long once they were situated in the small room,
Coach Johnson had them stand at attention in front of his desk before
stepping behind them to close the blinds of the windows looking out to the
locker room and fields as well as shutting and locking the door, isolating
the two trouble makers.

	"Strip," was the only word he said, issued as a non-negotiable
command as he stood almost bored waiting for them to comply, eyeballing the
two studs like they were common fare.

	Desperate to follow the command, Jason and Javier pulled off their
shirts, kicked off their shoes, and shucked their pants, leaving them
standing in front of Coach clothed only in their jockstraps. Jason stood
with his crotch lightly thrust forward, trying to draw Coach's attention to
his very impressive bulge, however Coach instead continued to stand behind
them, admiring their athletic asses.

	Walking over from his position, Coach gave a good slap to each of
their pert asses, watching them juggle while muttering unheard compliments
about them to his players, who if possible got even harder erections at the
rough treatment. Jason was starting to get desperate for attention trying
to reach a hand towards his crotch in order to rub his aching dick before
Coach smacked it away with a wordless warning. He never had the need to
wait when he was trying to make it with a girl, they always went at his
pace and until he was satisfied, so this denial of immediate access to his
own pleasure was all at the same time new, frustrating, and
exciting. Javier gave a smirk as he saw Dinaldi's eyes fade from giving off
a sexy, bedroom look to desperate, pleading glances much like a puppy would
give to its master for a bone.

	Coach Johnson witnessed both Javier's smirk and the control he had
over Jason, pleased at his newfound ability to keep all of his players in
line on anything he wanted. However, his own impressive erection was
starting to throb at the thought of the power he had over these studs in
front of him, and he wanted attention on his dick and he wanted it
now. Without comment he dropped trou and whipped out his straight, thick
eleven incher over his jockstrap, lightly jacking it as he passed between
the two boys so that he could lean against his desk.

	"Suck it," he said, the words barely out of his mouth before both
boys leaped on their Coach's cock, Jason moving faster and lightly shoving
Javier out of his way so that he could impale his mouth on the monster
treat he craved, taking almost five inches before he started retching at
the sudden invader he was unaccustomed to having. Javier began licking at
every exposed surface of Coach's dick and balls that his surprisingly long
tongue could reach, while Coach grabbed the back of Dinaldi's head,
committed to making him and accomplished deep-throat able cocksucker before
practice was to finish.

	Coach Johnson began lightly fucking the Italian stud's mouth,
groaning at the feeling of having two desperate, whoring mouths working on
his tool, a sensation he had only experience a couple of times during his
heyday in college when sorority sluts would do anything to fuck a campus
athlete. He had to admit though, the exhilarating thrill of power he had
over these two boys, as well as the fact that there were men too and knew
all the right buttons to press, made the experience a hell of a lot hotter.

	After a few minutes, Coach was rougher in his fucking of Jason
Dinaldi's face, forcing eight of his inches into the mouth hole the athlete
provided, Jason reduced to a tear and snot stained mess as his inexperience
and what felt like a sensitive gag reflex made it a less than stellar
performance on his part. Jason was starting to get angry at himself for not
being able to properly taking the throat fucking like the man he was,
desperate to prove himself as the cock slut Coach wanted right now. His
heart broke a little as Coach forced his mouth of his dick so that he could
feed it to Javier, jealous that he had to share even a little of the
Coach's monster cock with someone, especially someone he considered as his
on-team rival.

	Javier, for his part, was ecstatic to get the chance to show up
Jason and prove to Coach that he was the better cock slut, gobbling up
seven inches into his mouth and throat like a nympho who had a hoover
vacuum implanted in place of a mouth. Instead of gagging at the invader,
Javier moaned, grabbing Coach's hands to put on his head, using both of
their hands to force himself down on the dick he was craving. In almost a
surreal moment, Coach and Jason watched Javier take the whole thing down to
its root, proving himself to be a natural born cocksucker with latent
talents being exposed for the first time as he began his path to learning
how to become the sluttiest cocksucker possible for his Coach.

	Coach Johnson, who had been holding back from slipping over the
edge could no longer control himself as he orgasmed, spraying what felt
like buckets of cum straight into Javier's throat and stomach. Desperate to
know what it tasted like, Javier slid his throat off the Coach's cock until
only the head was in his mouth, allowing the cum to splatter directly onto
his tongue so he could delight in the flavor of the sperm-filled
nectar. Swallowing it down only brought brief relief to his straining
mouth, as shot after shot started filling it before he could start its
journey down his throat, unable to keep up with the demand of such a
load. Cum began leaking out around the seal his lips had made around the
Coach's dick, Jason making quick work of any flow over he found.

	After the last shot of sperm, Javier released the cock with a
satisfying plop, before turning towards Jason to share the spoils of his
victory. For two people who hated each other, they had no qualms about
locking lips, their tongues sparring in each other's mouths as they
searched for any remnants of the delicious reward. Coach Johnson watched in
a mildly satisfied bliss, smiling as both of his star players moaned as
their make-out session intensified. However he was not finished with
punishing both of them, needing to firmly establish their places. He also
wanted to reward Javier for doing an excellent job at taking his
dick. Coach felt a wicked smile creep onto his face as the perfect plan
hatched in his brain, so that he was able to reward Javier and show them
both where they were in regards to him at the same time, his dick
immediately recovering to another powerful erection at the hot thought. He
cleared his throat in order to get them to stop making out and to get the
two horny player sluts of his attention.

	"Alright. Now the real fun can begin. Who's ready to be fucked?"