Gullible Guy in Testosterone Tric

Being the fairly remote tiny country town's schoolboy cycling champion was not enough. I had to get to the big smoke to improve my speed if I was ever to really excel in my chosen sport.

I needed some really stiff competition if I wanted to stand out in my last season as a junior. My 18th birthday and senior ranks coming up I was told that if I could find a good city coach interested enough in guiding me what to do I would not just mature faster physically but learn more quickly than ever possible in a tin pot town where it's no use being a big wheel when there's not much to beat.

Six months later there I was trackside at the Brunswick velodrome, a suburb in one of the country's bigger cities, a club renown for producing Olympic medallist riders. A naïve skinny country boy, the epitome of youthful innocence nonetheless and whose only asset was having natural sprinting speed and desire to stick it up the competition if I could find the right kind of coach.

In my first race there the officials had put me in the mass start junior 5-five mile event me being on the cusp of a move to senior ranks so it seemed that giving riders my age group a four lengths flogging at the finish wasn't such a big deal. That was the opinion of one particular spectator who was to lead me into a bizarre approach to getting right on top in this testosterone fuelled macho sport.

I was packing up to go back to the private boarding place where I was staying when this old guy the riders there called "Pop" came over to me and complimented my potential.

Pop it turned out was a track champion of his day, but now in his mid-60s he could only tell stories about those thunderous successes he had as a great sprinter. Just looking at his powerfully muscled thighs compared in shorts to my comparatively skinny legs made me realise where he got his great thrusting power to win, win, and win well.

Right from the outset he called me 'boy' no matter how often I reminded him my name was Jerry. Well, I sure looked like a boy compared to his rugged 6ft 3 in tall frame, me looking every bit the skinny ex schoolboy star standing just 5ft 6in. and with a boyish face that didn't give me credit for being a few years older than I looked. Pop put it on me right there, I could do with some proper coaching and he's got time on his side to help if I wanted.

"How about it boy?" he said there and then. "Put yourself in my hands and I'll mould you into something big, a hot shot good enough to stick it up all the others."

My mind was racing. What luck, new in the big smoke, no relatives, no one I knew and all I had was a burning ambition to become a champion track cyclist and here was a former whiz bang expert happy to give me a hand. Both hands to be exact.

We shook hands on a deal that he would coach me for free provided I satisfied him I was prepared to accept his advice and never to disclose to others his secret preparation to my proposed improvement.

Okay, naïve or not, the easiest part of all that was to eagerly say yes, I can't wait. Wow what a start. Pop even said he was excited too in having someone barely out of school that he could set up and mould his way into a budding champion sprinter. He hinted that it's all about the transfer of energy, meaning how he could transfer his power into my thigh muscles for greater sprint drive.

He gave me his address and I turned up there the next day after I finished a 25-mile road workout. He showed me his impressive trophy room stacked with silver cups, pennants, medallions, sashes and certificates around the four walls and on shelves, not to mention many photographs of him in action thrusting those pedals into submission.

My adrenalin was bubbling that how lucky I was to have this old champion take me under his big armpits even if he was nearly four times my teenage years. Okay, while he was that much way older he didn't look it with his broad chest and big frame making me feel small alongside of him.

Cycling had been good to his health making him seem more like 50 not the extra 16 years in real time. The aerobic manner of pedalling exercise is great for the arteries and heart compared to the guys who end up battle scarred crocks from being bashed about in football.

The first thing I discovered that on every visit I had to guzzle down a tall glass of jungle juice as he called it -- his home made concoction designed to perk me up superbly -- giving me instant alertness and drive is how he explained it. Being a bit backward compared to city teenagers I didn't know what an aphrodisiac was, not that Pop ever told me. But that regular drink he gave me sure made me stiffen up admirably prior to my rubdown after each training ride.

On the first occasion he put the finishing touches to a training program he mapped out that day and told me to take a shower so the pores of my skin would be clean for the special emollients he used in massaging my legs. By the time I got out of the shower I couldn't understand why my healthy seven-inch uncut dick was getting swollen and lofting up into a rock hard full erection. I'd never been undressed in front of anyone before and felt guilty. What if the old guy thought I'd been pulling myself in the shower when I stepped out stark naked?

Eventually, my shyness was so full of personal guilt that I didn't even question in my mind why he was wearing only a white bath towel around his waist as he ushered me to his massage table in the adjoining room. Pop merely looked at me down there and grinned without saying a word.

When he tossed the robe aside what looked like a police truncheon between his burly thighs made me blink twice. I'd never before seen a man naked such as was my genteel upbringing but man oh man, his dick was trunk-like, bare as a new born badger and hovering at quarter mast. Suddenly I felt as though I had a boy's penis by comparison despite the fact with such a small body frame mine nonetheless looked pretty well endowed between my lesser developed thighs.

Seeing the size of his very masculine manhood had me unintentionally gawking at his mid quarters. For a few moments I couldn't take my eyes off it, and he noticed.

"Haven't you seen a man's cock before in the flesh up close and personal?" he joked. "Not really -- not...not...until now, I stuttered "Why did you strip off? I asked in a meek tone as if my subservience wasn't already obvious.

"Listen boy I'll tell you something," he mused. "I'm not showing you how good a shape I'm in for what you young whipper snappers call an old man, it's because bare skin to bare skin allows the electricity energy to flow better from the masseur. If I wear clothes it cuts off the transmission of energy and you don't feel the benefit as good. Okay?"

How was I to know any different so I just nodded and said sure thing. By the time he worked his warm penetrating massage oil into my legs and thighs my cock was straining, stretched to its hardest I've ever seen my teenage inches straighten up before. The thought never crossed my mind back then about how tantalising my youthful undressed state must have looked for this man some 50 years my senior if he happened to have a penchant for things erotic.

I'd never had a bolt upright erection like that before especially for so long and couldn't figure out how this rub down experience, the first time anyone has laid hands on me, could be making me so excited. Was it the way I kept looking at his powerful bare thighs and his brutish schlong swinging this way and that as he worked on me or was it something in the energy drink he gave me?

I must say when he turned his attention to giving me a full body massage it was an extraordinary feeling for me. Mind racing, naïve and naked I lay before him utterly in the palm of his hands. I felt grateful he was going to all this trouble after him being a champion of his time.

No matter how many times when he leaned right over me, especially from behind my head his hands on my chest, I felt the full weight of his hairless very masculine member unavoidably sliding about across my face. But he didn't do anything untoward me.

You might have thought he'd have grabbed my dick, but not so, he just kept skirting around it making me not sure whether to shut my eyes, say something or shut up and be thankful. I could see he had my best interests at heart and was not taking advantage of me -- how could he when I was the one getting the benefit of his experience and it wasn't costing me anything!

All this time Pop was explaining what fitness can do to improve my speed, how different tactics can win a race, how to store energy and heaps more about the need to find more speed in my legs. I said hardly a thing, just listening to a wily old master work his craft.

I wanted to know the secret of what made him so good when he was a younger racer. "That, boy," he told me, "is a secret I learnt many years ago from my coach. Harold was a former big wheel of his day, but 10 years younger than I am now and what worked for him with me then can work for me now with you...or should I say what worked for me with him then can work for you with me now."

Pop was unabashedly honest.

What's the secret then to getting more speed in my legs, just a massage, I implored?

Pop laughed. "You'd be surprised but what I tell you is top secret so you don't whisper a word of this to anyone because if you do, you'll lose your free coach and you can go begging for someone else to spend heaps of time for no reward."

Now that scared me plenty, I was on a good wicket here and didn't want to rock the boat. "Lips sealed," I said.

"Okay boy I'm suspecting that you're a little bit naïve about the things that drive a man's desire to succeed apart from what's in your mind. The secret is that the more testosterone you can build in your body the stronger those thigh muscles can be for sprinting power. Look at mine and get the message."

I looked at his superb muscular thighs again; his huge member was shaping up at a higher angle towards my face. My god it was a whopper, how could he tuck that into his underpants I wondered. "Sure Pop, I get the message about the need for bigger thigh muscles to pump the pedals but how does this testosterone thing come into it and how do I get it?" I said it in a way that underpinned just how backward I was in coming forward -- without help.

"See that upright cock of yours straining like a rocket ready to be fired into space, well where do you think it gets the fuel to make it take off? It comes from your balls and that my young friend is where testosterone is produced in the sperm - that lovely thick white stuff you ejaculate when you jerk off. You do jerk off now and then don't you?"

I blushed again and murmured "sometimes."

Pop looked at me intently and couldn't resist what looked more like a smirk than a smile. "Okay you whipper snapper, it's here the boy learns to becomes a man -- the more testosterone I can pump into you the more you'll be all the better for me, I mean for making every post a winner for you.

"Look, you have a problem kid, your testicles aren't big enough to produce the amount of sperm needed to build your testosterone reserves; sprint cycling requires explosive energy so my plan is the way to go -- no need to thank me, just be thankful by following all my advice because I'm in a position to give you the help you'll need.

"Now compare the size of my balls -- see they are way bigger than yours and that's why I can produce abundant amounts, and that's what you need to get into you. That extra sperm could be the difference in winning or losing a tight sprint."

I suddenly felt I had gone back several lengths in the bike race or worse, just went a lap down after hearing him say I was someway deficient down below even though he gave my penis his eager nod of approval when he first set eyes on it.

"Does that mean you can't help me after all with your secret way to make me improve out of sight?" I looked very dejected yet funnily my cock was still rock hard when normally a guy loses at least part of his erection if his mood drops quickly.

Pop smiled knowingly at me as if he'd been there before lying there under a watchful coach's gaze. He directed my attention to his swollen phallus and I'll never forget his words. "This, young man, is going to do the job for you. You are very lucky I came across you at the track the other day because I wouldn't do this for anyone else so think yourself very special."

He grabbed my hand and put it under his scrotum. "Feel those sperm eggs in there, that's your testosterone factory boy. I'll put several lengths into you -- your track speed that is -- before you can say clean and jerk like a weight lifter once you build up a big supply of testosterone courtesy your coach. You're extra lucky too because when I blow it gets real messy, that's how generous I am.

I felt his balls gently and had to admit they were more like duck eggs. Mine just didn't compare if that's the difference in producing nice fat gooey sperm. Okay Pop, I said, you win but how can that help me?

"Two ways young man," he grinned back. You either ingest it -- swallow it in other words or you rub it into your genitals where it can be absorbed through the skin that covers your scrotum and shaft. That boosts the health of your prostate and testicles funny as it seems. Look, I'll have to show you right now we may as well not waste any time if you really want to get ahead."

I was feeling so horny as the feeling I had inside of me hadn't changed since I got out of the shower with a riveting stiff cock so I watched eagerly and curiously as this strapping mountain of a man pointed his majestically thick pole at my lower abdomen and proceeded to work it up for a good five minutes until his hand became a blur before my eyes. He groaned and I gasped when he let it rip. He smothered my aching balls and most of my cock after releasing at least six or seven separate jettisons of cum over them.

"See what I mean," he said taking a deep breath again. I'm too generous that's my trouble. Now I've got to rub all of this right into your private areas -- every bit of it - before it dissipates and loses its strength."

It must have taken him a good quarter of an hour and it had me squirming about on my bare arse as I felt the warm liquid being massaged in a circular and up and down motion into my own manhood, wet and glistening as he rubbed it in.

My cock was still wet from the moisture of his actions and the way he used both open palms of his hands to spread the liquid around the head of my erection was way too sensitive for me to hold back any longer.

'Naughty naughty he crooned when my ejaculate burst upwards and landed down across his hands. He mixed it in with his own without pausing his massaging action. I was breathless, panting and bumping my bum about on the massage table from the way he worked the mixture of his and my ejaculate around and around the engorged super-sensitive head of my penis sending me crazy.

He seemed to delight in watching me squirm about, puffing and groaning while he kept up the tormenting and tortuous ecstasy I was too inexperienced to handle by him brushing his and my cum around and across back and forth and around again my reddened throbbing knob.

Eventually everything was dry again, my skin down there somewhat more silky smooth from the erotic application. For the first time since I hopped on to the massage table my aching cock returned to a restful position but remained fairly swollen looking. What an experience! I'd never felt anything like it before; I didn't even know until then just how super sensitive the head of a man's penis gets after he comes.

Pop waved a tut-tut finger in my face. "Boy, if you're going to be as fast as you want to be and win races you'd better listen to me now. I don't want you ever jerking off without my permission. That's a waste of energy, testosterone down the drain. I've had to rub two loads into you at the same time because you shot your bolt prematurely. You're lucky I could recycle it."

I apologised for making a mess over his hand and said I was grateful that he was at least able to make use of it.

We finished the visit on the understanding that I needed regular testosterone shots starting the next day being a Tuesday and a second visit Thursday. Wednesday was roadwork and a massage , Friday rest day and racing Saturday night followed by drinks back at his house to unwind and discuss progress in the racing side of things.

Sundays was the extra day off for social activity but for his part he knew he had me under his thumb five of the seven days in every week because after the races on Saturdays it was back to his place for a recast of progress.

I slept well that night, excited that this retired old champ had come across me on my very first ride at the city velodrome. To think he was prepared to put his energy into making me improve my track speed, teach me race tactics and help me build up my muscle strength over time without charge was more generous than I could ask for. I felt as though I'd won the lottery.

Pop reckoned that if we kept to a strict time table I could be improving my velodrome lap times by several lengths within six to eight weeks, and maybe a bit better again if he could find a way of adding to the testosterone intake. It didn't seem a lot but in track cycling that's a mighty big difference in sprinting so I just wanted to get into it full blast.

My god, when I look back at it all now, how he must have felt when I used to rock up to his door after training on the Tuesdays and Thursdays for my testosterone booster. He never missed handing me first up his special energy drink concoction that strangely led to me getting a sustained erection while I had to kneel between his knees as he sat back on his big emperor's style chair bare from the waist down.

It took a while for me to get used to seeing a grown man with a huge cock that was totally hairless, and right up close and so personal. I somehow became fascinated with his proud edifice that reared over my face as I suckled his jewels.

I didn't know anything about eroticism back then but I had to admit the sight and feel of his mighty penis turned me on but I didn't know why, except that it did and I began looking forward to the sessions knowing what these secret sessions could do or my cycling prowess. And I got to really enjoy feeling the thickness of his cock in my mouth as I swirled my lips around it. He could tell I was a raw novice in anything to do with sex so his early guidance was helpful in making sure I did things right.

Of course, me being so innocent to an older man's wily ways it never occurred to me then what used to go through that man's mind as he'd look down at my tongue licking his balls and up and along the full length of his rock hard barge pole. Being patently gullible and impressionable, I marvelled at how physically fit he was for a guy mid-60s without any useless fat, fairly flat gut, broad shoulders and that brutal looking clean shaved phallus he said he kept that way because it warmly reminded him of some school sport's pupils he once personally coached, with some of his better ones boasting appendages apparently even quite bigger than mine.

True, some things people say don't really sink in until another time and in our first meeting Pop told me that he used to be a school sports coach over the previous 15 years until he retired from the job at 65. He was telling me that to reinforce in my mind that I could trust him to know what he was doing. After all, he said back then, he had done his successful style of coaching very successfully for up and coming young guns wanting to be stronger and fitter for athletics and football over all those school sport years.