From the moment I saw Gideon in the locker room, my life was focused on becoming his lover. I hadn't been at the Mount Holly prep school for more than a week before I first laid eyes on him, although I began to hear about him from my first evening. And what I heard about him very likely set me up for this obsession of mine.
Mount Holly was a post-high school, two-year prep school for athletes who had been offered college scholarships but whose grades were not yet up to par for entry into the Carolina coast universities the school fed into. I had actually started out at another of the feeder prep schools, Jackson Hall, up in southern Virginia, but I was pulled out of that after two months because of the coach-students sex scandal that threatened my promised basketball scholarship.
I had never been linked to the football coach and student players involved in the scandal, but it had been that same coach who had taught me to take the cock and had made me realize which way I swung. I'd always suspected as much through my high school days, but it was Coach Vance who had taken a special interest in giving me late-night instruction on my ball handling—and in handling his balls and cock as well.
Although my parents had moved me to Mount Holly in a panic, I had no intention, already having felt cock inside me, of not seeking it out here. And so it was with particular interest that I had heard on my first night in the dorm that the upperclassman and football team quarterback, Gideon Grant, was the premier cocksman of the school—that his appetites were voracious and that he could get any tail he wanted on the strength of his extraordinarily good looks and cut body, his self-assuredness, his position as top jock in an all-jock school, and his supersized equipment.
The football and basketball teams were practicing the same afternoon on my first Tuesday at the school, the football squad out on the playing field, and the basketballers in the gym. Basketball practice finished first, and we'd showered and were sitting on the benches in front of the team's lockers with towels wrapped around us. I was becoming more deeply introduced to several of my teammates—all of them ogling the new guy and considering the possibilities—when the football squad entered—or more accurately burst into the locker room—and passed us in a swirl of muddy sweats en route to their own locker area on the other side of the entrance into the shower room, where clouds of steam were trailing out into the division between the two teams' changing areas.
I knew in an instant which one was Gideon Grant. It was as if he walked in his own spotlight, surrounded by a swirl of sycophants, but isolated from them in a circle of untouchability. He'd stripped off his jersey upon entering the locker room, and he was all blond radiance, tall and bulky, but perfectly cut. A powerful body that demanded attention. I instantly knew I wanted him to fuck me.
He stopped when he drew up beside the group I was chatting with, and the cacophony of laughter and raunchy banter that had accompanied the football team's entrance into the locker room quickly tapered off to near silence. He was surveying us, and I nearly melted on the spot. But I was sitting, straddling the wooden bench, and a couple of the other guys were standing, leaning up against their lockers. And one or two had already dropped their towels—for my benefit, I thought, so I don't think Gideon's eyes took me in at all. If they had, I'm sure my chances would have been good at catching his interest. I'd never had reason to question my ability to get a man to notice me. Coach Vance certainly hadn't wasted any time in getting me alone on a weight bench.
"Charlie," Gideon called out—and even his rich baritone voice turned me on. "Can you give me a hand in the shower?" It was a question, but it didn't really come out as a question. It came out as a statement with a foregone conclusion.
Charlie, who had been standing behind me and a bit to my right, a hand on his open locker door, his towel dropped to his feet, and in the process of reaching into his locker for his briefs, gave a little jerk and turned and smiled a shy "caught-in-the-headlights" smile. But he was quick enough to follow Gideon into the shower, stepping over the sweat pants and jock strap and cleats and socks Gideon was peeling off along the way—and leaving his own towel where it lay in front of his locker.
I waited only a few minutes before I disengaged from chatting with my team mates and meandered purposely over to the tiled frame of the doorway into the shower and peeked in. Charlie was down on his knees in front of Gideon, who was standing under the spray jet of water and soaping himself up—and clearly enjoying the blow job Charlie was giving him.
The other football players who were piling into the shower acted as if the scene was completely natural and were going about their business in a swirl around Gideon and Charlie, although their business did include lascivious looks, randy talk, and feeling each other up in an easy, familiar way as if this was how all of their practices ended—and no doubt that was how a good many of them did end.
I couldn't help myself. I ran my hand up under the hem of my towel and slowly masturbated, aching for Gideon to pay me the attention he was paying the gurgling and groaning Charlie.
When Gideon and Charlie came out of the shower and went into the team room rather than back to their lockers, I moved with them. And I was there, watching and coupling with them in spirit, as Gideon gently pushed Charlie onto his back on top of the metal conference table in the center of the small room, spread Charlie's legs, and slow-fucked him with one of the meatiest cocks I'd ever seen. Charlie gasped and moaned and begged for the fucking, while Gideon made love to him as slowly and languidly—and totally—as I could have hoped for in Charlie's place. It surprised me that an athletic hunk like Gideon would make love like that rather than roughly taking Charlie, and this revelation only added to my quickly developing obsession that it would be me.
I watched Charlie, eye's slitted and sighing and moaning, as Gideon paid attention to his nipples while his dick slid in and out of Charlie's channel in long, slow strokes, and I noticed that I wasn't the only one taking an interest in the scene. As the other footballers left the showers, several of them entered the room, brushing past me, and formed something of a line along the wall and watched . . . and waited.
At length, when Gideon had grunted and his firm butt cheek globes had jerked, signaling his climax, I learned what the others were waiting for. Gideon pulled out of Charlie's channel, gave him an affectionate pat on the hip, and turned and walked straight out of the room, past me, not seeming to be looking at me at all.
But I'll have to admit that in that moment, I was not looking at Gideon walking close to me in all of his naked magnificence, because my attention was riveted to the center of the team room, where the line of naked football players was lining up behind the black fullback who was insinuating his pelvis between Charlie's spread thighs. I heard Charlie cry out and arch his back in response to the thrust of a jet-black cock inside the hole Gideon had already stretched—a line of other footballers licking their chops in anticipation of their turn—before I turned and padded back toward the football team's side of the locker room.
"Hi," I said, as I moved toward the bench where Gideon was now sitting and pulling socks onto his feet. "I'm Sean. Just arrived this week. New to the basketball team."
"Hello, Sean," Gideon muttered, but he didn't even look up.
"I've seen you play," I said, reaching idiotically for any small talk I could muster. "I've come from Jackson Hall—you guys creamed us last year."
"Yes, yes, we did," Gideon answered. "Gonna cream Jackson Hall this year too. Bunch of wimps."
