Early to Practice

The heat of the late afternoon sun beat down on all the students headed to the pool for swim team tryouts. I knew how to swim, but only competed in the warm summer months.

Immediately, when I entered the fenced-off area, I could see a stark contrast. In summer league, nearly everyone wore baggy swim trunks; sporting a speedo made you a target of ridicule. By comparison, high school team hopefuls almost all sported speedos, a particular style of googles, and a subset taller, leaner, and more muscular.

By the end of last school year, I'd accepted my attraction to guys but hadn't come out to anyone. The seniors were a veritable buffet, smooth, slim, and nearly naked. The immediate challenge was going to be hiding my boner, especially if speedos were uniform.

Few boys dressed in trunks, and they were just that, boys. I couldn't allow myself to be lumped in with the sophomores, juniors, and freshmen. I craved joining team speedo, rubbing elbows, and other things with the sexiest. It was my final year in high school too, and I wanted to try for a varsity letter and lose my virginity, preferably to one from the circle.

It was hard to miss Stanley, the class president and only openly gay guy I knew. The only guy who sported chest and facial hair. He turned 18 in the summer, like me, but he looked 25, perhaps five-10, biceps broad and thick, thighs like tree trunks, olive skin-tight over his defined physique.

One senior, especially, caught my eye, though. Someone I'd thought was hot for years.

Keith was over six feet tall with bleach-blond corkscrew hair, broad shoulders, square chest, six-pack, deep cum gutters, long legs, and a bulge plump as a plumb.

The speedo-clad elite athletes formed a circle on the deck next to the water, exchanging dirty jokes and jabs about each other's moms. Keith smiled widely and quickly, exposing his straight white teeth and dimples. His lightly freckled skin kissed with a faint tan.

I rummaged through my bag. When I noticed a shadow cast across my body, I turned. The sun burned over the shoulder of a silhouette.

"New this year?"

My mind scrambled. I was unprepared for any conversation, especially with the hottest guy in school.

"I'm Keith."

"I, uh, know you, Keith. We met," I said.

Incredulously, he responded, "Is that right?"

"We were in, uh, calculus together last year."

"You know what?" he said. "I think I remember you. You had longer hair, right?"

I broke into a smile, nodding.

Stanley approached, grabbing onto Keith's shoulder. He didn't turn back to look, "Bret, right?"

"You know my name?" I asked.

Stanley held more meat than Keith, more muscle, size, and definition.

He smiled, "I try to know as many people as I can," then winked at me with his piercing black eyes.

"Stanley, leave the guy alone," Keith pushed him playfully.

"Nah, I'm fuckin' wit' cha, Bret. I heard it just now."

The hot blond teammate turned back to me, dawning a fresh smile. "The team is a small powerhouse. We're happy you came out."

I thought, Let's not get ahead of ourselves, guys. Still, I kept fantasizing about the group as a front for some kind of hardcore sex cult packed with horny teenagers.

Keith chuckled, "We're a friendly group, don't be intimidated."

Shit. I must have been staring—such an idiot.

I said, "Ok." And the tall, sexy specimen returned to the water's edge.

Smooth man, smooth, I scolded myself. Good luck joining the sexy circle.

I shook my head.

If I wanted to rub shoulders with 'the' seniors, merely joining was insufficient. I'd need to look the part and improve my times.

All the fastest people swam in the furthest lanes next to the diving well. I made the team, but like many on the girls' team, relegated to the slow lanes. Keith and Stanley swam in neighboring lanes on the opposite side of the lanes.

Every time that fast and sexy blond lapped me, my technique suffered, and I couldn't stop staring at his graceful, powerful movements. His bare muscles were expressing through thin, lightly tanned skin, package suspended in the pouch of his suit.

I swelled when he made eyeshot. Consistently, watching him swim made my cock hurt. The hard-ons were out of control, and managing them was essential if I wanted to wear a speedo.

For years, I busted a nut every morning in the shower. After joining the team, I added one more nut after practice at home. Less than a week later, I concluded I needed another, ideally, right before practice. With ten minutes to walk to, change at, stretch, and hop in the pool, there wasn't enough time. I was sure I'd flash everyone if I got hard in the suit. I resolved to find a way.

I hoped I could convince Stanley to put in a word to the coach.

As if I was walking the plank, I approached Stanley. He was a nice enough guy, but I didn't want to be outed.

"Hey, uh, hi, Stan—"

"Oh, hey, what's up? Bret, right?" Stanley said, friendly and easy.

"Um, uh, I was wondering, if you might, uh, might help me, uh—"

"Is this about Keith?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.

Heat rushed to my face, my throat clenched.

"Hey, hey, it's ok."

"It's not that," I said.

"Really, it's ok."

"It's not that," I said, a little too loud.

"Ok, ok," he said, looking around.

He put his hand on my shoulder. I ripped it off.

Stanley frowned, looking down. "Sorry man, I shouldn't have—"

"No, no, I didn't mean—. I'm sorry, I wanted to ask you something." I said.

Stanley nodded.

"It's hard, uh, for me to, uh, get to practice on time."

I hesitated and swallowed. Stanley sat, patient.

"Would you ask, coach, if we, uh, could start practice, like, uh, maybe five minutes later?"

Stanley stood, arms folded, looking at his bare feet.

"Well, I mean, I can ask coach," again he glanced upward, a smile draped over his face. "If he says is 'no,' nothing lost, right?."

I nodded my head, forcing a smile.

"I'll tell you what he says, Bret," he added, punching me lightly in the shoulder, then grabbing hold and pulling his face to my ear. "Between us, Bret, you need to handle that thing in your suit, and don't stare at Keith so much."

I gulped, veins tightened in my neck.

Stanley grabbed my hand and placed a wadded, silky cloth in it.

A suit, a speedo suit. I hoped it would fit.

I spun my head, looking at Stanley, "Th—Thanks."

"Thank me by wearing it," he said, facing away, walking to the edge of the pool.

I saw Stanley talking to coach, but I couldn't hear what they said. Then, as we prepared to go home after workout, he announced there'd be a ten-minute time shift.

I mulled over what favor Stanley traded for the change and imagined the coach bent over a picnic table, the solid bronze-skinned swimmer pounding the hell out of him. I shivered.

That night, I stretched Stanley's suit over my growing shaft. In my mind, I held the idea that my junk was touching what his had. The speedo was tight but expected. My erection forced the front of the suit out forward. I leaned to one side, checking out the stretching pouch, and I saw exactly what I wished to avoid. Portions of my dick and balls were visible from the sides.

I'd never touched another guy's dick before. The speedo was the closest I'd been. I looped my thumbs through and under each side of the suit, pulling down. My cock sprung, slapping my lower stomach with a thud. I stepped out of the suit, picked it up, and took the speedo's crotch to my face. With a deep inhale, my shaft bounced. I didn't care if I was smelling my scent or his, but it could be his, and that was enough to get me going.

My classroom that semester was almost the closest building on campus to practice. It took me about 30 seconds to reach the pool, less if I ran. I planned to wear my new speedo under my pants all day. Then rush to the bathroom and rub one out before others arrived. I hoped everyone else would hang back rather than arrive as before.

I packed skin lotion in my old tattered backpack. During the day, it was difficult to focus on classwork, the smooth lycra gliding against my junk. Images of Stanley rubbing his dick on me superimposed over the classroom and lecture. Quickly, I had a new boner to conceal. Part of lunch went to busting out another one in a campus stall. And yet, during the period before practice, the lycra made me hard again. I pushed it to the side over the curve of my hip, bending it back under my jeans. I clenched my teeth; my brows pressed close. It hurt. Maybe there was no amount of prep that'd keep me from humiliating myself, outing myself. My eyes felt wet, my face tense. I sucked back the tears, refusing to let a single fall.

Sweat drenched my underarms and formed droplets on my forehead and under my eyes. My stupid teenage body conspired against me.

With my backpack straps draped over each hand, I held it in front of my erection. I hustled to the pool, crossed the deck into the bathroom, and locking the stall door behind me. I stood my pack on the floor, unzipped it, and removed my lotion: left hand holding the plastic bottle, right hand curved under the spout. I pressed down with the thumb of my palm, forming blobs in my hand. I dragged the front of my suit down. My cock flopped out, swaying in front of my navel. Footsteps. I stopped, frozen in place. My eyes on the door, two olive-brown feet strode into view.

A knuckle taped on the metal door twice.

A whisper, "Bret, hey."

I said nothing, but I probably couldn't if I tried.

"I know you're in there, Bret."

Nothing.

"Hey," his voice soft, reassuring. "It's ok; I know what you're going through."

I trembled, my mouth open, but I couldn't muster a word.

Stanley said, pleading now, "Come on, Bret, open the door."

I stuffed my cock back into my suit, pointing it to the side and tenting out past my hip, bowing against the fabric, tight. Near the hip, my shaft was visible from certain angles. However, the outline and shape were a dead giveaway.

What was I going to do? There were no good options. Hideout in the bathroom all practice, or show a gay guy my rager. In my mind, a white flag flew. My hand reached towards the latch. I hesitated, drawing breath, then exhaling, cheeks puffing as I did. I unlatched the stall door.

With a click, the door swung slowly toward me. Behind it, arm bent above his head, Stanley leaned against the partition, smiling.

"Not enough time to get here, huh?"

He winked and shifted his gaze to my crotch.

"You poor thing," Stanley said. "You're trembling," he frowns in pity. "I won't hurt you. Here."

Reassuringly, he extended his hand. I looked at it, reached out, and grabbed hold. Stanley gently tugged me from the stall. I limped and stumbled, my legs stiff, my body tense. I used his hand for balance, still hoping somehow he hadn't caught on.

"Hey, hey, it's ok. I know, I know what it's like."

I stood in front of him, hunched. He stepped back, still holding my hand and he lifting mine with his outward. His eyes shifted down.

"Wow, um, wow. That suit is flattering."

He chuckled, looking back up at my eyes, "Can I, can I touch it?"

I swallowed, my throat dry. I gave a nod.

He stepped forward, his muscular body hovering inches away, the scent of his cologne soft, clean, and sweet.

Over the stretched suit, he drew his palm from base to the tip, then reversed.

I stared at his hand, his touch igniting my shaft with a powerful hunger for more. His fingers dived into my suit. I pushed on his arms with my hands, "Wait."

His eyes met mine.

"I, uh, I haven't, um," I said.

"Sorry, are you trying to tell me you're a virgin?" he asked.

I nodded my head.

He looked me up and down, "You've got to be kidding me."

I said nothing.

"Listen, we need to get you taken care of before the others get here."

My hand in his, he guided me behind a block wall at the edge of the showers in a shaded causeway that the families used in summer when the pool was open for the public.

He pushed my back against the block wall, looking me in the eye, and asked, "Will you let me help you?"

Lips pressed together, chin quivering, I close my eyes, nod.

I squinted through one eye.

He kneeled in front of me, pulling down on the suit where it hugged my right hip, my cock sprung free.

"Whoa," Stanley said with a giggle.

He licked his lips and wrapped one hand around the base, then the other above. From the base, he released and positioned that hand above the second. The purple head of my cock mushroomed above the clutch of his index finger and thumb. My entire cock ached. Sharp terror cut through my veins, but I wanted this. I needed this. Spent hours dreaming and fantasizing about getting my cock sucked.

Stanley opened his mouth, tongue protruding, flat and wide. He moved his face forward. My eyes bulged, the new sensations hit me like a powerful wave. His warm mouth caressing me where no one else had ever touched, tasting, licking and sucking.

Impulsively, I gasped, my stomach arching over his head

Stanley cooed.

His lips locked around the head. He sucked, moaning.

One of his hands let go of my shaft and sank into his suit.

He stroked himself in sync with mine, sucking.

The pace intensified. He gorged on at least seven inches while his tight grip stroked. My reservoir was full, dam bursting.

"Stanley," I whispered through erratic breaths, "I'm gonna..."

"Mm-hm," Stanley said.

My stomach tightened. An intense pulse between my balls and ass pumped stream after stream of cum into his mouth.

"Mm, mm," Stanley moaned, gulping.

His lips still suctioned around three inches; he stroked hard on his shaft.

He released my shaft from his hand. He cupped his palm in front of his veiny cock, while the other continued to serve his shaft. His eyes rolled back, eyelids spasming. Rope after rope emptied into his hand.

My knees gave, and I collapsed to the floor, panting. My back pressed against the coarse brick wall. Stanley swung his ass around and sat next to me, our thighs touching, both catching our breath.

"Hey, uh, Bret," he licked his lips and swallowed, smiling. "Maybe I could text you sometime?"

I looked over at him. He twisted his face to look at me, then smiled.

"Uh," I said.

Footsteps. I jolted to my feet, stuffing my softening dick in my suit. I positioned it in front of my pelvis shaft draped over my balls. I looked like I wore a novelty banana hammock.

Stanley stood, patting my banana bulge as he strutted out from behind the wall and into the showers. I winced, buckling over a bit. Then, warily, I peeked out with one eye. The blond beauty was bent over his bag, retrieving his suit and goggles.

"Hey, man," Stanley said.

Keith whipped his face up, brows furrowed, his golden curls bouncing. His gaze softening at the sight of Stanley. They gave each other a low five. Stanley yanked him to his feet.

"Where'd you come from?" Keith asked.

Stanley looked back. Keith followed his gaze.

He broke into a smile.

I plunged behind the wall.

"Bret, hey man, I'm cool. Take a shower; I bet you need one now."

I peaked back out.

"Shut up, man," Stanley said.

Stanley pushed and chased him, grabbing his arm and forming a fist with the other. Keith wriggled and dodged, an unmistakable grin on his face. His shoulder took a sporting punch.

"Ah, fuck, Stan. That hurt." He rubbed his shoulder and looked at it.

Keith peered over at me. "Don't be late for practice, man," he said. "Coach'll be pissed if we're late after he pushed start back for us."

From behind the wall, bulge reduced, I trod out.

I forced a smile, not meeting their eyes, and walked to a shower.

With no separators been the showerheads, it makes for great people-watching—four spouts on both sides, a metal button attached to each. When pressed, the water valve opened for about 10 seconds. I pressed the button. I winced when the cold water hit my skin.

More boys arrived in the bathroom and stripped naked, along with Stanley. I turned around, my front visible to others. The varieties of penis were so fascinating. I wanted to know what each of them looked like hard, how long and thick they were, how they felt in my hand, my mouth, my ass. There were long and short dongs, meaty and small balls, hairy and not, with everything in between. They drew speedos up and over their junk, joining the showers. Stanley took the longest showers on the team. He tried to be discrete; he was checking everyone out just like I was. Today, over and over, I caught Stanley peeking at me, a sheepish smirk on his face.

Did I even like Stanley, I wondered. He was handsome, muscular, confident, and eager. He gave me my first blowjob. Did that mean something? How many men has he been with? I was dizzy, my legs weak. As the water warmed, they tightened and cramped.

Fluids. I needed some fluids in me.

Continue reading. Swim Team - Chapter 2: Jitters