Tan 'n Bull

Tank was already half way to Charlottesville on I-64 before he realized he was taking the long way to Tennessee—that going across state on 360 would have been better. But in the longer-than-necessary drive through Virginia, he also was beginning to learn that having a dog took effort.

Bull started to whine along about the second turnoff into Charlottesville, but it took Tank until they were climbing the Blue Ridge to go over into the Shenandoah Valley to realize what Bull needed. Tank pulled over into a highway rest stop below the Afton Mountain pass over the mountains to exercise Bull and let the dog do what a dog's got to do.

He heard a kid squeal and saw her mother pull her hurriedly into a car and slam the door and give him a dirty look before it occurred to him that Bull had just bounded out of Craig's car without any sort of a restraint. Even Tank was able—eventually—to understand that a pit bull on the run in a public place was a sure source of general panic.

Bull was good, though—after that first bit of relief against one of Craig's tires—and sat there behind the car, watching Tank with curiosity while Tank rummaged around in the car trunk and eventually came up with a length of rope that he could use to leash the dog with to go on a walk before jumping back in the car to continue their road adventure.

They got nearly to Lexington as they tooled south down I-81 along the line of the Shenandoah Valley before Tank was clued into the other needs a pit bull has. Although Bull was happy to exercise and relieve himself there, it took some doing before Tank caught on that a dog had to eat and drink water too. Tank found a pet store and started getting educated on the feeding habits of a man's dog.

Although Tank found it all bewildering, he also found it a new and satisfying experience to have some responsibility and focus for something other than himself, and it was with a gathering sense of accomplishment that the man and his dog drove in somebody else's car toward that tryout week in Nashville.

Tank was making good time—far better time than he needed to, he got around to realizing. Tryout week for the Titans wasn't for nearly a month. Tank hadn't exactly done much planning on getting there other than that was where he needed to be. He needed to do something for the interim, and some income would be helpful. He started to wonder about Asheville, North Carolina, which was the biggest town he could think of there being between where he was—wherever that was—and Nashville. He knew how to handle the door at clubs—and what to do with unruly customers. So, as he drove, he started wondering about the bar life in Asheville and what the chances were of picking up a few weeks' work as a bouncer there.

Long about Bedford, Virginia, Bull started a low whine that Tank now had figured out the meaning of, and Tank started to look for a place to stop and walk the dog. Nothing was coming up on the highway, so Tank took the Bedford exit off I-81 and started driving around.

His attention was arrested by a football practice field at what looked like a small college and the tackling practice going on there. This was the sort of activity Tank could always be counted on to focus on. He pulled over to the side of the road by the fringe of the field and let Bull out of the car. As he walked Bull up and down under the trees bordering the field from the road, Tank's eyes were on the young guys out on the field practicing.

One guy caught Tank's attention in particular. Tank thought he looked about like he did when he was younger—the months after he was more released in exasperation from than graduated from high school and was moving from university to small college to smaller college on athletic scholarships that finally just dwindled to nothing because he couldn't keep up with the studies and the school athletic departments stopped trying to pretend he could. And Tank could see the same frustration in the young guy that he'd felt before a good line coach took the time to work with his technique too.

"You're hittin' too high. You need to come up from a crouch and get under the guy's rib cage. Other than that, you look good," he called across the field.

Bull snuffled and looked up into Tank's face, wondering, no doubt what he was supposed to do with that information. Tank was yelling at the young guy out on the field, but, of course, was too far away from him to be heard.

The guy's frustration increased, and he eventually exploded into an illegal tackle and was sent off to the side of the field by one of the coaches to cool off and think about what he'd done wrong, while the coach went back to watching what the other football linesmen were doing.

"Ya gotta tell him somethin'," Tank muttered in the coach's direction. "Don't just stand there and watch him do it wrong again and again and curse him for something you ain't tellin' him about."

This time, even though Tank was talking to the wind again, the young player who had been sent off to the side and was slouching on the ground in disgust not far from where Tank and Bull stood, heard him.

"Eh, what? You talkin' to me, mister?"

"No. To your coach out there. I don't mean to get into it, but he could have told you what you were doin' wrong. It wasn't much. Your form is pretty much good to go."

"Oh? You a football coach or somethin'? Scouting us out for Salem College or somethin'?" The question was a mix of belligerence, curiosity, and boredom with a life not going quite as planned.

"No. A player. Semipro."

"A player? What team? What position?" The interest and curiosity were winning the battle for dominance in the tone of the young guy's voice, and he was turned toward Tank. "A tackle like me, aren't you? Built like that."

"Yep. I'm a defensive tackle. Play for the Virginia Hornets in Richmond."

"Wow. The Hornets. Coach took us to see a game at the end of last season. Bet you played in it." The voice took on an edge of awe now, and the young guy's stance opened up to an obvious invitation for Tank to come over and plop down beside him—which is what Tank did. Bull came between them and snuffled happily at the hand the young guy was proffering to him and gave the hand a good lick of approval and acceptance.

"Yep, I was still goin' OK at the end of the season. It was a good year for me. No injuries, at least not ones that stopped me."

"Wow," the young guy said. "My name's Tim. Tim Richards. I'm at a training retreat here trying to keep my position on the Washington and Lee team."

"Tank Sullivan."

"Tank Sullivan. Wow," Tim exclaimed, "wow" pretty much being the extent of his "I'm impressed" vocabulary. "I remember you. We did see you play and I looked you up in the program. Coach kept pointin' to you and sayin' you had the technique. He said he didn't understand why . . . well you were getting a few penalties that game." Tim got more quiet and slowed down toward the end of what he was saying as he realized what he was saying could be taken badly. But Tank didn't seem to focus on that part of what he said.

"Yep, pretty good games toward the end of the year. We should've won more of them too. The refs were killing us with penalty calls."

"What are you doin' out here in the sticks?" Tim said to slide off that subject. Bull had now moved over into his lap and they were playing a mild set of tug-of-war with Tim's helmet. "Nice dog, by the way. Yours?"

The last question is what hit Tank first—and pretty hard, because it was something he hadn't given much thought to. But he found he was happy to answer the question. "Yep, he's mine—or I'm his. You can't really tell with a dog. His name is Bull. It's just us and the world."

"Good name. And a good dog. A real man's dog."

"Yep. We get along just fine. And, uh, I'm here because I'm on the road, headed for Nashville. Tryouts with the Titans. Their scout told me to come; said I'd be a shoo-in for the team. All I had to do was get to the tryouts. Piece of cake."

"Wow," Time said, his eyes full of admiration. And when Tank looked at him, he saw that there was something else in Tim's eyes too. Tank knew that look. This look was from his world. He didn't have to be a bouncer at a gay bar to know that look. He could cover this guy if he wanted to. Something inside him began to stir and he began looking at Tim a whole new way. Tank was young and healthy and he had his needs. And it had been a few days.

It was like Tim saw the look being returned by Tank, and they both moved imperceptively closer to each other as they sat on the ground, pointed toward the practice still going on on the field in the late-afternoon waning light.

"You said I had good form but that there was somethin' I was doing wrong that the coach wasn't pointin' out to me," Tim said after the moment of silence that had conveyed so much between the two.

"Yeah. You just got one problem that I can see. You are comin' in too high for the block. You need to come up into their chest from below. Get your weight under their rib cage. Don't lead with the helmet, though. You manage to do that and they'll fall out of line every time."

"Wow. I can work on that. Thanks, man."

There was another pause, while both pretended to be playing with Bull, who was flopping around between them, still tugging at the helmet and making happy little snuffling noises.

"You said I'd done real good in the game you saw if it wasn't for the penalties called on me."

"Uh, sorry. It's like you said. Bad reffing."

"Coaches and the guy I live with . . ." Tank looked directly at Tim to see if he'd pick up on the reference, and he did ". . . say it's 'cause I can't remember the plays. I do have trouble with that."

"Oh, I've had trouble with that too. Not much, but we don't have as thick a playbook as the Hornets must have. I used to go over and over ours with my then boyfriend, Ace . . ." Tim paused here to make sure Tank caught that reference ". . . without it sinking in good, so I don't guess your problem is any worse than mine was."

"Was? You had the problem and you fixed it?" Tank had scooted a bit closer to Tim and had fingers on the young man's forearm, playing with the hair on his arm. Tim didn't shrink away.

"Yeah. Word association did it. You tried that?"

"Word association. What's that?"

"I spent some time with Ace. We'd look at the individual play formations and come up with some sort of word—a different one for each play—that would trigger the right play in my mind. It took time, and I needed someone to help me—someone I was real comfortable with—but it worked real well. You tried that?"

"Uh, no. I'd never heard of it."

"Well, you might try it. It might work for you and it might not. But it's worth a try. You got someone to help you with that . . . that guy you're livin' with, maybe?"

"We're not getting' along too good right now, and if it's somethin' that might work, I should try it out before I get to Nashville."

"Well, when do you need to be in Nashville? Are you headed someplace tonight? It's startin' to get dark. You stayin' in Bedford? Got a place to stay here?"

"I don't got plans, really, and I don't gotta be in Nashville for over three weeks more."

"Well, I know a place—cheap but pretty clean—where you could stay a couple of days if you'd like me to help you try the word association system. The place isn't much; an old motel. Not many stay there because it's right next to a chicken farm. But it's not far from here. You wanna stay there a couple of days—you and Bull here—I could . . . work with you. Practice is about over here, if you wanted to wait for me to get out of the showers. I've got my motorbike. You could follow me."

Tank looked into Tim's eyes and knew that Tim was offering a lot more than working out a way to remember play calls. It was then that he realized that they were thigh to thigh and he was covering Tim's hand with his as they sat there close to each other under a Bull who had now plopped over and gone to sleep, using the thighs of both young men to keep his guys located.

They both looked down at the hands; neither one took his hand away.

* * * *

The foreplay was brief, because both young men were in high heat. What struggle there was was no contest and Tim's only concern was to slow it down, maintain some control, with Tank didn't permit him; Tank was much the stronger man. Tim didn't resist much at all as Tank moved a beefy arm under his waist, pulled him up to his hands and knees on the surface of the motel bed, covered his body close from above with his muscular torso, and opened Tim's entrance up with a bulbous cockhead.

Tim whimpered at the size and stretch of the cock bulb inside his rim, but he didn't beg Tank to stop—just the opposite. He was frightened at the power and size of the older man—not old, by any means, but older and more assured in his control than anyone Tim had been with before—but he was in high need and desire for what Tank had to give him. With a hand now free from positioning the cock, Tank cupped Tim's chin and pulled the young man's face around, possessing Tim's lips with his own, stifling the young man's moans and groans—and any reluctance he might have had—and holding Tim steady in his embrace. Tim writhed under him and huffed and puffed through the possessing lips, as Tank's thick cock moved up inside his channel.

They held for a long minute, at Tim's passageway fought to accommodate the huge cock, and, when it did, Tank released the younger man's lips from his and his body from the grip he had been using to hold Tim in place for the invasion of the cock. Moaning deeply, Tim sank his chest to the surface of the bed, reached his arms up and out and grabbed fistfuls of sheeting, and cried out again and again as Tank grabbed the young man's hips with his hands and, thrust upon thrust, plowed his ass hard, deep, and fast to a mutual ejaculation.

Of all the things that Tank had difficulty remembering how to do, fucking a young man wasn't one of them.

Tank collapsed on top of Tim, causing the young man to go flat, with an umpff. They both were panting hard—but Tim was panting harder than Tank was considering the work Tank had been doing.

"God that was . . . Oh, shit," Tim exclaimed, as the in-shape, virile monster of a man, Tank, rolled Tim over on his back, slapped his legs open, and had his dick inside him again for a fast encore.

And then, with only brief interludes to recharge—Tank recovering faster than Tim did each time—again and again throughout the evening and night until it was too late and Tim was too exhausted to bother to go back to his dorm. Tank was clicked into what a man does naturally when he's focused on one task and one task alone. Tim wasn't seen at his dorm for the next three nights.

Throughout the first all-night fuck, Bull lay happily on the floor at the foot of the bed, chewing on a big rawhide bone Tim at bought him at a pet store before Tank checked into the motel.

Tank had been able to tell while checking in that this was a male-on-male hookup motel, so he had no concern about the sounds of taking they could hear up and down the row of rooms—and did not stint in adding Tim's reactions to being ravished to the mix.

* * * *

Tank lay there in the motel bed, watching Tim gingerly, legs maintained at a wide stance, move around the room, dressing and getting ready to go off to his Monday-morning classes after his shower. Tim had missed his Friday classes, although Tank had made sure he got to his football practices, weak in strength but increasingly more knowledgeable in technique, thanks to Tank's pointers.

Stretching out on his back, his arms bent behind and elevating his head, his manhood on full display, Tank heaved a sigh of satisfaction—one that was matched by a snort from Bull who was curled up beside him, fast asleep.

It had been good, casual, vigorous sex for both of them. Neither one of them pretended that it was more than it was—just a four-night interlude as each was headed someplace else in life. But they both had something to give to each other, more than just their bodies and shared satisfaction in that. Tank had worked with Tim's tackling technique and pronounced him first-rate now. Tim said that even his coaches had seen and commented on the improvement and already had moved him to the first-team squad.

Tank held his tongue on the quality of coaches who couldn't have seen and corrected the technique themselves. But they hadn't. Tank had done that. He couldn't remember ever having helped another guy like that. Now that he thought more deeply on it—as deep as Tank was ever going to be able to think—he realized that this was something that had been lacking in his life. Looking at what others needed done and then helping them do it. He could better understand what Craig had always been on him about now—now that it was too late for him and Craig.

Tank related this new awareness to the entry into his life of his dog, Bull. His dog.

Tim's work with Tank on memorizing and being able to pull plays up in his mind quickly hadn't been as successful yet, although it had helped. Tank now was able to remember more of the plays when he concentrated on the word association system Tim was showing to him. The main problem was that, as Tim had said that first afternoon, the Hornets just had too many plays in their playbook. Both of them were careful not to note that there would be even more plays in the Titans' playbook.

But Tank was making progress in that department, and he showed his gratitude to Tim for his help in ways that Tim really liked.

They both knew, though, that if they got in any deeper with each other, it would mean compromising separate-path dreams, and neither really wanted to do that. It was Tim who got them off the hook.

"As I was comin' into the motel yesterday, I heard the owner of the chicken farm the next piece of land over telling the motel owner that he was losing chickens at night and was on the hunt for the critter who was doin' it."

"Yeah, those foxes can really cut down on a chicken farmer's business," Tank said absentmindedly, still looking on Tim's young, lithe body, with appreciation, as he moved around the motel room and dressed.

"The motel owner was tellin' him that we had a pit bull in the room with us, and quizzing the chicken farmer on when his problem had started."

"Oh. But Bull ain't been out of my sight."

"Yeah, but the motel and chicken farm guys might not believe you on that. I think maybe . . . there might be another place across town where we could . . ."

"It's really time I was movin' on toward Nashville anyway," Tank said, with a sigh. He listened for the objection, not being sure of what he wanted to hear. But he'd been thinking for two days himself how this was going to end—how he was going to get back onto the road to Nashville.

"Yeah, I guess you do need to get on the road. You'll keep in touch, though, won't you? Let me know when you ever are comin' through town? I can find a place for us."

"Yes, I'd like that. And thanks for the help on the playbook."

"No, thank

you

, Tank. For everything. I'll come see you play in Nashville. And . . . I'm goin' miss Bull. Great dog."

Tank only felt a little sad when Tim had left and he and Bull were alone in the motel on their last morning in Bedford. What he had honed in on was Tim saying he'd come see him play in Nashville. Tank was all aglow at the voicing of confidence in his football future.