Soccer Balling

[This is a four-chapter, completed story that will post before mid month. Be aware that a version of this was published as "Prepared in Cape Verde" to the marketplace in 2013.]

*****

We were playing our last soccer game before spring break—an away game—and Coach Jacoby had given the players that rousing "We are

this close

to the conference championship; make this one count" speech in the locker room before sending us out onto the field. He stood next to the door out of the locker room, looking big and rugged and handsome, and gave each player a slap on the rump as they exited.

I was the last to exit, and the coach grabbed my arm, pulled me close, and whispered, "You help Stefan win this one and I'll have a surprise for you," in my ear before pushing me away, giving me that slap on the butt, but not before he squeezed one of my cheeks, and sending me on my way. I shuddered just from the touch of him, just from knowing what he'd been working up to do with me for months. I knew about Coach Jacoby's surprises. I hadn't been surprised yet, but, when I was honest with myself, I knew it would be coming. And Coach had given me plenty of time to think about it, plenty of time to consider what a hunk he was and to rationalize why I would let him do what I knew he was building up to do.

It had been like selling my soul to the devil—but I'd been given time to decide not only to accept it, but also to anticipate it and look forward to it. I had wanted on the university's soccer team in the worst way. It didn't hurt that I'd been given a soccer scholarship to transfer to the university from the junior college specialized in nurturing promising athletes up to being able to hack the grades needed for a good university. But Coach Jacoby had a reputation for keeping his team revved up and fighting for him because he owned them. Owned and knew each one of them—biblically—if he wanted to. He wasn't dumb. He had enough first-rate players on his team to win, but he also had some players on the team mostly because they were champion players of a different sport than soccer—players he benched in more ways than one. And he wouldn't have a player on his team who wasn't a champion player in this way.

I wasn't either naïve or averse to this. I knew there was a lot of that in sports, even though there was a lot of effort to deny it and keep it quiet. And I had known my own developing interest in guys—especially older guys—for some time too. I just hadn't had the courage to go across that line. In truth, I might have shown interest in this university and Coach Jacoby's team precisely because of the rumors I'd heard about him. I wouldn't go looking for it, but if it became a requirement to get to where I wanted to go . . .

If you wanted to be given the playing time and the good positions, you had to be willing to be a player in more ways than one with men like Coach—and there were men who went into coaching just to get prime tail, and not just in women's sports. Once I got to the university in my junior year, I had been given the time and the positions. And although I, at first, was deeply conflicted about wanting anything else, we were two-thirds of the way through the season and I hadn't been called on to play in the coach's other game. Having had time to decide I'd let it happen because being on the team was more important to me than anything else—and being a little curious about this man-on-man thing anyway—I had begun wondering what was wrong with me that it hadn't happened yet. I looked good, I knew it. And I was in shape. I got looks and pretty open offers from the girls at school—even some from the guys. Our star player, Stefan, the guy from Austria, hadn't made any bones about wanting to get into my jock strap—and he was a hunk in his own right. So, if Coach made moves on his players, why not on me . . . yet?

The game went splendidly—if you were a spectator who liked close games and weren't rooting too hotly for one team over the other. If you are rabidly partisan, you might have had a heart attack before the last two minutes of the game, as the two teams—rated the best in the conference—traded goals one for one. Two minutes to go and this tit for tat was broken when the opposing team scored two goals in a row. The team's celebration may have sprained a couple of hamstrings, because Coach Jacoby's team came roaring back. Three goals were scored by our team in the last minute and a half, all of them by passes from me to Stefan and then into the goal.

Our team was boisterous and chanting the university's fight song as we piled into the shower room of the visiting team's locker room and cavorted around, snapping towels at bare buttocks and congratulating each other—with congratulations especially going to Stefan and me for teaming up for the winning goals.

Coach Jacoby marched into the locker room and shouted, "OK, finish up and clear out, ladies. I want the room."

The players got quiet then, knowing from experience that the coach had something in mind—something with one of the players. They quickly piled out of the shower, dried, and changed into their street clothes—all except Stefan and me, who Coach Jacoby grabbed coming out of the shower and told to stand over at the side, to dry ourselves off, and to stay naked.

As we stood there, the guys dressing nudged each other and drew attention to us. Some smiled little knowing smile and some sniggered with each other. A few called out suggestive comments to Stefan, who was recognized not only as a team leader and a male-on-male player but also as a tag team with Coach. None spoke directly to me, though. Most knew that the setup here indicated that this was to be my initiation by the coach—with Stefan's help.

"A little special celebration time with our two star players," Coach had given as an explanation, along with a wink, when he'd told us to stand aside and not dress.

"Here it comes . . . maybe," I thought. Was I ready for it if this was "it"? Yes, I guessed I was. Stefan held me possessively while the other guys cleared out. Stefan had been interested in me for some time now. I knew that from the way he acted toward me. I'd seen him acting that way to others on campus, both girls and guys, who I knew who just laid down for him. But, even though I knew he'd sniffed around me, I hadn't given Stefan much thought—I'd only been watching out for the coach. If—no, when—my time came—and I had mixed feeling about that—I was expecting it from the coach.

Willingness to give it to Coach Jacoby, if he wanted it, was the unwritten understanding of being accepted on the soccer team.

"Jeff, Peter. Stand station outside the door," Coach Jacoby growled, as Stefan held me into his chest, one hand on my belly and the other covering one of my pecs. I could feel the hardness of him poking at the small of my back. Stefan certainly thought that this was "it" for me. And I guess he thought he'd be getting a piece of me too.

"Sure thing," Jeff answered. "Nobody will get by us until you say it's OK." Both of the players gave me a little smirky smile as they went out the door.

Jacoby snapped his fingers at Stefan. "The massage table. Prepare him for me." Then to me: "This is your day, stud. A great game. Time for your surprise. You gonna fight me on this?"

I hesitated, but I knew the answer to that. I'd had lots of time to think up the answer to that. "No, Coach."

"What? I didn't hear you, Troy."

I cleared my voice and tried it again, a little louder. "No, Coach. I won't fight you."

And I didn't fight Stefan either, as the star player pushed me down on my back across the width of the massage table, with my shoulder blades and head jammed up against the cinderblock wall and my ankles on Stefan's shoulders, as Stefan sucked on my cock and balls and at my hole and then lubed up my hole with his fingers.

I'd masturbated before, sure, but that was nothing like this. Nothing like the sensations going through my body as Stefan, a real hunk, sucked my cock and balls and stuck those fingers in my ass. They were something else. I felt myself tense up and constrict down there when they first invaded, and then I felt my channel go slack as the fingers worked inside me. They reached something in there and rubbed and I felt like pissing and ejaculating all at the same time. But I didn't. I moaned. And Stefan answered with a deep-throated laugh.

I didn't fight Coach Jacoby either when the coach pushed Stefan aside and replaced him between my thighs—other than to murmur, "Please, Coach. Go slow and don't be rough"—I'd heard the coach liked it rough—". . . Oh, shit, oh, fuck!"

"Stop acting like a baby," Coach commanded. "Like it was your first time. God, you're tight. Haven't done it much, that's for sure."

"It

is

the first time," I cried out. "Oh, shit."

"Sweet," was all he said to that. I couldn't say it seemed like he'd lessened up any.

The hard cock was pushing inside me. It felt like a baseball bat, stretching me and moving relentlessly up inside me. A mix of thoughts were racing through my brain—the searing pain; the violation; how fully it filled me; but also the connection, one with Coach in these moments; the awe that he wanted to be inside me like this; the relief that it was finally done, all of the months of fear and anticipation past; a feeling of triumph that he was inside me and, even though painfully now, I was accommodating a man's throbbing cock. This was what it was like. I no longer was a virgin to man sex.

He seemed to be stuck, not able to get in farther, although he felt to me that he was in as far as China already. "Oh, god, Coach. Slow. Take it easy," I pleaded.

But not satisfied with the depth, Coach grabbed my legs at the ankles, jerked them up and to the sides, wide, and I felt him sliding up inside me again. And I felt the hair of his pubes tickling my butt cheeks. He grunted in satisfaction, and, gasping and groaning, I arched my back, grabbed onto his shoulders with a claw-like grip, and sobbed. "Oh shit, oh fuck, oh god, Coach. You're killin' me."

Coach Jacoby laughed, pressed his cock in even farther, relentlessly went to the root, and, pulling half out and then back in, as I panted and made little huffing sounds, and then out and in more rapidly, pumping me hard and fast.

I couldn't help it—the fucking was too hard and painful. I cried out.

"Shut up!" Jacoby commanded.

"Can't help it, Coach," I answered with a gasp. "Too hard. First time. Don't—"

"I said shut up," the coach repeated. He slapped me across the face, which stunned me and then pulled out of me and turned me face to the wall, standing on the floor and leaning over the edge of the massage table, my arms spread and braced against the wall on the heels of my hands. The coach palmed one big hand on my quivering belly and covered my mouth and nose with the other. He thrust his cock home again and resumed pumping. He controlled my breathing with the pressure from his hand and it was all I could do to gasp for the next breath. I didn't have any energy to give to screaming. The pain was subsiding anyway, being replaced with waves and waves of pleasure. He was inside me. I was being fucked. I was managing this. I'd heard that there was a lot less pain after the first time or two. I was already looking forward to the time when it was mostly pleasure. And I knew I'd want it from Coach again—and maybe from others too. Maybe from Stefan as well. Yes, probably from Stefan.

Stefan was crouched on the floor underneath the coach and me, his back against the side of the massage table, and was sucking on my cock and balls. I didn't see anything wrong with that—and I was getting close to coming all over him.

The scene didn't get much farther, though. Jeff was sticking his head in the door and saying, in a worried voice, "Press out here, sir. Lots of them. And they're saying that if you don't come out to talk to them, they'll be coming into the locker room. Lots of them, sir. Doubt Pete and I can hold them back."

"Oh, fuck!" Coach Jacoby exclaimed. "OK, tell them I'm coming out in a few minutes."

He pulled out of and away from me, reached down to drag Stefan up from below, and, snapping his fingers again, commanded, "Get showered again quickly and dress and be out in ten. Both of you. I want you talkin' with the press, and I don't want you cryin' when you do it."

As, near to sobbing, I gingerly turned from the massage table and stepped toward the shower, Coach Jacoby grabbed my arm, and spun me around. "Later, Tory. I'm not finished with you."

And, ashamed and embarrassed as I was, underneath all that I wanted there to be a "later" with the coach.

* * * *

As it turns out, however, Coach Jacoby

was

finished with me. Rather than going back to the university, the soccer team members dispersed to wherever they were going on spring break. I went home. By the time I got there, though, I was running a fever and had a headache. I remember hoping I hadn't caught something from the coach. Had he worn a condom? I'm sure he did. I thought. I wasn't thinking much about that at the time, though, I didn't think. But to do it as often as he did, he must wear a rubber. Did I even know what I could catch from the coach that was like this? Of course not, and I had no idea how I could find that out anyway. I couldn't exactly Google it. Well, I had tried doing that, but came up blank. I was such a dumb bunny about these things.

"Your cheeks are puffy, Troy," my mother said. "I'm calling Doctor Albright."

"You've got the mumps, son," Doctor Albright said. "To bed until I say you can get up."

"I need to be back at school next week," I whined. "We've got two more games before the championship tournament."

"You'll be lucky if you're back in time for the tournament," the doctor answered.

I wasn't feeling lucky at the time, but later I did feel that—I could have caught something from Coach, and I hadn't. It was just the mumps.

* * * *

I did make it back for the championship tournament. And once again Stefan and I were the star players, combining to score goal after goal to winning goal of the championship game.

Coach Jacoby wasn't there to enjoy it, though. After the first game, a home one, after the team returned to the university without me, Jacoby was caught by the university's athletic director fucking Jeff in the locker room after the game. Over the next two weeks, the authorities interviewed everyone on the soccer team—except me, of course, who was in quarantine a long way away from the university. Enough evidence was obtained against the coach that they didn't need to interview me as well to determine if I'd had sex with the coach—or, as they put it, if he had raped me or anyone else I knew about.

They didn't interview Stefan, either. The athletic director was only going to go so far in crippling a championship contender sports team. It was bad enough he had to pull a winning coach out of the mix; he didn't want to lose the team's start player too. Besides, Stefan's father was some sort of rich European who was donating a building to the school. With Stefan's grades and attitude toward what college was all about, that was the only way Stefan could have gotten into a prestigious university like this, soccer star or not. But then by the end of the term, after there were no more soccer games that year for Stefan to win, the hatchet had dropped on Stefan too. As the Jacoby sex scandal unwound, Stefan's name came up just too often—and there were other students he was doing that they found out about who weren't even on the soccer team. The university still got its building but, in turn, it had to help Stefan get into another university—not the one I transferred to when my parents, suspicious of me being involved too, pressured me to change schools—that had a contending soccer program.

Thanks to mumps, I had escaped the bullet of being exposed as having been sexually assaulted or having willingly engaged in sex with my coach. I fully appreciated what I'd been saved from. If I'd been interviewed, I didn't know if I would have admitted to anything. I didn't even know if I'd claim to have been assaulted or to having wanted it. Certainly in my delirious weeks in bed, I thought back on the coach's cock pounding away inside me, and, as feverish as I was, I masturbated myself to completion thinking about that. I had known Coach planned to come for me sometime, and I'd been scared and in pain while it was happening. But even while it was happening, I was beginning to melt to it.

And if Coach came to me there in my bedroom, I thought I'd open my legs to that cock of his and want to be ridden hard again—and again and again and again until I was able to take full pleasure in it. Increasingly, the more I thought back on the coach and his cock, the more I knew that I could easily want it.

Once out of my fever, my defense mechanisms and my training as a member of the stolidly southern gentry set in, though. I steeled myself against the baser instincts I was challenged by and appreciated more and more that I hadn't gone totally over the edge. My resolve was challenged when I went back to school and went out with the soccer team again. Stefan, who sniffed after me relentlessly now, volunteering to replace the coach between my thighs, was ever present, ever reminding me of what I could have if I let himself loose. I resisted him, and that didn't set well. He was not accustomed to being denied.

Thus when my parents decided that I needed to change schools to avoid any taint of the soccer team sex scandal—little knowing just how embroiled in it I'd been—it came as a relief to me. At the end of the school year I transferred to the university with the team that took the national NCAA soccer title from Stefan's new university and, at year's end, had decided that professional soccer was for me, if I could get on a team. I put all action—if not thought—of man-on-man sex behind me.