Coach had to take a moment’s pause to take in what he was seeing–so much unblemished
Coach had to take a moment’s pause to take in what he was seeing–so much unblemished beauty restrained and available for him to control. And then while squeezing his leather jock pouch, he approached the nervous rookie, taking him by the arm and leading him to the basement door: “You ready rookie? I know I am. Time for you to see and experience Coach’s playroom.”His bare muscular feet gripped the wooden steps as he slowly descended the stairs, before his eyes could adjust to the dimmer atmospheric lighting, he was overwhelmed by the scent of sweat and sex and musky hormones–like every locker room he’d ever been in, only multiplied by 100.He’d lose track of time as he spent his afternoon with Coach, and eventually some of Coach’s buddies, learning about things he never had imagined as Coach showed him how narrow the line was between pleasure and pain. And more importantly, showed him how much of a pig he could be.His muscles would ache as he climbed the stairs to find that it was early evening–the sun had already set. His body would be covered in a mixture of sweat and cum. His hair would be matted to his head, first from the layer of sweat that formed from leather hood that Coach had tightly laced to his head, and then from the loads that had been shot all over his face and head after the hood had been removed. Coach had not allowed him to shower before dressing again–telling him not to shower until the next morning so that he could be reminded of the things he had done and had done to him.Coach had taken his boxer briefs as a souvenir, writing his name and the date with permanent marker on the waistband before adding them to what Coach called his trophy collection–clipping it to a clothesline running around the edges of the ceiling, hanging there amongst the briefs and boxers and jockstraps–most torn and stained. A collection of every conceivable style and color, they always made for good cum rags and gags–never laundered and returned to the line for later use. Coach had read the name of the player who had worn the jockstrap the rookie had shoved into his mouth. He had recognized the name of a player–a senior now–as he rewet and tasted the sweat and cum and piss soaked into the pouch of the jock that now muffled his cries of intense pleasure and unbearable agony. When he’d see that player next, he’d feel a secret bond of sorts that would make his cock swell as he remembered his own first time in Coach’s playroom and imagined whatever depraved things Coach had done to the senior in his rookie year.So he drove back to his dorm–feeling the fluids seep from his gaping hole–with no underwear layer to absorb them, they’d make a wet spot on the seat of his jeans. Looking disheveled now in his all-American jock boy next door uniform of polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers, he’d make his way from the parking lot to his dorm room. From his appearance and the hormonal smell of sex, any who passed him on his walk of shame knew he had been used–and used hard. Non athletes who passed him on the side walks would look perplexed and somewhat concerned. But once in the jock dorm, his fellow athletes would give him knowing and leering looks.Once in his room, his roommate out for the evening, he’d collapse on his bed. He’d check his phone to see if he missed any important messages–and see one sent only minutes before from Coach. It was nothing but a URL that led him to a folder with his name on it in a cloud account. The folder was filled with images and videos of their session. He laid there on his bed, seeing himself stretched tightly in bondage displayed in ways that made him nearly unable to recognize his own body. The images allowed him to fill in the blanks of everything that had happened to him while his vision had been obstructed by the coverings on the eye openings on his hood–he could see whose cocks had invaded him and where and what the ass toys looked like that Coach had stretched him open with.As they had finished their session in the playroom, the rookie had felt so spent, so drained, that he thought it would be days before he ever wanted to or could cum again. Coach had made him cum so many times and when he no longer had semen to spurt, Coach would show him just how much control he had over the rookie by forcing him to orgasm with jolts of electrical current applied to hot spots deep in his ass and to his dick and to his balls and to his nipples–sometimes all at once and sometimes in indiscernible random patterns–dry, painful, intense orgasms that would make his body thrash with what little movement the bondage allowed. And as he watched the action on his phone screen, he’d feel the familiar tingle in his cock and the feeling of horniness and hunger in the pit of his stomach. He’d think to himself–Coach said I shouldn’t shower, but he didn’t say I shouldn’t fuck some more.So he’d stand and strip out of the clothes covering his body–his tired muscles still aching with every movement. He’d walk to the door and open it fully and then return to his bed to stretch out, face down, legs spread. By now the cum was crusty and dried on his torso and matted to the hairs on his legs and cheeks, but the deep trench, now slightly parted to allow anyone to see, was still wet, still leaking a mixture of cum and lube and what could only be described as ass juices. He hoped it wouldn’t take long for the athletes who lived on his floor to take notice. -- source link
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