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The Mark of the Jockstrap
I was part of the Bohemian scene in Los Angeles in the ’50s. My roommate turned me out: after discovering the great turn-on of his cock, I was eager to spread my legs for just about any horny friend. Didn’t have much trouble finding guys to top me while I was a student.
My first teaching job, though, was at a small-town school, Thrushmore High, and for a long time I was in a sexual desert. Gays–back in those days we were just “queers” or “fags”–weren’t easy to find in a small town in 1959. But finally I got laid by one of my students, and I’ll be damned, the coach himself turned out to be queer. Once I located those “fellow travelers,” though, I got hot action nearly every day.
My big, football-stud student and the I’ll-fuck-you-please-fuck-me coach were my first two “discoveries.” Then I learned that Coach Cadze had created his own private stud–he’d noticed that the school nerd, Arnold Gilliam (of the pimples and thick glasses) had a surprisingly big cock. Since the coach preferred to be fucked, he was always looking for “toppers,” so he convinced poor Arnold, another 18-year-old senior, that the kid was really a stud.
He seduced the kid by telling him how much the coach couldn’t keep his eyes off him. Got him to pull down his gym shorts and “show me how big it is.” He carried on about how he couldn’t resist, then bent down and sucked off the astonished geek. With more praise, more encouragement, more horny talk, he got Arnold to mount him and fuck the coach as he lay back on the bench in the locker room. He turned timid, wimpy, shy Arnold Gilliam into a self-confident stud!
As a matter of fact, I let Arnold lay me, too. Hey, I’ve got nothing against building up a guy’s ego, especially if he sticks that ego up my ass and makes me pant for him. Arnold wasn’t handsome, to my taste–big ears, goggly glasses, crooked teeth–but damn, he did have a big cock (never can tell who’s going to get one), and he was a quick learner.
I let him think I was “under his power” late one afternoon in the empty locker room, and with an “Oh, Arnold, I just can’t resist you, you big stud,” I lay back on the bench between the gray lockers and spread for him. He grabbed my ankles and rolled me back–I helped by pulling back my thighs–and Oomph! he was in!
Damn, he was good! Knew all the rules: waited to let me adjust, started off slow, long-stroked me; the kid had me panting for him in the first 60 seconds! He was so good, in fact, I wondered where he got all that skill. He often hit me in the prostate, changing angles and thrust-pace, crushing my knees down to my chest, penetrating deeper. Whoosh, what a fucking!
And something else: he reached under and pulled at my balls when he saw me cumming, and–Damn!–what a feeling! A man’s nuts cinch up close to his body just before he cums, so Arnold’s slow pull at my scrotum stretched out the tightened ligaments and vesicles, and–Ohh, my god!–when a man’s in orgasm, pleasure and pain are the same thing! His ball-stretch on me made my orgasm last so long, I thought I would pass out.
As he lay on me, both of us spent, I slowly lowered my legs. Doesn’t anybody around here fuck on a bed? My back is killing me from these hard benches! I looked up at him, still breathing hard. “Damn–Arnold–you–damned good!–(pant! pant!)–where–you learn that?”
The kid was panting, too. “Thought you–of all people–know about–reading books.”
Damn, never underestimate a horny nerd! Nobody ever pulled my balls before. He read that in a book? Fuck, what a technique! But he was just too good. “Hey–Arnold–who else you–getting it on with?”
He lay quietly on me with a smile like a Cheshire cat while he caught his breath. Finally, “Couple of the guys. In the computer club. You saw me with Jim Barkett, the quarterback. He’s a good cocksucker.” Then he blew my mind. “And you know that new coach? The one who started this year with you?”
“Terry Hawthorn?? You get it on with Coach Hawthorn? That’s hard to believe.” He was the straightest arrow I’d ever met. He was married! Had two kids already!
I met Hawthorn at the new-faculty orientation. First thing that hit me was his face–movie-star handsome. Square jaw, sharp nose, curl of black hair over his forehead–like Superman, the TV character! And he had a big build, too. I’m not exactly little, but beside him I looked mousy. I figured him to be about my age–thirty-something.
When he shook my hand, the strength of his grip made me wonder if I’d ever play the piano again. He was certainly the enthusiastic type. “Hey, man, isn’t this exciting? Our first teaching jobs!”
Bright and eager, he was like a chipmunk in a gorilla’s body. We appeared to be the only newbies, so although he was just a little too chipper for me, we got to know each other better. Turned out he was a Mormon, spent two years in the Army as a draftee, graduated from BYU. Built up his physique with Uncle Sam, he said, and decided he wanted to get into physical education.
He Cami Halısı was exactly the sort of All-American, perfect-smile, guy-on-the-Wheaties-box type who rubbed me the wrong way. As he went on and on about how he couldn’t wait to share what he’d learned about health and sports with “the kids,” I had a terrible urge to ask him how often he jerked off.
When he mentioned he was married and had two kids, I wrote him off as hopelessly straight, and when he ranted about his “beautiful little sweetheart,” I fought down the urge to ask him if she swallowed his cum or spit it out.
The idea that the school nerd, Arnold Gilliam, was actually involved in homosexual activities with Terry Hawthorn was more than I could get my head around. Arnold’s softening dick pulled out of my ass and he rose up off me and got to his feet. “I’m about to spring the trap on him today. You want to watch?”
“Hell, yes, I wouldn’t miss it! Arnold, I’m having trouble comprehending this. You’re seducing Terry Hawthorn? How in hell are you doing that?”
“Well, after I discovered how hot Coach Cadze was for me, I thought it would be a challenge to fuck Coach Hawthorn.”
“Damn, Arnold, you’ve really come out of your shell!”
“Yeah, well, I got the idea from your psychology classes. Remember the lesson on Developing a Positive Attitude by Focusing on Positive Thoughts? I figured I could develop a horny attitude in Coach Canfield, so I started leaving little horny-thought notes where he couldn’t miss them. Real simple stuff at first, ‘You have always loved naked men,’ ‘You got into coaching so you could see naked men,’ ‘You will love my cock,’ that sort of thing.”
My mouth fell open.
“And remember the lesson on Nonverbal Communication? How more of what we say comes across in things besides spoken words? I figured that to show him some skin might help him to another horny little thought. Whenever I was in the locker room or in his office, I made sure he saw me naked.”
I smiled. “That would work on me. You’re really hung, Arnold.” I reached out and squeezed his big eight-incher.
“I got sneaky. Mailed some notes to him from a mailbox. Paid kids to stick them on his desk or under his door.
“And your lesson on Fixation? How people attach motivations and stuff on icons, on everyday objects?” He looked at me with triumph. “A red jockstrap! I got him to fixate on a red jockstrap!”
“How’d you get him to focus on that?”
“I started off by adding little drawings of a red jockstrap to the horny-thought notes. Like it was my signature. After a while I made little jockstraps out of red paper and wrote the notes on them. It worked. Once I actually saw him hold one of the paper jockstraps to his face and sniff it.”
“Damn! Arnold, you are a very devious deviant, you know that?”
“Remember your lesson on Pavlov’s dogs? Where he blew a whistle every time he gave them a treat? And finally they would drool just to the sound of the whistle even when there wasn’t a treat? Well, I know a lot about electronics and wiring. It wasn’t too hard to rewire the circuitry to the air conditioning in Coach Hawthorn’s office. I would turn it off a couple hours before my class with him, then, just before I let him see me, I turned it on.
“After being sweaty and uncomfortable for hours, suddenly he was bathed in nice, refreshing air as he saw me naked with a hardon. When I went away, I turned the a/c off again, let him heat up and suffocate once more, then turned it on again as I walked into his office, again naked and hard, to ask him where the clean towels were.
“It worked. After about a week of that, I saw him sigh when he saw me in the locker room or the shower, and he felt good when he looked at me, even when there wasn’t any air conditioning.
“Damn!”
“And with the combination of the horny-thought notes and the a/c training, I began to see him get a bulge in his pants whenever he saw me. I always made a point of letting him see me with a hardon. Jacked myself up just before I stepped out in front of him.”
“Damn, you did that?”
“Yep, but all you have to do is put on an innocent face, and if he wants to get upset over a normal, natural hard dick, it’s his problem.” Arnold smiled.
“By then the jockstrap-notes said things like, ‘All your life you dreamed of holding a big cock in your hand,’ and I could see he was upset. He looked nervous, searching every kid in his class.
“And when I walked by him naked, I caught him staring at my cock. He was getting interested. I saw him pass by every time I was in the showers. He called me into his office a lot. The last time, yesterday, he was really nervous. Asked me why I ‘have an erection so often.’
“‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It feels good.’ I looked him in the eyes. ‘Do you like it?’
“It was like I punched him in the gut. He looked all startled and real nervous, and he said, ‘Y-yeah, it’s a–a nice one.'” He looked like he didn’t know what else to say. Cami Halıları
“I left his office and went back to the locker room. When I saw that he followed me, I let him see me putting on a red jockstrap before I pulled up my jeans.”
“A red jockstrap? Where’d you get a red jockstrap?” There was no such thing in 1959 unless you were a dancer at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. All the jockstraps at Thrushmore High were the usual white Bikes.
“Took it home and dyed it red.”
“Damn! What did he do?”
“Again, it was like he was punched in the gut. His mouth fell open, and he stared. I hurried out of the locker room before he could stop me.” Arnold grinned. “I think he’s about ripe. That was Thursday, yesterday. I’ve got him for gym today at 11:00, the last class before the lunch break, so I’m going to hang around so I’m the last one in the showers. You can hide in there and watch what happens.”
As the 11:00 class ended, I meandered over to the locker room as if I were looking for somebody. I saw Arnold, and he gave me a wink. I loitered around until the last students left, and I saw Hawthorn hiding behind another locker, watching Arnold. Arnold had spotted him, too, and while Hawthorn watched, he pulled off his pants, s-l-o-w-l-y pulled down the red jockstrap, then got up and walked naked–no towel–toward the showers.
I kept back in the shadows to watch. Amazing. Coach Hawthorn moved after Arnold like a bitch in heat. Arnold Gilliam had a good, big cock, but he didn’t have the physique that would launch a thousand ships, skinny little runt. Hawthorn was attracted to him, though. Different strokes for different folks–or maybe he really was brainwashed by Arnold’s schemes.
Never thought Hawthorn would turn out to hanker after a big cock. He was a man’s man. Was even a Mormon missionary, for hell’s sake! Arnold’s psychological warfare must’ve really got to him. He watched the pimply senior go into the shower, and–my mouth dropped open–Hawthorn pulled off his sweatsuit, jockstrap, and shoes, grabbed a towel, held it around his hips, and walked into the showers. “Hello, Arnold, I think I’ll clean up, too.”
Arnold turned to face him, spreading his legs as he approached. The school nerd had a full-on erection, but it bulged inside a red jockstrap!
Hawthorn stopped, frozen, staring. The towel came loose from his hand and fell to the floor. His own cock was rock hard and throbbing. The poor bastard was hypnotized. “Red jockstrap,” he muttered.
Arnold, you clever boy, you palmed the jockstrap and put it on again in here! I blinked. Hawthorn’s cock was every bit as big as Arnold’s, so Hawthorn’s fascination was from deeper psychological urges. Fighting to gain control of the situation, he gulped, “An, uh, e-erection again, Arnold? Y-you thinking about–about a date with your–girlfriend–tonight?”
I’d never seen Hawthorn so nervous. It was incredible. The coach with the face of Superman was 6’2″ or so and a good 250 pounds, even bigger than Cadze, the head coach. Gilliam was short, stringy, still not out of puberty.
“Naw, Coachie, I’m thinking about you.”
Damn, is that Arnold Gilliam? The school wimp and nerd? His voice was firm, edgy–the voice of command.
Hawthorn gulped. “You–wearing–red supporter–” Talked like a zombie.
Arnold pulled down the pouch. “See how hard you’ve got me, Coachie. It’s all for you. C’mon over and feel my cock. You know you want to.”
There’s the deal-breaker. Now Hawthorn leaves the room. Probably to report Gilliam.
As I stared with disbelieving eyes, Coach Hawthorn moved closer and reached down. He touched Arnold’s thigh. “S’matter, Coachie, don’t dare touch it? Go on, stroke it for me.”
Mesmerized, Hawthorn rubbed his hand against the red jockstrap. “Red jockstrap,” he muttered, “red jockstrap…”
Finally Arnold grabbed his hand and moved it to Arnold’s hard dong, and I’ll be damned if Hawthorn didn’t stroke it slowly and sensually, still staring down at it. Then Arnold reached up to put his hands on the big man’s shoulders. Pulling him down. “N-no!” Hawthorn gasped.
But Arnold kept pulling, and slowly, slowly Hawthorn bent his knees, and down he went. I could hardly breathe. Hawthorn was in the power of forces he couldn’t control. The big man was breathing hard. “No! No, I won’t!”
When his knees hit the floor, his face was still higher than Arnold’s throbbing cock. The kid’s voice sounded like a drill sergeant’s. “Bend down and suck it!”
“N-n-no! I-I won’t!”
“Yes you will! You’ve been dying to suck a cock all your life! You’ve been staring at mine for weeks. It’s all you can think about!”
Hawthorn was silent.
“Isn’t it!”
“Yes.” Hawthorn’s voice was so soft I barely heard him. “I should’ve known you’re the one sending me the notes, the ones with the red jockstrap!”
“Yeah, Coachie. I know the real you, don’t I?”
Hawthorn’s face was a mask of horror. “Yes.” Again, his voice was so faint, it was like a prayer. “How did you know?”
“A cocksucker like you has it oozing out of his pores. Anybody with a big cock can tell.”
Hawthorn gasped.
Arnold pulled the coach’s hand away for a moment and slid the red jockstrap down and off. Then he put Hawthorn’s hand back on his cock. “But you’ve always known it, haven’t you? Down deep inside, you knew those big men could see you were a cocksucker. You wanted to suck their cocks, didn’t you?”
Again that feeble “Yes.”
“So suck my cock, cocksucker!”
“No! No, I won’t!”
Arnold pulled the red jockstrap over Hawthorn’s head, upside-down, maneuvering the mesh pouch over his nose and mouth, the leg straps straight back over his forehead. Damn, what a sight! Most of Hawthorn’s face was covered with the hot, sweaty pouch, branching out from the point between his eyes to the curve of the pouch as it went over his chin. Hawthorn was panting in terror, breathing hard, with every gasp inhaling the scent of Arnold’s balls and his male pheromones.
Then Hawthorn was under the control of something much more powerful than his sense of decency. He bent over toward Gilliam’s crotch, pulled the pouch away from his mouth, and spread his lips over the kid’s big dong. His nose was still in the pouch.
Arnold was the man in charge. “You like that, Coachie?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You hot for me, Coachie?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Let’s see.” Arnold leaned over the man’s heavily muscled back, reached between his ass-cheeks (Beautiful bubble-butt, by the way) and he stuck a finger up Hawthorn’s ass. The coach lurched in surprise but kept sucking.
“You wanna swallow my cum, Coach?”
A pause. Then “Mm-hmm.”
“Naw, I’ve got a better place for it.” Arnold pulled his cock back out of Hawthorn’s mouth, and there was a sharp sucking sound. “Drop your hands to the floor.”
“No, oh god, no! Not that!”
Arnold had a little plastic jar of Vaseline, and he dug out a gob of it. He swiped it up Hawthorn’s ass-crack.
“No, no, please! Don’t do this! Okay, I’m–I’m a cocksucker, but not a–not–Please, no–you-you can’t–“
I don’t get it. Hawthorn outweighs Gilliam by 150 pounds. Why doesn’t he just get up?
But instead the big man obeyed the command. Dropped over into the hands & knees position, waiting, trembling. Arnold moved the jockstrap pouch over his mouth and nose again.
Arnold commanded: “Jack yourself off. Beat your meat for me.” Hawthorn’s hand went to his crotch. Arnold didn’t even look; he moved behind the humbled man and worked two fingers back into his asshole, finger-fucking him. Hawthorn shut his eyes.
“This is what you want, isn’t it, Coachie? You’ve got an asshole that wants to be fucked!”
“No! No, that’s–that’s not what–what I want!” His voice was muffled through the jockstrap.
“Then why’s your cockhead leaking precum in a stream, and your ass-ring is clenching at my fingers?” Hawthorn moaned and helplessly arched his back.
Arnold’s cock stood up like a flagpole! The horny teenager took a deep breath, looked over at me, and smiled. Then he knelt between the coach’s legs. “Yeah, big guy, I’m going to fuck you so deep you’ll be a cunt for the rest of your life.”
“No, no, please!” But Hawthorn lowered his shoulders and raised his ass, presenting himself to Arnold like a bitch in heat. The kid mounted him in the most dominant way–with his legs outside Hawthorn’s, in control, almost sitting on the big man’s ass. He pressed his cock against the winking rectum, shoved, and after a yelp from Hawthorn, Arnold’s cockhead popped inside. Hawthorn was no longer a virgin.
He slowly pushed in as his fuckee stiffened in pain. Arnold gripped Hawthorn’s hip with one hand and he grabbed a fistful of Superman’s curly black hair with the other. He yanked Hawthorn’s head back!–Shit, that’s hot!–“The best part’s coming up, Coachie. Once the pain fades away, you’ll know what your asshole is really for.”
There was a long silence as Arnold let him get used to a cock in his ass, then he slowly began his thrusts. And after a dozen or so, I actually saw it happen. With a gasp and a long, low moan, Hawthorn started to enjoy Arnold’s lunges, and I saw him surrender. The kid’s big cock had stretched him open and claimed him as Arnold’s property. The broken coach hissed, “Yeah, do it! Fuck me harder,” and with that grunt, he was a made man.
Lost his cherry with a red jockstrap over his face, listening to the schluck-schluck-schluck sound of his own vanished virginity. Arnold kept the pace for about five minutes, then he sank in to the balls, and I knew he was breeding the big coach.
He released Hawthorn’s head, bent over, and kissed the back of his victim’s neck, and at that instant, Hawthorn’s cock shot four big bursts of cum that splattered over the shower room floor. He collapsed onto his face. “God–fucking–amazing!” he gasped.
“I’ll expect more from now on, bitch.” Arnold pulled out his cock and slapped the coach on the ass. A white stream dribbled from the man’s gaping hole. He rolled over onto his back on the wet tile floor, still masked with the red jockstrap. He made no effort to remove it.
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