College Jocks Brooks and Zane 05

Zane woke up in a great mood.

He'd checked his phone as soon as his blue eyes blinked open, and there it was. A message from DL, sent late the night before. Same spot, later today. The message was short and direct, but Zane had read it about four times anyway, feeling intensely excited. He was incredibly thrilled by the BDSM play from the prior day, and couldn't wait for a repeat. There was one new instruction attached to it this time: shave your ass before you come.

Zane sat with that for a minute. He wasn't against the idea, exactly... he'd just never actually done it, and doing it right, especially back there, wasn't the kind of thing he trusted himself to manage solo with a hand mirror and a prayer. He needed a second pair of eyes and a second pair of hands, and there was really only one person on earth he could ask something like that without it turning into a whole thing.

He found Brody at his desk, eating cereal out of the box dry, scrolling his phone.

"Hey, weird question."

"Buddy, those are the best kind." Brody didn't even look up.

"I need to shave my ass and I can't really see back there. Can you help me?"

That got him to look up. Brody considered it for exactly as long as it took to swallow. "Yeah, sure. Got a date with a chick or something?"

"Something like that."

"Say less." Brody was already up, digging through his stuff for the electric razor he used whenever he wanted to sport a beard or five-o'clock shadow look. He held it up like a trophy. "This thing works like magic. We're good."

That was the thing about Brody, and Zane was grateful for it in this exact moment--there wasn't an ounce of weirdness in him about stuff like this. Most guys would've laughed at him for ten minutes for even asking, or found some reason to say no. Brody just grabbed the razor and asked where Zane wanted to do it, like Zane had asked him to help move a couch a couple inches over.

They picked the middle of the room, and Zane laid a towel down on the floor like he was setting up for a workout. He stripped out of his shorts, tossed them on his bed. The baseball jock got down on his hands and knees, then lowered himself onto his forearms, feeling more exposed than he expected to and trying to just power through the awkwardness of it.

"Alrighty, bro," Brody said, crouching behind him, all business. "Hold still."

The razor buzzed to life, and Brody got to work, one hand braced flat on the small of Zane's back to steady him, the other guiding the razor in slow, careful passes. He worked methodically, thorough, checking his progress with his fingers between passes, going back over spots that weren't quite clean the first time. It took longer than either of them expected, mostly because Brody (purportedly) kept second-guessing his own evenness, running his palm over bare skin to ostensibly check for rough patches before going back in with the razor one more time.

What Brody didn't say out loud, and wasn't fully willing to admit to himself, was that somewhere in the middle of all that careful checking, he'd started enjoying it in a way that had nothing to do with doing a good job. The college wrestler's cock stiffened to full mast as he shaved his roommate's ass.

Zane's build had always been solid--his baseball training combined with regular workouts he did on his own had seen to that--but Brody had never had a reason to really look at this particular part of it up close. And now that he did, he couldn't stop noticing how good it was. Round, plump, perfectly shaped. Brody's hand kept finding reasons to stay there a beat longer than the job required. When the hair was finally gone, all of it, clean everywhere including the last stubborn patch right over his hole... Brody felt a strange disappointment.

So he kept going. He ran the razor over territory he'd already cleared, frowning like he'd spotted something, telling Zane to hold still one more second, just missed a spot. He hadn't missed anything. He knew he hadn't missed anything. He just wasn't ready to stop having an excuse to have his hands where they currently were, and some part of him he wasn't examining too hard had decided that a few more passes with the razor were worth the risk of Zane getting suspicious about how long this was actually taking.

"Yo... you almost done back there?" Zane asked, from somewhere near the floor, sounding a little strained from holding the position.

"Yeah. Yeah, almost. Just--hang on." Brody ran his thumb along smooth skin one more time, telling himself it was quality control. Then he turned off the razor and gave his roommate a couple of hard spanks on the ass, to show that he was all done. Zane yelped out. He quickly stood up and covered his bare ass with his hands to avert further spanks.

Brody teased, "I dunno which dominatrix you're gonna mess around with tonight, but she's gonna enjoy the fuck outta that smooth ass." He then gave a playful whistle. Zane called Brody an asshole while stifling a smile. Brody smirked. He loved messing with Zane.

---

Marketing class was a nine a. m., which meant Brody spent most of it with his chin propped on his fist, eyes half shut, occasionally jerking upright when the professor's voice pitched louder than usual. Zane sat next to him with his laptop open and an actual outline forming under his fingers, headers and sub-bullets and the whole deal.

His phone buzzed face-down next to the keyboard. He flipped it over without really thinking about it.

Brooks: yo. you free for a session soon? can't stop thinking about the 69.

Zane read it twice before his horny, college-boy mind remembered that 69 was the score Brooks got on the midterm. Then he had to fight to keep a straight face in the middle of a lecture hall.

Zane: pretty sure that's the first time anyone's ever said that about a midterm score

Brooks: it haunts me man. 69 is not an acceptable grade in any universe

Zane: 69 is fantastic in most other contexts though

Brooks: oh yeah? go on. Any crazy experiences you wanna share rn?

Zane felt his ears go warm and typed back before he could think too hard about it.

Zane: lol nice try. Friday work? or today after your practice

Brooks: today. come by the house, 4pm, I'll send address

Beside him Brody cracked one eye open. "Who's got you smiling at your phone like that? You hitting' up the baddie who's gonna dominate your smooth ass tonight?"

"Nobody." Zane closed the message thread a little too fast. "Just a tutoring thing."

Brody made a noise that suggested he didn't buy it for a second, then let his head sink back onto his fist and closed his eyes again.

---

The address turned out to be a townhouse a few blocks from the main library, close enough to walk to if you had to. It was nicer than any college student's home had any right to be... new siding, a real driveway, two cars parked in it that looked like they cost more than Zane's entire education. Brooks answered the door in a t-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from a shower.

"You found it." He stepped back to let Zane in. "Watch the shoes, my roommate's weirdly protective of the floors."

The inside matched the outside. Real furniture, a kitchen that looked untouched by the usual disaster of college living, a wall-mounted TV the size of a windshield.

"Damn, dude. This is a real house," Zane said, looking around.

"My roommates have too much NIL money," Brooks said. He felt a bit embarrassed about his privledge and tried to downplay his personal wealth. "Personally, I think it's a waste throwing so much into rent, but I got overruled."

He led Zane to a small dining table off the kitchen and dropped a laptop and a battered accounting textbook onto it, the spine cracked in a way that suggested it had actually been opened at some point, even if not necessarily read.

"Okay," Zane said, settling in across from him. "Where do you want to start?"

"Wherever makes me look the least stupid."

"That's not a section of the book."

"Okay, fine. Depreciation. I don't get any of it. Every time the professor says 'straight-line' I black out a little."

Zane pulled the book toward himself and flipped to the chapter, and for a while it actually worked the way tutoring was supposed to. Zane walking him through an example, Brooks asking real questions, some of them even good ones, the two of them hunched over the same page. Brooks turned out to be sharper than he let on, which surprised Zane a little and which he decided not to say out loud.

"Wait, say that again," Brooks said, "the part about savage value."

"It's salvage value, not savage value. You subtract the salvage value from the cost first. Then divide by useful life."

"Ohhhh.... okay, gottt ittt.... so it's not that I'm dumb, it's that nobody explained it right."

"Sure. Let's go with that."

Brooks looked up at him, mock offended. "Dude, you're supposed to be encouraging me. Isn't that in the tutor code of conduct or something?"

"There's a code of conduct for this shit?"

"There should be. Rule one, don't crush my confidence. Rule two, pretend I'm smart even when I'm not."

"I'm pretty sure real tutors would tell you rule two defeats the purpose of tutoring."

"See, this is why you'd be bad at running a cult. Zero patience for propaganda."

"I feel like that should go on my resume."

Brooks grinned at him, clearly enjoying himself far more than the subject matter warranted, and Zane found himself grinning back despite his best efforts not to encourage him.

They worked through two more problems before Brooks gave up pretending to concentrate and leaned back in his chair, stretching. "Okay, brain's full. Water break." Brooks got up, grabbed two bottles from the fridge, and tossed one across the table. It landed perfectly in Zane's hands.

"Yo, I gotta say... you're actually better at this than you're letting on," Zane said, twisting the cap off.

"At getting tutored or at throwing?"

"Accounting."

"Oh." Brooks dropped back into his chair. "Yeah, just don't tell my professor that. I've got a whole persona to maintain."

"The dumb jock?"

"The struggling, humble, deeply confused athlete. It's a lot of upkeep." He took a pull of water and eyed Zane over the bottle. "You're a good teacher, by the way. Like, actually good. You explain stuff so it makes sense instead of just repeating it louder."

Zane felt something warm land in his chest. It felt good to receive a compliment from another guy. Especially when that guy was Brooks fucking Hayes. "Thanks. I don't know, I kinda like this stuff. It's easy to explain something you actually enjoy."

"Fucking nerd," Brooks said, but there was no heat in it at all... in fact it sounded almost fond.

They kept at it a while longer, working through the rest of the chapter, and at some point Brooks stopped bothering to perform confusion quite as hard. He plowed through a problem on his own, fast, barely glancing at the formula Zane had just shown him, and landed on the right answer before Zane had even finished double-checking his own math.

"Wait." Zane looked up. "You just did that in your head."

Brooks blinked, like he'd caught himself doing something he hadn't meant to do out loud. "Lucky guess."

"That wasn't a guess. You skipped, like, two steps."

"I'm just naturally gifted at getting lucky... how else do you think a scrub like me helped our team make the playoffs last year" Brooks said. "Anyways, what's next? We doin' the amortization stuff or should we call it there?"

Zane let it go. Maybe Brooks did make a lucky guess. The two student-athletes wrapped up not long after, with Zane closing the textbook and gathering his stuff while Brooks walked him to the door.

"This helped, seriously," Brooks said. "Same time next week?"

"Yeah, works for me."

"Cool. And, you know... we don't have to only hang out to study for accounting." Brooks said it easily, like it wasn't a big deal, though something in the way he said it made Zane think he'd maybe practiced the line a little. "Couple of the guys are doing a thing this weekend since it's a bye week. Nothing crazy, just hanging out at the house. You should come."

"Yeah, I'm down." Zane said it before he could talk himself into overthinking it.

"Cool. I'll text you." Brooks leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, looking pleased with himself. "See you, Zane."

"See ya, dude."

Zane walked back toward Harlan with his backpack slung over one shoulder, and somewhere around the second block he realized he was smiling for no particular reason.

He enjoyed hanging out with Brooks Hayes. Like, really enjoyed it. That was the plain fact of it, uncomplicated for once, sitting there without any of the tangled weight everything else in his life had picked up lately. He hadn't laughed that easily in weeks.

It caught him off guard, how much he'd needed that. Since coming to State, he'd made friends fast--Brody most of all, and a handful of others from the baseball team and from his dorm--and he was grateful for every one of them. But they were all new. Every single relationship he had here was two months old at most, built from scratch, still finding its shape.

Back home he had people who'd known him since elementary school, who remembered things about him he'd forgotten himself, who didn't need context for anything. He hadn't realized how much he missed that particular kind of ease until it was gone. Some nights, even surrounded by people, he felt strangely alone in a way he didn't have a good word for... homesick for something that wasn't exactly a place.

An hour with Brooks obviously hadn't fixed all of that. But it had felt, weirdly, like the closest thing to it he'd found since he'd gotten here. Their banter was easy in a way that usually took years to earn, like he'd known the guy his whole life instead of one day. Zane was eager to hang out with Brooks again this weekend. In fact, he could hardly wait to see Brooks again. It helped, however, that between now and then, Zane had something else to preoccupy himself with. Another meetup with DL from Grindr.

*****

Brooks sat alone at the kitchen table for a while after Zane left, not doing much of anything, just turning his water bottle in slow circles and thinking.

He was mulling over a stray thought. Two weeks. It had been exactly two weeks since Lily dumped him.

And the past hour he'd just spent with Zane Whitaker was the first hour in those two weeks he hadn't thought about Lily once.

Brooks Hayes and Lily Hawkins had started dating the summer before sophomore year of high school. Lily had been the the most beautiful girl in the school. During their freshmen year, all the guys wanted her, including half the senior class. And yet she'd picked Brooks, another freshman, over all the guys busting their ass for a chance to kiss hers.

Lily and Brooks stayed together through the rest of high school and followed each other to college. Lily had turned down Dartmouth, Vanderbilt, and Rice, to enroll at State instead, so they wouldn't have to do long distance. Brooks never took that for granted. He'd figured, somewhere in the back of his mind without ever really deciding it, that he was going to marry Lily eventually.

Then, a couple weeks ago, in the second month of their junior year, over breakfast on an ordinary Tuesday, Lily old him she'd fallen for somebody else and she was leaving.

Brooks could still remember the exact booth they'd been sitting in. He remembered the food going cold in front of him while she talked, and not being able to eat another bite of it afterward. It broke something in him that he didn't fully have words for. Brooks was down bad for the whole next week.

Brooks Hayes was shattered to bits and he didn't know what to do with the pieces except throw all of it into training: lifting harder, running further, staying at the facility long after the rest of the team had cleared out, filling every hour he could with intense physical activity. It had worked, slightly, to distract him from the pain of heartbreak. It kept him upright. But didn't make the two weeks since actually pass any faster.

Which was what made the last hour strange enough to sit with. He hadn't been trying to distract himself with Zane. He hadn't even noticed the distraction happening until it was already over, until Zane was gone and the quiet of the kitchen let the thought back in. Somehow, without any effort on his part, an hour had gone by clean.

Brooks thought back to the moment he first bumped into Zane.

Brooks had stayed late at the team facility doing extra core training, just to keep his hands busy and his head empty. It was getting a bit dark by the time he finished, and he'd been walking to his car half-checked-out, when he'd rounded a corner and walked straight into somebody coming the other way. Zane Whitaker.

Brooks had seen Zane once before that collision. He'd clocked him a few days earlier, actually, from a few rows back in the big accounting lecture. Brooks had looked at him for maybe two full seconds and felt the floor drop out from under him a little, because for a second, just a second, it hadn't been some stranger sitting there. It had been James Hawkins.

Bright eyes. That same dirty blonde hair. The same warm, easy smile that used to show up out of nowhere and make a bad day feel less bad. Even the shape of his face... the angular planes, the defined cheekbones... the resemblance was close enough that Brooks's whole body had reacted before his brain caught up and told him it wasn't possible, that James wasn't in any lecture hall, that James hadn't been anywhere in over two-and-a-half years.

James Hawkins had been Brooks's best friend growing up. The two of them inseparable the whole way through high school, as close as brothers. James was also Lily's actual twin brother. Then, during the spring of senior year, driving home from a lacrosse game, a drunk driver had crossed the center line, and that had been the end of it. Brooks had carried that loss for years now. The grief of losing his best friend never fully left, it just learned to sit quieter. And, the loss of his relationship with Lily on top of it, all these years later, had a way of dragging the older wound back up to the surface too.

Zane, who was diligently taking notes about debits and credits that day, had no idea any of this history existed, obviously. When Brooks was sitting there in the accounting lecture last week, staring at features that looked enough like his dead friend's to make his chest hurt, Brooks wanted more than anything than to run across the room and embrace the James-lookalike, to hug him firmly and never let go.

But it would have been insane to say that to Zane. *Hey, you look exactly like my dead best friend, wanna be buddies?* There was no version of that sentence that didn't sound unhinged. So he'd let it go, and told himself it didn't matter. He was bound to meet people in life that resembled James.

Then a few days later he'd literally run into him, and something in Brooks had simply refused to let the moment pass a second time. It didn't feel like a decision so much as a pull, something close to a supernatural compulsion, an urge he couldn't fully explain even to himself. He just knew that he was not ever going to let this guy walk away again without at least trying. That was the real reason he'd offered to walk Zane home that night. It was the real reason he'd invented a failing grade and begged for a study buddy he didn't actually need.

Brooks felt a little sick about his deception at first, if he was being honest with himself. There was something almost disingenuous in reaching for a friendship because a guy's face reminded him of a lost love one. Almost like he was using Zane as some kind of stand-in, a way of getting James back through the side door. Brooks didn't love that about himself.

But then he'd actually spent time with the guy. The tutoring, the banter, the easy way Zane laughed and smiled. None of that had anything to do with James, who was usually dour and serious. James had never verbally jostled with him or joked around about 69 sex. That was all just Zane. Brooks could tell that Zane Whitaker was uniquely his own person. A funny, sharp, and kind young man.

*****

Later that evening, Zane went back to the restroom by the tennis courts.

Coach Kent Johnson got there a few minutes after him. He let himself in, locked the door behind him, and found exactly what he'd asked for waiting in the corner.

Zane was standing this time, not kneeling. The gorgeous baseball stud was upright, blindfolded, facing the wall, his hands loose at his sides like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. Kent stood there a moment just at Zane's backside, and it hit him harder than he expected it to.

The dude was built. Not the overdone, bodybuilder kind of muscle Kent saw on half his players who lived in the weight room. Zane's musculature was lean and functional, a classic athlete's body with round, wide shoulders tapering down to a waist that still had definition in the low light.

Kent's eyes moved down slow, taking in the carved lines of his back muscles, the way his weight settled into his stance. And when they got down to the two beautiful round globes that were Zane's buttocks, he couldn't resist walking up to fondle them.

Kent Johnson crossed the room without a word and put a hand on Zane's ass.

The college boy's ass felt incredible. It had been shaved clean like Kent ordered, and it felt smooth and warm under his palm, round in a way that surprised him with how much he liked it. The jock's bubble butt was rounder, fuller, better than anything he could remember from any woman he'd been with, and that thought made him feel momentarily uncomfortable, but he quickly brushed it away. The aroused coach kneaded it slowly, felt the muscle give under his hand, and heard Zane's breath catch behind the blindfold.

Kent leaned in and did something he'd never once done with a man before. He put his mouth to the side of Zane's neck.

It wasn't part of any plan. It just happened, his lips finding skin, and he felt Zane shiver under it, a full-body response that ran down his spine and pulled a small, helpless sound out of him. Kent kept at it, working slow kisses along his neck and shoulder while his hand kept moving over that same smooth ass, working it the way he'd have worked a woman's. And something about doing it to a man, to this particular man, had him rock hard.

"Down," he said finally, low, right against Zane's ear.

Zane sank to his knees.

This time was different from the first. Zane had come prepared. The throat-numbing spray worked. His gag reflex was significantly diminished, none of the rough starts from the first night. And he used his mouth with actual technique instead of just enthusiasm, found a rhythm early and held it, adjusted pressure like he'd been coached somewhere in between. Kent let his head drop back and allowed himself, for a minute, to just enjoy it.

Zane still couldn't take the whole length (nine inches was still nine inches) but every so often he'd push further than Kent expected, throat working, and the head would slip past that first resistance for a second before Zane pulled back, gagging softly, trying again. It wasn't perfect. It didn't need to be. Kent found himself impressed anyway, one hand sliding into Zane's hair, guiding without forcing, murmuring something low and encouraging every time Zane found his way past that barrier even for a moment.

"Better," Kent said, breath uneven. "So much better. Yeah, suck on daddy's dick, you dirty boy."

Zane was so aroused by the dirty talk and the size of the cock he was sucking. He desperately devoured the man's cock like he was starving. Coach Johnson's eyes rolled back in pleasure and he moaned in his deep sexy voice. The waves of pleasure coursed through him and he humped his cock into Zane's mouth with increasing speed and vigor.

Coach Johnson pulled back before he was ready to finish, and put a hand on Zane's shoulder. "Bend over. Hands and knees."

Zane repositioned himself, and Kent crouched behind him, one hand coming down to rest on that same smooth ass. He gave it two light smacks, almost gentle, more a warning than a punishment, and felt Zane's whole body brace for more that never came.

Instead Kent leaned in and put his mouth right against Zane's smooth, winking asshole.

Kent Johnson had always liked rimming ass. He had liked it with every woman he'd ever been with, loved the way a good rimming could take someone apart faster than almost anything else he knew how to do. He hadn't planned on doing it tonight, hadn't planned on doing it at all, but now he was too aroused by the baseball jock's perfect beautiful ass to hold back.

His tongue traced slowly, small circles right around the tight, virign hole. Zane's reaction under him was immediate: a full-body shudder. "Ughhh... fuck, dude.... sorry, I mean Sir... that feels amazing...."

Zane's hole was tight, it was clearly untouched territory, and something about that fact alone made Kent throb. He caught the salt of sweat on his tongue, the heat of a long day and a nervous body, and it didn't put him off for even a second--if anything it pulled him in closer, licking it clean, chasing more of it, more of him, like he couldn't get enough.

The scent of Zane's ass sweat was strangly intoxicating. Coach found his heart beating faster, his cock throb even harder than it was before. He found himself wanting Zane. Badly. Wanted to own him, fuck him, dominate him.

Minutes went by like that, Zane trembling under his hands, small whimpering sounds slipping out of him that he clearly wasn't trying to make anymore. And somewhere in the middle of it, Kent felt something in himself come loose that he hadn't given permission to come loose.

He pulled Zane up by the hair, spun him, and kissed him.

It happened fast. Too fast to be caught in the web of careful rules Kent had set for himself before downloading Grindr, before meeting up with Zane. And in the middle of it, without deciding to, he reached up and dragged the blindfold off Zane's face.

He hadn't meant to do that. The plan, such as it was, had been to remain anonymous for at least a few months. Blindfolds, no names, no faces, not until Kent trusted this arrangement enough to risk it, not until he knew for certain the college boy could keep his mouth shut. But arousal had burned that plan down to nothing in the space of a few minutes, and what was left in its place was something simpler and more urgent: he wanted Zane to see him. He wanted to look into Zane's as he kissed the breath out of him.

Zane blinked into the light, and Kent watched the recognition land on his face in real time.

Of course he knew. Everyone on this campus knew that face. The masculine jaw, the neatly groomed beard, the prominent browline. There was no version of Kent Johnson that could hide in a town like this one, blindfold or not, and Zane's eyes went wide with it for just a second before something else took over, something closer to awe than shock.

Zane admired Kent Johnson's appearance for the first time. His short black hair, the sharp green eyes, the bearded jawline. Then, Zane thought, distantly, that he had never in his life seen a more masculine man.

Kent's hand came up, cupping the side of Zane's face, thumb brushing his cheek. At 6'6", Kent towered over the baseball jock he held in his arms. Kent's voice dropped low and serious. "You can't tell anyone. Not your friends, not anybody. You understand me?"

"I won't." Zane said it fast, meant it completely. "I promise. This stays between us. Nobody's ever gonna hear it from me."

Kent held his gaze a second longer, searching for the lie in it and not finding one, and something in his chest eased just slightly at that... just enough to let himself keep going.

Then, to Zane's total surprise, Kent stepped back and said, "Get dressed."

For a second, Zane's stomach dropped. He reached for his clothes fast, confused and a little stung, wondering if he'd done something wrong, if the blindfold coming off had somehow ruined it, if this was Kent's way of ending things before they'd really gotten anywhere.

"We're not done," Kent said, watching him get dressed, something almost amused in his voice like he'd read the whole spiral on Zane's face. "We're taking a ride. My place."

Relief hit Zane so fast it was almost embarrassing.

Kent watched him pull his shirt over his head, unhurried, something calculating and warm both moving behind his eyes at once. "You ever been fucked before?"

Zane felt his face go hot. "No. Never."

"Virgin." Kent said it like he was turning the word over, tasting it, clearly liking what he found. He stepped in close, tipped Zane's chin up with two fingers, and held his eyes. "Not by tomorrow morning, you won't be."

Coach Kent Johnson's car turned out to be a large black truck. Zane climbed in, the door shut with a solid thunk, and then it was just the two of them, headlights carving up a quiet road.

Zane lasted about ninety seconds before the silence started getting to him, and apparently so did Kent.

"So you gonna be this quiet the whole ride?" Kent said, eyes on the road, "I didn't know that was a part of our deal."

"I didn't know there was a deal."

"There's always a deal." Kent didn't look over. "You just don't get to see the fine print until I feel like showing you."

Zane opened his mouth to retort, but then got distracted. It was dark in the truck except for the dash lights and the occasional streetlamp sliding past, and every time one of them caught Kent's face, Zane found himself staring a beat too long. He found Coach Johnson to be incredibly sexy.

The shape of his jawline under the beard, the size of his muscular hairy forearm resting on the console, and the sheer *amount* of him that the driver's seat was working to contain. He'd never in his life seen hulking beast of a man like Kent Johnson.

"So what do I even call you," Zane tried, mostly to give himself something to do besides stare. "'Sir' feels weird right now, given the context."

"Coach works fine."

Zane let it sit a second, then continued. "So Coach, what position did you play? Before coaching."

"Tight end. You?"

"Pitcher."

Kent glanced over, something dry crossing his face. "Surprising. So you're the type of guy who likes calling his own shots... pitchers dictate the pace of the game... so you must like to be in control..."

"That's not--" Zane started, and stopped, because it also wasn't exactly wrong. He did usually like having control over his own life, making his own decisions...

"Don't worry about it." Kent's eyes went back to the road. "You'll get plenty of practice tonight *not* being the one in control."

Zane gulped. He pulsed with anticipation at what Coach Johnson was planning to do with him tonight.

The road unspooled dark and empty in front of them for a while after that, streetlights thinning out the further they got from campus. Kent stayed focused on the road. Zane found himself focusing on the curve of Kent's biceps bursting out of his short-sleeves.

"Coach, can I ask you something?" Zane said, quieter now.

"You're gonna anyway."

"You've done this before? With girls, I mean... like, anal."

"Yeah."

"Cool." Zane meant to leave it there and couldn't resist following-up. "Not with a guy, though, right? Not until tonight."

"No," he admitted. "Not until tonight. Never wanted to until tonight."

Zane found Coach Johnson's voice incredibly sexy. It was so deep and calm. Zane, himself full of nervous energy at the moment, was deeply aroused by the hulking coach's quiet, commanding confidence.

A couple of quiet minutes went by before Kent spoke again. "You're not gonna go tell your baseball buddies about this, right?"

"Already drafted the email blast," Zane said. He felt a bit more comfortable around Coach Johnson now, and couldn't suppress his natural inclination to jest. "Still workin' on the perfect subject line."

Coach Johnson chuckled dryly, despite himself. "I'm serious, though."

"I know you are." Zane looked over at him. "I'm not gonna tell anybody, Coach. Not a soul, I promise. Relax."

"Good."

Somewhere in the last few minutes the nerves had started draining out of Zane. He was intrigued by Coach Johnson, and wanted to get to know him better. "So does the truck have a name," he asked, "or is that a secret too?"

"It's a fucking truck. Doesn't have a name."

"Noooo fucking way. All truck guys name their cars. It's basically the law. What do you call it when you talk to it?"

Kent shot him an unimpressed look. "You're a lot, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"By who?"

"Mostly my idiot roommate. Usually right before he does something to prove I'm right."

The house was dark when they pulled in, and Kent Johnson didn't bother with most of the lights on the way up. He just led Zane straight back to a bedroom at the end of a hallway, flipped on a lamp, and shut the door behind them.

Coach Johnson didn't say anything. He just crossed the room, got a hand flat on Zane's chest, and shoved.

Zane hit the bed harder than he expected to, flat on his back. How easily it had happened! Like Zane, a muscular baseball player, weighed nothing at all. He'd known Kent was big. But hadn't fully understood the full extent of his physical power until he was on the receiving end of it. The understanding flooded his horny college-boy head with arousal.

"Shorts off," Kent said, already reaching for the hem of his own shirt.

Zane didn't argue. He got his shorts off fast, hands a little unsteady, and looked up in time to watch Kent pull his shirt over his head and drop it on the floor.

It stopped him cold for a second. He'd felt the size of that chest under his hands the before, blindfolded, working off touch alone. But seeing it was a different experience entirely. Broad, thick, with a dark forest of hair across it that trailed down into a carved stomach. Zane's jaw dropped as he stared.

Kent came back to the bed, put both hands on the collar of Zane's linen shirt, and ripped it open.

Buttons scattered... one hit the nightstand, another skittered off somewhere under the bed. And the linen tore clean down the placket before Kent shoved it off the shocked jock's shoulders in one motion. Zane's mouth actually fell open, in surprise... "Holy fuck, Coach!"

It was a relatively new shirt Zane purchased before starting college. And it cost him good buck. But Zane was so caught up in the moment, he didn't care about the cost of the ruined shirt. He just cared about getting pounded all night long by Kent Johnson.

Kent grabbed the horny college stud by the hip and flipped him.

Zane landed on his stomach.. Kent hooked an arm under him and hauled his ass up until Zane was on his knees, face in the comforter, ass in the air. He was completely naked except for a pair of white boxer briefs that hugged his bubble butt. The fabric of the briefs was stretched thin, riding up into the cleft of Zane's asscrack.

It was a beautiful butt. Round. Full. A pitcher's ass, thick through the muscle and still soft enough to jiggle when Coach Johnson put a hand on it.

"You were a smartass in my truck," Kent said. He rubbed one palm over the brief-covered cheek, slow. "Someone needs to remind you this is not a hang. You are here to serve me. A fag boy whose purpose is to serve real men."

"I was just--"

The first spank landed flat and hard.

Zane jerked. "Owww... fuck, that hurts!"

"Count."

"What?"

Kent hit him again. Harder. A jiggle went through the briefs and Zane felt his asscheek burn.

"Count, or I start over."

"Two," Zane got out.

"That was two. You missed one. Start over."

Coach Johnson spanked him again. And again. He spaced them out so Zane felt each one land and then the heat radiate after. The thin white cotton did nothing to cushion the blow. The baseball pitcher's ass jumped every time, that big bubble butt shaking under the coach's hand.

"This is your true position in life," Kent said. "Getting slapped around like a bitch. Bet you used to be a popular jock. Big man on campus. And you're face-down on my bed taking an ass-beating like a naughty boy."

"Seven--nnh--eight--"

"Louder."

"Nine. Ten. Fuck, Coach--"

Eleven. Twelve. Zane's voice broke. Thirteen. Fourteen. His eyes were wet. The sting had gone deep and mean and his cock was hard anyway, trapped in the briefs, leaking.

"Please," Zane said at sixteen. "Coach, please--"

"Please what."

"Mercy. Please. It fricken hurts so bad--AHHHHH! SHIT!!!"

Kent gave him four more slaps anyway. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Each one made that ass jump.

Zane was breathing like he'd run sprints. His ass was on fire. He stayed up on his knees because he wasn't sure he was allowed to drop.

Kent's hand stayed on him. Then Kent went still.

There was a small dark sweat stain in the crack of Zane's briefs, right where the fabric had pulled between his cheeks. Kent stared at it.

Coach Johnson bent down and buried his nose in it.

Zane froze. "What are you--"

Kent inhaled, long and greedy, and something in him went loose and ugly at the same time. It was intoxicating. Zane's scent, concentrated in the damp cotton, hit him harder than it had in the restroom. He made a sound against Zane's ass and sniffed again, deeper, like he couldn't get enough.

It drove him wild.

"Coach--"

Kent grabbed the waistband with both hands and ripped.

The briefs tore up the back. Zane's ass came out bare and red from the spanking, shaved smooth, the ruined cotton hanging off his hips.

"What the fuck! Those are--" Zane said.

Kent didn't care. He yanked the rest of them down Zane's thighs and shoved his face back in.

Then he dove his tongue in.

Zane's protests died on a moan. "Mhmmm--ah, fuck.... yeahhhh... ugh, gahhh!"

Kent pinned the athletic stud beneath him with a forearm across his lower back and tongue-fucked him. He circled the rim with his wet tongue as Zane writhed and moaned helplessly. Then he pushed in. His tongue actually went through the rim, into the virgin sphincter, wet and insistent, and Zane's whole body lit up.

Zane's cock ground against the sheets. He always leaked a lot. Always had, for some reason. Precum soaked a dark spot into the comforter almost immediately. He moaned into the mattress, high and wrecked, pushing his juicy ass back onto Kent's face without meaning to.

"Mhmmm. Ah fuck. Coach. Gahhh--that feels--"

Kent kept going. He held Zane down and ate him like he was starving, nose in the cleft, beard scraping the spanked skin. Zane's thighs shook.

"I'm gonna cum," Zane gasped. "Coach, I feel like I'm gonna--I'm gonna cum--"

Kent stopped. Then he grabbed a fistful of dirty-blond hair and dragged Zane up onto his knees. Zane's eyes were rolled back. His pretty mouth was hanging open. His cock stood out, twitching and dripping.

Kent looked past him at the mattress.

There was a wet precum stain on the comforter, dark and obvious.

"Dirty boy... you made a mess," Kent said. "Better clean it up."

He didn't say with what.

Zane bent over anyway, like a dog, and licked the spot. His tongue dragged through his own precum on Kent's bed. He did it because his body had already decided that was the assignment. To submit to a real man.

Kent laughed. It was a mean, pleased sound.

"Hahaha holy shit... look at you," he said. "Didn't even have to tell you how. Just said clean it and you put your tongue on it like a true bitch boy."

He pulled Zane back up by the hair.

"Tell me what you are."

Zane blinked at him, dazed. He was too horny to think of what to say, so he said the obvious. "I'm--I'm a college student."

Kent slapped him. "Wrong."

Zane's cheek burned. He got it then. Kent wanted to dominate him..

"A cocksucker," Zane tried.

Kent slapped him hard, again. Open hand, full across the other cheek.

"Try again."

Zane swallowed. The word sat in his throat and he knew it was the one.

"A faggot," he said.

Kent's mouth pulled to the side. "There it is."

He let go of Zane's hair.

"Good boy. You get a reward."

Kent popped his own belt and shoved his jeans down and kicked them off. He left the underwear on. The bulge in front of Zane's face was thick and damp, nine inches laid out sideways in dark gray fabric, the head already pushing a wet spot through.

Kent grabbed Zane by the back of the neck and mashed his face into it.

"Sniff."

Zane sniffed. Man sweat. The sour-clean smell of a 6'6" hunk of man who was overflowing with testosterone. Zane's cock jumped.

"Worship it," Kent said. "Through the cloth. You don't get skin yet."

Zane mouthed at the shaft through the underwear. He kissed it. He dragged his nose along it. He licked the wet spot until the fabric was darker. He felt the heat of it against his cheek and wanted it in his throat so bad his hands were shaking.

Kent shoved the waistband down.

The hairy stud's cock sprang out, heavy and uncut, nine fucking inches. The foreskin half-rolled, a thick black bush at the base. It slapped Zane's cheek.

Zane went for it, greedy, mouth already open. Coach Johnson caught him by the hair and stopped him an inch short.

"No."

Zane made a frustrated sound.

"You haven't earned it, buddy." Kent said. "Clean my feet first."

He sat on the edge of the bed and planted one bare foot on the mattress in front of Zane's face. Then he reached for his phone, thumbed it open, and started recording.

The little red dot sat there between them.

Zane stared at it. "Sir, are you... are you filming this?"

"Insurance," Kent said. He didn't lower the phone. "You promised you wouldn't tell anybody. You know what happens if you break your word. Smile for the camera, faggot."

Zane's stomach dropped. Then the heat of arousal came back in right under it. He hated that it did.

Kent's foot was right there. Big. A little damp from sweating all day in his socks. The smell hit Zane in the face, musky, and he flinched.

"I said worship."

Zane leaned in and kissed the toes.

The smell took him aback first. Then, as he continued kissing for several seconds, his cock throbbed, and he stopped caring. He opened his mouth and licked between the toes. He dragged his tongue along the sole. Kent rubbed the foot over his face, smearing him, heel on his cheek, toes against his mouth, and kept the camera on it.

"That's it," Kent said. "I love a good tongue bath. Get my feet clean, pretty boy. Look at that face. You used to be a baseball champ... now you're getting used like a doormat."

He switched feet. Zane went after the other one the same way, licking, kissing, letting Kent wipe the sole across his mouth and his forehead and his pretty blue eyes. The camera caught all of it.

Zane had been a popular jock his whole life. People looked at him. People wanted things from him and he usually was the one who called the shots. This was the opposite of that. Kent Johnson now had a video of him licking a man's big hairy feet, and Zane's dick was dripping on the floor. And yet, the not-being-in-control of it made him so hard it almost hurt.

"Good boy," Kent said. He pulled his foot back. "Now you can have it."

He stood up. The phone stayed in one hand. The other grabbed Zane's hair and fed him the cock.

Zane took it. He sucked like he'd been waiting all night, which he had. Sloppy. Hungry. The head dragged over his tongue and he tried to get more of it down.

Kent tapped the screen. "Eyes up. Look at the camera."

Zane's eyes flicked up, wet, with nine inches stretching his mouth.

"That's it. Stay there."

When Zane's gaze dropped, Kent slapped him across the cheek, cock still in his mouth, and yanked his hair.

"I said look up. You're on film sucking dick. Act like it."

Zane looked up. He kept looking up. Kent fucked his mouth in short strokes and filmed his face doing it, spit running off his chin, eyes glassy, a red handprint on his cheek.

It was totally humiliating. And yet, Zane Whitaker had never been more turned on in his life.

Coach Johnson stopped recording. He locked the phone, set it face-down on the nightstand, and looked at Zane like the show was over and the real thing was starting.

"Stay on your knees."

Zane stayed. His cheek still stung a bit and his cock was dripping onto the floor.

Kent pulled a slim black vape out of the nightstand drawer, clicked it, and held it to Zane's lips.

"Inhale," he said. "THC. It's gonna take the edge off. You're about to get opened up and I don't need you strangling my cock."

Zane hesitated for half a second. Then he wrapped his lips around it and pulled.

The hit was warm and sweet and sat in his chest. He coughed a few times. Kent had him take a second pull, then a third. The room softened a little at the edges. Zane's shoulders dropped. The nervousness was still there. It just sat further back.

"Good little bitch boy," Kent said. He set the vape down. "Now spit."

Zane blinked. "What?"

"In your hand. All that throatslime you just made on my dick. Get it wet."

Zane spit into his palm. A thick string of it. Kent grabbed his wrist and wrapped Zane's hand around his cock.

"Stroke it. Use your own spit. That's you, boy. That's what you made."

Zane jacked the tall muscular coach's huge baton with it. The nine-inch uncut cock was heavy in his fist, slick with spit and spit only.

"Maybe one day I'll fuck you on spit and nothing else," Kent said. "Just work it in dry and let you deal with it. Not today. Today's your first, and I'm not trying to put you on crutches the next day."

He reached into the drawer again. A condom packet. A bottle of silicone lube. A small tube of numbing cream.

"Wrap me up. Now."

Zane's hands shook. He tore the packet, pinched the tip, and rolled the condom down Kent's cock. It took both hands. The latex stretched tight over the head and down the shaft until it sat in the black bush.

"Lube," Kent said. He put the bottle in Zane's palm. "Don't be shy with it."

Zane clicked the cap and poured. He stroked the silicone over the condom until Kent's cock was shiny and dripping.

"On your stomach. Ass up."

Zane dropped forward. Kent squeezed some numbing cream onto two fingers and rubbed it over Zane's hole. The cream was cold. Then it went warm and distant, like the skin there had stepped a half-inch away from the rest of him.

Coach Johnson wiped his fingers on Zane's hip. Then he took the lube bottle, pressed the nozzle to Zane's hole, and squeezed.

Gel went in deep. Zane jumped.

"Stay."

One finger followed the lube in. Then two. Coach worked them slow and mean, opening him, twisting, scissoring. Zane moaned into the comforter.

Kent added a third finger.

Zane's mouth opened. "Shit! Aww, Coach--"

"That's three," Kent said. "You're fucking open, now, aren't you buddy. And look at thattt.... you're dripping. Leakin' all over my bed like a bitch in heat. You want it?"

"Y-yes.... yes.... uh Sir... yes sir."

"Then beg."

Zane swallowed. His face was hot.

"Please," he said. "Please fuck me."

"Not good enough."

"Please put your cock in me, Sir. Please. need it."

"Need what."

"A real man's cock. Please take me. Please take my--please fuck my virgin hole. Please, Coach. I'm begging you. I want a real man to dominate me. I fricken' want you to take my manhood."

Kent pulled his fingers out.

He flipped Zane onto his back like he weighed nothing. Zane's head hit the pillow. His legs were spread open. His hole was wet and used already and still had never had a dick in it.

Kent climbed between his thighs. He hooked Zane's knees up in his hands. He looked down at Zane's face, close, green eyes steady.

"Missionary," Kent said. "I want to watch your face as I bust your cherry. Wanna see your expression the exact second you stop being a man."

He lined up. The head pressed against Zane's hole. Just the tip. Then it popped through.

Pain lit up Zane's whole body. He writhed. His hips tried to get away from it on instinct.

"UGHHHHH! It hurts," Zane said. "Coach! Ahhhhh.... it hurts!"

Kent was stronger. He pinned Zane's hips to the bed with one big hand and didn't give him an inch of retreat. The head stayed in.

Then his other hand went to Zane's face. Not slapping. Cupping. His thumb brushed Zane's cheekbone. His palm covered the side of Zane's head, heavy and warm.

"Hey," Kent said. His voice dropped. "Look at me. It's gonna be okay. You're all right. Just be a good boy and let Coach have his way with you."

Zane looked at him. He was still hurting. The gentleness did something worse than the slaps had. He nodded, small.

"Breathe," Kent said. "Deep. In through the nose."

Zane breathed deeply, inhaling the sweat-laced air, then exhaling slowly. Repeated that a few times. He remembered Luc, months ago, telling him to push out like he was taking a shit. He did that. He pushed out.

The first inch settled.

The sharp edge of it dulled. The stretch was still there, huge, but it stopped being only pain. Heat rolled under it. Zane's mouth opened on a different sound.

"Oh," he said. "Oh--fuck. That--nnh--"

Kent smiled. It was small and satisfied.

"Starting to feel good? This is just the tip...."

"Yeah," Zane said. He sounded surprised at himself. "It does. I feel so full. I'm so stretched. It--it turns me on so much."

"Oh yeah?" Kent said.

Then he rammed the next three inches in.

Zane screamed. It was a raw, ugly sound. His back arched. His hands flew to Kent's forearms.

"GAHHHH.... HOLY SHIT.... UGHHH.... it fucking hurts so bad, dude!"

"That's how it's meant to be," Kent said. He didn't pull out. "Submissive faggots take whatever real men give them. You don't get to ease into it just because it started feeling nice."

Coach Johnson inched the rest of his manhood into the shuddering, groaning baseball player. Slow but relentless. Zane felt every bit of the remaining length push through him, thicker than the fingers, longer than he had room for. He whimpered like a bitch the whole way.

Then Kent's hips came flush.

His pubes pressed against Zane's balls. Nine inches. All of it. Bottomed out until his pubes were scratching the college boy's balls.

Kent laughed victoriously.

He let go of Zane's legs, sat back just enough to stay buried, and threw both arms up in a double bicep pose before shouting, "Fuck yeah!" The lamplight accentuated his lean muscles. His hairy pits opened right over Zane's face, dark and thick, and Zane could smell him, sweat and skin and some faded woody deodorant.

Zane just lay there under him, whimpering, stuffed full, eyes wet. Kent dropped his arms and leaned down close.

"That was it," he said. "That was the moment. You feel that? That's your manhood gone. You don't get it back. You're not a man anymore, Zane. You never will be again. From this day on you're Coach Johnson's personal bitch boy. That's what you are. That's *all* you are."

He grabbed Zane's face with one hand, thumb and fingers digging into his cheeks, and forced his jaw open.

Kent spit. A thick loogie landed on Zane's tongue.

"Swallow."

The handsome college jock swallowed. Like the obedient fuck toy he now was.

"Atta boy. That's good bitch."

Kent hooked Zane's knees back up, planted his hands on the bed, and started fucking him for real.

It wasn't careful or gentle anymore. He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in, heavy, and the bed frame knocked the wall. Zane made a broken sound every time those hips came flush. The stretch was still there. It burned like crazy. But underneath the pain was a deep, dirty pleasure that kept getting bigger.

Kent found a rhythm and stayed in it. Long strokes. Deep. His balls slapped against Zane's ass. The condom made a wet sound going in and out of the lubed, deflowered hole.

Soon, both men were drenched in sweat. The room was warm and Coach Johnson was huge and he was working hard.

Sweat beaded on Zane's smooth sexy chest first, running between the deep crevice between his sculpted pec muscles. Then his stomach, and the cut lines of his shoulders and arms. It made the college jock's skin shimmer as his muscles rippled from being fucked. It ran down the grooves of his abs and into the blond treasure trail below his navel. He was like a nubile greek god, glistening in the dim light as his body trembled and shuddered.

The sweat altered Coach Johnson's appearance the other way. Sweat matted the dark hair on his chest into tight curls. It plastered the hair on his stomach. His pits went dark and soaked. He looked more manly than ever. Heavier. Meaner. Stinkier.

Droplets sprinkled off the hunky coach and onto Zane beneath him. They landed on Zane's chest. His throat. His cheek. One landed on his lower lip and Zane liked up the salty treat. Zane felt every drop of sweat that hit him. And liked it.

He felt marked. Like Kent was claiming territory one drop at a time. His hole and his body. All of it. All of it was Coach Johnson's property now.

"That's it," Kent said. He was breathing hard. "Fucking take it. Look at me while I use you."

Zane looked at him. Green eyes. Beard wet. Hairy chest dripping onto Zane's smooth one. Nine inches punching in over and over.

"Whose ass."

"Yours," Zane said. It came out wrecked. "It's yours, Coach. I'm your boy. I'm--"

Kent shifted the angle and nailed that spot inside him on every stroke.

Zane's voice broke apart. The orgasm hit him first. It started low and then it just kept coming. "UHHHHH.... ughhh... UGHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

The naked baseball stud screamed. He didn't mean to. It tore out of him loud and high and ugly, and his whole body locked around Kent's cock. He shot hot cum up his own stomach and chest in thick pulses, again, again. It was a long orgasm that kept rolling through him until his thighs shook and his hands clawed at Kent's arms. In fact, it was the longest orgasm of his life. The most intense. It didn't spike and drop. It stayed. He moaned through it like a tortured bitch for almost a minute.

"Fuuuck--Coach--I'm cumming--I'm still--ahhh--gahhh--"

Coach Johnson didn't stop fucking.

He fucked Zane through the orgasm and then past it. Zane went oversensitive and loud and Kent kept driving in, enjoying the tight clench of the no-longer-virgin fuckchute. He kept fucking the squirming jock boy for another three minutes or so. Zane was a mess under him, cum on his own abs, hole fluttering, making punched sounds every time Kent bottomed out.

"Such a good boy," Kent said through his teeth. "You came all over yourself and I'm still in you. That's all you're good for now."

Soon, the coach's rhythm went sloppy. He quickly pulled out all at once.

Zane gasped at the sudden emptiness. His hole stayed open a second, wet and used, as if begging to be filled up again.

Kent ripped the condom off. He knelt up over Zane's chest, fist flying on his cock, and came on Zane's face.

"Gonna fucking paint your face, pretty boy.... AHHHH!!! shit.... fuck.... oh fuck, here it comes..... ARRRRRR.... GAHHHHH!!!"

The first spurt hit Zane's prominent cheekbone. The second landed across his mouth and the bridge of his straight nose. The third striped his forehead and dripped from his messy blond hair down to his eyebrow. Kent milked the rest onto his lips and chin, grunting, hips jerking.

Zane just lay there and took it.

The once-proud jock now looked like a total slut. There was no other word for it. Handsome face, still. But his blue eyes were glassy, his dirty-blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and cum. Coach's load painted across his mouth and cheeks and one eye half-shut against it. Cum dripping from his chin like drool... down to his throat. His own load drying on his stomach. Hole wet with lube and sloppy.

Coach Johnson grabbed his phone off the nightstand and took a picture. "Insurance," Kent said. "And a souvenir."

He tossed a towel at Zane's chest.

"Clean up. You need to shower pronto. You're fucking nasty now, boy."

Kent's shower was big enough for both of them and the 6'6" still took up most of it. Hot water. Soap. He washed himself like Zane wasn't a guest, and when Zane reached for the soap Kent put it in his hand and told him to do his back. Zane did. The hair was thick and wet under his palms. Kent didn't kiss him. He didn't say much. When they got out he threw Zane a clean towel and pointed him back to the bedroom.

Zane climbed onto the California king, as Kent was fishing for something in his closet. The huge bed felt amazing. So soft. Zane stretched out on it on his stomach because sitting still hurt, and he let his eyes close. His body felt wrung out and heavy and good in a stupid way. He was glad Coach Johnson said he could spend the night. He could really enjoy a nice long sleep on this comfy bed after the brutal rutting he just endured.

Kent walked back towards the bed. Something bulky dragged behind him.

"Get off," Kent said.

Zane lifted his head. "What?"

Kent had a folded Japanese futon in his arms. He kicked the edge of the mattress with his bare foot.

"Off the bed. Now."

Zane blinked at him. "What the heck, Coach, I thought you said I could spend the night.."

"You are staying. You're staying on the ground." Kent dropped the futon on the floor with a slap. "Only real men and women sleep in the bed. Bitches sleep on the floor."

Zane felt heat crawl up his face. He got off the mattress. His legs were unsteady. He stood there naked in somebody else's bedroom while Kent kicked the futon open against the wall, nowhere near the bed.

"Lie down," Kent said.

Zane lay down on it. It was actually decently comfy. The ceiling looked farther away from down there. Kent got into the California king above him, pulled the sheet up, and reached over to kill the lamp. A couple seconds later a pillow hit Zane on the chest. Considerate of the coach to throw him a pillow.

As Zane Whitaker laid on the floor in the dark room, he felt his cock getting hard again. Tonight was the most incredible, arousing hour that the handsome, muscular college stud experienced. He couldn't wait to get used like a whore again.

*****

Saturday afternoon, Zane showed up at Brooks's place a little early. Brooks answered the door already shirtless, a football tucked under one arm like he'd been born holding it.

"You're early, dude."

"You said 1:00. It's like 12:47, I'm not thattt early."

Brooks tossed him the ball without warning, and Zane caught it clean against his chest. "C'mon, we've got 20 minutes before anyone else drags fat asses over here, might as well toss this around."

The backyard was large and grassy, fenced in on both sides. They started close, maybe 15 to 20 feet apart, easy lobs back and forth while they talked about nothing in particular, and Zane found himself falling into an easy, relaxed rhythm. Years of throwing a baseball had given him good hands and a decent arm, and the ball came off his fingers clean and tight more often than not. Brooks noticed.

"Damn, you're actually not bad," he said, catching one against his palm. "You sure you don't play?"

"Couple years in high school.... but nah not anymore. Haven't touched a pig-skin in like 6 months, bro."

"Huh. I mean your throwing form's a bit weird, but you're spot on every time. This is kinda incredible." Brooks backed up several more steps, widening the gap between them.

That was where it started to fall apart. The extra distance changed everything about the throw. And being complimented by THE Brooks Hayes gave him a bit of performance anxiety. Zane's next throw sailed a solid three feet wide. So did the next one.

"Okayyyy," Brooks said, jogging the ball back in, grinning now. "That was special."

"Come on, now, It's not that bad."

"It's a little bit that bad." He didn't go back to his spot. Instead he came up behind Zane, reaching around to reposition the ball in his hand. Fingers over the laces, adjusting Zane's grip one knuckle at a time.

"Grip's in the wrong spot for the extra distance. You want your fingers here, not choking the middle like you're palming a basketball." His hand stayed wrapped around Zane's for a second longer than the correction strictly required. "There. Feel the difference?"

"Yeah." Zane's voice came out a little softer than he meant it to. He felt his cock stirring from the proximity to the shirtless, sexy quarterback.

Brooks stepped back to his spot again and had Zane try one from the new grip. Better, marginally, though it still drifted wide.

"Closer. It's your feet now." Brooks jogged back in, close, and put both hands on Zane's hips, angling them a few degrees. "Point your front foot at your target, not off to the side like that. Hips lead the throw over this kind of distance, arm just finishes it." He tapped the outside of Zane's thigh. "Plant here."

Zane planted his foot where he was told, painfully aware of exactly where Brooks's hands were and how little space was actually between them. Brooks Hayes was close to him, and shirtless.

Sweat already starting to shine faintly across Brook's abs from the sun. This whole afternoon, it was as if Brooks was doing absolutely everything he could to torture the closeted bisexual man. And Zane was doing absolutely everything he could to not get caught staring.

"And follow through," Brooks said, stepping around behind him again, one hand light on Zane's shoulder, the other guiding his throwing arm through the motion in slow, exaggerated pantomime, "like you're reaching into someone's back pocket. Don't stop dead like you did last time."

Zane went through the motion with him, arm gliding through the follow-through Brooks was walking him through, and it was right about then that his body decided to stage a full, humiliating rebellion.

Zane felt it happen fast and with zero warning, and he went rigid for a second, silently begging every god he could think of that his shorts were doing their job.

"You good?" Brooks asked, stepping back to check his form.

"Yep." Zane turned to face him a beat too quickly, football clutched low in front of him with both hands, gripping it like his life depended on it. "Just, uh. Focusing."

"Focusing." Brooks squinted at him, clearly not fully buying it, but let it go. "Alright, focus harder. Throw it again."

Zane did not, under any circumstances, want to move from the spot he was currently standing in. "Can we--can I just work on my grip a little more first? Like, statically. Not throwing yet."

Brooks looked at him for a second like he was speaking a foreign language, then shrugged. "Sure, man. Whatever works."

Zane stood there another few seconds, football strategically positioned, silently willing his body to get its act together before Brooks noticed his raging hard on busting through his shorts.

Suddenly, the sound of the side gate banging open caused Zane to snap out of his focus.

"Yooo!" A guy with tan skin and a smile that could probably get him out of a speeding ticket came through first. "Hayes! You didn't tell us the freshman was already here."

"He showed up fucking 15 minutes early," Brooks said. "Weird kid."

The tan-skinned guy reached Zane first, pulling him into a full-contact bro hug before Zane had any say in the matter. Arm around the shoulder, a hard clap on the back, and Zane had about half a second to shift his hips backward at an awkward angle to avert a collision between his raging hard cock and a straight dude's thigh.

"Raul Ramirez," the guy introduced himself, stepping back. Raul was a wide receiver in his junior year, same year as Brooks.

"Don't listen to him, he says that to everyone," said the second guy coming through the gate. He was pale, and a bit stocky but in a muscular way. His brown hair cut was short and neat. "Tanner Humphrey. I'm a redshirt senior, which means I've been here longer than the campus Chik-fil-a."

He went in for a hug too, and Zane managed this one a little better, turning at the last second so it landed shoulder to shoulder instead of anything closer. Zane introduced himself to the two guys.

"Nice to meet you both." Zane said, sincerely, even with his heart still hammering from an unrelated crisis.

Raul lazily ran his fingers through his wavy black hair. "Bet. Good to finally put a face to a name."

The afternoon turned out easier than Zane expected. He'd shown up slightly nervous about the hangout, if he was honest with himself. It was one thing to hang out with Brooks one-on-one, another thing entirely to walk into a house of upperclassmen who'd actually *started* the games he'd only watched on TV.

But nobody treated him like a freshman tagging along. Raul roped him into a game of FIFA within twenty minutes, talking trash the entire time with a grin that made it impossible to take offense at any of it. A few beers got passed around, controllers thrown in frustration, and somewhere in the middle of getting absolutely destroyed in a racing game, Zane realized he was having a genuinely great time.

By early evening, Raul and Tanner were gathering their stuff, heading to a pool party happening across campus. It was restricted to upperclassmen, so Zane would have to be left behind like a sad little brother.

"You coming, Hayes?" Raul asked, already halfway to the door.

"Nah, I got that thing. Lost the stupid bet, remember?"

Tanner snorted. "Right. RIP."

"Shut up."

They said their goodbyes, and then it was just the two of them again, Brooks and Zane.

"What bet?" Zane asked.

"Preseason thing. Lost a bet with the o-line, I've gotta make protein brownies for the whole group by tomorrow." Brooks made a face like the memory itself was painful. "Ughhh, I'm cooked bro, you seen how much these pigs eat?"

"Damn that's rough man."

"Tell me about it. Whole o-line's gonna be up my ass if these turn out dry, which they probably will cause my oven's kind of jacked up."

"Skill issue."

"Shut up, asshole," Brooks retorted. What Brooks said next, he said with a practiced casualness, hands in his pockets, like it didn't matter to him either way. "You could, uh, stick around, help me not ruin it."

"Yeah, sure. I'm down."

Brooks's face brightened right then. He looked pleased, a little too pleased for a simply receiving help on his assigned dessert duty / punishment. For a second, Zane thought, the masculine, football jock looked like a golden retriever puppy. The bright smile quickly settled into an easy grin. Holy hell! Totally unfair Brooks Hayes could look even cuter than he normally did.

"Cool," Brooks said. "Kitchen's this way. We're going with my old buddy Jamie's recipe."

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading, and especially those of you that have been leaving comments. I love hearing from you.

This story will have a mixture of intense, domination/kink sex like in this scene, along with more vanilla, sensual love scenes. Curious to know which ones you guys prefer.