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On the Prowl
My name is Dr. Bruce Silverman, and I am a 45-year-old divorced opthamalogist in a medium-sized, hockey-crazy city in Canada. For those who do not know, an opthamalologist is an eye doctor with a medical degree. In other words, I can fit you for glasses, but I can also treat you for glaucoma, do eye surgery, and in a pinch, provide basic medical care outside my specialty.
Suffice to say that even though I am a specialist, medical school taught me a little about a lot -- a necessary thing for an eye doctor, since health of the eye often is affected by other health issues. So I have a decent grasp of the human body, thanks in part to the physical-examination practicum from med school. I haven't done a full health assessment in years, but I still recall the basics.
Anyway, I'm a bit of a hockey nut, so I attend as many of the local junior games as possible. For those of you in the States who don't know about juniors, it's much like college hockey is in your country, with players ranging in age from 18 to perhaps 21. The biggest difference -- obviously -- is that the guys don't (pretend to) go to class. And I like to think the quality of play is better, but that's just me.
Speaking of quality, our local team is a standout, and it's filled with great guys I've gotten to know, mainly because I usually am renting out a room to one of them. My current tenant is a 18-year-old named Trey. He just moved in a month ago, but at this point he seems to be a surprisingly intelligent and sensitive young man. I don't see much of him because he's usually practicing, playing, or working at -- you might not believe this -- the local library. He's sort of a bookish nerd in many ways, a fact that contradicts his hockey-stud demeanor. Trey's not large by defenseman standards. The team program lists him as being 6-foot-1 and 180 pounds, but I'd put him more at about 5-foot-11 and 170. He's got dimples and a grin that a grandma might say would make him cute as a button, but also a muscular but not-too-bubblish butt that fills out a pair of even loose-fitting jeans. He's been seen shirtless a few times on his way back from the shower, and his chest and abs, while muscular and six-pack-ish, are hairless, he doesn't need to shave more than once every three days. I know for a fact he is 18. I asked to see his driver's license, for insurance reasons. He had turned 18 two months before moving in.
Last week, his mom, Diane, was in town for a visit. She arrived early and Trey was late from the library, so I got to know her a little bit when she stopped by the house. She seemed relieved that her introverted son was in good hands, that he was living in a place where he could get decent food as well as some equally decent conversation once in a while. But she let on that she was lonely. Trey's dad, she said, had died in a car accident the year before, and Trey, being the older of two boys, had taken on the "man of the house" role. Trey had mentioned that he didn't have a dad at home, but hadn't elaborated. I wondered why. I wanted to get to know Trey better. Last week, I got to know him in a way that I will never forget.
* * *
What sets Trey apart as a defensemen is his ability to work hard -- all game, every game. That's exactly what he was doing last week in a contest against our cross-province rival. The game was a hard-fought contest and the guys all were working hard, Trey in particular. The score was tied 3-3 as the beginning of the third period began. About a minute into the period, Trey threw himself in front of a slapshot, which seemed to land on his lower half, and afterward one of his own players toppled right on top of him.
The crowd gasped and waited for Trey to get up, but he didn't. The home team's coach scrambled onto the ice with an assistant coach in hot pursuit, followed what appeared to be an injured player who was on the bench wearing a jersey and jeans.
Poor Diane!, I recall thinking. What a shame she had to witness this!
Soon, a fourth man joined the gathering. He quickly returned to the scorer's table, and then there was an announcement. "If there is a doctor in the stands, could he please come down to the scorer's table and make himself known? A doctor in the house, please?"
Certainly, there must have been another physician somewhere in the arena that was more adept at first aid, but no one seemed to be making his -- or her -- way rink side. So I did, just as they were helping Trey to his feet, out of his helmet, and off the ice.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Bruce Silverman. I'm Trey's landlord, actually. Maybe I can help."
"Super, doc," the PA guy said. "Coach said you should go straight back to the locker room. Ben here will help you find the way."
With Ben's help, I made my way across the ice to the walkway that led to the locker room. As we entered, I saw that Trey had just been led into a room at the end of the hall. I followed Ben toward that room, stepping around individual piles of sweatshirts, jeans, baseball caps, and boxer shorts, then past the showers, and finally to where Trey had been taken. The sign said "TRAINING" above the door, and it contained a few weight machines, a scale, a sink, a trophy case, and a single table with black vinyl padding.
As I entered, the assistant coach and a jersey-and-jeans-wearing guy were helping Trey onto the table, and Ben then began taking off his skates. Except for the helmet and skates, my tenant remained suited up for hockey. Sweaty curls of blond and boyish-looking hair clung to his forehead and temples, and beads of perspiration trickled down the sides of his face where I noted the slightest hints of sideburns and a bit of razor stubble that was more peach fuzz than whiskers. He smelled of sweaty hockey gear, a familiar scent to a hockey-player landlord like me.
It was clear that my tenant was in some serious pain and was on the verge of tears.
"Trey, buddy, you OK?"
"Ohhh! Bruce! What's up? Man, Bruce. Ah, coach, I'm not doing very good. Have you seen my mom?"
"You remember I'm a doctor, right?"
Trey winced before speaking. "An eye doctor, ugh!, aren't you?"
"Yes, an eye doctor, but they asked whether there was a doctor in the house, and I seem to be the only one."
Just then, I heard Diane's voice from behind.
"Thank God you're here, Bruce. Trey, honey, what happened?"
By the time Diane had entered the trainer's room, her son's jersey had been stripped and the assistant coach was helping the injured player out of his shoulder pads so that he sat in his "breezer" hockey pants, hockey socks, shin pads, and a sweat-drenched white T-shirt with a trail of blood at the midsection.
"I took a skate to the stomach, mom. And somebody fell on my right hand. MAN, it's swelling! And, uh, I took a slapshot down there.
"Down there?" Diane asked.
"DOWN ... THERE ... Mom!"
The young man in the jersey and jeans winced as the room filled with awkward silence, which Diane finally broke by turning away from her son and his aching crotch to face me directly. "Oh. Bruce, you're a doctor, can you help? Or should we call an ambulance?"
Trey was completely conversant, had not hit his head or injured his neck and was not in distress, so I advised against a 911 call. But I agreed that I could assess the young man.
"How did that happen, Trey?" the assistant coach asked. "Aren't you wearing ..." He paused as he looked at me. "... Protection?"
"Yeah, Coach, but ... but it got stuck."
Because I was focused on the blood, the idea of what got stuck did not register with me. "Trey, let's get you out of that T-shirt." Trey tried to take it off himself, but his injured right hand was making the process tough. Diane helped her son strip from the waist up as I fixated my eyes on his abdomen gash.
"Lay back, Trey." I approached Trey to examine his injured abdomen. Even in a reclined position, I could tell that Trey's abdomen musculature was strong and that he sported an impressive six-pack. The wound was just above his navel, about six inches long. It was quite a gash but had stopped bleeding. The abrasion was not deep but rather was superficial and easy to treat with the first aid kit on hand. As I dabbed at the wound, the defensemen whimpered a little and watched my efforts while positioned on both elbows. In that position, the development of his abs were on display.
"Let's take a look at that hand."
Trey sat up all the way and placed his right elbow on the right knee of his baggy hockey pants. "Man, it hurts! I think it's swellin', Bruce."
The assistant coach appeared with an ice pack for Trey's hand, and he helped me affix it with some hockey tape.
"God, it hurts!"
"The ice will help. Give it time."
"No, down there, Bruce." Trey's response was with a whisper and a nod toward his crotch. "Can you do something? GOD, it hurts!"
I suggested that perhaps he go home and take some aspirin, a suggestion that was met with silence that Diane again broke.
"Bruce, please?" She gave me a look that seemed to say: "Grandchildren?"
"Well, I'm not exactly--"
At that point, Trey had laid back on the trainer's table and was struggling with his uninjured left hand to pull down his breezers. Seconds later, with the assistant coach's assistance, he had the tops of his hockey pants down to his shins. My eyes went to his protective cup, a device I had seen around the house many times. Trey's jeans-wearing teammate then began helping, and soon the guys who knew hockey gear best had Trey stripped out of it and down to just the cup and white socks.
"Dude, no, ha, underwear?" the teammate asked.
"Man, no, it's too hot in this arena." By then, Trey was up on his elbows, looking toward his crotch.
"Freeballin', dude! Whoa. And I know you're no slouch in that department."
From my perspective, the locker room talk was going in a bad direction and an almost-naked Trey did not need to be on such full display for such a large audience, so I tried to forestall the bawdy conversation and asked everyone but Diane to leave for the sake of Trey's modesty. They did as I suggested, and then I turned my attention to the business at hand. "So Trey, tell me what happened."
"Well, I threw myself in front of the puck, and I think it got stuck."
"What got stuck, Trey?"
"My, um, it got stuck, um, outside the cup. I think. When I fell."
"Your testicles?"
"No."
"Your penis."
"Uh huh."
Another awkward silence developed as Trey looked at me and then stared at his mom. Diane got the message and turned her back to look at trophies.
Trey lifted his cup from his crotch and then realized he could not remove the protective equipment with just one hand. "I think I need some help."
It became clear that Trey was referring to me, so I grabbed the teen's jock on either side and he lifted his hips as I began to slide the cup down to reveal a tuft of surprisingly dark pubic hair and then the base of the young man's penis. As I continued, I kept seeing more penis and more penis and finally the tip. His organ in its flaccid state definitely was larger than mine when hard. How does all that stay crammed in there?, I wondered. And then I realized that that had been the problem. The floppy 6 inches of penis hadn't stayed all crammed in there.
Trey was silent as I slid the rest of the protective garment over his knees and his feet. Diane's back remained turned as her son ended up completely naked on the table in front of me, except for his sweaty white stockings. The defenseman's left hand was behind his head and his iced right hand at his side. As I placed the cup at the end of the training table, I noticed that Trey's testicles were dangling freely and resting on the training table, and that the tip of his penis hung well past his supple scrotum. There is no way that that cup had provided -- could have provided -- adequate protection to a young man with such a large penis and set of testicles.
"All right, Trey, let's have a look." I positioned myself at his side and hesitated slightly before touching his most intimate of parts. I used my left hand to lift carefully the hockey player's injured organ from his abdomen and then positioned the first three fingers of my right hand around the penis' head so I could lengthen his penis slightly and examine the length of the white shaft. As I did, the tips of my fingers brushed his scrotum ever so slightly. "Where does it hurt, Trey?"
"On the bottom."
With that, I used my left hand to position Trey's penis from its downward position to a place on his belly so I could examine the underside. The tip was probably a half-inch from his navel. As I lifted the organ and examined the length, I saw a reddish streak, which I guessed was the source of the young man's pain. I moved a little closer, and got a better whiff of the sweaty hockey jock.
"OUCH! Yes, that's it! Owwwwww."
I gently placed his tool on his tummy, picked up the protective cup, and took a step back and displayed it in front of his face.
"I think what happened, Trey, is that your penis got stuck outside the cup, which isn't so surprising given that, ah, well." I stopped there, remembering Diane was in the room.
"I felt everything shift when I hit the ice. Shit! I mean, shoot."
"OK, let's check out the rest," I said, referring to the teen's testicles. I moved back to Trey's side and lifted his dangling scrotum from the trainer's table, recalling the procedure from physical-examination practicum. His balls moved freely, and thankfully he showed no signs of pain as I palpated him. I rolled Trey's large left testicle between my thumb and two fingers, recalling how to assess their size and supple feel.
"Trey, does that hurt at all?"
"Not at all."
"How about this one?" The right was smaller than the left, but still above average in size, particularly for his age. He was, in some ways, still in late stages of puberty.
"Nnno, it's OK."
At that point, I placed my index and middle fingers under his sac and moved his package up and down three or four times. The young man's scrotum moved with ease -- a good sign. I held his sac with my right hand as I positioned myself toward the foot of the table to get a better look at the region between his testicles and anus. "Trey, spread your legs a bit more please."
Given the size of his scrotum, I found it best to use both hands to lift his low-hanging testicles from their place between his legs so I could visually inspect for any sign of injury.
"Why don't you pull your knees up."
Trey did as he was told and I moved further toward the foot of the table to inspect the most-private region of a young man who was in the most-compromising and vulnerable of positions. I lifted Trey's testicles so that they were even with the base of his penis to inspect the area fully, this time visually noting that his left ball was larger than his right and that his hair growth was sparse for his age.
"Bruce, is he looking OK, is he going to be OK? I mean, will everything work down there?
"Well, the pain is not so much that he's not able to force a smile." I shot Trey a grin, and he bashfully did the same, and with a blush. By then he was largely out of pain, so the reality of his landlord examining his crotch undoubtedly was sinking in. I guided his knees so they were flat on the table. "His testicles seem fine, Diane. There is some redness on his penis, but he's not in pain, so I think he might want to see a urologist so he can have a look, just to make sure everything is functioning properly."
"Well, it's Friday night now," Diane responded, "so it wouldn't be until Monday that we could get him in."
"Maybe an emergency room would…"
Diane turned her head to talk over her shoulder. "Bruce, can't we get this checked out now, to make sure he, uh, you know… functioning, as you said. I mean, you're a guy, and you're a doctor, you understand, and you might as well. Otherwise, I won't sleep a wink."
Grandchildren were on her mind.
I looked at Trey, and he knew what his mother was saying. The boy who had lost a father and therefore was the man of the house was visibly more concerned for his mom than himself. This time it was the blond youth who broke the silence.
"Hey, why don't you guys, uh, leave, and I'll try to make sure it's all OK, all right?"
Diane turned away from the trophy case and walked by the training table, stealing a glance and visibly making a double take in light of the size of her son.
"I'll, uh. Whew, OK. Trey, honey, I'll be right out here."
I put my hand on Trey's s right shoulder and confirmed my understanding of what he was going to do.
"I'll be right out here. You just call my name when you're ready, and I'll take a quick look, so we can put your mom's fears to rest, and she doesn't lie awake tonight"
"OK. She DOES need her beauty sleep!" Trey flashed another boyish smile. This time, the dimples came through.
I left the room and stood right outside the door, wondering how massive his erection would be when I re-entered the training room. Diane said she was going for a walk. About ninety seconds passed, and I did not hear a thing. And then:
"Mmmmph. ... Mmmmph. Come ON! Mmmmph. .... Mmmph."
About forty-five more seconds passed.
"Hey, Bruce. Ah, Doc…"
I re-entered the training room.
"Ready?"
"N- no."
Trey was flat on his back and his penis was actually smaller than it was before. Not of normal size, but smaller. "Need more time, Trey?"
"It's my hand. My, um. How can I ... ah, let's see." Trey was struggling to find a way to explain himself. "Well, it's, ah, hard without my right hand ..." The young man realized but also distressed by the double entendre. "I mean, it's NOT hard, when all I have is, ah--"
"You're a rightie?"
"I am when I, ah. Um, well, I use both to, um ..."
"I understand, Trey." He probably needed BOTH hands to pleasure his massive meat. "Plus, this isn't the most, um, romantic of locations, even if you're just trying to be romantic with yourself."
I moved back to the side of the training table and re-examined the underside of Trey's penis. "Still hurt, under here?"
"Owww! Yeah, a little."
I took a step back and looked the boy in the eye, shrugged, and sighed. "Look, Trey, why don't you go home and…"
"Bruce, uh, man, I don't know what to do. My mom, is, well. She's going to freak. Since my dad died, well…"
"Trey, why don't you head home, go to bed early, and…"
"Bruce, I think you're learning how my mom is."
"Trey, I'm sure you can go home and…"
"And what?" Trey held up his iced right hand and shrugged.
Without a word, I positioned myself back at the side of the training table and took the penis of my youthful tenant between the first three fingers of my right hand. "OK" is all I said. I held the organ at a 45-degree angle from his belly and silently began milking it up and down. I looked at Trey to make sure this was indeed OK, what I was doing, but his head was on the table and his eyes were closed and his tongue slightly outside his clenched lips as if to say, “C'mon, dick, get hard, get hard!"
I turned my attention back to his penis, which was back to its "shower" state, probably six inches, then six and a half, then seven. I could feel his tool thicken between my fingers as the underside began to harden. Trey placed his left hand behind his neck to reveal his left armpit and its hair and lifted his head slightly to watch me jack his still growing penis as he reclined naked on the training table. The sight my hand on his dick must of been an immediate turn-on because at that point the defenseman's face took on the look of an alpha male in the throes of sex. Trey looked angry, even aggressive, as his mouth took on an "O" shape.
"Oh, yeah! YEAH! Oooh. Oooooooooh. There it goes! Okay ...!"
By then his penis had thickened to the point that I could not get my fingers around it. Still, I could tell from its somewhat-floppy feel that he was not quite completely hard. I began masturbating Trey faster, using the palm of my right hand to massage his penis in a way that let it take a comfortable position more parallel to his belly. The aggressive look on his face intensified, and I thought to myself that this must be the look he had when he threw himself in front of the puck -- and the look he has when he jacks off in bed in my house, or in the shower. I placed my left hand on the tip of his penis and massaged it for three or four strokes with both hands, noting that his erection was slightly longer than my eight fingers were wide. The red crease on his penis' injured underside largely blended into the organ's now reddish-purplish hew.
"Oh ... my ... God .... YESSSS!"
It was clear that Trey was about ready to have an orgasm, something that I did not need to see for medical reasons. I removed my right hand from his erection and examined the organ with my left, noting that it throbbed almost violently with each beat of his heart. I made one last medically necessary check of its tip and saw a copious amount of pre-seminal fluid leaking out, and then took my hand from his crotch and let his penis land on his belly with a wet "thwap," causing a smear of clear fluid about an inch past his navel. He must have been 8 inches long when fully hard.
I turned abruptly from the young man in a way that signaled that I had seen enough. "Well, Trey, everything checks out fine," I said in a tone of voice as if I had just checked the oil in my Honda Accord. I looked the hockey player in his blue eyes to reassure him and expected to see dimples and a blush and a boyish smile, but what I saw was a sexed-up and aggressive animal breathing shallowly and rapidly through his nostrils who could not believe that that was that, that that was the end. I turned from the table and headed to wash Trey's pre-seminal fluid from my hands, flushed and bewildered by what had just happened. Still, even with my back turned, I could tell Trey was not moving.
"Awwww, Gawwwwd! Uuuh." He was grabbing at his blond curls with his left hand and lightly pounding the vinyl on the training table with his right.
"Why don't you get dressed, and I'll wait with your mom outside. Take ... your ... time, Trey. I'll make sure you have some privacy. Here, a here's some Kleenex." I addressed him in a way that let him know I thought it was OK if he finished himself off. My back was still to him, but I could tell that he was not budging.
"Shit. Damnit. I mean, sorry, uh ..."
"Trey, it's become largely apparent that--" I realized I had made a pun, and regrouped after a pause. "You're fine, Trey." I looked back at the table, and he was sitting on its side. I could not ignore that his penis was firm against his belly and reached well past the gash across his tummy and into his pectoral muscles. I approached Trey to coax him off the table and toward the sink, to put an end to this examination and his arousal. As I guided my tenant by the right shoulder, I took note that his penis was so hard that it barely bounced away from his belly. His erection really was huge, too big really. I thought to myself that he better not channel that aggression in a way that ends up hurting his sexual partners. His penis had barely any curve when erect but instead stuck straight out from his body at better than a 45-degree angle, throbbing with each heartbeat. It was true that Trey could not leave the trainer's room in that condition. There was no way his huge penis was going back inside that cup, or even his jeans that were probably by his locker. It was a medical fact that he would have to have an orgasm before emerging from the trainer's room. In addition, there was no way his teammates -- or God forbid his mother -- could see him like this.
Trey stood at the sink with his naked backside to the door as I turned on the hot water, his balls more retracted than before and positioned perhaps three inches above the sink's bowl. The hockey player took a towel and dabbed at his pulsating penis. Then, I heard a little whimper. "Look, Bruce, please--." He cried just a little as he said the last word. "Please help me."
I looked into Trey's blue eyes and saw an expression of desperation, not aggression. His chin quivered slightly, as if he was going to cry. I put my left hand on Trey's backside to position him in front of the sink, which was to serve as a convenient receptacle for what was about to emerge. Then, when he was in position, I put my left hand against his butt, and took the hockey player's penis in my right hand and pleasured the organ with my first three fingers for about five strokes. After that, I wrapped what I could of my palm around his fully erect penis and began slowly stroking the length of the shaft, noticing -- and marveling at -- the long trip from tip to base. As he gasped, I squeezed his butt, and moved him closer to the sink, hoping orgasm was imminent. My pace necessarily quickened as Trey set the tempo by thrusting his hips into my hand. With each thrust, Trey uttered "Mmmpf" and I used my left hand to push his butt and penis into my right, eager to bring on the eruption.
But bookish and normally bashful Trey seemed to be trying to prolong my masturbation of him for as long as possible. He slowed a bit and fixed his eyes on the improbable sight of his landlord doing his best to get his hands around his eight inch long erection. Then Trey spread his legs a little more and leaned into the sink as he again picked up speed. He placed his left hand behind his head and let his right hand brush my backside ever so slightly. I moved my cheek to his chest and took in the smell of a sweaty, blond hockey player, fresh off the ice and freshly out of his breezers and cup. He was in the throes of sex and was going to be having an orgasm in my presence and with my hand around his erection.
I moved my left hand from his buttock to a position squarely inside the backside of his crotch, cupping his full but retracted scrotum with my hand with hopes that would make him cum faster. "YESSS!, Bruce, Yes! Oh, GAWD, that feels good! GAWD!" I explored the 18-year-old's testicles not as a doctor, but as a sexual partner, lightly tickling his scrotum and then palpating each ball and then the entire ballsac package in a way intended to make him spurt.
This only caused him to slow his thrusts, so I moved my left hand farther into his crotch to position my palm on his balls and my index and middle fingers on either side of the extremely hard base of his penis, which felt like a large tree root. I massaged as best I could. I pressed hard and marveled at the strength of the base of the young erection. I made my right hand move faster than Trey wanted to go, rapidly and repeatedly stroking the length of the shaft. Each stroke began with the tip of his penis at the base of my palm. I then squeezed the organ with each downward stroke, putting extra pressure on the organ's head and the area just below it. Precum had coated both the top two-thirds of his massive shaft as well as most of my palm, and the hockey stud's gasps and sighs commingled with the squashing sound of a male being masturbated. The smell of hockey, sweat, and sex was thick.
We were going at a rapid clip and Trey was grunting with each thrust when my left hand, buried into his crotch from behind, detected the first signs of young male plumbing about to explode. I squeezed his penis at mid-shaft with the palm of my right hand and squeezed slightly harder with my first three fingers, which were just under his circumcision scar. I kept my left hand on his balls but moved my chin from his chest to watch as two thick ropes of semen shot almost straight in the air and landed in the sink with a Thwop." With each shot, I felt the muscles near his scrotum convulse. I squeezed his balls a little tighter as Trey leaned toward the sink and placed his left hand on the wall as he kept thrusting into my hand. Perhaps four spurts landed on the wall above the sink and four more in the sink itself, and with each splash he uttered a grunt and I felt his prostate pump with explosive force. The blond hockey stud moaned quietly as perhaps two or three more shots dribbled out and into the sink basin. I moved my left hand out of his crotch and back to his buttock, and after the defenseman's penis convulsed with what were basically four dry heaves, I knew that Trey was done and we both were relieved in more ways than one.
"Ooooh," Trey said with a whisper. "I, uh, ... Wow!"
Trey stood frozen in front of the sink to assess the impressive mess he had made and to decide what to do next. Most of the semen was on the wall and in the sink, but a little was on my hand. I quickly turned on the water to rinse any remnants of the masturbation session from my right hand. I smelled my left and found it necessary also to rinse off the musky scent of sweat mixed with testicles mixed with rectal region. Trey stood in place, his two-thirds-hard penis sticking straight out and the shaft glistening with pre-seminal fluid. I wiped both of my hands on my jeans as I turned from my tenant.
"Trey, I'll just, um, wait out here." I glanced at his face over his right shoulder and let my eyes drift downward, noting that even from his position slightly behind him I could see the hockey player's erection. He had started the water and was baptizing the organ the best he could with his left hand.
"Um, OK, I'll, ah."
I felt the need to make a quick dash. "You might want to clean up in here, Trey."
"Yeah. Bruce, um, Doc, I will. Thanks."
As I walked toward the training room door, I could hear the showers running. The game must've been over. As I walked by, I stole a glimpse of perhaps six naked hockey players rinsing off. Two or three had their backs to the spray and their frontal nudity toward me. Nothing packed any sort of length close to Trey's.
As I left the locker room, I got a sick feeling that Diane had been outside the door for at least part of the masturbation session. In a split second I thought about how I could explain to her and the Board of Medical examiners that I had no choice but to jack off a blond cutie in a hockey arena locker room. When I got outside the room, Diane was nowhere to be seen. I found her out in the hall, outside the entry to the locker room, engaged in a pleasant but concerned conversation with Ben.
"Bruce, is he ... is he all right?"
"Diane, he's fine. He's just getting dressed. It might take him a little bit, what with that hand."
"Oh, thank God. THANK YOU!."
"Oh, you're welcome, Diane. It was my pleasure."
"I really appreciate you taking a look. Was he able to, you know? ..."
"Trey's fine, Diane. Really, he is. No worries."
About fifteen minutes later, Trey emerged from the locker room, dressed in baggy jeans but also his game jersey, explaining that he was not able to button his shirt. Both the jersey and the jeans concealed the impressive mass of meat that the young man packed. I told my tenant and his mother that I would see them at my house.
As Trey and Diane headed out, I realized I had left my coat in the training room. When I returned to retrieve it, I double-checked to see that Trey had cleaned up after himself, but - yikes! - he had missed a spot. The spurts above the sink! The semen was beginning to run down the wall but had not yet puddled in the sink.
"Ah, geez!" As I scrambled to find the towel, I heard someone nearing the training room, so I quickly wiped up the jizz with the arm of my sweatshirt and concealed it with my coat just as the assistant coach came back in the room.
"How is he, doc?"
"He's fine."
"Great. I just need to grab something quick."
"Take your time."
I stood in the training room and watched the assistant coach take what he needed. Then I looked under my coat and realized that Trey's semen still was pretty fresh. I couldn't resist. I gently passed my sleeve under my nose a time or two, and then rubbed it right on my nostrils, taking in the nutty scent of some of the semen I had seen erupt from an eight-inch erection. I squeezed the puddled stain of jizz until a clearish liquid emerged, and I lapped it up with the tip of my tongue. I enjoyed the scent and taste for a moment or two longer, and then put on my coat to conceal the evidence.
Suffice to say that even though I am a specialist, medical school taught me a little about a lot -- a necessary thing for an eye doctor, since health of the eye often is affected by other health issues. So I have a decent grasp of the human body, thanks in part to the physical-examination practicum from med school. I haven't done a full health assessment in years, but I still recall the basics.
Anyway, I'm a bit of a hockey nut, so I attend as many of the local junior games as possible. For those of you in the States who don't know about juniors, it's much like college hockey is in your country, with players ranging in age from 18 to perhaps 21. The biggest difference -- obviously -- is that the guys don't (pretend to) go to class. And I like to think the quality of play is better, but that's just me.
Speaking of quality, our local team is a standout, and it's filled with great guys I've gotten to know, mainly because I usually am renting out a room to one of them. My current tenant is a 18-year-old named Trey. He just moved in a month ago, but at this point he seems to be a surprisingly intelligent and sensitive young man. I don't see much of him because he's usually practicing, playing, or working at -- you might not believe this -- the local library. He's sort of a bookish nerd in many ways, a fact that contradicts his hockey-stud demeanor. Trey's not large by defenseman standards. The team program lists him as being 6-foot-1 and 180 pounds, but I'd put him more at about 5-foot-11 and 170. He's got dimples and a grin that a grandma might say would make him cute as a button, but also a muscular but not-too-bubblish butt that fills out a pair of even loose-fitting jeans. He's been seen shirtless a few times on his way back from the shower, and his chest and abs, while muscular and six-pack-ish, are hairless, he doesn't need to shave more than once every three days. I know for a fact he is 18. I asked to see his driver's license, for insurance reasons. He had turned 18 two months before moving in.
Last week, his mom, Diane, was in town for a visit. She arrived early and Trey was late from the library, so I got to know her a little bit when she stopped by the house. She seemed relieved that her introverted son was in good hands, that he was living in a place where he could get decent food as well as some equally decent conversation once in a while. But she let on that she was lonely. Trey's dad, she said, had died in a car accident the year before, and Trey, being the older of two boys, had taken on the "man of the house" role. Trey had mentioned that he didn't have a dad at home, but hadn't elaborated. I wondered why. I wanted to get to know Trey better. Last week, I got to know him in a way that I will never forget.
* * *
What sets Trey apart as a defensemen is his ability to work hard -- all game, every game. That's exactly what he was doing last week in a contest against our cross-province rival. The game was a hard-fought contest and the guys all were working hard, Trey in particular. The score was tied 3-3 as the beginning of the third period began. About a minute into the period, Trey threw himself in front of a slapshot, which seemed to land on his lower half, and afterward one of his own players toppled right on top of him.
The crowd gasped and waited for Trey to get up, but he didn't. The home team's coach scrambled onto the ice with an assistant coach in hot pursuit, followed what appeared to be an injured player who was on the bench wearing a jersey and jeans.
Poor Diane!, I recall thinking. What a shame she had to witness this!
Soon, a fourth man joined the gathering. He quickly returned to the scorer's table, and then there was an announcement. "If there is a doctor in the stands, could he please come down to the scorer's table and make himself known? A doctor in the house, please?"
Certainly, there must have been another physician somewhere in the arena that was more adept at first aid, but no one seemed to be making his -- or her -- way rink side. So I did, just as they were helping Trey to his feet, out of his helmet, and off the ice.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Bruce Silverman. I'm Trey's landlord, actually. Maybe I can help."
"Super, doc," the PA guy said. "Coach said you should go straight back to the locker room. Ben here will help you find the way."
With Ben's help, I made my way across the ice to the walkway that led to the locker room. As we entered, I saw that Trey had just been led into a room at the end of the hall. I followed Ben toward that room, stepping around individual piles of sweatshirts, jeans, baseball caps, and boxer shorts, then past the showers, and finally to where Trey had been taken. The sign said "TRAINING" above the door, and it contained a few weight machines, a scale, a sink, a trophy case, and a single table with black vinyl padding.
As I entered, the assistant coach and a jersey-and-jeans-wearing guy were helping Trey onto the table, and Ben then began taking off his skates. Except for the helmet and skates, my tenant remained suited up for hockey. Sweaty curls of blond and boyish-looking hair clung to his forehead and temples, and beads of perspiration trickled down the sides of his face where I noted the slightest hints of sideburns and a bit of razor stubble that was more peach fuzz than whiskers. He smelled of sweaty hockey gear, a familiar scent to a hockey-player landlord like me.
It was clear that my tenant was in some serious pain and was on the verge of tears.
"Trey, buddy, you OK?"
"Ohhh! Bruce! What's up? Man, Bruce. Ah, coach, I'm not doing very good. Have you seen my mom?"
"You remember I'm a doctor, right?"
Trey winced before speaking. "An eye doctor, ugh!, aren't you?"
"Yes, an eye doctor, but they asked whether there was a doctor in the house, and I seem to be the only one."
Just then, I heard Diane's voice from behind.
"Thank God you're here, Bruce. Trey, honey, what happened?"
By the time Diane had entered the trainer's room, her son's jersey had been stripped and the assistant coach was helping the injured player out of his shoulder pads so that he sat in his "breezer" hockey pants, hockey socks, shin pads, and a sweat-drenched white T-shirt with a trail of blood at the midsection.
"I took a skate to the stomach, mom. And somebody fell on my right hand. MAN, it's swelling! And, uh, I took a slapshot down there.
"Down there?" Diane asked.
"DOWN ... THERE ... Mom!"
The young man in the jersey and jeans winced as the room filled with awkward silence, which Diane finally broke by turning away from her son and his aching crotch to face me directly. "Oh. Bruce, you're a doctor, can you help? Or should we call an ambulance?"
Trey was completely conversant, had not hit his head or injured his neck and was not in distress, so I advised against a 911 call. But I agreed that I could assess the young man.
"How did that happen, Trey?" the assistant coach asked. "Aren't you wearing ..." He paused as he looked at me. "... Protection?"
"Yeah, Coach, but ... but it got stuck."
Because I was focused on the blood, the idea of what got stuck did not register with me. "Trey, let's get you out of that T-shirt." Trey tried to take it off himself, but his injured right hand was making the process tough. Diane helped her son strip from the waist up as I fixated my eyes on his abdomen gash.
"Lay back, Trey." I approached Trey to examine his injured abdomen. Even in a reclined position, I could tell that Trey's abdomen musculature was strong and that he sported an impressive six-pack. The wound was just above his navel, about six inches long. It was quite a gash but had stopped bleeding. The abrasion was not deep but rather was superficial and easy to treat with the first aid kit on hand. As I dabbed at the wound, the defensemen whimpered a little and watched my efforts while positioned on both elbows. In that position, the development of his abs were on display.
"Let's take a look at that hand."
Trey sat up all the way and placed his right elbow on the right knee of his baggy hockey pants. "Man, it hurts! I think it's swellin', Bruce."
The assistant coach appeared with an ice pack for Trey's hand, and he helped me affix it with some hockey tape.
"God, it hurts!"
"The ice will help. Give it time."
"No, down there, Bruce." Trey's response was with a whisper and a nod toward his crotch. "Can you do something? GOD, it hurts!"
I suggested that perhaps he go home and take some aspirin, a suggestion that was met with silence that Diane again broke.
"Bruce, please?" She gave me a look that seemed to say: "Grandchildren?"
"Well, I'm not exactly--"
At that point, Trey had laid back on the trainer's table and was struggling with his uninjured left hand to pull down his breezers. Seconds later, with the assistant coach's assistance, he had the tops of his hockey pants down to his shins. My eyes went to his protective cup, a device I had seen around the house many times. Trey's jeans-wearing teammate then began helping, and soon the guys who knew hockey gear best had Trey stripped out of it and down to just the cup and white socks.
"Dude, no, ha, underwear?" the teammate asked.
"Man, no, it's too hot in this arena." By then, Trey was up on his elbows, looking toward his crotch.
"Freeballin', dude! Whoa. And I know you're no slouch in that department."
From my perspective, the locker room talk was going in a bad direction and an almost-naked Trey did not need to be on such full display for such a large audience, so I tried to forestall the bawdy conversation and asked everyone but Diane to leave for the sake of Trey's modesty. They did as I suggested, and then I turned my attention to the business at hand. "So Trey, tell me what happened."
"Well, I threw myself in front of the puck, and I think it got stuck."
"What got stuck, Trey?"
"My, um, it got stuck, um, outside the cup. I think. When I fell."
"Your testicles?"
"No."
"Your penis."
"Uh huh."
Another awkward silence developed as Trey looked at me and then stared at his mom. Diane got the message and turned her back to look at trophies.
Trey lifted his cup from his crotch and then realized he could not remove the protective equipment with just one hand. "I think I need some help."
It became clear that Trey was referring to me, so I grabbed the teen's jock on either side and he lifted his hips as I began to slide the cup down to reveal a tuft of surprisingly dark pubic hair and then the base of the young man's penis. As I continued, I kept seeing more penis and more penis and finally the tip. His organ in its flaccid state definitely was larger than mine when hard. How does all that stay crammed in there?, I wondered. And then I realized that that had been the problem. The floppy 6 inches of penis hadn't stayed all crammed in there.
Trey was silent as I slid the rest of the protective garment over his knees and his feet. Diane's back remained turned as her son ended up completely naked on the table in front of me, except for his sweaty white stockings. The defenseman's left hand was behind his head and his iced right hand at his side. As I placed the cup at the end of the training table, I noticed that Trey's testicles were dangling freely and resting on the training table, and that the tip of his penis hung well past his supple scrotum. There is no way that that cup had provided -- could have provided -- adequate protection to a young man with such a large penis and set of testicles.
"All right, Trey, let's have a look." I positioned myself at his side and hesitated slightly before touching his most intimate of parts. I used my left hand to lift carefully the hockey player's injured organ from his abdomen and then positioned the first three fingers of my right hand around the penis' head so I could lengthen his penis slightly and examine the length of the white shaft. As I did, the tips of my fingers brushed his scrotum ever so slightly. "Where does it hurt, Trey?"
"On the bottom."
With that, I used my left hand to position Trey's penis from its downward position to a place on his belly so I could examine the underside. The tip was probably a half-inch from his navel. As I lifted the organ and examined the length, I saw a reddish streak, which I guessed was the source of the young man's pain. I moved a little closer, and got a better whiff of the sweaty hockey jock.
"OUCH! Yes, that's it! Owwwwww."
I gently placed his tool on his tummy, picked up the protective cup, and took a step back and displayed it in front of his face.
"I think what happened, Trey, is that your penis got stuck outside the cup, which isn't so surprising given that, ah, well." I stopped there, remembering Diane was in the room.
"I felt everything shift when I hit the ice. Shit! I mean, shoot."
"OK, let's check out the rest," I said, referring to the teen's testicles. I moved back to Trey's side and lifted his dangling scrotum from the trainer's table, recalling the procedure from physical-examination practicum. His balls moved freely, and thankfully he showed no signs of pain as I palpated him. I rolled Trey's large left testicle between my thumb and two fingers, recalling how to assess their size and supple feel.
"Trey, does that hurt at all?"
"Not at all."
"How about this one?" The right was smaller than the left, but still above average in size, particularly for his age. He was, in some ways, still in late stages of puberty.
"Nnno, it's OK."
At that point, I placed my index and middle fingers under his sac and moved his package up and down three or four times. The young man's scrotum moved with ease -- a good sign. I held his sac with my right hand as I positioned myself toward the foot of the table to get a better look at the region between his testicles and anus. "Trey, spread your legs a bit more please."
Given the size of his scrotum, I found it best to use both hands to lift his low-hanging testicles from their place between his legs so I could visually inspect for any sign of injury.
"Why don't you pull your knees up."
Trey did as he was told and I moved further toward the foot of the table to inspect the most-private region of a young man who was in the most-compromising and vulnerable of positions. I lifted Trey's testicles so that they were even with the base of his penis to inspect the area fully, this time visually noting that his left ball was larger than his right and that his hair growth was sparse for his age.
"Bruce, is he looking OK, is he going to be OK? I mean, will everything work down there?
"Well, the pain is not so much that he's not able to force a smile." I shot Trey a grin, and he bashfully did the same, and with a blush. By then he was largely out of pain, so the reality of his landlord examining his crotch undoubtedly was sinking in. I guided his knees so they were flat on the table. "His testicles seem fine, Diane. There is some redness on his penis, but he's not in pain, so I think he might want to see a urologist so he can have a look, just to make sure everything is functioning properly."
"Well, it's Friday night now," Diane responded, "so it wouldn't be until Monday that we could get him in."
"Maybe an emergency room would…"
Diane turned her head to talk over her shoulder. "Bruce, can't we get this checked out now, to make sure he, uh, you know… functioning, as you said. I mean, you're a guy, and you're a doctor, you understand, and you might as well. Otherwise, I won't sleep a wink."
Grandchildren were on her mind.
I looked at Trey, and he knew what his mother was saying. The boy who had lost a father and therefore was the man of the house was visibly more concerned for his mom than himself. This time it was the blond youth who broke the silence.
"Hey, why don't you guys, uh, leave, and I'll try to make sure it's all OK, all right?"
Diane turned away from the trophy case and walked by the training table, stealing a glance and visibly making a double take in light of the size of her son.
"I'll, uh. Whew, OK. Trey, honey, I'll be right out here."
I put my hand on Trey's s right shoulder and confirmed my understanding of what he was going to do.
"I'll be right out here. You just call my name when you're ready, and I'll take a quick look, so we can put your mom's fears to rest, and she doesn't lie awake tonight"
"OK. She DOES need her beauty sleep!" Trey flashed another boyish smile. This time, the dimples came through.
I left the room and stood right outside the door, wondering how massive his erection would be when I re-entered the training room. Diane said she was going for a walk. About ninety seconds passed, and I did not hear a thing. And then:
"Mmmmph. ... Mmmmph. Come ON! Mmmmph. .... Mmmph."
About forty-five more seconds passed.
"Hey, Bruce. Ah, Doc…"
I re-entered the training room.
"Ready?"
"N- no."
Trey was flat on his back and his penis was actually smaller than it was before. Not of normal size, but smaller. "Need more time, Trey?"
"It's my hand. My, um. How can I ... ah, let's see." Trey was struggling to find a way to explain himself. "Well, it's, ah, hard without my right hand ..." The young man realized but also distressed by the double entendre. "I mean, it's NOT hard, when all I have is, ah--"
"You're a rightie?"
"I am when I, ah. Um, well, I use both to, um ..."
"I understand, Trey." He probably needed BOTH hands to pleasure his massive meat. "Plus, this isn't the most, um, romantic of locations, even if you're just trying to be romantic with yourself."
I moved back to the side of the training table and re-examined the underside of Trey's penis. "Still hurt, under here?"
"Owww! Yeah, a little."
I took a step back and looked the boy in the eye, shrugged, and sighed. "Look, Trey, why don't you go home and…"
"Bruce, uh, man, I don't know what to do. My mom, is, well. She's going to freak. Since my dad died, well…"
"Trey, why don't you head home, go to bed early, and…"
"Bruce, I think you're learning how my mom is."
"Trey, I'm sure you can go home and…"
"And what?" Trey held up his iced right hand and shrugged.
Without a word, I positioned myself back at the side of the training table and took the penis of my youthful tenant between the first three fingers of my right hand. "OK" is all I said. I held the organ at a 45-degree angle from his belly and silently began milking it up and down. I looked at Trey to make sure this was indeed OK, what I was doing, but his head was on the table and his eyes were closed and his tongue slightly outside his clenched lips as if to say, “C'mon, dick, get hard, get hard!"
I turned my attention back to his penis, which was back to its "shower" state, probably six inches, then six and a half, then seven. I could feel his tool thicken between my fingers as the underside began to harden. Trey placed his left hand behind his neck to reveal his left armpit and its hair and lifted his head slightly to watch me jack his still growing penis as he reclined naked on the training table. The sight my hand on his dick must of been an immediate turn-on because at that point the defenseman's face took on the look of an alpha male in the throes of sex. Trey looked angry, even aggressive, as his mouth took on an "O" shape.
"Oh, yeah! YEAH! Oooh. Oooooooooh. There it goes! Okay ...!"
By then his penis had thickened to the point that I could not get my fingers around it. Still, I could tell from its somewhat-floppy feel that he was not quite completely hard. I began masturbating Trey faster, using the palm of my right hand to massage his penis in a way that let it take a comfortable position more parallel to his belly. The aggressive look on his face intensified, and I thought to myself that this must be the look he had when he threw himself in front of the puck -- and the look he has when he jacks off in bed in my house, or in the shower. I placed my left hand on the tip of his penis and massaged it for three or four strokes with both hands, noting that his erection was slightly longer than my eight fingers were wide. The red crease on his penis' injured underside largely blended into the organ's now reddish-purplish hew.
"Oh ... my ... God .... YESSSS!"
It was clear that Trey was about ready to have an orgasm, something that I did not need to see for medical reasons. I removed my right hand from his erection and examined the organ with my left, noting that it throbbed almost violently with each beat of his heart. I made one last medically necessary check of its tip and saw a copious amount of pre-seminal fluid leaking out, and then took my hand from his crotch and let his penis land on his belly with a wet "thwap," causing a smear of clear fluid about an inch past his navel. He must have been 8 inches long when fully hard.
I turned abruptly from the young man in a way that signaled that I had seen enough. "Well, Trey, everything checks out fine," I said in a tone of voice as if I had just checked the oil in my Honda Accord. I looked the hockey player in his blue eyes to reassure him and expected to see dimples and a blush and a boyish smile, but what I saw was a sexed-up and aggressive animal breathing shallowly and rapidly through his nostrils who could not believe that that was that, that that was the end. I turned from the table and headed to wash Trey's pre-seminal fluid from my hands, flushed and bewildered by what had just happened. Still, even with my back turned, I could tell Trey was not moving.
"Awwww, Gawwwwd! Uuuh." He was grabbing at his blond curls with his left hand and lightly pounding the vinyl on the training table with his right.
"Why don't you get dressed, and I'll wait with your mom outside. Take ... your ... time, Trey. I'll make sure you have some privacy. Here, a here's some Kleenex." I addressed him in a way that let him know I thought it was OK if he finished himself off. My back was still to him, but I could tell that he was not budging.
"Shit. Damnit. I mean, sorry, uh ..."
"Trey, it's become largely apparent that--" I realized I had made a pun, and regrouped after a pause. "You're fine, Trey." I looked back at the table, and he was sitting on its side. I could not ignore that his penis was firm against his belly and reached well past the gash across his tummy and into his pectoral muscles. I approached Trey to coax him off the table and toward the sink, to put an end to this examination and his arousal. As I guided my tenant by the right shoulder, I took note that his penis was so hard that it barely bounced away from his belly. His erection really was huge, too big really. I thought to myself that he better not channel that aggression in a way that ends up hurting his sexual partners. His penis had barely any curve when erect but instead stuck straight out from his body at better than a 45-degree angle, throbbing with each heartbeat. It was true that Trey could not leave the trainer's room in that condition. There was no way his huge penis was going back inside that cup, or even his jeans that were probably by his locker. It was a medical fact that he would have to have an orgasm before emerging from the trainer's room. In addition, there was no way his teammates -- or God forbid his mother -- could see him like this.
Trey stood at the sink with his naked backside to the door as I turned on the hot water, his balls more retracted than before and positioned perhaps three inches above the sink's bowl. The hockey player took a towel and dabbed at his pulsating penis. Then, I heard a little whimper. "Look, Bruce, please--." He cried just a little as he said the last word. "Please help me."
I looked into Trey's blue eyes and saw an expression of desperation, not aggression. His chin quivered slightly, as if he was going to cry. I put my left hand on Trey's backside to position him in front of the sink, which was to serve as a convenient receptacle for what was about to emerge. Then, when he was in position, I put my left hand against his butt, and took the hockey player's penis in my right hand and pleasured the organ with my first three fingers for about five strokes. After that, I wrapped what I could of my palm around his fully erect penis and began slowly stroking the length of the shaft, noticing -- and marveling at -- the long trip from tip to base. As he gasped, I squeezed his butt, and moved him closer to the sink, hoping orgasm was imminent. My pace necessarily quickened as Trey set the tempo by thrusting his hips into my hand. With each thrust, Trey uttered "Mmmpf" and I used my left hand to push his butt and penis into my right, eager to bring on the eruption.
But bookish and normally bashful Trey seemed to be trying to prolong my masturbation of him for as long as possible. He slowed a bit and fixed his eyes on the improbable sight of his landlord doing his best to get his hands around his eight inch long erection. Then Trey spread his legs a little more and leaned into the sink as he again picked up speed. He placed his left hand behind his head and let his right hand brush my backside ever so slightly. I moved my cheek to his chest and took in the smell of a sweaty, blond hockey player, fresh off the ice and freshly out of his breezers and cup. He was in the throes of sex and was going to be having an orgasm in my presence and with my hand around his erection.
I moved my left hand from his buttock to a position squarely inside the backside of his crotch, cupping his full but retracted scrotum with my hand with hopes that would make him cum faster. "YESSS!, Bruce, Yes! Oh, GAWD, that feels good! GAWD!" I explored the 18-year-old's testicles not as a doctor, but as a sexual partner, lightly tickling his scrotum and then palpating each ball and then the entire ballsac package in a way intended to make him spurt.
This only caused him to slow his thrusts, so I moved my left hand farther into his crotch to position my palm on his balls and my index and middle fingers on either side of the extremely hard base of his penis, which felt like a large tree root. I massaged as best I could. I pressed hard and marveled at the strength of the base of the young erection. I made my right hand move faster than Trey wanted to go, rapidly and repeatedly stroking the length of the shaft. Each stroke began with the tip of his penis at the base of my palm. I then squeezed the organ with each downward stroke, putting extra pressure on the organ's head and the area just below it. Precum had coated both the top two-thirds of his massive shaft as well as most of my palm, and the hockey stud's gasps and sighs commingled with the squashing sound of a male being masturbated. The smell of hockey, sweat, and sex was thick.
We were going at a rapid clip and Trey was grunting with each thrust when my left hand, buried into his crotch from behind, detected the first signs of young male plumbing about to explode. I squeezed his penis at mid-shaft with the palm of my right hand and squeezed slightly harder with my first three fingers, which were just under his circumcision scar. I kept my left hand on his balls but moved my chin from his chest to watch as two thick ropes of semen shot almost straight in the air and landed in the sink with a Thwop." With each shot, I felt the muscles near his scrotum convulse. I squeezed his balls a little tighter as Trey leaned toward the sink and placed his left hand on the wall as he kept thrusting into my hand. Perhaps four spurts landed on the wall above the sink and four more in the sink itself, and with each splash he uttered a grunt and I felt his prostate pump with explosive force. The blond hockey stud moaned quietly as perhaps two or three more shots dribbled out and into the sink basin. I moved my left hand out of his crotch and back to his buttock, and after the defenseman's penis convulsed with what were basically four dry heaves, I knew that Trey was done and we both were relieved in more ways than one.
"Ooooh," Trey said with a whisper. "I, uh, ... Wow!"
Trey stood frozen in front of the sink to assess the impressive mess he had made and to decide what to do next. Most of the semen was on the wall and in the sink, but a little was on my hand. I quickly turned on the water to rinse any remnants of the masturbation session from my right hand. I smelled my left and found it necessary also to rinse off the musky scent of sweat mixed with testicles mixed with rectal region. Trey stood in place, his two-thirds-hard penis sticking straight out and the shaft glistening with pre-seminal fluid. I wiped both of my hands on my jeans as I turned from my tenant.
"Trey, I'll just, um, wait out here." I glanced at his face over his right shoulder and let my eyes drift downward, noting that even from his position slightly behind him I could see the hockey player's erection. He had started the water and was baptizing the organ the best he could with his left hand.
"Um, OK, I'll, ah."
I felt the need to make a quick dash. "You might want to clean up in here, Trey."
"Yeah. Bruce, um, Doc, I will. Thanks."
As I walked toward the training room door, I could hear the showers running. The game must've been over. As I walked by, I stole a glimpse of perhaps six naked hockey players rinsing off. Two or three had their backs to the spray and their frontal nudity toward me. Nothing packed any sort of length close to Trey's.
As I left the locker room, I got a sick feeling that Diane had been outside the door for at least part of the masturbation session. In a split second I thought about how I could explain to her and the Board of Medical examiners that I had no choice but to jack off a blond cutie in a hockey arena locker room. When I got outside the room, Diane was nowhere to be seen. I found her out in the hall, outside the entry to the locker room, engaged in a pleasant but concerned conversation with Ben.
"Bruce, is he ... is he all right?"
"Diane, he's fine. He's just getting dressed. It might take him a little bit, what with that hand."
"Oh, thank God. THANK YOU!."
"Oh, you're welcome, Diane. It was my pleasure."
"I really appreciate you taking a look. Was he able to, you know? ..."
"Trey's fine, Diane. Really, he is. No worries."
About fifteen minutes later, Trey emerged from the locker room, dressed in baggy jeans but also his game jersey, explaining that he was not able to button his shirt. Both the jersey and the jeans concealed the impressive mass of meat that the young man packed. I told my tenant and his mother that I would see them at my house.
As Trey and Diane headed out, I realized I had left my coat in the training room. When I returned to retrieve it, I double-checked to see that Trey had cleaned up after himself, but - yikes! - he had missed a spot. The spurts above the sink! The semen was beginning to run down the wall but had not yet puddled in the sink.
"Ah, geez!" As I scrambled to find the towel, I heard someone nearing the training room, so I quickly wiped up the jizz with the arm of my sweatshirt and concealed it with my coat just as the assistant coach came back in the room.
"How is he, doc?"
"He's fine."
"Great. I just need to grab something quick."
"Take your time."
I stood in the training room and watched the assistant coach take what he needed. Then I looked under my coat and realized that Trey's semen still was pretty fresh. I couldn't resist. I gently passed my sleeve under my nose a time or two, and then rubbed it right on my nostrils, taking in the nutty scent of some of the semen I had seen erupt from an eight-inch erection. I squeezed the puddled stain of jizz until a clearish liquid emerged, and I lapped it up with the tip of my tongue. I enjoyed the scent and taste for a moment or two longer, and then put on my coat to conceal the evidence.
m
