giorgiobaby
JUB Addict
nice, playing doctor. Keep the story going
The Original Gay Porn Community - Free Gay Movies and Photos, Gay Porn Site Reviews and Adult Gay Forums
-
Welcome To Just Us Boys - The World's Largest Gay Message Board Community
In order to comply with recent US Supreme Court rulings regarding adult content, we will be making changes in the future to require that you log into your account to view adult content on the site.
If you do not have an account, please register.
REGISTER HERE - 100% FREE / We Will Never Sell Your InfoTo register, turn off your VPN; you can re-enable the VPN after registration. You must maintain an active email address on your account: disposable email addresses cannot be used to register.
Trey's Hockey Injury and Exam
- Thread starter sfcfml
- Start date
- Joined
- Jun 15, 2007
- Posts
- 66,820
- Reaction score
- 37,865
- Points
- 113
I started this chapter a week ago. I got about half way through and . . . well, I guess I should say I'd been rock hard and edging as I read . . . finally I couldn't stop myself and I came all over myself. When I saw how much of the chapter was left, I thought it was probably good for another nice edging session. So I stopped reading.
Unfortunately I got really busy this week and only just now got to read the second half. When Trey came, while being examined, I came. I couldn't stop myself from blowing a load if I tried. And to be honest, I didn't try very hard.
Then as Trey took his turn playing doctor, I continued to massage my cum over my still semi-hard cock and around my nuts and abs. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and had to write a message to thank you.
This story really hits the spot for me.
Unfortunately I got really busy this week and only just now got to read the second half. When Trey came, while being examined, I came. I couldn't stop myself from blowing a load if I tried. And to be honest, I didn't try very hard.
Then as Trey took his turn playing doctor, I continued to massage my cum over my still semi-hard cock and around my nuts and abs. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and had to write a message to thank you.
This story really hits the spot for me.
sfcfml
On the Prowl
Part V follows. The story so far:
Part I: Dr. Bruce, although an eye doctor, is the only one at the arena who steps forward to help his 18-year-old tenant Trey after the junior-league hockey player took a puck to the privates. Bruce was asked to make sure the blond stud's plumbing worked. Suffice to say, it did. All eight inches of it.
Part II: The coach asked Bruce to perform physicals on four new recruits ages 18 to 20 next week, and Bruce starts fantasizing over the possibilities. Meanwhile, Bruce has a heart to heart with Trey, who's struggling with his sexuality. Then Bruce finds a spy hole into Trey's room and confirms that the kinky kid seems not to be straight as an arrow.
Part III: Dr. Bruce performs memorable physicals on four hockey players ages 18 to 20, but the patient who sticks in his mind is Brendan, a perfectly toned 5-foot-7 stud from Manitoba. Brendan agrees to have his first prostate exam, with remarkably messy results. Brendan also catches Trey's eye.
Part IV: Trey admits that his penis is in fact eight AND A HALF inches, wonders whether he might be gay, insists on getting a midnight physical from Dr. Bruce, and then insists on examining the 45-year-old doctor who had let two or three years elapse since his last rectal exam.
Part V:
Friday morning came early after the night of cum eating. Nevertheless, Trey left for work an hour before I did and called me at 9:30, chipper as a clam. I, meanwhile, had gotten barely any sleep after the excitement of the previous evening. How could have Trey? I mean, those sorts of things don't happen every night.
The reason for Trey's call was not to say "hey" or, thankfully, to express regrets over what we had experienced together. Rather, he was calling to remind me that he had a game that evening, that his mom and brother would be in town to see it, that he expected them by noon, and did I want to meet them for lunch? The thought of food was a turnoff at that hour and under my condition, but when Trey reminded me that he'd be on the road for nearly a week with the team beginning Sunday, I nevertheless agreed to meet them at an Applebees near the arena.
By the time I arrived, Trey's family was already seated in a four-person booth on the far side of the dining room. I slid in next to Trevor, ordered coffee, visually surveyed Trey to make sure he was OK with what had transpired between us, and then looked at his mom to wonder what she would think about her 18-year-old son feeding me his cum as he ate mine.
The waitress interrupted my daydream with a fake smile and an irritating "ladies first." Diane chose the chef's salad. Risky choice at Applebees, I thought. Trevor did better by ordering a cheeseburger and fries. I opted for chicken salad on wheat with cole slaw. But when Trey ordered cream of broccoli soup and a hot beef sandwhich, I did not know whether to laugh, barf, run screaming from the annoying restaurant, or all of the above. Trey, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the irony of his order because he was preoccupied with fending off his brother's questions about when he was going to get a girlfriend.
Soon, the only food on the table was Trey's soup. I tried to focus on Diane, who was seeking advice on the best route home. But when Trey took a spooonful and Trevor directed an "Mmmm, creamy!" comment toward his big brother, I had to watch Trey slurp the white broth from the spoon and felt guilty that I was getting an erection in front of his mom. Finally, the smart stud recognized what he had done.
He looked horrified for just a second, and then sniffled a laugh through his nose as he slurped the white broth. There was no question that the introverted brainiac was coming out of his shell.
"How's the cream soup, honey?"
"A little runny. Not as creamy as I'd like."
I had to look away.
"Well, Trey, maybe you should send it back."
"Nah. I'm sure the hot beef will be good."
I snorted and then coughed in an attempt to cover up my involuntary reaction. Then Trey kicked my shin. I teasingly rubbed his.
Only when we got up to leave did I appreciate to what degree Trevor was Trey's spitting image. The 15-year-old's hair was a little darker and longer, but his still-lanky body was almost as tall as Trey's and the duo's facial features gave away the fact that they were brothers. From what Trey had said, his brother also played hockey but did not have nearly his skill and did not get much ice time.
But, it seemed, Trevor did not care. According to Trey, the kid was a social dynamo and had girls trailing after him as well as the Facebook page to prove it.
I had one more appointment for the day, so I returned to the clinic for that and then planned to head home for a nap. But when I got back to work, there awaited a surprise. Coach Richards had left a message saying that Brendan Phillips was in town and needed a place to stay for Friday night before Saturday's practice, and would I mind if he crashed at my place since Coach knew Trey was staying with his family?
I called Trey on his cell and asked if Brendan could stay in his room. Trey said he'd be delighted, as long as I would please change the sheets and empty his garbage.
Trey's wish was my command. Not surprisingly, the 18-year-old's bedding had a good share of semen stains in all the expected places. They were dry, of course, but they nevertheless gave me additional insights into the hockey player's masturbation habits. Crust was particularly heavy on one edge of the sheet. How semen ended up on the foot of the bedspread I was not sure. Trey was good at experimenting, that much was for sure.
None of this was too surprising in an 18-year-old's room, of course. But when I went to empty the garbage I made somewhat of a surprising discovery. There were a few dried cumrags but also a condom, obviously used, and obviously several days old. My heart raced as I stretched out the device and contemplated that the latex had hugged Trey's beautiful eight-inch erection. I lifted it toward the light to examine the ample watery contents as they pooled toward the reservoir tip. Had Trey had sex in my house with me knowing? That seemed doubtful. More likely, the spent condom was the result of an 18-year-old trying on protection for size and a test run. I recalled I had done the same, when I was about Trey's age, maybe earlier.
I was sorry that I had missed the sight of Trey struggling to roll the little condom onto his eight-and-a-half-inch erection. I would have loved to have seen him blow his seed into the rubber. But I made up for my disappointment by stripping off my clothes, lying on Trey's bed, rolling over onto his pillow to breathe in the scent of 18-year-old hockey player, and then dribbling half of the days-old semen onto my throbbing erection. It was cold, and basically cloudy water. I convulsed just a bit as Trey's semen touched the underside of my erection and then I paused to examine the result for a good 30 seconds before I lightly touched my boner and then pulled my fingers away to see the slimy result. Finally, when I could not stand it anymore, I began slowly masturbating myself with my thumb and first two fingers, marveling at the way that Trey's days-old semen provided both lubrication and friction for my penis. I palmed myself for a good two minutes and then poured most of the rest of Trey's spent seed directly into my mouth as I fantasized about the day I would take the 18-year-old hockey player's cum directly from his massive penis.
The thought of pleasuring Trey brought me close to the edge, so I quickly squeezed what was left in the condom onto the head of my penis and jacked a while longer before I turned around and sniffed Trey's pillow while I fucked my fist under my crotch. This went on for a couple minutes until I turned back around, pushed Trey's rubber onto my own erection, and got off only about six strokes before I shot my own semen into the stretched-out used condom. Knowing that the condom had previously hugged the 18-year-old blond hockey player's eight-and-a-half-inch erection produced the most intense orgasm I had had in years. I screamed as if I was being murdered as I watched my seed splatter into a vessel that just minutes ago but also for several days had played host to Trey's semen. Finally, after an exceptionally long post-orgasmic recovery, I whined as I peeled the twice-used condom from my penis, undressed the bed, and made sure that the spy hole from the storage room remained unobscured.
* * *
The taste of watery semen and latex was still in my mouth when I choked down the first bite of a frozen pizza. The game was at 7:30, but I headed out and got to the arena by 5:30. It was pretty empty, but I found a few guys in the weight room and decided to say hi. I recognized Cody, the 20-something who had freaked out Trey by groping him on a road trip a couple weeks earlier. Cody was the second-string goalie and hailed from the suburbs of Minneapolis. I put him at about 21. His standout feature was his hair. It was wavy and brown and beautiful when worn long. He had piercing brown eyes and defined sideburns of the type Trey was not yet able to grow. Sort of like a Canadian Fabio, but thankfully not.
Cody was working his hamstrings on a machine. He was wearing a form-fitting white t-shirt and light blue cotton shorts with white spandex underneath.
"Hi. Cody, right?"
"Hey. Yep. What's up?"
"I'm Bruce. Bruce Silverman. Just saying hi."
"Hi. Yeah, I've seen you around. Team doctor, right?"
"Well, not really the team doctor, but I've been helping out where I can. I got involved because Trey lives with me."
At the mention of Trey, the goalie standoffishness evaporated.
"Trey?"
"Yeah. He's my tenant. Rents a room from me."
"I see. Nice kid, that Trey." Cody kept up with the leg curls. His knees were pretty close together, but the mesh shorts left pretty much everything to the imagination. Cody adjusted himself, just a touch.
"Yes, nice young man. Smart, too. Smarter than me. You should see what the kid reads, literature and stuff."
"I've noticed that on the bus. We roomed together a time or two, too."
"That's what I hear. Trey's mom and little brother are in town to see the game tonight. Hopefully he'll put on a good show."
"Hopefully."
"You suiting up?"
"Yeah. Not sure Coach will put me in though. Been having some trouble."
The backup goalie moved to the hip machine, and given the conversation I found license to stand in front of him to assess the dark hair on his shins and what I could see of his thighs. As he moved his knees together and then apart, I struggled to see any hint of the outline of the goalie's goods but generally failed.
"So, Trey, he lives with you?"
"Well, he does pay rent."
"Well, yeah. Do you have, like, a wife or something?"
"No. Not anymore. That's one reason I rent out a room."
"Just a room?"
"Yeah. Why do you ask?"
"I dunno. Just curious."
Cody got up from the machine, laid on a mat, put his legs over his head, and gave me a beautiful view of his nice, tight goalie butt.
His flexibility was excellent, not surprising given his position. Then he sat Indian style and stretched his groin more.
"So, you're a doctor?"
"Eye doctor, but the kind with a medical degree. Been transitioning somewhat to sports medicine."
"Know much about groins?"
"Ah, well ..."
"See, I got this groin pull." Cody placed his palm on his inner thigh. "To be honest, I think it's one reason why I'm not getting more playing time. I think Coach is worried. I've been working it and stretching it, but there's a knot ... right ... here ..." The goalie was pressuring himself enticinly close to his testicles.
"Have you iced it?"
"Yeah, but the whirlpool seems to work better."
"Whirlpool?"
"At the Y."
"I belong to the Y. When do you go?"
"Midmorning usually. Probably when you're at work."
"Probably. Want me to take a look?"
"What's there to look at?"
"Well, I mean, try to assess what's going on?"
"Here?"
"No, we'd go to the training room."
"Well--" Cody hopped to his feet, with a goalie's precision and speed. "Sure, can't hurt."
As we walked to the training room together, I learned the Cory was 22 and not 21 and had been on no fewer than three junior teams over the last four years. He had been a standout in high school but then got hobbled by the groin injury that continued to dog him. Still, his drive to play hockey was strong, he said, and he liked playing in our town because he had met a girlfriend here.
When we reached the training room, Cody instinctively assumed a seated position with his palms flat on the table and his legs fully extended. I surveyed his lower half and appreciated his muscled hamstrings with man hair. After Cody agreed with my suggestion that he lose the cotton shorts, I approached the goalie to try to see what was the matter in the area being squeezed by his white spandex.
"Point again to where it hurts." Now, with Cody in this position, I could plainly see the outline of two testicles and the bump that was most definitely a penis, which was resting toward his left thigh. Cody used his index and middle fingers to palpate an area perhaps an inch to the right of his scrotum. I placed my fingers where his were and pressed into his exceptionally muscular upper thigh.
"That hurt?"
"Yeah. Go up a bit." He brushed a long lock of hair out of his eyes.
"Here?"
"No, I mean in. Toward my--, you know."
I moved my fingers to a position where I could not help but feel the outline of his scrotum. I pressed hard, and he gave a little yelp.
"Yep!" That's it!"
Given his strong musculature, I was having trouble finding any knot, so I asked him to lie back so that I could apply increased pressure. As he did, his brown hair pooled at the sides of his head and the bump where his penis was became more pronounced. I pressed as hard as I could and then found what felt to be a knot."
"Ah! You got it, doc!"
"How does it feel when I do that?"
"Huh. Good actually."
"How 'bout that?"
"Better. Wow!"
"Why don't I try to massage the knot a bit, see what happens."
"Fine by me."
With that, Cody put his hands behind his head and prepared to enjoy the pressure I would be applying. I did the best I could do until my index and middle fingers gave out. When I changed hands, the back of my wrist could not help but brush against the goalie's concealed penis. My tactic seemed to be working, and I followed up by giving the young man a two-handed massage of his upper inner thigh.
"Ooooh. Nice! Thanks!"
It was impossible to ignore that his penis had begun to stir and that the spandex was not going to succeed in keeping the organ in its downward position. I slowed my massage, which caused a tube-shaped bump to appear near the goalie's right thigh. When I moved my massage to the right to -- in my words, "even you out" -- it took little time for the long-haired hockey player to become about three-quarters hard.
"Whoa! Doc! I'm not sure you--"
"Something wrong, Cody?" I intensified my massage, to torture the kid who had caused angst for my friend Trey.
"Well, no, I'm just, ah--" Finally, Cody pulled at the sides of the tight shorts to permit his penis to take the position that it yearned to take. It seemed to be just under six inches, not long enough to escape from the spandex, but long enough to bunch up at the top of the shorts.
"Do you want me to stop?
"No, ah. I'm not sure. I don't want to--"
I changed my position so I could place both of my thumbs on either side of the goalie's scrotum. Then I pushed hard while letting my fingers rest on his impressively tight upper thighs.
"Let me know if this isn't helping."
"I think it is, ah actually ..." I pressed a little faster and began doing a massage with my fingers as well. "... Ah, actually, I think I'm-- Ah, Doc, you better--!"
At that point, Cody put a palm on the underside of his erection and a wet spot almost magically emerged at the top of the goalie's tight shorts. He then placed his fingers on either side of his concealed erection and jacked himself slightly to let escape what needed to escape. Then I stepped back to watch the goalie squirm. When he jiggled his shorts, a glob of white cum escaped and the wet spot on the shorts spread out such that there was no concealing the fact that the 22-year-old backup goalie had just had an orgasm on the training table.
When Cody sat up, this made the wetness even more obvious. He brushed his hair out of his face, hopped down, turned from me, and seemed to pull out the waistband to take stock of the unexpected mess that had been made. The hunky goalie apologized and blushed. He was in an embarrassed state of agony, and for that I was secretly happy.
"Looks like you enjoyed yourself, young man."
"I should have asked you to--" The goalie's shoulders raised and lowered as he signed in and out and it was clear that he was stumped about what to do next.
"Cody, why don't you strip off those shorts and wear just the cotton ones. Nobody'll notice."
"Good idea." Cory did not turn from me as he scrambled out of the spandex to get the whole process behind him as soon as possible. It took longer than he wanted because it was tough to get spandex tennis shoes, and I enjoyed taking stock of Cody's flaccid penis and hairy testicles. He was of about Brendan's length, but fatter, and it was fun to watch the organ bob up and down as the goalie struggled to disrobe. Semen stuck to the heavy pattern of dark brown pubic hair that ran throughout the goalie's crotch, onto his scrotum, and throughout his thighs. I looked at Cody's right hand, the one holding the cum-soaked shorts, and wondered whether that was the one he used to touch 18-year-old Trey's six-inch floppy penis when he thought my young friend was asleep. Then I looked back at Cody's penis and recognized that I was visually inspecting the very organ that this "straight" boy had jerked after invading his younger bedmate in the motel, and that the semen I was seeing resembled what he had quietly blown into the sheets with Trey in the bed.
"Where are my other shorts?"
"I'm not sure. Where did you put them?"
As Cody scanned the room, I scanned him, and enjoyed putting the 22-year-old through a hint of the angst he had imposed on my 18-year-old friend.
"They're behind you, ah, Doc. Would you mind?"
"Oh, sure. Not at all, Cody." I handed him the dry cotton shorts and extended my hand to take the wet tight ones. The goalie handed them over, understandably eager to get this whole experience behind him. As he began trying to slip the shorts over his right shoe, I suggested that he might want to clean up at the sink first. He agreed that that was a good idea, so while he mopped up his mess, I positioned myself away from the mirror so he could not see me take a whiff and taste of his nutty semen, which, given the circumstances, tasted not nearly as nice as Trey's.
When the cleanup was done, I handed over the spermy shorts.
"Thanks."
"Sure."
"Hey, doc. Nobody needs to know about this, right?"
"Right. Between you and me."
"Between you and me. Good. I mean, my girlfriend, she-- I mean, I'm not gay or anything. You know that, right?"
"Of course not, Cody."
"I'll buy you a beer sometime."
"I guess a 22-year-old can do that."
"OK, then, well, see ya."
"Bye, Cody. Hope you get more playing time."
As I left the training room and headed for the arena, I felt all warm and fuzzy as I saw that Brendan had made his way to town and was in Coach Richards' office. The two were discussing the practice schedule and what it would be like for Brendan on the long road trip ahead. Brendan was to be suited up at 10:00 a.m. the next day for practice. Then the team was then to grab showers at the arena before beginning the journey by bus Saturday afternoon so they would be closer to the destination for their Sunday afternoon game. Since the fireplug of an 18-year-old was going to be my guest for the first night, I felt comfortable interrupting the conversation.
"Brendan, good to see you again." I shook the confident teen's hand, noting its smoothness and fairly small size but undeniably firm grip. The confident teen smiled broadly as his eyes sparkled his appreciation for a night's lodging. His black hair was a little longer than I had remembered -- particularly in back, which, stereotypically, was pooling into the beginnings of a curly mullet. He was wearing a button-down oxford shirt and black Dockers that made his butt look beyond fine. The farm boy's quasi-Italian features were even nicer than I remembered them, and I noticed probably a day's growth of baby whiskers on his chin and above his lip. He was one of those small-town, innocent guys who puts you at ease right away -- friendly, adequately smart but not too much, and with dimples as cute as a button. As I gave him the visual once-over, I felt my penis begin to stir when I recalled what he looked like in his hockey pants, and as I replayed the memory of his physical -- how he met me outside the training room wearing only a towel, how he rejected the thought of grabbing some boxers before the exam, how his penis, though not large, was perfect for his frame. And then I got about half hard at the thought of the cute farm kid spending the night at my house and sleeping just a foot from the little hole in the wall between Trey's room and the storage room.
"Hi Doc! Hey, thanks for letting me stay."
"Not a problem. Trey said he doesn't mind if you use his room for the night."
"Fantastic. I really appreciate this, from both of you. I'll make it up to Trey."
"I'm sure he'd appreciate it. You'll leave your gear here I'm sure, but why don't I take your bag to the car, so you don't forget it."
"Sure."
I took Brendan's duffel to my Honda Accord and could not resist a peek. Boxers, size 32. As I suspected.
* * *
When I met Diane in the stands, I realized that my penis was still crusty from using her son's days-old condom seed as masturbation lubricant while on his bed. Somehow I managed to put that fact out of my mind and ended up enjoying watching the game with Diane -- and, to a degree, Trevor -- because Trey's play was almost beyond awesome! Gutsy Trey threw himself in front of slapshots at least twice (thankfully, with no injuries to his gorgeous plumbing), got in plenty of fair but fairly jarring hip checks (impressive, given his below-average weight for a defenseman), and -- to top it all off -- scored the game-winning winning goal during a shootout (how often do defensemen get picked when a team is in that position?) I had a feeling he was going to score as he stood at the center line and leaned over the puck (giving me a nice view of his cute ass in those breezers). When the wrist shot hit the upper left corner, Trey raised up both arms and so did the crowd. He threw his stick to the boards and stormed toward the home bench but did not make it because his teammates piled on the plucky 18-year-old and patted his shoulders and the back of his hockey pants. (I thought to myself, how GAY is that!?) The crowd erupted, and Diane let it be known that that was her kid who had just scored during the shootout.
Unfortunately, Trevor missed the big goal because he was flirting with girls in the concourse.
As the crowd started for the exits, Diane and I made our ways against the flow to stand above the home bench. Quite naturally Trey was the last one off the ice. He had lost his helmet during the piling on, and his blond curls were glistening and his blue eyes on fire as he entered the bench and came right toward us.
"Oh, Trey, honey, I am SO proud of you."
"Wasn't that -- amazing mom?!" I had never seen Trey so excited. (Nor had I talked to him since jacking off with his semen.) The young man really was pumped. You could see it in his eyes. The three of us continued to talk hockey, and soon Coach Richards joined in, congratulated Trey for a helluva game, and expressed pleasure that Diane had been able to witness this. As the coach left, Diane leaned over the boards and gave her pink-cheeked son a peck on the cheek, tossled his hair, and told him his dad would be very, very proud of him. When Trey blushed, I simultaneously got lumps in my throat and my pants.
I followed Trey back to the locker room and watched his butt jiggle as he went down the runway. Gosh, the kid was cute! Most of the guys were already in the shower, so I lingered by Trey and watched him strip off his gear. Brendan came on the scene just as Trey had stripped off his shoulder pads. The littler guy smiled ear to ear as he congratulated the studly game winner and patted his butt through the hockey pants.
"Thanks, Brendan. Wow. What a game. What a goal! One to remember."
There was little doubt that Brendan was lingering to see Trey give a strip tease. Finally the blond defenseman peeled off his shin pads, suspenders and breezers and stood before us in just his cup and Undergear.
"Brendan, man, it's great to see you again!"
"Great to see you, in person, ya know, after all that messaging and those calls."
"Yeah. Exactly."
Trey seemed to be enjoying our gaze. He slipped off the cup and then the Undergear before realizing that the stack of towels was several steps away.
"Hey, Bruce?"
"Yeah?"
"You know, I did take one shot tonight, in the cup. Everything stayed in, but I felt a sting ... right ... above ... here."
"Let's take a look."
Brendan lingered too as I palpated the hair-covered region perhaps an inch above Trey's six-inch penis. Indeed, there was a red spot and he was not lying. I thought, what the hell, let's get Brendan in on the act.
"Brendan, look OK to you?"
The black-haired stud was stunned as I invited him to examine the region above Trey's penis. He approached the sweaty player and stood a touch closer than he needed to as he peered down Trey's abs and toward the top of his dangling penis.
"It does look --- a little red."
"That ever happen to you, Brendan?" Trey was wondering.
"Yeah, sometimes." Brendan pretended to rub a similar area on himself, but missed. He was gently massaging his penis instead.
"Well, if you ever need somebody to take a look, and the Doc's not around ..."
"Sure, Trey, thanks." Brendan was blushing -- and probably flushing too.
At that point, Trey pranced toward the towels, and more than a couple heads turned -- including that of Peter, the assistant coach, who declared that even though he had just come out of the shower, he had forgotten to wash his hair, and for that reason had to go back in.
Brendan then joined me in the lobby as we found Diane, who was looking for Trevor. I spotted him between two vending machines flirting with three girls who wore low-cut blouses and were three inches taller and two years older than the slightly toe-headed 15-year-old.
Diane -- clearly accustomed to her roosterish son -- - fished her potential jailbait away from the chesty temptations just as Trey appeared on the scene. The girls recognized the resemblance and sauntered over to give the hunky scorer of the game-winning goal a visual once-over but said not a word. Rather, I saw one of them shovel a slip of paper to Trevor as the two strutted away.
I thought to myself, Even 17-year-old girls in hockey-crazed Canada could develop a keen sense of "gaydar."
And then, as Trey headed to the Country Inn & Suites with his family, Brendan and I headed to my Accord.
* * *
"Right down here, young man."
I turned on the light in Trey's room and Brendan through his duffel on Trey's bed. "This is great, doc, thanks again."
"Not a problem. And remember, it's Bruce. Make yourself at home. Bathroom is down the hall, towels are in there, feel free to come up and watch a little TV."
"Sure, thanks, I think I will. I'll just throw on some shorts and be right up."
I left Trey's room, closed the door, and turned on my heels to tiptoe into the storage area. I did not want to miss one second of watching cute little Brendan. Thankfully, the new recruit left the light on as he pulled his shirt tails out of his Dockers, unbuttoned the garment, and slipped it from his t-shirt-clad torso. His back was facing the spy hole as he took off his shoes and socks, but then he turned sideways as he unbuttoned and unzipped the Dockers and slid them to his knees, then his shins, and then over his feet. The hockey player then faced the bed and therefore the spy hole as he stood in his boxers to fold the pants and lay them at the foot of the bed. Then he retrieved some white mesh shorts from his duffel and stood with his back to me as he slipped out of his underwear. The 18-year-old's ass was perhaps four feet from me. It had just a touch of black hair, and was perfectly muscled and proportioned. When Brendan spotted a mirror over Trey's desk, the 18-year-old recruit took off his t-shirt and admired his physique, as did I. I felt the blood rush to my crotch as the young man surveyed the biceps that were sizable for his frame, and then the cute little guy pouted a little as he flexed his small but muscled pecs. I almost started laughing when the little guy jumped up and down a few times, apparently to watch his four-inch penis and lightly haired testicles jiggle in his new teammate's room.
I rooted for the hockey player to get himself off right then and there, but then the show was over almost as soon as it started as he climbed into the mesh shorts, put on the same t-shirt, and scampered upstairs. I followed behind, giving no hint to where I had been.
"Hungry, Brendan?"
"N-not really. What'ya got?
"Oh, let's see, half a frozen pizza, some lunchmeat, some chicken from the deli ..."
"Got any cereal?"
"Cereal? Sure. First cupboard on the right, second shelf. Help yourself."
I retrieved a bowl and milk as Brendan approached with raisin bran. I munched on cold pizza as the teen told me how pumped he was to get a chance at junior league hockey and how it always had been a dream.
"Well, from what I've seen, you work darn hard, young man. Very hard."
"Well, doc, I try. That's all a guy can do."
I surveyed the young specimen as he leaned against the cupboard, slurped at his cereal, and seemed to ponder how the world was his oyster. His undershirt clung to his little but well-developed pecs, and the mesh shorts hung tantilizingly from the 18-year-old's 5-foot-7 frame. Dressed all in white, he looked like an angel. I proceeded to probe his more devliish side.
"Have a seat."
"Thanks."
"So, you've got four brothers? Share a room?"
"Yep. I'm the youngest, so I got lumped in with the second-to-youngest brother."
"That must have sucked."
"Oh, it wasn't that bad."
"What do your brothers do?"
"Well, my two oldest brothers, Brian and Brent, are still on the farm. Well, actually, they live nearby, and they farm with our dad."
"They'll be taking it over someday?"
"Yep."
"Are there animlals on the farm? Livestock?"
"We've got sheep, some pigs. Mainly a grain operation."
"Sheep, eh? They must be cuddly."
"Um, sometimes. When I was a kid, I'd pet the lambs, until I was old enough to help castrate them."
"Ouch!"
"Ah, yeah."
"So no girls on the farm, huh?"
"Just my mom."
"Is it true what they say about haylofts?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are they fun?"
"Why would they be?"
"You moving back to the farm?"
"No. You know, it's never been my thing. I never felt like a farm kid."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. Maybe go to college. Do something where I can help people, I guess."
"Helping people is very important. It's my favorite part of my job."
"So you must be pretty smart, to go to medical school?"
"I was OK. Not the best, but I got by. Never came naturally. Like you have to work hard in hockey, I had to work hard in school. Not
like Trey, who is a natural at everything he touches."
"Where'd you go to school?"
"Went to college in Toronto, and medical school in the States."
"You like Toronto?"
"I do. Quite a bit. There's one of everything in Toronto. One of everybody. Actually several of everybody, if you know what I mean."
"My other brother, Brady, lived in Toronto for a while, but he moved."
"Where does he live now?"
"New York."
"No kidding? So he left the farm behind, had no problem doing so?"
"Farming was NEVER his thing. He was good in school, and did a lot of activities. Drove my parents and other brothers crazy, getting
him to town all the time, before he could drive."
"Lots of hockey practices, I bet."
"No, he hated hockey. He was in a lot of plays, in choir, that sort of thing."
"I see. What does he do in New York?"
"Works at a restaurant, which I guess is very cool, and he acts when he can. Like, acts on stage."
"Wow, cool. On Broadway?"
"I think so. When he can."
"Trey says you're a singer."
"He told you that?"
"Was he not supposed to?"
"No, well-- I mean, I'm just surprised."
"About what?"
"That he'd remember that, about me."
"Why?"
"Well, singing and hockey don't exactly go together."
"Says who?"
"That's what my dad says, that singing is for girls."
"No it's not. And I bet you could find some singing hockey players in Toronto."
There was a lull in the conversation for thirty seconds. Brendan needed to say something, but he was not sure how.
"See, Bruce, my brother, Brady, he likes Toronto, and New York."
"So do I."
"See, Bruce, he's gay."
"I see."
"And he doesn't come home anymore. Actually, he's not allowed to."
"Oh my. Brendan, I'm sorry--"
"I am too. I mean, I'm closest to Brady in age, and in other ways too I think. To be honest, he and I have always had a lot in common.
I mean, he likes hockey and everything, and he used to give me lots of rides to practice and stuff, so we used to talk in the car a
lot. And in our room."
"How much older is he?"
"A year and a half."
"And does he have a partner?"
"Yes. But my dad doesn't know it. I'm the only one who knows about it, so please keep in to yourself. You probably shouldn't even tell Trey."
"That must be very difficult for you, for all of you."
"Yeah. See, ah-- Um, Bruce, Trey said you were married?"
"Yes."
"And now you're not?"
"Right."
"Why not?"
"We just grew apart. That's the main reason. Looking for different things in life, I guess."
Brendan pulled my cordless phone from the charger and fiddled with it while avoiding eye contact with me. I yearned to see the young man's green eyes and perfect pearly whites, but some serious things were on the young man's mind.
"Bruce?"
"Yeah?"
"I like Trey."
"I like him too."
"Does he like me?"
"I think he does. In fact, I know he does."
Brendan put the phone back in the charger.
"I mean, I'm just starting to get to know him, but he and I, I think, we connect."
"That's great. I connect with Trey too. He's a very special young man, and I'm beginning to think you are too."
Brendan blushed, as much as a boy with Italian blood in him can blush.
"Trey says you're pretty cool."
"I guess I don't think of myself as cool."
"He says you are. Says you're great at helping people, helping guys, us younger guys, learn about ourselves and to think openly about ourselves."
"I thought my ears might have been burning."
Brendan looked at me, puzzled. I just let it rest.
"It's just-- hard sometimes, Bruce."
"I know. Being 18 can be awful."
"I feel like I'm supposed to know everything, but I don't."
"No, you don't."
"I mean, like when you gave me the adult exam when I was here for tryouts, I mean, you taught me stuff about me I didn't know."
"Like what?"
"Like, well, when you were checking my prostrate--"
"Your prostate, yes?"
"Pros-tate. And you did that thing where you press right under, under my balls, and I can't, you know--"
"Ejaculate semen."
"Yes, eject s-semen. I-- I didn't know that before."
"Well, you can't know everything."
"I mean, I didn't learn it on my own."
"I don't think I did, either."
"You just have a way of-- of talking to me, to guys, that makes me really comfortable, Bruce."
I leaned against the counter and gave Brendan's shoulder a squeeze.
"Bruce?"
"Yes Brendan?"
"Can I ask you a really personal question?"
"You can ask. If it's too personal, I just won't answer."
"Fair enough. OK. Um, have you ever been with a guy?"
"Have I ever had sex with a man, is that what you're asking?"
"Yes, that's what I'm asking."
"Yes, Brendan, I have."
"So you're gay then?"
"I don't think of myself as gay, not entirely."
"I don't get it."
"Hmm. See, Brendan, it's like this. I'm sexually attracted to men, some men, not all men, and I'm also attracted to women."
"OK, so you're bi."
"I'm bi. I suppose I am. The thing is, see, while I very much enjoy having conversations like this with you, or with Trey, and many other guys, I'm not emotionally attracted to guys in a relationship sort of way. Are you following what I'm saying?"
"I think so. In fact I know so. You're sort of talking like my brother, the New York one."
"Brent, was it?"
"Brady."
"Brady."
"Yeah. He told me, like when he was a junior in high school, that he didn't like girls."
"I see."
"He asked me if I liked girls."
"And what did you say?"
"I said that I thought so."
"Well, you were, what, fifteen?"
"Yeah. Fifteen. But I'm not sure I do."
"That you do what?"
"Like girls."
"I see.
Finally, Brendan looked at me straight on. His eyes darted back and forth rapidly, as eyes do when their owner is trying to look deep into the other person's soul. I saw his lower lip quiver, and he began to tear up. And then, he said two words very slowly, and could barely get the second one out.
"I'm ... scared."
I crossed around the island and Brendan immediately fell into my arms with a sob. He was about an inch taller than my ex-wife, and in a flash I recalled the night when she had fallen into my arms, when it was clear that we could not go on as we had been living. The 18-year-old hockey player cried as he probably had not cried since he was 8 or 9. Within 30 seconds I could feel his tears soaking through my t-shirt onto the skin of my right shoulder. I pet the boy's black hair and pulled lightly at his curly mullet. Then I hugged him closer to me and felt his crotch rub against mine. I could feel his pert 4-inch penis poke into the area right around my navel. The young man did not move, and neither did I. We stood that way for another three minutes or so, until his sobs finally subsided and he pulled away and looked at me with the most pained look I think I had ever seen.
Brendan pulled a paper towel from the spindle on the island and blew his nose. "I'm just ... so ... scared."
"I know. I understand. Let's let it rest. Watch some TV. We can talk more later. I mean, you're not going anywhere. You made the team."
Brendan brightened up a bit. "Yeah, Bruce, you're right, I made the team."
"Welcome to the team, Brendan."
* * *
It was about 11:00 by the time Brendan and I finally sat down to watch TV. An NHL game from the West Coast was still on, Canucks versus the Wild. It was tied 3-3 and went into overtime, but Brendan was exhausted -- physically and emotionally -- and he collapsed on the couch flat on his back with his legs crossed and started snoring softly. I watched his tummy rise and fall with each deep sleepy breath. I looked at his lower legs, which were fairly hairy for a guy of his age. They were crossed in a way that made his penis and testicles rest on top of his groin. I looked at the little white mound and recalled how perfect his penis was, perfectly proportioned to his size, how it hung just to the right, especially when erect. How he trimmed his jet-black pubes, and how those hockey-player thighs and butt muscles had refused to let my finger go during his adult prostate exam in the training room. How I had taught him that when you press under your testicles during an orgasm, the ejaculate will not come out until you release the pressure, and how when you do, you can end up with semen in your hair.
He looked like a perfect little angel. But ever so slowly I was learning about another side of cute little Brendan.
I thought about letting the sleepyhead just stay on the couch, but I thought it was best to get him to bed, to Trey's room, where he would sleep better and where -- admittedly -- I would have a chance of learning more about the young man. After I ushered him downstairs, I headed for my spying perch in the storage room next door. I felt the blood rush to my crotch as the sleepyhead found energy to stand in front of Trey's mirror, peel up his t-shirt, admire his taut tummy, and strip off the shirt. Then he slowly peeled the shorts down to reveal his trimmed bush of black pubes, then the shaft of his four-inch flaccid penis, and then the whole organ and its accompanying testicles. And then -- gasp! -- cute Brendan turned off the light!
I could see just the outline of the teenager's frame as he climbed into Trey's bed and under the covers. I listened for any hint of sheets rustling, penis rubbing, or singing hockey player moaning, but after five minutes, I heard only a light snore.
I counted blessings that Brendan had entered my life, that he slept in the raw, and that tomorrow morning was supposed to be sunny.
* * *
At the first sight of decent daylight, I headed to the storage room to see if Brendan had somehow ended up on top of the sheets, naked.
The bad news was that he had not. The good news was that Trey's curtains did not block out barely any sunlight. He liked it that way, he said.
I went back upstairs to start the coffee, choke down a little cold pizza, and pour one cup's worth before heading back downstairs. I spied on my house guest for another 45 minutes before realizing that the time had come. It was a quarter to eight, but I wanted to give the farm boy plenty of time to do his morning chores.
I knocked lightly three times. "Brendan, you up?"
I heard a stir, and then an acknowledgement. I told Brendan to make himself at home and that I'd be "around the house" if he needed anything. Then I quickly tiptoed to watch the sleepyhead rise.
I got in position just as Brendan put his arms behind his head, stretched, and yawned. He pushed the sheet and blanket down to just below his nipples and then craned his neck to take stock of the recent growth of hair between his pecs. Then he pushed it down a little more to watch himself pull at the beginnings of his treasure trail, and then seemed to grope himself through the sheet and blanket.
And then finally, Brendan peeled down the blanket and sheet to reveal what the typical 18-year-old has four mornings out of five: morning wood. And it was his morning chore to chop it.
The cute sleepyead yawned before taking stock of the part of him that already had been awake by pulling his erection straight away from his belly to make it stand straight up so he -- and I -- could admire its perfect head, its tubular shape, and how from that angle the front side looks so smoother than the more angry and veined underside. Brendan's penis curved slightly to the right when hard and was a beautiful and strong six-inch erection, even better than I had remembered from our time in the training room. After he was satisfied with his self-examination, he placed his erection back on his belly and played with his warm testicles that had been caressed by the feel of soft cotton sheets. Brendan pushed each ball to either side of the base of his erection, and seemed to enjoy the way that they moved so freely, particularly in the morning.
Then the hockey player turned his attention back to his morning erection, which had not lost a centimeter of size even though he had been playing with other parts of his anatomy. Rather, it throbbed with each beat of his heart as the six-incher seemed to plead for Brendan to give it attention with his smooth little hands. He put his left hand behind his head and lifted up slightly as he firmly placed the six-inch piece of skin and blood between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. And then, ever so slowly, the farm boy began moving the smooth teenage skin of his still-dry penis over the hardened erectile tissue underneath. He moved himself slowly, so as to enjoy the hard-soft feeling between his fingers and also the sensation of attending to nerve endings that yearned in the morning to be caressed.
The morning light came through the east-facing window just enough so that I could see the tip of Brendan's morning wood begin to glisten. He saw it too, and when he did, he used what had naturally come from inside his male plumbing to lubricate the outside -- first just the head's underside, then just under the head, then as many inches of the underside for which precum was available. The result of the lubrication was to cause the young man's plumbing to produce even more, which he distributed along the length of the erection's front and back while saving just enough for his tongue.
With a penis glistening from preseminal fluid and just a hint of saliva, Brendan to get down to business. He turned toward me as he pulled his legs from the warm comfort of the covers, giving me a straight-on view of his retracted scrotum. Brendan seemed to shiver just a touch as the full length of his 5-foot-7 frame came in contact with the cool morning air. He crossed his ankles and cupped his testicles as he gently thrust his hips in a way that caused his erectile tissue to slide against baby-smooth skin of his forearm. It was a technique I had used as a boy. In a flash, I recalled how I had cupped my balls and rocked my penis against my arm until I felt ready to convulse out some pee but that as my penis throbbed nothing had come out.
Brendan, it seemed, had not abandoned this technique as I had. Eventually, though, the farm boy assumed a more traditional technique as he started palming himself at a rate that averaged about two strokes a second. After perhaps 45 seconds, Brendan started bucking his hips as he fucked his fist. Over and over I saw the purple upper part of his erection strain from the pressure, only to disappear into his hand and then reappear. Gradually he sped up, and even through the wall I could hear the faint sound of an 18-year-old's morning masturbation moans.
And then he got up on his elbows and went back to holding his six inches just between his thumb and first two fingers. With his left hand, the hockey player felt both pecs and tugged at the recent growth of hair between them before moving his hand to his five-pack, then his pubic hair, and back to his abs. Then he laid back and turned his head toward me as he sniffed and then licked his left pit and intensified the jacking. Pants of pleasure passed through the teeth that usually added so much to the young man's smile but now could not conceal the tongue that was exploring his smelly underarm. I noticed the length of his black lashes, how even his nose suggested that he was a confident and not-too-cocky young man, how just his chin and upper lip sported a hodgepodge patchwork of two-day-old adolescent whiskers.
I wanted to see the semen erupt from the talented hockey player's perfect penis, but I also wanted to watch his cute face since it was turned right toward me. The young man stopped licking himself and instead puckered his lips and, when right on the verge, wrinkled his nose. At the precise moment I knew that the first shot of semen had splashing from his penis, the 18-year-old hockey player made an "oooh!" shape with his mouth and opened his eyes in a way that conveyed both sheer pleasure and horrible torture. I saw one shot of semen land on his neck but otherwise could not see the sticky and slimy results of the morning masturbation session. Rather, I stayed focused on the young man's face as he bit his lower lip and continued to relish the tremendous and terrible sensation that is the male orgasm.
The tension in the black-haired young man's face was replaced with relief as he inhaled and exhaled in sheer bliss. As he moved his head to survey the results, so did I, and what we both saw was a shot of semen on the young man's neck, two sticking to the sparse hair between his pecs, perhaps four on his tummy, and several shots that had dribbled into his trimmed black pubic hair. Brendan wiped the ejaculate from his neck and ate that dose and then used that same left hand to spread list a little of the rest around his torso. He then held his right hand to survey the cum that had not escaped his jacking-off hand and seemed pleased with the volume and then the taste, and then the cute 18-year-old laid back one more time to survey a morning chore finely done.
And then, Brendan swung his legs to the floor. He stood with his muscled butt toward me and he realized -- as do all guys from time to time -- that he had failed to plan for the messy results. I caught just a glimpse of his face in Trey's mirror as he made the sort of funny face one makes when one thinks he is alone. Then he paraded around the room until he found Trey's dirty clothes in the closet. When he turned back , I saw that he had chosen a pair of Trey's gray Hanes boxer-briefs, size 34. Brendan held the garment in front of him and pawed at the crotch just slightly as he seemingly assessed the strain that Trey's six-inch flaccid penis had put on the cotton fabric. Then he gave the crotch perhaps four whiffs, pursed his lips when pleased with the smell of Trey's dirty crotch, wiped the pools of semen onto his teammates undergarment, and put it back in Trey's hamper.
When Brendan put on just his mesh shorts to grab a shower, I waited for the water to start running before high-tailing it to Trey's room to relish the scent of Trey's crotch and Brendan's cum on the same dirty undergarment. It had been probably 90 seconds since Brendan had cleaned himself up, so both the texture and scent of his nutty seed was almost beyond arousing.
An hour later, on our way to the arena, Brendan's smile had returned. Mine, meanwhile, had never gone away. But I was sad I would not see either Trey or Brendan for nearly a week. They were due back in town Friday night. I sought out Trey at the arena, said I enjoyed spending time with his mom, squeezed his shoulder, and wished him good luck.
Part I: Dr. Bruce, although an eye doctor, is the only one at the arena who steps forward to help his 18-year-old tenant Trey after the junior-league hockey player took a puck to the privates. Bruce was asked to make sure the blond stud's plumbing worked. Suffice to say, it did. All eight inches of it.
Part II: The coach asked Bruce to perform physicals on four new recruits ages 18 to 20 next week, and Bruce starts fantasizing over the possibilities. Meanwhile, Bruce has a heart to heart with Trey, who's struggling with his sexuality. Then Bruce finds a spy hole into Trey's room and confirms that the kinky kid seems not to be straight as an arrow.
Part III: Dr. Bruce performs memorable physicals on four hockey players ages 18 to 20, but the patient who sticks in his mind is Brendan, a perfectly toned 5-foot-7 stud from Manitoba. Brendan agrees to have his first prostate exam, with remarkably messy results. Brendan also catches Trey's eye.
Part IV: Trey admits that his penis is in fact eight AND A HALF inches, wonders whether he might be gay, insists on getting a midnight physical from Dr. Bruce, and then insists on examining the 45-year-old doctor who had let two or three years elapse since his last rectal exam.
Part V:
Friday morning came early after the night of cum eating. Nevertheless, Trey left for work an hour before I did and called me at 9:30, chipper as a clam. I, meanwhile, had gotten barely any sleep after the excitement of the previous evening. How could have Trey? I mean, those sorts of things don't happen every night.
The reason for Trey's call was not to say "hey" or, thankfully, to express regrets over what we had experienced together. Rather, he was calling to remind me that he had a game that evening, that his mom and brother would be in town to see it, that he expected them by noon, and did I want to meet them for lunch? The thought of food was a turnoff at that hour and under my condition, but when Trey reminded me that he'd be on the road for nearly a week with the team beginning Sunday, I nevertheless agreed to meet them at an Applebees near the arena.
By the time I arrived, Trey's family was already seated in a four-person booth on the far side of the dining room. I slid in next to Trevor, ordered coffee, visually surveyed Trey to make sure he was OK with what had transpired between us, and then looked at his mom to wonder what she would think about her 18-year-old son feeding me his cum as he ate mine.
The waitress interrupted my daydream with a fake smile and an irritating "ladies first." Diane chose the chef's salad. Risky choice at Applebees, I thought. Trevor did better by ordering a cheeseburger and fries. I opted for chicken salad on wheat with cole slaw. But when Trey ordered cream of broccoli soup and a hot beef sandwhich, I did not know whether to laugh, barf, run screaming from the annoying restaurant, or all of the above. Trey, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the irony of his order because he was preoccupied with fending off his brother's questions about when he was going to get a girlfriend.
Soon, the only food on the table was Trey's soup. I tried to focus on Diane, who was seeking advice on the best route home. But when Trey took a spooonful and Trevor directed an "Mmmm, creamy!" comment toward his big brother, I had to watch Trey slurp the white broth from the spoon and felt guilty that I was getting an erection in front of his mom. Finally, the smart stud recognized what he had done.
He looked horrified for just a second, and then sniffled a laugh through his nose as he slurped the white broth. There was no question that the introverted brainiac was coming out of his shell.
"How's the cream soup, honey?"
"A little runny. Not as creamy as I'd like."
I had to look away.
"Well, Trey, maybe you should send it back."
"Nah. I'm sure the hot beef will be good."
I snorted and then coughed in an attempt to cover up my involuntary reaction. Then Trey kicked my shin. I teasingly rubbed his.
Only when we got up to leave did I appreciate to what degree Trevor was Trey's spitting image. The 15-year-old's hair was a little darker and longer, but his still-lanky body was almost as tall as Trey's and the duo's facial features gave away the fact that they were brothers. From what Trey had said, his brother also played hockey but did not have nearly his skill and did not get much ice time.
But, it seemed, Trevor did not care. According to Trey, the kid was a social dynamo and had girls trailing after him as well as the Facebook page to prove it.
I had one more appointment for the day, so I returned to the clinic for that and then planned to head home for a nap. But when I got back to work, there awaited a surprise. Coach Richards had left a message saying that Brendan Phillips was in town and needed a place to stay for Friday night before Saturday's practice, and would I mind if he crashed at my place since Coach knew Trey was staying with his family?
I called Trey on his cell and asked if Brendan could stay in his room. Trey said he'd be delighted, as long as I would please change the sheets and empty his garbage.
Trey's wish was my command. Not surprisingly, the 18-year-old's bedding had a good share of semen stains in all the expected places. They were dry, of course, but they nevertheless gave me additional insights into the hockey player's masturbation habits. Crust was particularly heavy on one edge of the sheet. How semen ended up on the foot of the bedspread I was not sure. Trey was good at experimenting, that much was for sure.
None of this was too surprising in an 18-year-old's room, of course. But when I went to empty the garbage I made somewhat of a surprising discovery. There were a few dried cumrags but also a condom, obviously used, and obviously several days old. My heart raced as I stretched out the device and contemplated that the latex had hugged Trey's beautiful eight-inch erection. I lifted it toward the light to examine the ample watery contents as they pooled toward the reservoir tip. Had Trey had sex in my house with me knowing? That seemed doubtful. More likely, the spent condom was the result of an 18-year-old trying on protection for size and a test run. I recalled I had done the same, when I was about Trey's age, maybe earlier.
I was sorry that I had missed the sight of Trey struggling to roll the little condom onto his eight-and-a-half-inch erection. I would have loved to have seen him blow his seed into the rubber. But I made up for my disappointment by stripping off my clothes, lying on Trey's bed, rolling over onto his pillow to breathe in the scent of 18-year-old hockey player, and then dribbling half of the days-old semen onto my throbbing erection. It was cold, and basically cloudy water. I convulsed just a bit as Trey's semen touched the underside of my erection and then I paused to examine the result for a good 30 seconds before I lightly touched my boner and then pulled my fingers away to see the slimy result. Finally, when I could not stand it anymore, I began slowly masturbating myself with my thumb and first two fingers, marveling at the way that Trey's days-old semen provided both lubrication and friction for my penis. I palmed myself for a good two minutes and then poured most of the rest of Trey's spent seed directly into my mouth as I fantasized about the day I would take the 18-year-old hockey player's cum directly from his massive penis.
The thought of pleasuring Trey brought me close to the edge, so I quickly squeezed what was left in the condom onto the head of my penis and jacked a while longer before I turned around and sniffed Trey's pillow while I fucked my fist under my crotch. This went on for a couple minutes until I turned back around, pushed Trey's rubber onto my own erection, and got off only about six strokes before I shot my own semen into the stretched-out used condom. Knowing that the condom had previously hugged the 18-year-old blond hockey player's eight-and-a-half-inch erection produced the most intense orgasm I had had in years. I screamed as if I was being murdered as I watched my seed splatter into a vessel that just minutes ago but also for several days had played host to Trey's semen. Finally, after an exceptionally long post-orgasmic recovery, I whined as I peeled the twice-used condom from my penis, undressed the bed, and made sure that the spy hole from the storage room remained unobscured.
* * *
The taste of watery semen and latex was still in my mouth when I choked down the first bite of a frozen pizza. The game was at 7:30, but I headed out and got to the arena by 5:30. It was pretty empty, but I found a few guys in the weight room and decided to say hi. I recognized Cody, the 20-something who had freaked out Trey by groping him on a road trip a couple weeks earlier. Cody was the second-string goalie and hailed from the suburbs of Minneapolis. I put him at about 21. His standout feature was his hair. It was wavy and brown and beautiful when worn long. He had piercing brown eyes and defined sideburns of the type Trey was not yet able to grow. Sort of like a Canadian Fabio, but thankfully not.
Cody was working his hamstrings on a machine. He was wearing a form-fitting white t-shirt and light blue cotton shorts with white spandex underneath.
"Hi. Cody, right?"
"Hey. Yep. What's up?"
"I'm Bruce. Bruce Silverman. Just saying hi."
"Hi. Yeah, I've seen you around. Team doctor, right?"
"Well, not really the team doctor, but I've been helping out where I can. I got involved because Trey lives with me."
At the mention of Trey, the goalie standoffishness evaporated.
"Trey?"
"Yeah. He's my tenant. Rents a room from me."
"I see. Nice kid, that Trey." Cody kept up with the leg curls. His knees were pretty close together, but the mesh shorts left pretty much everything to the imagination. Cody adjusted himself, just a touch.
"Yes, nice young man. Smart, too. Smarter than me. You should see what the kid reads, literature and stuff."
"I've noticed that on the bus. We roomed together a time or two, too."
"That's what I hear. Trey's mom and little brother are in town to see the game tonight. Hopefully he'll put on a good show."
"Hopefully."
"You suiting up?"
"Yeah. Not sure Coach will put me in though. Been having some trouble."
The backup goalie moved to the hip machine, and given the conversation I found license to stand in front of him to assess the dark hair on his shins and what I could see of his thighs. As he moved his knees together and then apart, I struggled to see any hint of the outline of the goalie's goods but generally failed.
"So, Trey, he lives with you?"
"Well, he does pay rent."
"Well, yeah. Do you have, like, a wife or something?"
"No. Not anymore. That's one reason I rent out a room."
"Just a room?"
"Yeah. Why do you ask?"
"I dunno. Just curious."
Cody got up from the machine, laid on a mat, put his legs over his head, and gave me a beautiful view of his nice, tight goalie butt.
His flexibility was excellent, not surprising given his position. Then he sat Indian style and stretched his groin more.
"So, you're a doctor?"
"Eye doctor, but the kind with a medical degree. Been transitioning somewhat to sports medicine."
"Know much about groins?"
"Ah, well ..."
"See, I got this groin pull." Cody placed his palm on his inner thigh. "To be honest, I think it's one reason why I'm not getting more playing time. I think Coach is worried. I've been working it and stretching it, but there's a knot ... right ... here ..." The goalie was pressuring himself enticinly close to his testicles.
"Have you iced it?"
"Yeah, but the whirlpool seems to work better."
"Whirlpool?"
"At the Y."
"I belong to the Y. When do you go?"
"Midmorning usually. Probably when you're at work."
"Probably. Want me to take a look?"
"What's there to look at?"
"Well, I mean, try to assess what's going on?"
"Here?"
"No, we'd go to the training room."
"Well--" Cody hopped to his feet, with a goalie's precision and speed. "Sure, can't hurt."
As we walked to the training room together, I learned the Cory was 22 and not 21 and had been on no fewer than three junior teams over the last four years. He had been a standout in high school but then got hobbled by the groin injury that continued to dog him. Still, his drive to play hockey was strong, he said, and he liked playing in our town because he had met a girlfriend here.
When we reached the training room, Cody instinctively assumed a seated position with his palms flat on the table and his legs fully extended. I surveyed his lower half and appreciated his muscled hamstrings with man hair. After Cody agreed with my suggestion that he lose the cotton shorts, I approached the goalie to try to see what was the matter in the area being squeezed by his white spandex.
"Point again to where it hurts." Now, with Cody in this position, I could plainly see the outline of two testicles and the bump that was most definitely a penis, which was resting toward his left thigh. Cody used his index and middle fingers to palpate an area perhaps an inch to the right of his scrotum. I placed my fingers where his were and pressed into his exceptionally muscular upper thigh.
"That hurt?"
"Yeah. Go up a bit." He brushed a long lock of hair out of his eyes.
"Here?"
"No, I mean in. Toward my--, you know."
I moved my fingers to a position where I could not help but feel the outline of his scrotum. I pressed hard, and he gave a little yelp.
"Yep!" That's it!"
Given his strong musculature, I was having trouble finding any knot, so I asked him to lie back so that I could apply increased pressure. As he did, his brown hair pooled at the sides of his head and the bump where his penis was became more pronounced. I pressed as hard as I could and then found what felt to be a knot."
"Ah! You got it, doc!"
"How does it feel when I do that?"
"Huh. Good actually."
"How 'bout that?"
"Better. Wow!"
"Why don't I try to massage the knot a bit, see what happens."
"Fine by me."
With that, Cody put his hands behind his head and prepared to enjoy the pressure I would be applying. I did the best I could do until my index and middle fingers gave out. When I changed hands, the back of my wrist could not help but brush against the goalie's concealed penis. My tactic seemed to be working, and I followed up by giving the young man a two-handed massage of his upper inner thigh.
"Ooooh. Nice! Thanks!"
It was impossible to ignore that his penis had begun to stir and that the spandex was not going to succeed in keeping the organ in its downward position. I slowed my massage, which caused a tube-shaped bump to appear near the goalie's right thigh. When I moved my massage to the right to -- in my words, "even you out" -- it took little time for the long-haired hockey player to become about three-quarters hard.
"Whoa! Doc! I'm not sure you--"
"Something wrong, Cody?" I intensified my massage, to torture the kid who had caused angst for my friend Trey.
"Well, no, I'm just, ah--" Finally, Cody pulled at the sides of the tight shorts to permit his penis to take the position that it yearned to take. It seemed to be just under six inches, not long enough to escape from the spandex, but long enough to bunch up at the top of the shorts.
"Do you want me to stop?
"No, ah. I'm not sure. I don't want to--"
I changed my position so I could place both of my thumbs on either side of the goalie's scrotum. Then I pushed hard while letting my fingers rest on his impressively tight upper thighs.
"Let me know if this isn't helping."
"I think it is, ah actually ..." I pressed a little faster and began doing a massage with my fingers as well. "... Ah, actually, I think I'm-- Ah, Doc, you better--!"
At that point, Cody put a palm on the underside of his erection and a wet spot almost magically emerged at the top of the goalie's tight shorts. He then placed his fingers on either side of his concealed erection and jacked himself slightly to let escape what needed to escape. Then I stepped back to watch the goalie squirm. When he jiggled his shorts, a glob of white cum escaped and the wet spot on the shorts spread out such that there was no concealing the fact that the 22-year-old backup goalie had just had an orgasm on the training table.
When Cody sat up, this made the wetness even more obvious. He brushed his hair out of his face, hopped down, turned from me, and seemed to pull out the waistband to take stock of the unexpected mess that had been made. The hunky goalie apologized and blushed. He was in an embarrassed state of agony, and for that I was secretly happy.
"Looks like you enjoyed yourself, young man."
"I should have asked you to--" The goalie's shoulders raised and lowered as he signed in and out and it was clear that he was stumped about what to do next.
"Cody, why don't you strip off those shorts and wear just the cotton ones. Nobody'll notice."
"Good idea." Cory did not turn from me as he scrambled out of the spandex to get the whole process behind him as soon as possible. It took longer than he wanted because it was tough to get spandex tennis shoes, and I enjoyed taking stock of Cody's flaccid penis and hairy testicles. He was of about Brendan's length, but fatter, and it was fun to watch the organ bob up and down as the goalie struggled to disrobe. Semen stuck to the heavy pattern of dark brown pubic hair that ran throughout the goalie's crotch, onto his scrotum, and throughout his thighs. I looked at Cody's right hand, the one holding the cum-soaked shorts, and wondered whether that was the one he used to touch 18-year-old Trey's six-inch floppy penis when he thought my young friend was asleep. Then I looked back at Cody's penis and recognized that I was visually inspecting the very organ that this "straight" boy had jerked after invading his younger bedmate in the motel, and that the semen I was seeing resembled what he had quietly blown into the sheets with Trey in the bed.
"Where are my other shorts?"
"I'm not sure. Where did you put them?"
As Cody scanned the room, I scanned him, and enjoyed putting the 22-year-old through a hint of the angst he had imposed on my 18-year-old friend.
"They're behind you, ah, Doc. Would you mind?"
"Oh, sure. Not at all, Cody." I handed him the dry cotton shorts and extended my hand to take the wet tight ones. The goalie handed them over, understandably eager to get this whole experience behind him. As he began trying to slip the shorts over his right shoe, I suggested that he might want to clean up at the sink first. He agreed that that was a good idea, so while he mopped up his mess, I positioned myself away from the mirror so he could not see me take a whiff and taste of his nutty semen, which, given the circumstances, tasted not nearly as nice as Trey's.
When the cleanup was done, I handed over the spermy shorts.
"Thanks."
"Sure."
"Hey, doc. Nobody needs to know about this, right?"
"Right. Between you and me."
"Between you and me. Good. I mean, my girlfriend, she-- I mean, I'm not gay or anything. You know that, right?"
"Of course not, Cody."
"I'll buy you a beer sometime."
"I guess a 22-year-old can do that."
"OK, then, well, see ya."
"Bye, Cody. Hope you get more playing time."
As I left the training room and headed for the arena, I felt all warm and fuzzy as I saw that Brendan had made his way to town and was in Coach Richards' office. The two were discussing the practice schedule and what it would be like for Brendan on the long road trip ahead. Brendan was to be suited up at 10:00 a.m. the next day for practice. Then the team was then to grab showers at the arena before beginning the journey by bus Saturday afternoon so they would be closer to the destination for their Sunday afternoon game. Since the fireplug of an 18-year-old was going to be my guest for the first night, I felt comfortable interrupting the conversation.
"Brendan, good to see you again." I shook the confident teen's hand, noting its smoothness and fairly small size but undeniably firm grip. The confident teen smiled broadly as his eyes sparkled his appreciation for a night's lodging. His black hair was a little longer than I had remembered -- particularly in back, which, stereotypically, was pooling into the beginnings of a curly mullet. He was wearing a button-down oxford shirt and black Dockers that made his butt look beyond fine. The farm boy's quasi-Italian features were even nicer than I remembered them, and I noticed probably a day's growth of baby whiskers on his chin and above his lip. He was one of those small-town, innocent guys who puts you at ease right away -- friendly, adequately smart but not too much, and with dimples as cute as a button. As I gave him the visual once-over, I felt my penis begin to stir when I recalled what he looked like in his hockey pants, and as I replayed the memory of his physical -- how he met me outside the training room wearing only a towel, how he rejected the thought of grabbing some boxers before the exam, how his penis, though not large, was perfect for his frame. And then I got about half hard at the thought of the cute farm kid spending the night at my house and sleeping just a foot from the little hole in the wall between Trey's room and the storage room.
"Hi Doc! Hey, thanks for letting me stay."
"Not a problem. Trey said he doesn't mind if you use his room for the night."
"Fantastic. I really appreciate this, from both of you. I'll make it up to Trey."
"I'm sure he'd appreciate it. You'll leave your gear here I'm sure, but why don't I take your bag to the car, so you don't forget it."
"Sure."
I took Brendan's duffel to my Honda Accord and could not resist a peek. Boxers, size 32. As I suspected.
* * *
When I met Diane in the stands, I realized that my penis was still crusty from using her son's days-old condom seed as masturbation lubricant while on his bed. Somehow I managed to put that fact out of my mind and ended up enjoying watching the game with Diane -- and, to a degree, Trevor -- because Trey's play was almost beyond awesome! Gutsy Trey threw himself in front of slapshots at least twice (thankfully, with no injuries to his gorgeous plumbing), got in plenty of fair but fairly jarring hip checks (impressive, given his below-average weight for a defenseman), and -- to top it all off -- scored the game-winning winning goal during a shootout (how often do defensemen get picked when a team is in that position?) I had a feeling he was going to score as he stood at the center line and leaned over the puck (giving me a nice view of his cute ass in those breezers). When the wrist shot hit the upper left corner, Trey raised up both arms and so did the crowd. He threw his stick to the boards and stormed toward the home bench but did not make it because his teammates piled on the plucky 18-year-old and patted his shoulders and the back of his hockey pants. (I thought to myself, how GAY is that!?) The crowd erupted, and Diane let it be known that that was her kid who had just scored during the shootout.
Unfortunately, Trevor missed the big goal because he was flirting with girls in the concourse.
As the crowd started for the exits, Diane and I made our ways against the flow to stand above the home bench. Quite naturally Trey was the last one off the ice. He had lost his helmet during the piling on, and his blond curls were glistening and his blue eyes on fire as he entered the bench and came right toward us.
"Oh, Trey, honey, I am SO proud of you."
"Wasn't that -- amazing mom?!" I had never seen Trey so excited. (Nor had I talked to him since jacking off with his semen.) The young man really was pumped. You could see it in his eyes. The three of us continued to talk hockey, and soon Coach Richards joined in, congratulated Trey for a helluva game, and expressed pleasure that Diane had been able to witness this. As the coach left, Diane leaned over the boards and gave her pink-cheeked son a peck on the cheek, tossled his hair, and told him his dad would be very, very proud of him. When Trey blushed, I simultaneously got lumps in my throat and my pants.
I followed Trey back to the locker room and watched his butt jiggle as he went down the runway. Gosh, the kid was cute! Most of the guys were already in the shower, so I lingered by Trey and watched him strip off his gear. Brendan came on the scene just as Trey had stripped off his shoulder pads. The littler guy smiled ear to ear as he congratulated the studly game winner and patted his butt through the hockey pants.
"Thanks, Brendan. Wow. What a game. What a goal! One to remember."
There was little doubt that Brendan was lingering to see Trey give a strip tease. Finally the blond defenseman peeled off his shin pads, suspenders and breezers and stood before us in just his cup and Undergear.
"Brendan, man, it's great to see you again!"
"Great to see you, in person, ya know, after all that messaging and those calls."
"Yeah. Exactly."
Trey seemed to be enjoying our gaze. He slipped off the cup and then the Undergear before realizing that the stack of towels was several steps away.
"Hey, Bruce?"
"Yeah?"
"You know, I did take one shot tonight, in the cup. Everything stayed in, but I felt a sting ... right ... above ... here."
"Let's take a look."
Brendan lingered too as I palpated the hair-covered region perhaps an inch above Trey's six-inch penis. Indeed, there was a red spot and he was not lying. I thought, what the hell, let's get Brendan in on the act.
"Brendan, look OK to you?"
The black-haired stud was stunned as I invited him to examine the region above Trey's penis. He approached the sweaty player and stood a touch closer than he needed to as he peered down Trey's abs and toward the top of his dangling penis.
"It does look --- a little red."
"That ever happen to you, Brendan?" Trey was wondering.
"Yeah, sometimes." Brendan pretended to rub a similar area on himself, but missed. He was gently massaging his penis instead.
"Well, if you ever need somebody to take a look, and the Doc's not around ..."
"Sure, Trey, thanks." Brendan was blushing -- and probably flushing too.
At that point, Trey pranced toward the towels, and more than a couple heads turned -- including that of Peter, the assistant coach, who declared that even though he had just come out of the shower, he had forgotten to wash his hair, and for that reason had to go back in.
Brendan then joined me in the lobby as we found Diane, who was looking for Trevor. I spotted him between two vending machines flirting with three girls who wore low-cut blouses and were three inches taller and two years older than the slightly toe-headed 15-year-old.
Diane -- clearly accustomed to her roosterish son -- - fished her potential jailbait away from the chesty temptations just as Trey appeared on the scene. The girls recognized the resemblance and sauntered over to give the hunky scorer of the game-winning goal a visual once-over but said not a word. Rather, I saw one of them shovel a slip of paper to Trevor as the two strutted away.
I thought to myself, Even 17-year-old girls in hockey-crazed Canada could develop a keen sense of "gaydar."
And then, as Trey headed to the Country Inn & Suites with his family, Brendan and I headed to my Accord.
* * *
"Right down here, young man."
I turned on the light in Trey's room and Brendan through his duffel on Trey's bed. "This is great, doc, thanks again."
"Not a problem. And remember, it's Bruce. Make yourself at home. Bathroom is down the hall, towels are in there, feel free to come up and watch a little TV."
"Sure, thanks, I think I will. I'll just throw on some shorts and be right up."
I left Trey's room, closed the door, and turned on my heels to tiptoe into the storage area. I did not want to miss one second of watching cute little Brendan. Thankfully, the new recruit left the light on as he pulled his shirt tails out of his Dockers, unbuttoned the garment, and slipped it from his t-shirt-clad torso. His back was facing the spy hole as he took off his shoes and socks, but then he turned sideways as he unbuttoned and unzipped the Dockers and slid them to his knees, then his shins, and then over his feet. The hockey player then faced the bed and therefore the spy hole as he stood in his boxers to fold the pants and lay them at the foot of the bed. Then he retrieved some white mesh shorts from his duffel and stood with his back to me as he slipped out of his underwear. The 18-year-old's ass was perhaps four feet from me. It had just a touch of black hair, and was perfectly muscled and proportioned. When Brendan spotted a mirror over Trey's desk, the 18-year-old recruit took off his t-shirt and admired his physique, as did I. I felt the blood rush to my crotch as the young man surveyed the biceps that were sizable for his frame, and then the cute little guy pouted a little as he flexed his small but muscled pecs. I almost started laughing when the little guy jumped up and down a few times, apparently to watch his four-inch penis and lightly haired testicles jiggle in his new teammate's room.
I rooted for the hockey player to get himself off right then and there, but then the show was over almost as soon as it started as he climbed into the mesh shorts, put on the same t-shirt, and scampered upstairs. I followed behind, giving no hint to where I had been.
"Hungry, Brendan?"
"N-not really. What'ya got?
"Oh, let's see, half a frozen pizza, some lunchmeat, some chicken from the deli ..."
"Got any cereal?"
"Cereal? Sure. First cupboard on the right, second shelf. Help yourself."
I retrieved a bowl and milk as Brendan approached with raisin bran. I munched on cold pizza as the teen told me how pumped he was to get a chance at junior league hockey and how it always had been a dream.
"Well, from what I've seen, you work darn hard, young man. Very hard."
"Well, doc, I try. That's all a guy can do."
I surveyed the young specimen as he leaned against the cupboard, slurped at his cereal, and seemed to ponder how the world was his oyster. His undershirt clung to his little but well-developed pecs, and the mesh shorts hung tantilizingly from the 18-year-old's 5-foot-7 frame. Dressed all in white, he looked like an angel. I proceeded to probe his more devliish side.
"Have a seat."
"Thanks."
"So, you've got four brothers? Share a room?"
"Yep. I'm the youngest, so I got lumped in with the second-to-youngest brother."
"That must have sucked."
"Oh, it wasn't that bad."
"What do your brothers do?"
"Well, my two oldest brothers, Brian and Brent, are still on the farm. Well, actually, they live nearby, and they farm with our dad."
"They'll be taking it over someday?"
"Yep."
"Are there animlals on the farm? Livestock?"
"We've got sheep, some pigs. Mainly a grain operation."
"Sheep, eh? They must be cuddly."
"Um, sometimes. When I was a kid, I'd pet the lambs, until I was old enough to help castrate them."
"Ouch!"
"Ah, yeah."
"So no girls on the farm, huh?"
"Just my mom."
"Is it true what they say about haylofts?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are they fun?"
"Why would they be?"
"You moving back to the farm?"
"No. You know, it's never been my thing. I never felt like a farm kid."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. Maybe go to college. Do something where I can help people, I guess."
"Helping people is very important. It's my favorite part of my job."
"So you must be pretty smart, to go to medical school?"
"I was OK. Not the best, but I got by. Never came naturally. Like you have to work hard in hockey, I had to work hard in school. Not
like Trey, who is a natural at everything he touches."
"Where'd you go to school?"
"Went to college in Toronto, and medical school in the States."
"You like Toronto?"
"I do. Quite a bit. There's one of everything in Toronto. One of everybody. Actually several of everybody, if you know what I mean."
"My other brother, Brady, lived in Toronto for a while, but he moved."
"Where does he live now?"
"New York."
"No kidding? So he left the farm behind, had no problem doing so?"
"Farming was NEVER his thing. He was good in school, and did a lot of activities. Drove my parents and other brothers crazy, getting
him to town all the time, before he could drive."
"Lots of hockey practices, I bet."
"No, he hated hockey. He was in a lot of plays, in choir, that sort of thing."
"I see. What does he do in New York?"
"Works at a restaurant, which I guess is very cool, and he acts when he can. Like, acts on stage."
"Wow, cool. On Broadway?"
"I think so. When he can."
"Trey says you're a singer."
"He told you that?"
"Was he not supposed to?"
"No, well-- I mean, I'm just surprised."
"About what?"
"That he'd remember that, about me."
"Why?"
"Well, singing and hockey don't exactly go together."
"Says who?"
"That's what my dad says, that singing is for girls."
"No it's not. And I bet you could find some singing hockey players in Toronto."
There was a lull in the conversation for thirty seconds. Brendan needed to say something, but he was not sure how.
"See, Bruce, my brother, Brady, he likes Toronto, and New York."
"So do I."
"See, Bruce, he's gay."
"I see."
"And he doesn't come home anymore. Actually, he's not allowed to."
"Oh my. Brendan, I'm sorry--"
"I am too. I mean, I'm closest to Brady in age, and in other ways too I think. To be honest, he and I have always had a lot in common.
I mean, he likes hockey and everything, and he used to give me lots of rides to practice and stuff, so we used to talk in the car a
lot. And in our room."
"How much older is he?"
"A year and a half."
"And does he have a partner?"
"Yes. But my dad doesn't know it. I'm the only one who knows about it, so please keep in to yourself. You probably shouldn't even tell Trey."
"That must be very difficult for you, for all of you."
"Yeah. See, ah-- Um, Bruce, Trey said you were married?"
"Yes."
"And now you're not?"
"Right."
"Why not?"
"We just grew apart. That's the main reason. Looking for different things in life, I guess."
Brendan pulled my cordless phone from the charger and fiddled with it while avoiding eye contact with me. I yearned to see the young man's green eyes and perfect pearly whites, but some serious things were on the young man's mind.
"Bruce?"
"Yeah?"
"I like Trey."
"I like him too."
"Does he like me?"
"I think he does. In fact, I know he does."
Brendan put the phone back in the charger.
"I mean, I'm just starting to get to know him, but he and I, I think, we connect."
"That's great. I connect with Trey too. He's a very special young man, and I'm beginning to think you are too."
Brendan blushed, as much as a boy with Italian blood in him can blush.
"Trey says you're pretty cool."
"I guess I don't think of myself as cool."
"He says you are. Says you're great at helping people, helping guys, us younger guys, learn about ourselves and to think openly about ourselves."
"I thought my ears might have been burning."
Brendan looked at me, puzzled. I just let it rest.
"It's just-- hard sometimes, Bruce."
"I know. Being 18 can be awful."
"I feel like I'm supposed to know everything, but I don't."
"No, you don't."
"I mean, like when you gave me the adult exam when I was here for tryouts, I mean, you taught me stuff about me I didn't know."
"Like what?"
"Like, well, when you were checking my prostrate--"
"Your prostate, yes?"
"Pros-tate. And you did that thing where you press right under, under my balls, and I can't, you know--"
"Ejaculate semen."
"Yes, eject s-semen. I-- I didn't know that before."
"Well, you can't know everything."
"I mean, I didn't learn it on my own."
"I don't think I did, either."
"You just have a way of-- of talking to me, to guys, that makes me really comfortable, Bruce."
I leaned against the counter and gave Brendan's shoulder a squeeze.
"Bruce?"
"Yes Brendan?"
"Can I ask you a really personal question?"
"You can ask. If it's too personal, I just won't answer."
"Fair enough. OK. Um, have you ever been with a guy?"
"Have I ever had sex with a man, is that what you're asking?"
"Yes, that's what I'm asking."
"Yes, Brendan, I have."
"So you're gay then?"
"I don't think of myself as gay, not entirely."
"I don't get it."
"Hmm. See, Brendan, it's like this. I'm sexually attracted to men, some men, not all men, and I'm also attracted to women."
"OK, so you're bi."
"I'm bi. I suppose I am. The thing is, see, while I very much enjoy having conversations like this with you, or with Trey, and many other guys, I'm not emotionally attracted to guys in a relationship sort of way. Are you following what I'm saying?"
"I think so. In fact I know so. You're sort of talking like my brother, the New York one."
"Brent, was it?"
"Brady."
"Brady."
"Yeah. He told me, like when he was a junior in high school, that he didn't like girls."
"I see."
"He asked me if I liked girls."
"And what did you say?"
"I said that I thought so."
"Well, you were, what, fifteen?"
"Yeah. Fifteen. But I'm not sure I do."
"That you do what?"
"Like girls."
"I see.
Finally, Brendan looked at me straight on. His eyes darted back and forth rapidly, as eyes do when their owner is trying to look deep into the other person's soul. I saw his lower lip quiver, and he began to tear up. And then, he said two words very slowly, and could barely get the second one out.
"I'm ... scared."
I crossed around the island and Brendan immediately fell into my arms with a sob. He was about an inch taller than my ex-wife, and in a flash I recalled the night when she had fallen into my arms, when it was clear that we could not go on as we had been living. The 18-year-old hockey player cried as he probably had not cried since he was 8 or 9. Within 30 seconds I could feel his tears soaking through my t-shirt onto the skin of my right shoulder. I pet the boy's black hair and pulled lightly at his curly mullet. Then I hugged him closer to me and felt his crotch rub against mine. I could feel his pert 4-inch penis poke into the area right around my navel. The young man did not move, and neither did I. We stood that way for another three minutes or so, until his sobs finally subsided and he pulled away and looked at me with the most pained look I think I had ever seen.
Brendan pulled a paper towel from the spindle on the island and blew his nose. "I'm just ... so ... scared."
"I know. I understand. Let's let it rest. Watch some TV. We can talk more later. I mean, you're not going anywhere. You made the team."
Brendan brightened up a bit. "Yeah, Bruce, you're right, I made the team."
"Welcome to the team, Brendan."
* * *
It was about 11:00 by the time Brendan and I finally sat down to watch TV. An NHL game from the West Coast was still on, Canucks versus the Wild. It was tied 3-3 and went into overtime, but Brendan was exhausted -- physically and emotionally -- and he collapsed on the couch flat on his back with his legs crossed and started snoring softly. I watched his tummy rise and fall with each deep sleepy breath. I looked at his lower legs, which were fairly hairy for a guy of his age. They were crossed in a way that made his penis and testicles rest on top of his groin. I looked at the little white mound and recalled how perfect his penis was, perfectly proportioned to his size, how it hung just to the right, especially when erect. How he trimmed his jet-black pubes, and how those hockey-player thighs and butt muscles had refused to let my finger go during his adult prostate exam in the training room. How I had taught him that when you press under your testicles during an orgasm, the ejaculate will not come out until you release the pressure, and how when you do, you can end up with semen in your hair.
He looked like a perfect little angel. But ever so slowly I was learning about another side of cute little Brendan.
I thought about letting the sleepyhead just stay on the couch, but I thought it was best to get him to bed, to Trey's room, where he would sleep better and where -- admittedly -- I would have a chance of learning more about the young man. After I ushered him downstairs, I headed for my spying perch in the storage room next door. I felt the blood rush to my crotch as the sleepyhead found energy to stand in front of Trey's mirror, peel up his t-shirt, admire his taut tummy, and strip off the shirt. Then he slowly peeled the shorts down to reveal his trimmed bush of black pubes, then the shaft of his four-inch flaccid penis, and then the whole organ and its accompanying testicles. And then -- gasp! -- cute Brendan turned off the light!
I could see just the outline of the teenager's frame as he climbed into Trey's bed and under the covers. I listened for any hint of sheets rustling, penis rubbing, or singing hockey player moaning, but after five minutes, I heard only a light snore.
I counted blessings that Brendan had entered my life, that he slept in the raw, and that tomorrow morning was supposed to be sunny.
* * *
At the first sight of decent daylight, I headed to the storage room to see if Brendan had somehow ended up on top of the sheets, naked.
The bad news was that he had not. The good news was that Trey's curtains did not block out barely any sunlight. He liked it that way, he said.
I went back upstairs to start the coffee, choke down a little cold pizza, and pour one cup's worth before heading back downstairs. I spied on my house guest for another 45 minutes before realizing that the time had come. It was a quarter to eight, but I wanted to give the farm boy plenty of time to do his morning chores.
I knocked lightly three times. "Brendan, you up?"
I heard a stir, and then an acknowledgement. I told Brendan to make himself at home and that I'd be "around the house" if he needed anything. Then I quickly tiptoed to watch the sleepyhead rise.
I got in position just as Brendan put his arms behind his head, stretched, and yawned. He pushed the sheet and blanket down to just below his nipples and then craned his neck to take stock of the recent growth of hair between his pecs. Then he pushed it down a little more to watch himself pull at the beginnings of his treasure trail, and then seemed to grope himself through the sheet and blanket.
And then finally, Brendan peeled down the blanket and sheet to reveal what the typical 18-year-old has four mornings out of five: morning wood. And it was his morning chore to chop it.
The cute sleepyead yawned before taking stock of the part of him that already had been awake by pulling his erection straight away from his belly to make it stand straight up so he -- and I -- could admire its perfect head, its tubular shape, and how from that angle the front side looks so smoother than the more angry and veined underside. Brendan's penis curved slightly to the right when hard and was a beautiful and strong six-inch erection, even better than I had remembered from our time in the training room. After he was satisfied with his self-examination, he placed his erection back on his belly and played with his warm testicles that had been caressed by the feel of soft cotton sheets. Brendan pushed each ball to either side of the base of his erection, and seemed to enjoy the way that they moved so freely, particularly in the morning.
Then the hockey player turned his attention back to his morning erection, which had not lost a centimeter of size even though he had been playing with other parts of his anatomy. Rather, it throbbed with each beat of his heart as the six-incher seemed to plead for Brendan to give it attention with his smooth little hands. He put his left hand behind his head and lifted up slightly as he firmly placed the six-inch piece of skin and blood between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. And then, ever so slowly, the farm boy began moving the smooth teenage skin of his still-dry penis over the hardened erectile tissue underneath. He moved himself slowly, so as to enjoy the hard-soft feeling between his fingers and also the sensation of attending to nerve endings that yearned in the morning to be caressed.
The morning light came through the east-facing window just enough so that I could see the tip of Brendan's morning wood begin to glisten. He saw it too, and when he did, he used what had naturally come from inside his male plumbing to lubricate the outside -- first just the head's underside, then just under the head, then as many inches of the underside for which precum was available. The result of the lubrication was to cause the young man's plumbing to produce even more, which he distributed along the length of the erection's front and back while saving just enough for his tongue.
With a penis glistening from preseminal fluid and just a hint of saliva, Brendan to get down to business. He turned toward me as he pulled his legs from the warm comfort of the covers, giving me a straight-on view of his retracted scrotum. Brendan seemed to shiver just a touch as the full length of his 5-foot-7 frame came in contact with the cool morning air. He crossed his ankles and cupped his testicles as he gently thrust his hips in a way that caused his erectile tissue to slide against baby-smooth skin of his forearm. It was a technique I had used as a boy. In a flash, I recalled how I had cupped my balls and rocked my penis against my arm until I felt ready to convulse out some pee but that as my penis throbbed nothing had come out.
Brendan, it seemed, had not abandoned this technique as I had. Eventually, though, the farm boy assumed a more traditional technique as he started palming himself at a rate that averaged about two strokes a second. After perhaps 45 seconds, Brendan started bucking his hips as he fucked his fist. Over and over I saw the purple upper part of his erection strain from the pressure, only to disappear into his hand and then reappear. Gradually he sped up, and even through the wall I could hear the faint sound of an 18-year-old's morning masturbation moans.
And then he got up on his elbows and went back to holding his six inches just between his thumb and first two fingers. With his left hand, the hockey player felt both pecs and tugged at the recent growth of hair between them before moving his hand to his five-pack, then his pubic hair, and back to his abs. Then he laid back and turned his head toward me as he sniffed and then licked his left pit and intensified the jacking. Pants of pleasure passed through the teeth that usually added so much to the young man's smile but now could not conceal the tongue that was exploring his smelly underarm. I noticed the length of his black lashes, how even his nose suggested that he was a confident and not-too-cocky young man, how just his chin and upper lip sported a hodgepodge patchwork of two-day-old adolescent whiskers.
I wanted to see the semen erupt from the talented hockey player's perfect penis, but I also wanted to watch his cute face since it was turned right toward me. The young man stopped licking himself and instead puckered his lips and, when right on the verge, wrinkled his nose. At the precise moment I knew that the first shot of semen had splashing from his penis, the 18-year-old hockey player made an "oooh!" shape with his mouth and opened his eyes in a way that conveyed both sheer pleasure and horrible torture. I saw one shot of semen land on his neck but otherwise could not see the sticky and slimy results of the morning masturbation session. Rather, I stayed focused on the young man's face as he bit his lower lip and continued to relish the tremendous and terrible sensation that is the male orgasm.
The tension in the black-haired young man's face was replaced with relief as he inhaled and exhaled in sheer bliss. As he moved his head to survey the results, so did I, and what we both saw was a shot of semen on the young man's neck, two sticking to the sparse hair between his pecs, perhaps four on his tummy, and several shots that had dribbled into his trimmed black pubic hair. Brendan wiped the ejaculate from his neck and ate that dose and then used that same left hand to spread list a little of the rest around his torso. He then held his right hand to survey the cum that had not escaped his jacking-off hand and seemed pleased with the volume and then the taste, and then the cute 18-year-old laid back one more time to survey a morning chore finely done.
And then, Brendan swung his legs to the floor. He stood with his muscled butt toward me and he realized -- as do all guys from time to time -- that he had failed to plan for the messy results. I caught just a glimpse of his face in Trey's mirror as he made the sort of funny face one makes when one thinks he is alone. Then he paraded around the room until he found Trey's dirty clothes in the closet. When he turned back , I saw that he had chosen a pair of Trey's gray Hanes boxer-briefs, size 34. Brendan held the garment in front of him and pawed at the crotch just slightly as he seemingly assessed the strain that Trey's six-inch flaccid penis had put on the cotton fabric. Then he gave the crotch perhaps four whiffs, pursed his lips when pleased with the smell of Trey's dirty crotch, wiped the pools of semen onto his teammates undergarment, and put it back in Trey's hamper.
When Brendan put on just his mesh shorts to grab a shower, I waited for the water to start running before high-tailing it to Trey's room to relish the scent of Trey's crotch and Brendan's cum on the same dirty undergarment. It had been probably 90 seconds since Brendan had cleaned himself up, so both the texture and scent of his nutty seed was almost beyond arousing.
An hour later, on our way to the arena, Brendan's smile had returned. Mine, meanwhile, had never gone away. But I was sad I would not see either Trey or Brendan for nearly a week. They were due back in town Friday night. I sought out Trey at the arena, said I enjoyed spending time with his mom, squeezed his shoulder, and wished him good luck.
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2005
- Posts
- 22
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 0
That story was actually amazing, totally my type of story! loads of build up and not just straight in there with the sex. Loved it!
harry113
JUB Addict
Thanks. Very entertaining!!!
Wonderful chapter, more please
Harry
Wonderful chapter, more please
Harry
sfcfml,
A great read. I'm enjoying learning all about our young hockey studs.
Doc's certainly getting a sub-specialty in Sports Medicine, particularly preventative procedures pertinent to penile and prostate problems!
Lucky Bastard!
The boys are certainly in Good Hands!
Keep Cranking out the great story.
A great read. I'm enjoying learning all about our young hockey studs.
Doc's certainly getting a sub-specialty in Sports Medicine, particularly preventative procedures pertinent to penile and prostate problems!
Lucky Bastard!
The boys are certainly in Good Hands!
Keep Cranking out the great story.
latinoguy19
Sex God
- Joined
- Jun 8, 2006
- Posts
- 780
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 0
That was incredibly hot.
Sounds like it's enough to make a SoCal boy Salivate!
(I'm in the great NE where hockey is a hometown sport, so I get to think about the boys closer to home while I read this!)
We're in an AHL town, minors to the NHL. Even though our Parent team changed last year - a falling out between the owners of the Buffalo Sabres and the Rochester Americans (Amerks, our parent club is Fl Panthers -- that still seem odd. But, then again, what is S. Florida except Extremely Southern NY, anyway -- with all the retirees.
That's one reason we had the Bills/Dolphins AFC rivalry for so many years.
Come visit some time -- all the action you could ever want in a contact sport -- including blood on the ice!
They play hard. They want to get called up to the next level.
(I'm in the great NE where hockey is a hometown sport, so I get to think about the boys closer to home while I read this!)
We're in an AHL town, minors to the NHL. Even though our Parent team changed last year - a falling out between the owners of the Buffalo Sabres and the Rochester Americans (Amerks, our parent club is Fl Panthers -- that still seem odd. But, then again, what is S. Florida except Extremely Southern NY, anyway -- with all the retirees.
That's one reason we had the Bills/Dolphins AFC rivalry for so many years.
Come visit some time -- all the action you could ever want in a contact sport -- including blood on the ice!
They play hard. They want to get called up to the next level.
sfcfml
On the Prowl
Part VI is below. No, it's not the big "climax." Not yet. I felt I had a little more to write before getting to that. But it's coming next, as will the characters in the story. 
Thanks for reading and for all your positive feedback.
The story so far:
Part I: Dr. Bruce, although an eye doctor, is the only one at the arena who steps forward to help his 18-year-old tenant Trey after the junior-league hockey player took a puck to the privates. Bruce was asked to make sure the blond stud's plumbing worked. Suffice to say, it did. All eight inches of it.
Part II: The coach asked Bruce to perform physicals on four new recruits ages 18 to 20 next week, and Bruce starts fantasizing over the possibilities. Meanwhile, Bruce has a heart to heart with Trey, who's struggling with his sexuality. Then Bruce finds a spy hole into Trey's room and confirms that the kinky kid seems not to be straight as an arrow.
Part III: Dr. Bruce performs memorable physicals on four hockey players ages 18 to 20, but the patient who sticks in his mind is Brendan, a perfectly toned 5-foot-7 stud from Manitoba. Brendan agrees to have his first prostate exam, with remarkably messy results. Brendan also catches Trey's eye.
Part IV: Trey admits that his penis is in fact eight AND A HALF inches, wonders whether he might be gay, insists on getting a midnight physical from Dr. Bruce, and then insists on examining the 45-year-old doctor who had let two or three years elapse since his last rectal exam.
Part V: Dr. Bruce finds Trey's spent condom and masturbates with it and then gets some sweet revenge on Cody, the 22-year-old who felt up Trey in bed. Then Brendan comes to stay the night, tells Bruce he probably doesn't like girls, and then takes care of his morning erection as Bruce watches from the spy hole.
Part VI:
On the way back to my car, Diane stopped me and asked if she could talk to me a minute about Trey. Uh-oh, I thought. What has Trey said? Did she show that every last thing that Trey and I had experienced -- from my masturbation of him in the training room to the semen he fed me the previous night -- were his decisions and that I had never pressured him to do anything against his wishes.
I told Diane I'd be glad to talk and suggested the arena's concourse. Trevor trailed behind, obsessed with his iPod.
My hand shook a little as I fed a dollar into the vending machine and dialed up a cup of coffee for Diane and then did the same for myself. Thankfully, Diane started in right away and began to put my fears to rest.
"So, Trey, he's going OK, you think?"
"I think he's doing great, Diane. It's a pleasure having him around."
"Well, he appreciates you so much. That's what he told me, last night."
"What did he say?"
"That you take time to listen, in a way that makes Trey want to talk -- which is unusual for him, particularly since his father died."
"I am very sorry about your loss, Diane."
"It was tough. Still is. I hate to say it, but we had good insurance, so money is not an issue. It's too bad Dwight won't be here to see the boys grow up. That being said, there was no question that Trevor was his favorite. So Trey, poor guy, he doesn't miss his dad at all. What a shame."
"That's what Trey let on."
"Did Trey tell you why he doesn't miss him?"
"Maybe."
"The boy from the library?"
"He did mention something."
"I can tell that Trey told you. You're just protecting his privacy. For that, I'm grateful. But Bruce, see, Trey has always had ... had ... gay tendencies. It took his dad by surprise, or so he put on. That's why Dwight beat him up, because he caught Trey masturbating with another boy. But good lord, they were thirteen! Trevor was masturbating, what?, three times a day at thirteen? Still is, actually. A mom knows these things, Bruce. A mom knows things about her sons that these headstrong teenagers have no idea that their mom knows."
No, I thought to myself, there is NO WAY my mom knew that I sometimes beat off with an electric sander -- minus the sandpaper, of course.
"Bruce you're a man of the world. Trey mentioned that you had been married and are now divorced, and that you ah, find women attractive, but that -- he was sort of signaling that, ah, you like to spend time with men as well."
"Well, I am who I am, I guess, Diane."
"And I'm fine with that. Really. Look, Bruce, Trey is 18, and he's going to do what he's going to do. I just want him to be safe. And happy."
"I think he's safe, Diane."
"But is he happy? I mean, before I moved to our little town I sowed some oats. That might surprise you, looking at me now, a single mom living in the middle of nowhere. Well, ha!, Vancouver is no San Francisco, but it's got it's side, you know. I'm not dumb, though for many years I played dumb wife with Trey's dad. And with Trevor. And, unfortunately, with Trey. I'm smart enough to know there's nothing wrong with being gay. If that's how he is, that's how he is. It's nothing I did wrong, or Dwight did wrong, or Trey did wrong. It's who he would be, or is."
"Yet you want grandchildren, don't you."
"I do. Doesn't every mom?"
"I don't think my mom did, to be honest. And from the looks of it, Trevor will not disappoint."
"You might be right. Well, the reason I wanted to pull you aside is to thank you. Look, Bruce, I love my son very, very much. And I want him to be happy, more than anything else in the world. He's very book smart, as you know, and although he sometimes lacks real-world smarts, he is smart enough to know that the hockey thing is a fad for him. It won't be his career. It's great for now, and he knows it. My son is very much a person who likes to try new things, at least once, whether it's reading a type of book he's never tried before, or spending a year playing hockey and working in a library. I know he'll get this hockey out of his system and go to college. He's got scholarship offers galore."
"What a lucky guy."
"And Bruce, since you came into Trey's life, I see a new Trey emerging -- more socially confident, outwardly funny. He doesn't always have his nose in a book. At the motel, he actually watched some trashy TV with me and Trevor. I don't think he had ever done that. Spent most of his time in his room. Of course, this morning, he was up reading about the history of Canadian native peoples while Trevor was still asleep and I was watching HGTV. Good ol' Trey ..."
"Well, Diane, it's been an honor to know Trey. And to get to know you a little bit."
"Same here, Bruce. Well, we should be going ..."
"We'll be in touch."
"If you ever get out my way, look me up. We could have a glass of wine, at least."
"I'd enjoy that. Very much. Drive safely, Diane."
* * *
I had intended to hit the Y and then head to the clinic to catch up on paperwork, but the conversation with Diane got me thinking. So I went back into the arena and sat in the stands to watch the guys go through their pre-road trip practice as I thought through the recent events.
It was easy to spot Trey, even in his practice gear. The blond curls coming out the back of the helmet were the dead givaway. And there was Brendan, the littlest guy on the ice, whose breezered butt struggled to push his legs faster and faster during the warmups, in a successful attempt to skate with the bigger guys. Then Brendan almost effortlessly turned 180 degrees and skated backward -- something I never had been able to do well. Cody was on the ice too, stretching his groin. Sergei was progressing nicely, and Troy was turning into a sort of enforcer who worked to protect the smaller guys on the ice.
I put my hands behind my head, leaned back, and counted my blessings. I breathed in the arena -- the smells of propane from the Zamboni ice-resurfacing machine and air conditioning chemicals, the intoxifying sound of skates and sticks scraping on the ice, the sight of young male muscled bodies that were so tender and in fact delicious under their protective covering and their guyish veneers. I loved hockey, and I loved hockey players. That much was for sure.
* * *
I watched practice for about forty-five minutes and then thought that I really should get some exercise. The Y was across town, and I wasn't in the mood, but I had remembered to put my gear was in the car, and, well ...
Then I remembered that the arena had some equipment, not as much as the Y's, but machines and weights of decent quality. The weight room was conveniently located in the locker room, so I figured, what the hell?, I'll just spent 10 minutes with the weights and 20 minutes on the bike and call it a day.
I sought out Assistant Coach Peter on the bench and ran my plan by him. He said, sure, go ahead, good idea. Peter had caught my eye the first moment I saw him. He was in his mid-20s and had sort of guy's guy features -- a 3 o'clock shadow, square jaw, a don't-mess-with-me 'tude. But he also had doey-brown eyes that, once he packed away that arrogant smile, let on that he had a softer side, one I thought I might like to get to know. Plus, he was slim but not skinny, had a surprisingly attractive flat butt, and clearly worked out a lot. I sensed he was like Brendan in some ways -- didn't quite have the body to compete at the next level of hockey, but worked hard and loved the game.
Peter was a mystery. I knew he was engaged to a woman a little younger than he was, but repeatedly I had seen him linger in the locker room whenever the guys would be getting undressed. He did it the first time I had met him, when he brought in Sergei for his exam and asked to stay. And I had seen him do it with Trey at least twice. We, it seemed, had a few things in common.
I placed my bag in front of Trey's locker and, knowing I was alone, picked up his boxer-briefs. They smelled more like laundry soap than 18-year-old crotch, but I nevertheless took a good, long whiff knowing that an hour ago they had been on Trey's naked body and it would be several days before I would see him. Then I changed into my workout t-shirt, briefs, and cotton shorts and headed to the weight room. I wasn't in there five minutes before Peter appeared just as I was preparing to use the bench press.
"Need a spot, Doc?"
"Well, sure, since you're here. Thanks."
Peter loaded up another 30 kilos on the bar and said I could handle that. Then he positioned himself so the crotch of his black nylon pants was right over my forehead. I couldn't see any bulge, but just being so close to the sexy guy's goods made my penis stir.
After I did as many reps as I could, Peter helped me put the bar back on the stand, and as he did, I could not ignore how his forearm muscles flexed to push his veins to the forefront of his arms that lacked any fat.
"Thanks, man. That was great. The added weight pushed me. One more?"
Peter spotted me a second time, then removed the 30 kilos, and then spotted me a third. It felt great! The guy knew what he was doing. Then he asked if I'd do the same for him. I said sure.
I watched Peter load up more weight than I had expected and then recline his slender frame on the bench. As he began to pump, his sweatshirt rode up to reveal a nice washboard and more than a treasure trail.
When Peter was done, he confided that his shoulder was bothering him and he wondered whether I would mind taking a look. I said that'd be fine and suggested the training room, but Peter responded that it was not a huge deal, that he still intended to work his legs, and he'd just slip off his shirt right here, once he locked the door.
"Just Richards and me have got a key, so we should be fine."
Peter removed his shirt and sat on the end of the weight bench. His knees were more apart than they needed to be as he raised his right arm to massage his lower right shoulder where he said it hurt. His naked armpit was of someone who was 100 percent man, and hair populated much of the region between his pecs. He was a man with a swimmer's build who wanted to be buff but did not have the genes to pull it off.
"So shoulder problems at the age of, what, 26?"
"Twenty-five." Peter looked at me with his warm brown eyes as he put his hands in his lap.
"OK, 25. Yes, a little young to be having shoulder problems, Coach. That hurt?"
The slender stud winced. "A little."
"Here?"
"A little more."
"How about back here."
"Actually, that feels good when you touch it, that way."
I put my thumbs into the assistant coach's lean but strong shoulder muscles and pushed hard and gradually became more of a masseuse than a physician.
"This better?"
I began kneading the tops of both shoulders. Peter breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. "Oooh, doc, yes, that's good."
"Let's even you out."
I used my palms to massage the young man's v-shaped back, and both his breathing and the way he pushed out his chest signaled that he was appreciating and enjoying my effort. Peter placed his hands flat on his hamstrings and moved the nylon pants down a notch, away from his crotch. Then I took a risk and pressed my half-erect penis against the midsection of his back to gauge whether this might go to the next step.
"So, you're engaged."
"Yeah, but--"
"But what?"
"Oooh, she doesn't give me backrubs like this."
I knew the door was locked, but that there was no telling who had a key and that eventually someone might come looking for the assistant coach. "What else doesn't she do?" I moved my crotch off of Peter's back, made myself almost completely hard, and began massaging his biceps as I pressed my erection hard into him. "She doesn't appreciate this part, I bet." I had placed my fingers into his armpits and was pressing pretty hard. "Does she?"
"Ah-"
"She doesn't get it, huh?"
At that point, Peter leaned back on the weight bench. From my angle, I could tell from the tent in his nylon pants that he was hard and apparently wearing loose-fitting boxers. The slender 25-year-old looked at me upside down with his doey brown eyes as he put his thumbs on either side of his nylon pants and pushed them and his red boxers to his knees. His hard penis strained at the top of the pants before landing with a "thwap" below the stud's washboard abs. From this angle, Peter's penis seemed to be about Brendan's length, but quite a bit fatter. Still, Brendan on balance looked bigger given his frame and the fact that he, unlike Peter, kept his pubes trimmed.
I crossed around so I could stand over Peter and assess his frame from the front. He was a man of contrasts -- unshaven yet vulnerable, slender yet strong, straight yet gay, a hockey player in the body of a swimmer. As I bent down and bunched up Peter's pants and boxers at his ankles, Peter put his hands behind his neck and lifted his head up to watch me visually inspect the genitalia I was to pleasure.
Peter's testicles were drawn up pretty close to his body, and fairly long strands of brown hair sprouted from his scrotum. There was a decent pattern of pubic hair throughout his crotch and well into his ass.
I got to business pretty quickly, knowing time was of the essence. I began by tonguing the top of his scrotum, where the base of his erect penis emerged. From the smell, he had not showered since yesterday and probably had worked up a bit of a sweat while putting the guys through drills on the ice. Then I ran my tongue along the underside of Peter's six inches, teasing the top before taking my mouth away and placing his penis between my thumb and first two fingers to visually assess the marvelous soft-hard state of the male erection.
I then stood and leaned over the stud, and he placed his hands on my head as if to make sure I was going to do what I was going to do. The angle was not the greatest, but we did not have much time, so I made the best of it by arching my neck to accommodate his bent erection. Almost immediately, the slender assistant coach began thrusting his penis into my face, and I relished the sensation of having the engaged man's blood-filled erection in my warm mouth. He held the sides of the bench, closed his eyes, and let his head flop to the right side. I could taste just a hint of precum, and as we picked up the pace, Peter lifted his head to watch what I was doing and then put his hands back on my head to join in the rhythm.
There was no question that what we both wanted was a quickie. I had Peter's penis in my mouth no more than 90 seconds before I felt that unmistakable hot spurt against the back of my throat. The toned 25-year-old followed up with perhaps seven more shots, most of which landed on and then oozed onto the back part of my tongue. When I removed my mouth, Peter jacked himself just a little more, stood, whipped up his trousers, and nonchalantly removed the weights from the bench before putting his shirt back on. He cleared his throat as I was swallowing the last of his tasty semen. "House rule. Don't leave weights on the bar."
I wiped my mouth and said I understood as he went to unlock the door.
"I better get back, Doc."
"Sure. I understand."
"Thanks for the help."
"Well, thank you."
"Just between us, right?"
"Yes, just between us."
* * *
I did 20 minutes of cardio and then made my way into the locker room just as the first players were coming off the ice from their practice. Peter's rocks were off, but mine were locked and loaded, and I was in the mood to soak up eye candy before perhaps jacking off in a bathroom stall. So I spalshed some water on my t-shirt and face to look like I had just had a great workout and then headed to the main part of the locker room.
"Bruce!" It was Trey. "What's up! Thought you had left."
"Well, Trey, I ran into your mom. We chatted a bit. I was going to go to the Y, but then I decided I'd just workout here. And one thing led to another, and ..."
"Looks like you need a shower."
"Whew." I smelled my left pit and got a whiff of deodorant. "Looks like I do. Mind if I borrow some shampoo, when it comes time?"
"Sure. Not a problem."
At that point, Peter came in and shot me an arrogant glare but then smiled as he said -- louder than necessary -- that it was good to see me and that I should feel free to use the workout facilities whenever I wanted to and that he was glad to have shown me a better way to do bench presses. I publicly thanked Peter for his help and then began surveying the scene. Twenty hockey players, all ages 18 to maybe 22, all in the primes of their lives, all dressed in protective gear that I found as sexy as hell, gear that in the next ten minutes would be stripped off to reveal twenty young male naked bodies. As each young man sat down to unlace his skates, I glanced at their crotches and obsessed over how the baggy hockey pants and the cups underneath teasingly conceal all clues about the genitalia that each young man had.
With the skates off, the players could intensify the time-intensive process of disrobing. First, typically, came the jerseys. Most usually lost the shoulder pads next, or maybe the elbow pads. With their torsos then covered with only sweaty t-shirts, the players then usually peeled their suspenders from their shoulders so they could push the baggy breezers down and begin to offer an onlooker some hints of their distinguishing characteristics. Most players just let the breezers drop to the floor as they then slid off their jock with the protective cup, took off the hockey socks, and then sat on the benches with their crotch bulges on display as they unstrapped the knee-shin guards from their typically naked legs.
At that point, some guys whipped off their tight underwear and headed for a shower -- sometimes wrapped in a towel, oftentimes entirely naked. Trey, typically, was among them, and he drew plenty of stares as he directed his low-hanging penis and testicles toward the steamy shower room. Other young players, more timid than Trey, walked to the shower with their underwear still on to afford themselves a few more seconds of concealment before being forced to strip so that their fellow players could examine their junk.
Because I was charged up from my time with Peter, I tried hard to keep from getting hard. I was proud of myself for staying under control the whole time Trey stripped, and he was now headed for the shower. But my penis control was severely tested when Brendan spotted me and approached wearing only his tight undies. His penis, I could tell, was hanging to the right. Sweat had made his black hair curly, and the fireplug looked exceptionally strong while standing nearly naked in the locker room.
"Bruce! Hey!"
"Hey, Brendan. How was your first practice?"
"Great. They put me through the drills, that much was for sure. What's up with you?"
"Oh, just grabbed a workout here. Was going to go to the Y, but just not in the mood."
"Hey, Bruce, thanks again for last night."
"Well, thank you."
Brendan whipped off his underwear and looked delicious from his sweaty black hair to his white teeth to his surprisingly pumped-up biceps to his toned abs and to his perfect, four-inch flaccid penis.
"You taking a shower?"
"Right behind you, Brendan."
Compared with the hockey players, my disrobing was a snap and I got naked and then scurried behind Brendan. There were six shower heads on each side of the wall, and as luck would have it, two were open next to Trey. Brendan took the far one and I took the other one.
Trey's eyes were closed because he already was rinsing shampoo from his hair. I talked through Trey to address Brendan, all the while taking liberty to fully inspect the blond hockey player whose eyes were closed and who needed to rinse the soap from his face. The water caressed his 5-foot-10 frame with steamy precision, flowing down his hairless chest, across his abdomen, into the v-shape below his waist, onto his penis, off of his penis in a way that almost made it look like he was peeing, and from the bottom of his lightly haired and droopy scrotum. There was little question that Trey's was perhaps the nicest, most intoxicating male body I had ever seen. I just about melted when Trey opened his blue eyes, looked into mine with his body turned 90 degrees toward me, noticed I was half hard, and smiled before he spread another round of shampoo before offering me the bottle and turning back into the spray so that both Brendan and I had beautiful views of his beautiful body.
When Trey turned back, Brendan began spending more time than necessary to soap up his crotch. When he asked to borrow some of Trey's shampoo, the blond stud gave his black-haired friend the same frontal view I had enjoyed before turning back into the spray to carefully soap up his floppy penis and dangling tetsticles. Brendan, meanwhile, was glad to have me on the other side of Trey so he had license to turn toward us and touch Trey, even with only just his eyes.
As we toweled off, I got a fantastic view of Trey as he put each leg on the bench to towel them off. The cooler air had made Trey's penis shrivel just a bit, and his scrotum was tighter than usual to his body. Brendan, though, was sporting some wood. I did my best to control myself and get back to the area around Trey's locker where my clothes risked getting intermingled with the sweaty gear of 20 young hockey players.
Within 15 minutes, the team was headed for boxed lunches that they were going to eat before getting on the bus and beginning the road trip. They asked me to stay, but I knew I had to go straight home and get my rocks off.
As I made my way to my Accord, Peter waved me down as I was driving out.
"Hey, Bruce, can I catch a ride?"
"Sure. Where?"
"Ah, to my house?"
"Don't you need to eat--"
I stopped myself and thought, what a dumb dumb I can be sometimes.
"Ah, sure, Peter, hop in."
Peter strapped on his seat belt and got ready to cover his bases.
"Say, ah, Doc--"
"Bruce."
"Bruce. Ah, say, what went on back there, in the weights room ..."
"What went on in the weights room? I have no idea what you're talking about."
I looked away from the road (longer than I should have) to glare at Peter with a dumbfounded look of "What are you talking about, crazy man?"
"Yeah. Well. Thanks."
"What else can I do for you."
"See, ah, my girlfriend, my fiance, she's in Winnipeg ..."
"Oh."
"And I've been, ah, you know."
"I understand."
"We've got to leave in an hour ..." Then I almost ran off the road as Peter courageously extended his left hand to my thigh. "I want to try it, Bruce."
"I'd love for you to try it."
"Where?"
"How about over here?" I steered the Accord toward a wooded area on the edge of town that served as a popular cruise spot during the warmer months but would be secluded during hockey season. As I parked the car, I confirmed that Peter had never given oral sex to another guy before, and that he was OK with doing it in the front seat of my car. I left the engine running as I unzipped my jacket, slipped up my sweatshirt, and somehow worked my jeans and boxers to my knees. I could tell that Peter was almost going to back out, but then he looked at me in the eyes and then to the erection that was in front of him. I was pretty frothed up, so when he gingerly picked up my penis in a matter suggesting that he thought he was going to break it, I almost came right then and there.
But my arousal lessened just a little when Peter took the sucking part literally and began using a technique more appropriate for the straw of a milkshake.
"Think of what YOU like, Peter," I whispered. "What does she do to you that turns you on?"
At that point, the light went on. The assistant coach took my penis from his mouth and spread his saliva over the head. Then he teased the underside with his tongue until I was again completely hard and then massaged my testicles with his left hand as he lightly jacked the bottom part of my erection with his right. Only then, and with his hand even deeper into my balls, did he let his mouth again touch my penis. He started with the head, which he kissed more than sucked, and then let his tongue explore the intricacies of the upper part of the male phallus. Then he took just the head in his mouth and placed his teeth right where my foreskin had been cut away when I was a boy, and then let his tongue explore the underside of my erection as far as it would go. Only then did he start moving his head up and down on my throbbing hardon, and only then did I begin bucking my hips so I could fuck his mouth. I was thoroughly enjoying the young man's first time, and it was abundantly clear that he was too.
We went for a good two minutes, I'd say, before I felt that I had to give him fair warning.
"I'm about ready to--"
Peter kept his mouth on my erection and was moving his head up and down even faster.
"Peter, it's going to--"
The assistant coach bit my hardon with just the right amount of pressure.
"If you don't want to--"
Then the 25-year-old weightlifter with a swimmer's build pulled at my scrotum, took my penis as deep as it would go, and knew -- as only a guy can know -- that an ejaculation was imminent.
"Ooooohhhh!"
I unloaded a nice load of semen into Peter's mouth. I could tell that he had gagged just a bit, but he stayed with me, and proceeded to take every drop of semen that I would give him. As I was going flaccid, he raised his head and I could tell he had not swallowed.
"Peter, if you want to, you can--"
"Shhh."
Then Peter opened up his pants, pushed them halfway to his knees, and spit my seed on his hand and began palming himself. I just watched him, amazed at his body and what had just happened. He closed his eyes, and I could tell he still had not swallowed. This went on for only another 45 seconds before he shot cum onto his belly at the exact same time he swallowed mine. Then he just sat there, stunned. He had not ejaculated a lot of semen, but there was enough to pose a problem. So I leaned my head over his crotch and made sure the coach was all tidied up for the long road trip ahead of him, and then delivered him back to the team bus.
Thanks for reading and for all your positive feedback.
The story so far:
Part I: Dr. Bruce, although an eye doctor, is the only one at the arena who steps forward to help his 18-year-old tenant Trey after the junior-league hockey player took a puck to the privates. Bruce was asked to make sure the blond stud's plumbing worked. Suffice to say, it did. All eight inches of it.
Part II: The coach asked Bruce to perform physicals on four new recruits ages 18 to 20 next week, and Bruce starts fantasizing over the possibilities. Meanwhile, Bruce has a heart to heart with Trey, who's struggling with his sexuality. Then Bruce finds a spy hole into Trey's room and confirms that the kinky kid seems not to be straight as an arrow.
Part III: Dr. Bruce performs memorable physicals on four hockey players ages 18 to 20, but the patient who sticks in his mind is Brendan, a perfectly toned 5-foot-7 stud from Manitoba. Brendan agrees to have his first prostate exam, with remarkably messy results. Brendan also catches Trey's eye.
Part IV: Trey admits that his penis is in fact eight AND A HALF inches, wonders whether he might be gay, insists on getting a midnight physical from Dr. Bruce, and then insists on examining the 45-year-old doctor who had let two or three years elapse since his last rectal exam.
Part V: Dr. Bruce finds Trey's spent condom and masturbates with it and then gets some sweet revenge on Cody, the 22-year-old who felt up Trey in bed. Then Brendan comes to stay the night, tells Bruce he probably doesn't like girls, and then takes care of his morning erection as Bruce watches from the spy hole.
Part VI:
On the way back to my car, Diane stopped me and asked if she could talk to me a minute about Trey. Uh-oh, I thought. What has Trey said? Did she show that every last thing that Trey and I had experienced -- from my masturbation of him in the training room to the semen he fed me the previous night -- were his decisions and that I had never pressured him to do anything against his wishes.
I told Diane I'd be glad to talk and suggested the arena's concourse. Trevor trailed behind, obsessed with his iPod.
My hand shook a little as I fed a dollar into the vending machine and dialed up a cup of coffee for Diane and then did the same for myself. Thankfully, Diane started in right away and began to put my fears to rest.
"So, Trey, he's going OK, you think?"
"I think he's doing great, Diane. It's a pleasure having him around."
"Well, he appreciates you so much. That's what he told me, last night."
"What did he say?"
"That you take time to listen, in a way that makes Trey want to talk -- which is unusual for him, particularly since his father died."
"I am very sorry about your loss, Diane."
"It was tough. Still is. I hate to say it, but we had good insurance, so money is not an issue. It's too bad Dwight won't be here to see the boys grow up. That being said, there was no question that Trevor was his favorite. So Trey, poor guy, he doesn't miss his dad at all. What a shame."
"That's what Trey let on."
"Did Trey tell you why he doesn't miss him?"
"Maybe."
"The boy from the library?"
"He did mention something."
"I can tell that Trey told you. You're just protecting his privacy. For that, I'm grateful. But Bruce, see, Trey has always had ... had ... gay tendencies. It took his dad by surprise, or so he put on. That's why Dwight beat him up, because he caught Trey masturbating with another boy. But good lord, they were thirteen! Trevor was masturbating, what?, three times a day at thirteen? Still is, actually. A mom knows these things, Bruce. A mom knows things about her sons that these headstrong teenagers have no idea that their mom knows."
No, I thought to myself, there is NO WAY my mom knew that I sometimes beat off with an electric sander -- minus the sandpaper, of course.
"Bruce you're a man of the world. Trey mentioned that you had been married and are now divorced, and that you ah, find women attractive, but that -- he was sort of signaling that, ah, you like to spend time with men as well."
"Well, I am who I am, I guess, Diane."
"And I'm fine with that. Really. Look, Bruce, Trey is 18, and he's going to do what he's going to do. I just want him to be safe. And happy."
"I think he's safe, Diane."
"But is he happy? I mean, before I moved to our little town I sowed some oats. That might surprise you, looking at me now, a single mom living in the middle of nowhere. Well, ha!, Vancouver is no San Francisco, but it's got it's side, you know. I'm not dumb, though for many years I played dumb wife with Trey's dad. And with Trevor. And, unfortunately, with Trey. I'm smart enough to know there's nothing wrong with being gay. If that's how he is, that's how he is. It's nothing I did wrong, or Dwight did wrong, or Trey did wrong. It's who he would be, or is."
"Yet you want grandchildren, don't you."
"I do. Doesn't every mom?"
"I don't think my mom did, to be honest. And from the looks of it, Trevor will not disappoint."
"You might be right. Well, the reason I wanted to pull you aside is to thank you. Look, Bruce, I love my son very, very much. And I want him to be happy, more than anything else in the world. He's very book smart, as you know, and although he sometimes lacks real-world smarts, he is smart enough to know that the hockey thing is a fad for him. It won't be his career. It's great for now, and he knows it. My son is very much a person who likes to try new things, at least once, whether it's reading a type of book he's never tried before, or spending a year playing hockey and working in a library. I know he'll get this hockey out of his system and go to college. He's got scholarship offers galore."
"What a lucky guy."
"And Bruce, since you came into Trey's life, I see a new Trey emerging -- more socially confident, outwardly funny. He doesn't always have his nose in a book. At the motel, he actually watched some trashy TV with me and Trevor. I don't think he had ever done that. Spent most of his time in his room. Of course, this morning, he was up reading about the history of Canadian native peoples while Trevor was still asleep and I was watching HGTV. Good ol' Trey ..."
"Well, Diane, it's been an honor to know Trey. And to get to know you a little bit."
"Same here, Bruce. Well, we should be going ..."
"We'll be in touch."
"If you ever get out my way, look me up. We could have a glass of wine, at least."
"I'd enjoy that. Very much. Drive safely, Diane."
* * *
I had intended to hit the Y and then head to the clinic to catch up on paperwork, but the conversation with Diane got me thinking. So I went back into the arena and sat in the stands to watch the guys go through their pre-road trip practice as I thought through the recent events.
It was easy to spot Trey, even in his practice gear. The blond curls coming out the back of the helmet were the dead givaway. And there was Brendan, the littlest guy on the ice, whose breezered butt struggled to push his legs faster and faster during the warmups, in a successful attempt to skate with the bigger guys. Then Brendan almost effortlessly turned 180 degrees and skated backward -- something I never had been able to do well. Cody was on the ice too, stretching his groin. Sergei was progressing nicely, and Troy was turning into a sort of enforcer who worked to protect the smaller guys on the ice.
I put my hands behind my head, leaned back, and counted my blessings. I breathed in the arena -- the smells of propane from the Zamboni ice-resurfacing machine and air conditioning chemicals, the intoxifying sound of skates and sticks scraping on the ice, the sight of young male muscled bodies that were so tender and in fact delicious under their protective covering and their guyish veneers. I loved hockey, and I loved hockey players. That much was for sure.
* * *
I watched practice for about forty-five minutes and then thought that I really should get some exercise. The Y was across town, and I wasn't in the mood, but I had remembered to put my gear was in the car, and, well ...
Then I remembered that the arena had some equipment, not as much as the Y's, but machines and weights of decent quality. The weight room was conveniently located in the locker room, so I figured, what the hell?, I'll just spent 10 minutes with the weights and 20 minutes on the bike and call it a day.
I sought out Assistant Coach Peter on the bench and ran my plan by him. He said, sure, go ahead, good idea. Peter had caught my eye the first moment I saw him. He was in his mid-20s and had sort of guy's guy features -- a 3 o'clock shadow, square jaw, a don't-mess-with-me 'tude. But he also had doey-brown eyes that, once he packed away that arrogant smile, let on that he had a softer side, one I thought I might like to get to know. Plus, he was slim but not skinny, had a surprisingly attractive flat butt, and clearly worked out a lot. I sensed he was like Brendan in some ways -- didn't quite have the body to compete at the next level of hockey, but worked hard and loved the game.
Peter was a mystery. I knew he was engaged to a woman a little younger than he was, but repeatedly I had seen him linger in the locker room whenever the guys would be getting undressed. He did it the first time I had met him, when he brought in Sergei for his exam and asked to stay. And I had seen him do it with Trey at least twice. We, it seemed, had a few things in common.
I placed my bag in front of Trey's locker and, knowing I was alone, picked up his boxer-briefs. They smelled more like laundry soap than 18-year-old crotch, but I nevertheless took a good, long whiff knowing that an hour ago they had been on Trey's naked body and it would be several days before I would see him. Then I changed into my workout t-shirt, briefs, and cotton shorts and headed to the weight room. I wasn't in there five minutes before Peter appeared just as I was preparing to use the bench press.
"Need a spot, Doc?"
"Well, sure, since you're here. Thanks."
Peter loaded up another 30 kilos on the bar and said I could handle that. Then he positioned himself so the crotch of his black nylon pants was right over my forehead. I couldn't see any bulge, but just being so close to the sexy guy's goods made my penis stir.
After I did as many reps as I could, Peter helped me put the bar back on the stand, and as he did, I could not ignore how his forearm muscles flexed to push his veins to the forefront of his arms that lacked any fat.
"Thanks, man. That was great. The added weight pushed me. One more?"
Peter spotted me a second time, then removed the 30 kilos, and then spotted me a third. It felt great! The guy knew what he was doing. Then he asked if I'd do the same for him. I said sure.
I watched Peter load up more weight than I had expected and then recline his slender frame on the bench. As he began to pump, his sweatshirt rode up to reveal a nice washboard and more than a treasure trail.
When Peter was done, he confided that his shoulder was bothering him and he wondered whether I would mind taking a look. I said that'd be fine and suggested the training room, but Peter responded that it was not a huge deal, that he still intended to work his legs, and he'd just slip off his shirt right here, once he locked the door.
"Just Richards and me have got a key, so we should be fine."
Peter removed his shirt and sat on the end of the weight bench. His knees were more apart than they needed to be as he raised his right arm to massage his lower right shoulder where he said it hurt. His naked armpit was of someone who was 100 percent man, and hair populated much of the region between his pecs. He was a man with a swimmer's build who wanted to be buff but did not have the genes to pull it off.
"So shoulder problems at the age of, what, 26?"
"Twenty-five." Peter looked at me with his warm brown eyes as he put his hands in his lap.
"OK, 25. Yes, a little young to be having shoulder problems, Coach. That hurt?"
The slender stud winced. "A little."
"Here?"
"A little more."
"How about back here."
"Actually, that feels good when you touch it, that way."
I put my thumbs into the assistant coach's lean but strong shoulder muscles and pushed hard and gradually became more of a masseuse than a physician.
"This better?"
I began kneading the tops of both shoulders. Peter breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. "Oooh, doc, yes, that's good."
"Let's even you out."
I used my palms to massage the young man's v-shaped back, and both his breathing and the way he pushed out his chest signaled that he was appreciating and enjoying my effort. Peter placed his hands flat on his hamstrings and moved the nylon pants down a notch, away from his crotch. Then I took a risk and pressed my half-erect penis against the midsection of his back to gauge whether this might go to the next step.
"So, you're engaged."
"Yeah, but--"
"But what?"
"Oooh, she doesn't give me backrubs like this."
I knew the door was locked, but that there was no telling who had a key and that eventually someone might come looking for the assistant coach. "What else doesn't she do?" I moved my crotch off of Peter's back, made myself almost completely hard, and began massaging his biceps as I pressed my erection hard into him. "She doesn't appreciate this part, I bet." I had placed my fingers into his armpits and was pressing pretty hard. "Does she?"
"Ah-"
"She doesn't get it, huh?"
At that point, Peter leaned back on the weight bench. From my angle, I could tell from the tent in his nylon pants that he was hard and apparently wearing loose-fitting boxers. The slender 25-year-old looked at me upside down with his doey brown eyes as he put his thumbs on either side of his nylon pants and pushed them and his red boxers to his knees. His hard penis strained at the top of the pants before landing with a "thwap" below the stud's washboard abs. From this angle, Peter's penis seemed to be about Brendan's length, but quite a bit fatter. Still, Brendan on balance looked bigger given his frame and the fact that he, unlike Peter, kept his pubes trimmed.
I crossed around so I could stand over Peter and assess his frame from the front. He was a man of contrasts -- unshaven yet vulnerable, slender yet strong, straight yet gay, a hockey player in the body of a swimmer. As I bent down and bunched up Peter's pants and boxers at his ankles, Peter put his hands behind his neck and lifted his head up to watch me visually inspect the genitalia I was to pleasure.
Peter's testicles were drawn up pretty close to his body, and fairly long strands of brown hair sprouted from his scrotum. There was a decent pattern of pubic hair throughout his crotch and well into his ass.
I got to business pretty quickly, knowing time was of the essence. I began by tonguing the top of his scrotum, where the base of his erect penis emerged. From the smell, he had not showered since yesterday and probably had worked up a bit of a sweat while putting the guys through drills on the ice. Then I ran my tongue along the underside of Peter's six inches, teasing the top before taking my mouth away and placing his penis between my thumb and first two fingers to visually assess the marvelous soft-hard state of the male erection.
I then stood and leaned over the stud, and he placed his hands on my head as if to make sure I was going to do what I was going to do. The angle was not the greatest, but we did not have much time, so I made the best of it by arching my neck to accommodate his bent erection. Almost immediately, the slender assistant coach began thrusting his penis into my face, and I relished the sensation of having the engaged man's blood-filled erection in my warm mouth. He held the sides of the bench, closed his eyes, and let his head flop to the right side. I could taste just a hint of precum, and as we picked up the pace, Peter lifted his head to watch what I was doing and then put his hands back on my head to join in the rhythm.
There was no question that what we both wanted was a quickie. I had Peter's penis in my mouth no more than 90 seconds before I felt that unmistakable hot spurt against the back of my throat. The toned 25-year-old followed up with perhaps seven more shots, most of which landed on and then oozed onto the back part of my tongue. When I removed my mouth, Peter jacked himself just a little more, stood, whipped up his trousers, and nonchalantly removed the weights from the bench before putting his shirt back on. He cleared his throat as I was swallowing the last of his tasty semen. "House rule. Don't leave weights on the bar."
I wiped my mouth and said I understood as he went to unlock the door.
"I better get back, Doc."
"Sure. I understand."
"Thanks for the help."
"Well, thank you."
"Just between us, right?"
"Yes, just between us."
* * *
I did 20 minutes of cardio and then made my way into the locker room just as the first players were coming off the ice from their practice. Peter's rocks were off, but mine were locked and loaded, and I was in the mood to soak up eye candy before perhaps jacking off in a bathroom stall. So I spalshed some water on my t-shirt and face to look like I had just had a great workout and then headed to the main part of the locker room.
"Bruce!" It was Trey. "What's up! Thought you had left."
"Well, Trey, I ran into your mom. We chatted a bit. I was going to go to the Y, but then I decided I'd just workout here. And one thing led to another, and ..."
"Looks like you need a shower."
"Whew." I smelled my left pit and got a whiff of deodorant. "Looks like I do. Mind if I borrow some shampoo, when it comes time?"
"Sure. Not a problem."
At that point, Peter came in and shot me an arrogant glare but then smiled as he said -- louder than necessary -- that it was good to see me and that I should feel free to use the workout facilities whenever I wanted to and that he was glad to have shown me a better way to do bench presses. I publicly thanked Peter for his help and then began surveying the scene. Twenty hockey players, all ages 18 to maybe 22, all in the primes of their lives, all dressed in protective gear that I found as sexy as hell, gear that in the next ten minutes would be stripped off to reveal twenty young male naked bodies. As each young man sat down to unlace his skates, I glanced at their crotches and obsessed over how the baggy hockey pants and the cups underneath teasingly conceal all clues about the genitalia that each young man had.
With the skates off, the players could intensify the time-intensive process of disrobing. First, typically, came the jerseys. Most usually lost the shoulder pads next, or maybe the elbow pads. With their torsos then covered with only sweaty t-shirts, the players then usually peeled their suspenders from their shoulders so they could push the baggy breezers down and begin to offer an onlooker some hints of their distinguishing characteristics. Most players just let the breezers drop to the floor as they then slid off their jock with the protective cup, took off the hockey socks, and then sat on the benches with their crotch bulges on display as they unstrapped the knee-shin guards from their typically naked legs.
At that point, some guys whipped off their tight underwear and headed for a shower -- sometimes wrapped in a towel, oftentimes entirely naked. Trey, typically, was among them, and he drew plenty of stares as he directed his low-hanging penis and testicles toward the steamy shower room. Other young players, more timid than Trey, walked to the shower with their underwear still on to afford themselves a few more seconds of concealment before being forced to strip so that their fellow players could examine their junk.
Because I was charged up from my time with Peter, I tried hard to keep from getting hard. I was proud of myself for staying under control the whole time Trey stripped, and he was now headed for the shower. But my penis control was severely tested when Brendan spotted me and approached wearing only his tight undies. His penis, I could tell, was hanging to the right. Sweat had made his black hair curly, and the fireplug looked exceptionally strong while standing nearly naked in the locker room.
"Bruce! Hey!"
"Hey, Brendan. How was your first practice?"
"Great. They put me through the drills, that much was for sure. What's up with you?"
"Oh, just grabbed a workout here. Was going to go to the Y, but just not in the mood."
"Hey, Bruce, thanks again for last night."
"Well, thank you."
Brendan whipped off his underwear and looked delicious from his sweaty black hair to his white teeth to his surprisingly pumped-up biceps to his toned abs and to his perfect, four-inch flaccid penis.
"You taking a shower?"
"Right behind you, Brendan."
Compared with the hockey players, my disrobing was a snap and I got naked and then scurried behind Brendan. There were six shower heads on each side of the wall, and as luck would have it, two were open next to Trey. Brendan took the far one and I took the other one.
Trey's eyes were closed because he already was rinsing shampoo from his hair. I talked through Trey to address Brendan, all the while taking liberty to fully inspect the blond hockey player whose eyes were closed and who needed to rinse the soap from his face. The water caressed his 5-foot-10 frame with steamy precision, flowing down his hairless chest, across his abdomen, into the v-shape below his waist, onto his penis, off of his penis in a way that almost made it look like he was peeing, and from the bottom of his lightly haired and droopy scrotum. There was little question that Trey's was perhaps the nicest, most intoxicating male body I had ever seen. I just about melted when Trey opened his blue eyes, looked into mine with his body turned 90 degrees toward me, noticed I was half hard, and smiled before he spread another round of shampoo before offering me the bottle and turning back into the spray so that both Brendan and I had beautiful views of his beautiful body.
When Trey turned back, Brendan began spending more time than necessary to soap up his crotch. When he asked to borrow some of Trey's shampoo, the blond stud gave his black-haired friend the same frontal view I had enjoyed before turning back into the spray to carefully soap up his floppy penis and dangling tetsticles. Brendan, meanwhile, was glad to have me on the other side of Trey so he had license to turn toward us and touch Trey, even with only just his eyes.
As we toweled off, I got a fantastic view of Trey as he put each leg on the bench to towel them off. The cooler air had made Trey's penis shrivel just a bit, and his scrotum was tighter than usual to his body. Brendan, though, was sporting some wood. I did my best to control myself and get back to the area around Trey's locker where my clothes risked getting intermingled with the sweaty gear of 20 young hockey players.
Within 15 minutes, the team was headed for boxed lunches that they were going to eat before getting on the bus and beginning the road trip. They asked me to stay, but I knew I had to go straight home and get my rocks off.
As I made my way to my Accord, Peter waved me down as I was driving out.
"Hey, Bruce, can I catch a ride?"
"Sure. Where?"
"Ah, to my house?"
"Don't you need to eat--"
I stopped myself and thought, what a dumb dumb I can be sometimes.
"Ah, sure, Peter, hop in."
Peter strapped on his seat belt and got ready to cover his bases.
"Say, ah, Doc--"
"Bruce."
"Bruce. Ah, say, what went on back there, in the weights room ..."
"What went on in the weights room? I have no idea what you're talking about."
I looked away from the road (longer than I should have) to glare at Peter with a dumbfounded look of "What are you talking about, crazy man?"
"Yeah. Well. Thanks."
"What else can I do for you."
"See, ah, my girlfriend, my fiance, she's in Winnipeg ..."
"Oh."
"And I've been, ah, you know."
"I understand."
"We've got to leave in an hour ..." Then I almost ran off the road as Peter courageously extended his left hand to my thigh. "I want to try it, Bruce."
"I'd love for you to try it."
"Where?"
"How about over here?" I steered the Accord toward a wooded area on the edge of town that served as a popular cruise spot during the warmer months but would be secluded during hockey season. As I parked the car, I confirmed that Peter had never given oral sex to another guy before, and that he was OK with doing it in the front seat of my car. I left the engine running as I unzipped my jacket, slipped up my sweatshirt, and somehow worked my jeans and boxers to my knees. I could tell that Peter was almost going to back out, but then he looked at me in the eyes and then to the erection that was in front of him. I was pretty frothed up, so when he gingerly picked up my penis in a matter suggesting that he thought he was going to break it, I almost came right then and there.
But my arousal lessened just a little when Peter took the sucking part literally and began using a technique more appropriate for the straw of a milkshake.
"Think of what YOU like, Peter," I whispered. "What does she do to you that turns you on?"
At that point, the light went on. The assistant coach took my penis from his mouth and spread his saliva over the head. Then he teased the underside with his tongue until I was again completely hard and then massaged my testicles with his left hand as he lightly jacked the bottom part of my erection with his right. Only then, and with his hand even deeper into my balls, did he let his mouth again touch my penis. He started with the head, which he kissed more than sucked, and then let his tongue explore the intricacies of the upper part of the male phallus. Then he took just the head in his mouth and placed his teeth right where my foreskin had been cut away when I was a boy, and then let his tongue explore the underside of my erection as far as it would go. Only then did he start moving his head up and down on my throbbing hardon, and only then did I begin bucking my hips so I could fuck his mouth. I was thoroughly enjoying the young man's first time, and it was abundantly clear that he was too.
We went for a good two minutes, I'd say, before I felt that I had to give him fair warning.
"I'm about ready to--"
Peter kept his mouth on my erection and was moving his head up and down even faster.
"Peter, it's going to--"
The assistant coach bit my hardon with just the right amount of pressure.
"If you don't want to--"
Then the 25-year-old weightlifter with a swimmer's build pulled at my scrotum, took my penis as deep as it would go, and knew -- as only a guy can know -- that an ejaculation was imminent.
"Ooooohhhh!"
I unloaded a nice load of semen into Peter's mouth. I could tell that he had gagged just a bit, but he stayed with me, and proceeded to take every drop of semen that I would give him. As I was going flaccid, he raised his head and I could tell he had not swallowed.
"Peter, if you want to, you can--"
"Shhh."
Then Peter opened up his pants, pushed them halfway to his knees, and spit my seed on his hand and began palming himself. I just watched him, amazed at his body and what had just happened. He closed his eyes, and I could tell he still had not swallowed. This went on for only another 45 seconds before he shot cum onto his belly at the exact same time he swallowed mine. Then he just sat there, stunned. He had not ejaculated a lot of semen, but there was enough to pose a problem. So I leaned my head over his crotch and made sure the coach was all tidied up for the long road trip ahead of him, and then delivered him back to the team bus.
Doc is certainly getting an opportunity to check out damn near the whole F'in team -- and getting his rocks off in return!
This may not be the BIG event, but is was certainly an enjoyable one.
Nice writing. I'm looking forward to the next chapter.
This may not be the BIG event, but is was certainly an enjoyable one.
Nice writing. I'm looking forward to the next chapter.
latinoguy19
Sex God
- Joined
- Jun 8, 2006
- Posts
- 780
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 0
Another great installment. Thanks.
irishinvader
Virgin
- Joined
- Jun 2, 2008
- Posts
- 40
- Reaction score
- 1
- Points
- 8
first and foremost, I would like to say excellent job so far! all of the characters are well-developed and cyclops said it perfectly, "I totally felt like I was right there in the same room while you were giving Trey his exam." the sex scenes are so descriptive and i love it.
but i have a question that i don't think anyone else brought up. does anyone feel like Bruce is kinda a creeper? he's an eye doctor who takes on being a team because his tenant that he secretly watches jack off plays on the team, not to mention everyone else he has been checking out or all of the semen he was secretly tasting. i'll give Bruce some credit though because he comes off like Trever says, just a genuine guy, and does get a LOT of action but some of his actions leading up to that are questionable, at least in my mind. anyone, specifically sfcfml, want to comment on that?
but i have a question that i don't think anyone else brought up. does anyone feel like Bruce is kinda a creeper? he's an eye doctor who takes on being a team because his tenant that he secretly watches jack off plays on the team, not to mention everyone else he has been checking out or all of the semen he was secretly tasting. i'll give Bruce some credit though because he comes off like Trever says, just a genuine guy, and does get a LOT of action but some of his actions leading up to that are questionable, at least in my mind. anyone, specifically sfcfml, want to comment on that?
oldbigballs
Virgin
Terrific stuff, had me harder than I've been for a long time - MORE please!!!
harry113
JUB Addict
Thanks, great story
Please continue
Harry
Please continue
Harry
thermodynamics
Resident Enginerd
Wow. I'm still looking forward to seeing Trey & Brendan together.
i actually noticed the same thing but wasnt gonna say anything. i think since it is a fictional story, its not too bad, i mean we all have our sick fantasies anyway right?