My wrestling coach masturbates me every day. I have become so addicted to the pleasure that his big, hairy hands bring to my cock that I am now his slave. I train when he wants, for as long as he wants and I do everything he tells me to. On the odd occasions when I do rebel or mouth-off to him, all Coach has to do is cut-off the jerking. Within a day, I’m at his house, supplicating while kneeling at his feet, begging him to do me.
Coach Jaworsky is a tall man in his mid-thirties with massive shoulders and arms and a bulging chest covered with copper-colored hair. Even the loose sweat pants he wears cannot entirely conceal the big bat between his legs as it bounces against the soft fabric. Not that I care about the size of his dick or anything. I’m a straight guy, and the idea of fooling around with another dude grosses me out.
But Coach doesn’t allow team members to date, on pain of permanent expulsion from the team. Before he broke me in with his big, soft hands, I could go without dropping a load for weeks. Now he has me so under his thumb—literally—so that I cannot go more than a few hours without getting off. I still feel really humiliated every time he tells me to sit between his legs and starts stroking my naked body all over, saying all this homo shit to me. But I am now a jerkoff junkie helpless under the domination of his jerkoff pimp.
It all started right after I joined the varsity wrestling team shortly after my sixteenth birthday. Coach started paying a lot of attention to me right away. He told me that I had potential, and he wanted me to stay focused. Coach’s training program was the most brutal I’d ever encountered with many hours of practice and weight training. He also used a lot of verbal and physical abuse to motivate us and keep us in line.
He assigned scores to our performance during each practice. Whoever got the lowest score got a whipping, sometimes from Coach and sometimes from one of the top wrestlers. Since I was pretty good, I managed to avoid getting a whipping for a while. The low scorer would have to strip out of his singlet and jock and get down on all fours on the mat facing all the other team members. Then, depending on how badly he had performed, the kid would get anywhere from six to twenty-four brutal thrashes from Coach’s thick leather belt. Most of us could not keep from getting hard-ons watching these motivation sessions, but what was really embarrassing was when the kid getting whipped would spring a boner. That would bring cracks from Coach like, “Look at the little homo getting a hard-on, guys. I think he likes the idea of having a big stud punish his ass. I wonder if Bobby here likes to take it up the ass.”
However, I had my own source of perpetual humiliation. As a transfer student, I had not had the opportunity of going over to Krolmeier’s Sports Supply over the summer to get outfitted for the fall wrestling season. So Coach gave me a white singlet that was about two sizes too small. You could see everything I have between my legs, bro!
I’m five foot eleven, one hundred sixty pounds, with forty-four-inch shoulders and a twenty-eight-inch waist. I’m basically all muscle, and my calves are so thick I can’t wear any tight jeans. Another reason I do not wear tight jeans is my cock. Mr. Big—that’s my pet name for him—is nine inches long and nearly as thick as a beer can. No shit! Now, I’ve been raised to be real modest, and I was very embarrassed the first time I put on my new singlet. Inside that super tight bit of white Lycra, even with a jock on, my bulge was like totally obscene, bro! I went to Coach, keeping my hands in front of my crotch and asked him if he had a bigger singlet he could lend me.
“What the fuck’s wrong with the one I gave you?” he asked.
“Well…er,” I stammered. “I…ah…”
“Out with it, boy!”
“Sir, it’s obscene,” I blurted out.
“What do you mean?” he asked while pulling my hands away from my crotch. “Looks like you have a pretty good-size package there, boy. A young man who’s got that much ought to be proud to show it off. You don’t want everybody to think you’re some kind of no dick sissy, now do you?”
“No, sir,” I said, realizing I was not going to get anywhere.
As a last resort, I went into a toilet stall and pulled down on my jock to see if I could make my bulge show less. But all I accomplished was to change Mr. Big’s shape from a large grapefruit to a fat salami. Out on the mat with my practice partner, I could feel Coach’s eyes on me. I was sweating a lot inside that tight singlet, and I could feel the wetness on my ass cheeks, my asshole and all over my crotch. The wet white Lycra became almost transparent.
‘Could Coach see my hairy asshole,’ I wondered.
I felt shame as I sensed a tingling in my cock. I lost my concentration and my partner, Butch, pinned me, wiping one of his sweaty armpits across my mouth as he squirmed to hold me down. Butch’s sweat smelled of onions and strawberries. Inside my bulging jock, my cock gave a big jerk. I think Butch must have felt my dick jerk against his thigh. He held both my hands down over my head, brought his face down to mine with a smirking, lecherous grin.
“You hot for my problem, La Mary?”
“My name’s Lamar, asshole!”
I grunted as I strained to free myself from his grip. We were evenly matched though, and I could not get him off me. As Butch pressed down on me, his cock bulge rubbed against mine, and our hairy legs rubbed and slid against each other. The sweat pouring from his rank, hairy pits showered me with sweat droplets, choking me with its hot smell. I felt Butch’s cock jerk twice against my stomach and then it was his turn to be embarrassed. He suddenly pulled up and broke contact. We wrestled a little longer, and then Coach blew his whistle, signaling an end to the practice.
This time, my having let Butch pin me so easily earned me a whipping. I was utterly humiliated to have to strip with everyone’s eyes upon me. Mercifully, I only got the minimum of six licks, not enough time for me to get the dreaded whipping boner.
As I let the hot, steamy water pour over me in the shower, I again felt Coach’s eyes on me, watching me from the shower room entrance. Later, as I was walking out of the locker room, he called to me.
“Boudreaux! In my office! You’re limping, Mr. Boudreaux. Did you pull a muscle on your leg?”
“It’s okay, Coach. I’ll be all right.”
“Get your ass on this massage table now, mister!”
Something about the way he called me mister, like a sergeant talking to a recruit, made something tingle inside my balls. I hopped up on the table. He undressed me gently as if I were a child instead of a muscular, sixteen-year-old wrestler. First, he pulled my t-shirt over my chest and head, brushing the sides of my chest with his soft, hairy hands.
“Lift up your butt, son,” he ordered and pulled off my jeans.
I looked up at him, hypnotized by his deep, manly voice. I blushed as my dick began to harden.
“It’s okay, son, relax,” his voice soothed.
Coach’s hands began probing my sore right leg. He found a knot in the muscle near my groin. He pressed firmly against it with bunched fists and then raked down my thigh with the tips of his fingers. I was beginning to feel lightheaded and could feel my face burning as my cock continued to erect inside my jockstrap.
“Just relax, son.”
He caressed my face lightly, brushing his fingers through my still wet hair. I closed my eyes, and he resumed his massage of my thigh.
“How long has it been since you got your rocks off, Boudreaux?”
I was shocked by the question and said nothing. No adult back in my home town of Pere Pede, Louisiana had ever talked to me like that.
“How long since you shot your last wad, son?” Coach asked again. “You know, it’s important for a young athlete to get off regularly.”
“Coach, how are we going to do that when girls are off limits while we’re in training?”
“Well, there is a way, but some people wouldn’t understand. If you want me to show you, you’ll have to promise not to tell anybody about it.”
“Sure, okay,” I said.
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but my cock guessed and finished stiffening to full mast, threatening to poke its big fat head above the waistband of my jock. The hands that had been massaging me now began lightly caressing my inner thighs. I let out a little sissy moan of pleasure and Coach smiled at me. I was so embarrassed!
“Just relax, son, daddy’s going to give you what you need.”
Then I felt one of his hands dig underneath the waistband of my jock and enfold my prick in its, warm, moist hold. I about passed out. I knew it was wrong for Coach to be doing this and for me to be letting him, but his touch felt so good! He gently began to stroke my cock while his other hand played with the wet hair in one of my armpits. Coach had a rapt expression on his face, his mouth open with his tongue sticking out the corner. He looked as if he was in some kind of trance as his big hands stroked me. I stretched and moaned softly as his hands wandered over my body, all the while thinking in one remote corner of my mind that this homo was raping me and I should put a stop to it. But Coach’s hands just felt too damn good. This was the first time somebody had played with me like this, and the feeling was incredible! Coach poured some rubbing oil on my dick, made a circle with his fingers and started sliding up and down my hard nine inches. It felt so good!
“You like this, don’t you, son? I’m going to make sure you get your rocks off every day from now on so you can concentrate on your wrestling. I think you have the makings of a state champ.”
A few more strokes of that big, warm hand and I would have shot my load, but Coach knew what he was doing. He stopped one stroke short of making me cum. Then he started massaging my chest, flipping his big thumbs back and forth across my nipples. I felt both pleasure and humiliation at having my tits played with like some bitch. After a while, he started stroking my cock again, using his free hand to tickle and caress my balls, asshole, thighs, and stomach. I wanted to say no, stop, this isn’t right, but the intense pleasure kept my mouth shut. Two hours after he had locked us in his office, Coach was still stroking my flame-red dick, taking me all the way to the edge of cumming, stopping to let me cool off, and then starting over. My own experiences with my own hand paled in comparison with the feelings that Coach’s hands were able to draw from my cock. He must have brought me to the verge two dozen times, and that hot, buzzing good feeling you get just before you cum kept getting more and more fierce each time.
“Oh yeah, Coach, do me! Pound me! Beat my meat!” I whimpered, rocking my head back and forth, my entire body tight and trembling with pleasure.
He kept smiling down at me with a dreamy look on his masculine face, dipping his fingers from time to time into my sweaty armpits and under my balls and then wiping them under my nose and on my lips.
“Oh, god, please, let me cum, Coach. I can’t stand anymore,” I finally pleaded.
“You’ll cum when I say so and not before, boy,” Coach drawled, giving my swollen low hanging balls a slap for emphasis.
Eventually, about the time I thought my dick was going to fall off, he tightened his grip on my cock and pumped it straight up and down, letting his circled fingers slide all the way down to the base, then all the way up to the head. Then he cupped my cockhead in the palm of his hand and rotated his whole hand on it as fast and as far as he could, giving me an almost unbearable jolt of pleasure. When he finally let me cum, three hours after he’d started pleasuring my cock, I shot massive ropes of cum all over myself and collapsed in a sweaty heap on the massage table.
Then it was Coach’s turn to get off. He dropped his sweat pants and pulled his massive, uncut rammer out of his dingy, stretched out jock. His whole cock was coated with the glistening pre-cum he’d been leaking while he jerked me off. He grabbed himself with both hands and brought himself off in two minutes flat. Later he told me I should not think we’d done anything queer.
“That’s when you suck cock or take it up the ass,” Coach said before burrowing his tongue into my ear. “Jacking each other off is something buddies do to help each other relieve the tension when there’re no girls around,” he explained.
Once the glow of my orgasm had worn off, my shame over what had happened reasserted itself, as did a rising fear that Coach might be trying to turn me into a homo. But all of that was overridden by the intense cock pleasure the man had given me. So when he told me he was going to put me on a special athletic masturbation program, I immediately agreed.
The purpose of the masturbation program, he explained, was to keep me completely stress-free every day so I could concentrate on my wrestling. I started getting up an hour earlier and biking over to his house, which was only a few minutes away from mine. For these encounters, I am required to wear either my jock or a pair of compression shorts several sizes too small or my tiny wrestling singlet. Either way, I suffer the regular embarrassment of exposing my obscene cock bulge to early morning joggers and commuters throughout the neighborhood. I am mortified by the thought that anyone might think I’m some queer deliberately trying to show off his cock. Coach is always ready for me at the door with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a jumbo bottle of rubdown oil in the other.
“It’s masturbation time," he intones, making me flush with embarrassment and look around to make sure no one has heard.
In his bedroom, he strips down to just his jock, gets on the bed with his back against the headboard and spreads his big, hairy legs wide open.
“Come on, son, assume the position,” he said as he patted his thigh.
I sat between his legs, with my back to his chest and pushed back until I feel his huge, semi-hard cock push into my crack. That moment always makes the homosexual panic return for an instant, but his hands on me soon soothe it away. He starts out by massaging my shoulders, neck, arms, and chest while I squirm against his hairy chest and rub my legs against him, luxuriating in the feel of his thick, silky body hair.
“That’s my boy, just relax and enjoy,” he breathes in my ear, making me squirm with the ticklishness of it.
He goes on caressing me and massaging me with his big soft hands, sometimes kissing and nibbling my shoulders until I beg him to jerk me. At first, I did not want to verbalize what we were doing, but as his masturbatory domination of me intensified he started requiring that I beg him to jerk me. Otherwise, he would not put his hands on my cock. So I learned to control my embarrassment and whine, “Please, Coach, do me, jerk me, beat my meat, masturbate me.”
Sometimes he uses his whole hand to pump me firmly. Other times, he strokes me delicately with only two fingers forming a circle. All the time, his other hand is gently tickling my big low hangers, my thighs, stomach, nipples, and asshole. Coach times my first orgasm of the day for seven a.m., which is precisely one hour after he begins masturbating me. That gives me just enough time to clean up and get to my first class on time.
Masturbation session number two of the day is a quickie half hour session in the coaching office in the early afternoon. In the evening, after dinner, I go to Coach’s house again for masturbation session number three, which goes on for two hours. All told, Coach spends three and a half hours a day masturbating me. And that is only on weekdays. On weekends, I practically live at Coach’s house, and he devotes four to five hours a day to my dick. He says it is astonishing how much pounding a teenage cock can take. It’s a good thing the skin of my cock is thick and tough. Otherwise, he would have worn holes in it by now.
My parents are thrilled with how well I am doing in school, and what a good wrestler I am getting to be so they do not say anything about my spending so much time with Coach. The fact is that Coach has me completely under his thumb. One time I smarted off to him in front of the other guys, and he did not touch my dick for two whole days. I was so desperate I went to his house, got down on my knees and begged him to jerk me. He let me entreat and whine for a while and then told me to get down and kiss his cock to show him how sorry I was. I dove for that hard rod like a thirsty man in the desert and slobbered all over it without shame.
Half an hour later, my cock was in his hand, and all was right with the world. But lately, Coach has been hinting that my athletic program sex education training needs to be taken to a higher level. I fear that means he wants to put his big cock up my ass and I will not have the power to resist him.