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Whether they like what side of the tracks he comes from or not, Jack is the new star wide receiver for the Groveton Jackals, and he's going to pave our way to a national championship. It's time they got comfortable with it.
I hear the taunts they throw at him, and I've noticed during the end of day scrimmages that they are gunning for him. Up until now, I considered it yet another part of the process. He's followed through with most of my strict instructions, but his will is still too strong for my liking. As well as he's doing, I still have the intense urge to break him. He's got more mental fortitude than I gave him credit for, but that just makes me want it more.
The way he bristles at my praise sends a delicious shiver up my spine, and I wait, holding my breath, for him to lash out. I want him to rage at me so I can knock him down a peg, put him in his place. I've found myself waiting in anticipation for his little acts of defiance. They make me feel alive, and I get the most intense pleasure from punishing him, pushing him to the limits. Truth be told, maybe too much pleasure. I find my dick growing hard every time he grunts with the effort of another deadlift, every time a bead of sweat rolls over his temple when I'm spotting him at the bench. I've had to start wearing a jockstrap to conceal my unusual reactions to his pain, to the effort he puts in to prove his worth, to meet my standards, to please me.
Surprisingly, he lets it go. For a moment he looks like he'll bite, but then he just drops his shoulders and turns around towards the locker room. It's unlike him to roll over so easily, but I did notice him rubbing his temples earlier, and the storm pressure is pretty intense. It's definitely not helping the ache in my rotator cuff, nor did over two dozen long passes in a row while I tested just how magical Jack's hands were.
In my office, I dry off my hair and face with a towel and shirk off my sopping wet clothes to pull on a pair of track shorts and a t-shirt from my gym bag. After shaking a few ibuprofen into my hand, I consider that Jack could probably use some pain relief as well. I'll throw him a bone; I'm not that much of a sadist.
The locker room is empty when I open the door, but I can hear the shower running. I walk over to where I can see Jack's gym bag, intending on leaving the bottle of ibuprofen on the bench next to his things and leaving.. But a deep sigh pulls me towards the door to the showers, and I find myself frozen.
Jack is at the back of the room, the curtain to the shower stall wide open, exposing himself to what I'm sure he thought was an empty room. He knew I was still in the building, and I often come into the locker room to discuss things with the players or tell them to hurry their asses up. Did he want me to walk in on him like this? Want me to see him in all his glory?
Glory is the right word for it. He's turned toward the wall, his hands bracing on the wall while the water beats down on his head and back. I watch, transfixed, as the water flows over his suntanned skin, flowing over the globes of his firm ass and down his muscular legs.
I take a step back.
This is fucked up. I'm not attracted to him. Not like that. He's my student, and half my age. This is fucked up.
Punishing him, making him work hard for my approval, does do something to me, though. I can't deny it.
As much as I enjoy denying myself, I also really enjoy dangling things I won't let myself have right in front of my face. Like a bottle of good Scotch, or my favorite dessert, Jack Perry has somehow become something I crave.
From the shadows, I watch Jack turn around, his eyes closed against the spray of water. He reaches for the body wash, lathering up a body sponge and rubbing circles on his smooth, muscular chest. I watch the rivulets of soapy water rushing over his body and between his cut abs, my eyes tracing the body sponge as he scrubs it over his entire body. The spicy, musky scent of his body wash permeates the steam building in the room, lulling me into a trance, hypnotized by the way he washes himself. Time feels stalled, his movements slow and fluid. I jerk in surprise when water splats against the ground, Jack wringing soapy water from the loofah. He hangs it back on the hook with his shower bag, then runs his hands over his body, sluicing off the bubbly remnants of his body wash.
When one of his hands reaches down to grip his cock, I suck in a breath. So far, I'd been able to train my eyes away from the appendage, denying my curiosity about his body. But I can't tear my eyes away now that they've followed the path of his hands down to his thick, hard cock. My mouth fills up with saliva, and I forget how to swallow. I forget how to breathe. I forget how to do anything but watch, frozen, as Jack starts to stroke himself.
The way he handles himself is slow and purposeful. He strokes languidly from base to tip, squeezing at the end. My own cock, standing at attention in my gym shorts, twitches when my eyes lock on the drop of pre-cum Jack forces from the tip before fisting over the end and slowly spreading it down the shaft. His strokes pick up, and the wet sounds of his hand working his dick echo over the spray of water and the thudding of my heart.
At some point, my own hand finds its way around my cock, stroking up and down my hard length in time with Jack's strokes, but I stop when I get close to release. Instead of climaxing with Jack, I squeeze firmly around the base of my cock and watch, enraptured, at the expression on his face as streams of white erupt from the end of his cock, shooting across the shower room. I squeeze harder to stave off my climax, my balls clenching painfully. My eyes are locked on the way his cock jerks with each spurt of cum, ending with a slow drip that Jack squeezes from the tip. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, salty with the sweat that pours down my face in the humid room.
A low chuckle makes my heart seize in my chest. My gaze darts up, making direct eye contact with an unsurprised Jack Perry. His cocky grin lets me know he knows exactly how long I've been here, and that, no matter how far back into the shadows I am, he knows exactly what I'm doing.
My student just caught me watching them shower with my hand in my pants.
CHAPTER 7
JACK
Coach hasn't talked to me much since I caught him watching me in the shower. No matter how many times I've stayed late, purposefully and obviously leaving the door open, he hasn't been back. I'm not even sure why I’m doing it. Is it to taunt him or invite him in?
I…liked knowing he was watching me. It excited me in a way I've never felt before. It was even better than publicly shooting my load all over Millie's face to spite her asshole father. It was heady, and the moment he backed away, wide eyed and terrified of what he'd been caught doing, I'd had to lean back against the tile and catch my breath before I got dizzy.
I wanted to watch him come with me, but he hadn't. I'd waited, trying to extend every moment of my orgasm, but then I realized he was holding himself back. Then, for no other reason than I'm a sick asshole, I made sure he knew that I'd seen what he was doing. Now that I’ve realized I want him to come back and do it again, I regret my impulsivity.
We're a month into summer training, marking the halfway point. As hard as training has been, as pissed off as I've been about Nicks trying to control every aspect of my life, I'm actually starting to enjoy it. It's almost freeing, not having to make these decisions for myself. For the past week since the shower incident, I've been sticking to the routine he prescribed. Not that he seems to have noticed, he's turned his targeted focus from me to the rest of the first-string offensive line.
He's determined to make us work as a team, and it seems to be getting through to the rest of the guys that we're all actually pretty damn good for each other. We're starting to pull off seamless, perfect plays, and I'm feeling more confident than ever that this championship is definitely going to happen. Lane Masters and his ass kissers are coming around to not openly hating me, and even invited me to a team party for July 4th. There's supposed to be a barbeque, a pool, and plenty of beer flowing. I was even told some members of the dance and cheer squads would be there, which means I might get the chance to work out some of this tension on a warm body instead of my hand, which has recently become less satisfying now that I’ve experienced what having an audience feels like.
The night of the party arrives, and I'm feeling exceptionally well rested. Today has been our first day off since summer training started, and I slept far past when I'm "supposed" to wake up for training, choosing not to go in today at all.
After staying late last night, running sprints and hitting the weights without Coach's instruction or notice, I'd once again showered alone, and it pissed me off more than it probably should. I mean, how fucking dare he perve on me and then back down like a fucking pussy? If he's going to watch, if he's going to get off on torturing me, then be fucking honest about it. Don't pretend you don't want my cock.
Fed up, I'd stormed out of the locker room, still soaking wet with only a pair of gym shorts thrown hastily over my raging erection, and taken out my frustration on a punching bag. For a moment, I'd thought I felt that prickle of awareness I get when he's watching me, but I turned around and found nothing. I'd even rushed through the room, making sure he wasn't hiding in the shadows anywhere. And then I got a good look at myself in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
When did I become such a fucking pussy? I'm not even gay, but for whatever reason, I want that man salivating over my balls. And I've been doing everything he asked, like a fucking puppy, hoping to be rewarded for being a good boy.
I stormed home last night with a new resolve. I'm fucking done playing his game. I'll give him a winning season, because it benefits me, but fuck his schedule and fuck his rules.
