The Cocksucker: Fun With The Jocks 1

(Part 1 from 1. Fiction.)

"You a faggot, right?" asked Coach Carhew after he met me in the parking lot on my first day. "I mean, no judgment, but that's why I hired you."
"What?" I said. I thought I had been straight-acting. Surely the Baltimore Blues wouldn't hire a homosexual to be locker room assistant, I had thought, so I had better butch it up. I practiced looking tough, like a street thug forced to don a suit for the interview, uncomfortable in its tightness around my toned muscles. I never believed I'd be offered the job, and was elated to get it, even though it was a substantial decline in my income.

Just being in the locker room was making me hot, though Coach Carhew and I were the only people there. It smelled of sweat, and the pile of dank jockstraps in a basket in one corner of the changing area drew my attention, making it hard to listen to Coach Carhew's description of the job.

"I was just... Look, a lot of our players get in trouble with women. They make a scene yelling at 'em, they fuck all the crazy ones, they blow they money on child support payments," Coach said, "This game gets ya revved up, and all those people expect so much from you. They ain't know how to handle it."
"What are you saying?"

"They need a consequence-free way to drain they nuts, and usually any queer I hire be glad to do it," Coach Carhew said, his macho dark-skinned face blushing a little. "I mean, you don't have to. I can find someone else and give you other duties."
"No, of course, yeah, I mean. Yeah, I'll do it. Sure." My heart pounded in my chest -- I couldn't really be that lucky, could I?
But it seemed that I could.

Coach Carhew explained that I had to have an ostensible set of duties, which basically consisted of mopping the floor one time a day and tidying up the locker room. I was giddy as I mopped that first day, waiting for practice to end. I was a light-skinned man with a lean but athletic body -- I had been quite the basketball player in my day -- and delicate features, which I knew were how Carhew had guessed I was gay. I had had a lot of practice in pretending to be straight back in the neighborhood I grew up in, which was not very tolerant of homosexuality, so I was confident that I had my flamboyance in check. I knew the football players of the Baltimore Blues would not be happy if I was acting like a fag. I was freshly shaven, my hair just trimmed the other day, wearing a nice polo shirt and khakhis slung low, trying to look like a gangsta.

I smelled them and my stirred to half-mast before I even saw them. It was their voices, mainly. They were rough and guttural, pumped, amped, victoriously rumbling. They grunted and barked at each other, screaming obscenities and encouragement. The odor of sweat and spit and grease paint filled the locker room, and my heart skipped a beat.

They wore football jerseys as they entered, but stripped them off immediately, revealing skimpy undershirts and pads. They joked with each other, taking off their clothes, laughing and jovially slapping each other's backs and asses. They were , strapping men, not a one under three hundred pounds. I tried not to stare at them as they stripped to their sweaty jockstraps, curly hairs poking out the side.

One in particular, a perfectly curvy linebacker named Mason Miller, noticed me watching, and I recognized him from the sports shows on TV. He was stripped down to his jock, its straps framing his wide cheeks, grayish, sweat-dinged pounch barely concealed his overflowing cock and balls, wiry pubic hair sticking out. He had a little belly, just enough to make it apparent that he was toned from use on the field and on the streets, not in a gym. He was dark-skinned, the color of walnut flesh, his arms and one muscular asscheek inked with gray tribal tattoos.

"Hey, new locker faggot's here," Mason said, and the others looked at my dreamy-eyed stare, joining in his laughter. He grabbed his crotch, aiming it in my direction.
One of the other players, a handsome man with cornrows and a perfectly sculpted chest, adorned with tattoos, walked over to me, wrapping one muscled arm around my shoulder. My whole body shook with desire and I gazed into his dark eyes and etched cheekbones; he had the face of a star, kind and mean and macho with a delicate twist all at the same time. "Hey, little man," he said, "Let me break you in. My name is Keyon Marcell."

I had already known his name, but I was so turned on I could barely walk much less talk. His sweaty body rubbed against me, the coarse straps of his jock brushing against my torso. His skin was so taut it felt like his muscles were bursting out, pressed against my neck, which burned with embarrassment and sexual thrill. He had a six-pack, every line of it flexing with each step, entrancing me so I couldn't look away. I had a raging hardon, and my dick was leaking precum in my khakhis.

"You should hang out back here," Keyon said as they arrived in a dark corner of the locker room, "Most of the guys don't admit they get blowjobs from a man, so you gotta be discrete. They all do it though, they just don't talk about it."
"I seen you on the news!" I blurted, cursing myself for acting like a star-crazed .

He smiled, and dimples appeared on those finely carved cheeks. I swooned, clutching his arms and reaching for his nipples.
"Hey," he said, "I don't mind a little feel-up, but be careful. Some of those niggas in there gonna punch you for that."
I nodded, knees buckling as he flexed his tattooed pecs under my fingers. He grinned at my reaction, a cocky smile that turned me on even more. I sank to my knees, savoring the stink of his sweaty jockstrap. I saw a wet spot at the tip of his dick and licked it, its salty meaty flavor flooding my mouth.

He pulled his jockstrap down, his perfectly formed cock springing to life right in my face. I opened my mouth and gobbled it down without thinking about it, my dick now ragingly hard. One of my hands snaked underneath my khakhis to begin jacking off, trying to go slow since I had a long night ahead of me.

"Hey, locker bitch, you back there?" called out a voice with a Southern drawl.
"He busy!" Keyon yelled back. Keyon whispered to me, "See? He ain't gonna wait. He know it's me back here, but we ain't wanna see each other. He gonna come back when he think no one's here."
Keyon wrapped his strong hands around the back of my head. I clasped his ass cheeks, feeling their muscle and ripe plumpness. I held on tightly as he began thrusting his hips back and forth, shoving his dick all the way to the back of my throat. "Alright, I'm gonna fuck yo' face. Tap my ass if it gets too rough."

I had been practicing blowjobs every day for years, using dildos of various sizes, in addition to the occasional real man. I could swallow almost anything now. I had learned to harness my gag reflex for maximum pleasure, virtually massaging my man's cock with my throat.
Keyon was very vocal about my skills, whispering so only I could hear though it seemed that it took all of his restraint to keep from shouting it out. "Oh yeah, you suck like a fucking champion. Yo' throat just go on forever. Ain't no one ever sucked my whole cock like that. I bet you swallow too, huh?"

The sweat and filth on his dick tasted so good I felt myself cumming from the flavor and the feel of his hot, manly penis dragging against my throat. I moaned as my semen filled the khakhis I had worn, their macho yet professional look no doubt ruined by Keyon's cum soaking into the fabric.

Keyon grunted, his sweaty muscles shining and flexing in the fluorescent light as his balls contracted and cum filled my mouth. I didn't want to swallow it, holding it in my mouth and audibly gargling with it, holding Keyon's cock in my throat. His whole body shook with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he let out a loud choked bark.

Keyon's orgasm sounds must have been loud enough for the entire locker room to hear, because they laughed in unison, some of them barking in imitation of Keyon. Someone muttered, "Well, the locker bitch sound like he know what he doing!"
Keyon peered around the corner to make sure no one was right there, then darted into the shower area to clean up. I watched his muscular ass jiggle, then wiped the cum and spit off my face with his used jockstrap. I had cum in my pants, but I was hard again, just thinking about how much of the team I still had to go. Keyon had said they all did it, and I wanted nothing more than to spent the night here sucking off every last one of the jocks changing out there.

"Hey, you alone?" asked that Southern voice, startling me out of my reverie. I dropped the jockstrap and turned around. One of the team's few white players was Daniel Merrimack, a Georgian with long, stringy blonde hair and a trashy look, huge bulging muscles and a thick, scruffy beard. He wore only a towel around his waist, which he dropped to the ground. I didn't normally like white guys, but his strong frame and sexy long cock turned me on almost as much as Keyon had.
"No hands," he said, "No touching me, no touching yourself. I ain't a faggot."

I nodded and swallowed his whole cock down with my hands at my side. It was hard to keep his dick straight, going directly down my throat, so I found it difficult to deepthroat him. But his manhood tasted like a musty root cellar coated in dried lemon peel, and it felt so good dripping precum down my throat, I had to touch it, to guide his cock farther down my throat and every time I did, he slapped my cheek and called me a faggot.
"Yeah, you nasty faggot, take this shit, take it," he said when he ejaculated, a thin burst of cum that exploded in the back of my throat.

He hurriedly put the towel back around his waist and walked around the corner into the shower room, just like Keyon had done. My hand darted back into my pants, jolting my dick into a torrent of precum. I had barely gotten started on myself again before the next player came around the corner, apparently on his way to the shower.

He was tall and strapping, broad shoulders framed by thick dreadlocks that hung almost to his waist. He had a Jamaican accent and a cruel sneer. He pushed me against the wall, long, veiny cock right in front of my face. "I hate faggots," he said. "But coach make me do this. Don't ya never talk to me, batty boi, not never. You ever tell a soul I do this, I will kill you dead, mon."

Not waiting for a response, he jammed his dick in my mouth, beads of his sweat rolling off on my tongue, his balls slapping against my chin. He grunted appreciatively, evidently too straight to actually compliment a fag's cocksucking, but I gathered that his silence and his lack of complaints marked his pleasure with my services.

He lifted one leg up so he could fuck my face like a dog, seemingly trying to slam the back of my head into the wall with enough force to hurt me. But his cock tasted too good for me to even notice any pain, and I focused my attention on keeping my throat relaxed for him and using my hands to massage his balls.

He stopped moving as he came, his dick fully penetrating my mouth, his semen filling up my stomach with its spreading warmth. He stayed there for a moment as my body contorted and gagged, trying to breathe around his cock, keeping his one leg elevated and perfectly still.
I tried to regain my breath, and the Jamaican man simply walked away naked, moist cock dangling between his legs. He was followed by the curvy linebacker Mason Miller, the one who had catcalled me earlier.

He sauntered back, fully naked, his bull-cock swinging over his pendulous balls. I was jacking off again as I watched him approach. He didn't say anything, just held my head in place and opened my mouth with both rough-skinned hands. He nodded as though approving of my throat.

His dick was wider than any I had seen, even thicker than a beer can, and he sneered when he saw my eyes open in shock. Still not saying a word, he motioned for me to get started.
It tasted just as good as all the others, since he still hadn't showered, his moist funkiness filling every corner of my mouth. I got about half of it in my tbroat and stopped, gagging, not sure if I could take any more.
"Go on," he said, "Keep going."

I struggled on the huge slab of muscle in my throat, gagging violently, having more trouble with a real cock than I'd had with any dildo for years. He held my head with one hand, resting the other on his hip and began feeding it in. He massaged my neck to help ease it down.
"Chicks can't even take half that," he muttered, rolling his eyes in ecstacy. He slapped the back of my head. My nose was almost touching his pubic hair, my throat felt like it was about to burst in an explosion of cock.
Spit came out of my nostrils, splattering across Mason's crotch. He smiled and cheered quietly, slapping my cheeks. He stopped as his balls tightened in my grasp, and his cum flowed right into my gullet.

I choked and spat on it, and he sighed, holding his dick in place while my body involuntarily fought against him. His cum leaked out the sides of my mouth, dripping down his cockshaft and even spurted out my nostrils. He took his dick out and wiped the cummy mess on my face. I licked it up, cleaning the sweat off his balls and savoring the taste of his sour scrotum hairs.
He walked away naked without another word, and I sank back on the linoleum floor, praying to God that this job would last forever.

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