Every Which Way

We stood there in the middle of the Atkinson Park parking lot, the three of us, watching the last of the cars picking up the members of the soccer team of the fall Henderson recreation league take off into the late afternoon waning sun. Ricky Rusk and I, both students at the Graham Hill Academy, Ricky eighteen and I nineteen, were staying back because Coach Denton was driving us home. He'd said he had to stay here until the rest had gone. Graham Hall was an all-male-student post-high school prep school to bring promising athletes up to the academic standards needed to get athletic scholarships to universities or to hone their athletic skills to go directly into the pros.

That wasn't really why we were hanging back—that there was some reason he had to be the last one to leave—but that's what Coach had told the others. Ricky and I knew otherwise. We both had every reason to know Coach Denton's motives.

Clay Denton, at twenty-six, wasn't that much older than the guys on the team he was coaching. We all were students at the Graham Hill Academy in northwestern Kentucky, across the Ohio River from Evansville, Indiana. Coach Denton had been a student there too once. He'd gone to the University of Louisville after leaving Henderson and having starred on the football team there, but he had married our friend, Greg Gerard's, mother and come back to town to work in Mrs. Gerard's real estate firm. She was old enough to be Coach's mother, and just about everyone wondered what was up with that marriage other than that she was rich as sin and was still a good looker. Some of us at the prep school had very good reason to wonder why he'd gone after that tail, unless it was for protective coloring. We didn't question, from experience, that Mrs. Gerard had an interest in younger guys—and in getting them into bed with her.

Greg, twenty, was still at the Graham Hill Academy but was dickering with semipro football teams for a starting position. He was working for a landscaping company into the fall, so he wasn't playing soccer with us. I worked off and on there too, mainly off now that school had started, but I didn't put in the hours that Greg did. I also hadn't muscled up like Greg had from the hard manual yardwork, but I didn't have a boy's body anymore, either. In one way, that wasn't working in my favor. But the change was inevitable, I knew. One can't stay in a teenager's body forever. I was muscling up a little late for an athlete, but that didn't matter that much for a soccer player.

It also didn't matter to Mrs. Gerard, who had hopped my bones a couple of months previously when I'd come to see if Greg wanted to do some pickup basketball. He wasn't there, but Mrs. Gerard was there, in a revealing negligee and holding a liquor glass. She was half looped and on the prowl. I'm a young guy with testosterone, so, even though I was really interested in guys more than women, she was enticing enough. She was a voluptuous, experienced older woman, so, yes, I laid on my back on her bed while she rode my cock. And then three days later, knowing Greg wouldn't be there, I went back and fucked Mrs. Gerard in a missionary. I was well on the way to being actively gay, but that gave me pause to consider the advantages of being bi instead. Other guys who went both ways had told me that sex was sex was sex—that the gender of the partner didn't matter as long as I got off on it—and I had to say there was reason in that perspective. It helped that Mrs. Gerard didn't fixate on me. She'd take any good-looking guy's cock. She certainly took Coach Denton's.

I wondered if she knew Coach Denton's broader interests. He was the main one who told me that the gender didn't matter that much as long as I could get it hard and get it off.

Coach Denton was coaching the academy team in the league to, he said, give back to his old prep school, but Ricky and I knew he had other reasons. Mrs. Gerard was a lot older than he was. The chatter between us guys in the school was that Denton hadn't come back for Mrs. Gerard—that he'd come back for his older teen athletes at the prep school.

"What say we take a run on the paths through the wooded section of the park here next to the playing field before we knock off," Coach said to Ricky and me when the last of the cars exited the parking lot. It wasn't really a question. Coach was stripping his athletic shirt off his chest. He was a developed athlete. He'd played both soccer and football at Louisville and was in great shape, muscular and not an ounce of fat on him. He had a swirling black and blue tattoo covering his left breast and down that arm to his elbow, which made him look mean and dangerous—and cool. The coaches at our school strongly discouraged the guys getting tattoos, telling us that that was thuggish and they wanted their school to have a clean-cut reputation. That, of course, made tattoos that much more inviting to us student athletes, especially when coaches like Denton had them.

Denton wasn't tall. He was compact and solid and was built close to the ground, which had made him hard to bring down when he was carrying the ball at Louisville. It also emphasized how muscled up he was. But he was a handsome, square-jawed guy, who exuded robust sexuality. Mrs. Gerard obviously liked that, but it also went a long way with the guys at the prep school, who were raging with hormones and imagination.

The chatter in the school was Mrs. Gerard had bought him to be her boy toy and that he'd married her to get close to the young guys in the school. When he and Greg, Mrs. Gerard's son from her previous marriage and only six years younger than Clay Denton was, stood side by side, they looked more like brothers than stepdad and stepson. Greg had even grown into the same solid, athletic frame that Coach had. When some of us had heard that Mrs. Gerard and Denton were getting it on, there were jokes about how Greg and Denton looked alike and speculation that Mrs. Gerard was doing Denton because she really wanted to do her own son. When Greg heard that muttered about, though, he went ballistic and that talk stopped because Greg was popular at school. I didn't think Greg knew that Mrs. Gerard would fuck boys Greg's age—she fucked me—I must say I wondered about that, though, considering how fast Greg had heated up over rumors of the possibility.

"Sure, Coach," Ricky said to coach's proposal that we take another run with us. Ricky's voice was a little uncertain, although I was sure he knew what we were doing here. It wasn't his first time. Last year, when Denton had first coached the team, it had been me who played the rabbit here. It was no secret in the school that Coach cultivated eighteen- and nineteen-year-old boys, keeping it barely legal. It had just been a shock to me that he moved on as soon as his rabbit of the moment started to show signs of the "into a man" change. He concentrated on the soccer players at Graham Hill, because playing that game depended more on dexterity and swiftness than muscle and height. I was growing out of what he preferred when he could get what he wanted. And, here in Henderson, Clay Denton could get what he wanted. It's probably why he came back.

Ricky spoke up, a bit uncertain, although I could see his body trembling in anticipation of what consumed his thoughts these days—as it did mine. "So, you want me to—?"

"You can take out first, Rick," Coach said. "Kyle and I'll follow after. There's a bench near the water fountain half way into the woods. You remember where it is, I'm sure. Meet up with us there."

Ricky stood there. He was wearing just athletic shorts and running shoes. We'd all ended practice with running two laps around the field. Coach had run along with us, being no more winded when we were done than any of the guys were.

All of the guys had stripped off their T-shirts. I had too. Ricky was just eighteen—just starting to develop muscularity—but he was a good-looking guy. His people were Greek, so he was olive-skinned, with dark hair. Short and slim, but he'd been starting to muscle up and looked real good. I didn't have any trouble knowing why Coach was interested in him. I was him last year, but a blond, Nordic version of him. I'd muscled up pretty well in the last year, though, and sprouted up a good four inches to where I was as tall as Coach. Coach was still interested in me, but not like he was interested in Ricky—and not like he'd been interested in me when I was eighteen and just starting at the prep school and he'd held me back in the boy's locker room at the soccer field and covered me and popped my male cherry. I hadn't been surprised. I'd known it was coming and welcomed it. He just obviously preferred eighteen-year-olds, guys just starting to become men. In that he was no different than Mrs. Gerard. The more I experienced from both sides, the more I came to believe that gender didn't matter—getting high on sex and carrying through didn't really matter if you were doing it with man or a woman.

"Well, don't just stand there. Take off," Coach growled.

Ricky turned and ran on the path into the woods.

"Give me five minutes and then follow us in," Coach said to me after we'd stood there, not looking at each other, for a couple of minutes after Ricky disappeared into the woods.

"Whatever you want, Coach," I said.

"That's right. Always remember that. It's whatever I want, Kyle," Denton said, as he grinned at me, turned, and loped down the path and into the trees.

When I got to the bench, it had already begun. Ricky lay, naked, on his back along the bench, panting, his butt on the end of the bench and his legs raised, spread, and bent. One arm was flung over his head, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench over his head, to hold himself steady on the wooden plank. The fingers of his other hand were buried in the reddish-brown curls on Coach's head as Coach crouched in the dirt at the end of the bench, held Ricky's legs up and out with a grip under his knees on either side, and buried his face in Ricky's crack, eating the young guy's ass out.

Ricky turned his head toward me as I entered the small clearing. As Coach's mouth came up and enveloped Ricky's cock and started to suck him off, Ricky arched his back, moaned, and gave me a look that conveyed that he was getting what he wanted. At the edge of the clearing, I went down on my haunches, pulled the waistband of my athletic shorts under my balls, fished my engorging cock out of the shorts, and began to stroke myself.

Still new to this and consumed by imagination, Ricky didn't last long. When Coach felt the young man was going to blow, he pulled his mouth off, laughed, and hand stroked Ricky. The young man blew on the third pull.

God, I wished it was me rather than Ricky. Ricky was on his own. This wasn't his first time, I knew. He wanted what he was getting from Coach. It had taken longer when Coach had initiated me; I had resisted him—and it—becoming a submissive to a man, for longer than Ricky had. Ricky had opened his legs right up for it. This year, what Coach liked and would do was more common knowledge than it had been last year when he'd chosen me. This year the guys, like Ricky, who wanted it, had known Coach would give it. They went right to him and begged for it. He worked his way inside them before they realized they probably should have started off with a cock that was a lot more manageable than his was.

Denton pulled away from his crouching position when Ricky had come, which was almost immediately, rose, and moved along the bench toward the young man's head, keeping Ricky's legs running up his torso. When he was in position above Ricky's head, he grabbed the young man's head by the hair, pulled Ricky's face up, and pushed his thick cock between Ricky's lips. With a moan and a groan, Ricky opened his mouth to the cock and gave Coach head.

Sitting a bit off on my haunches, I moaned and groaned too—and pulled on my cock. Shit, I wished it was me.

When Coach moved back down Ricky's body, he took his time getting his shaft inside Ricky's ass, while the young man writhed under him, panted hard, and palmed Denton's heaving, bulbous pecs. Denton's tattoo fascinated Ricky as much as it did me, but it was Ricky, not me, who was able to run his hands over it as Coach worked his cock in. As Coach fucked him in a missionary, again holding the young man's legs raised and spread with a grip under his knees on both sides, Ricky turned his face toward me and gave me a dreamy, it's me, not you, expression that had me groaning and spilling my seed on the ground.

Coach let loose of the leg on my side of the bench, which dropped, Ricky's heel pressing into the earth by the bench and giving him leverage to join in the rhythm of thrusts of the cock inside his passage, and Denton ran the fingers of his freed hand into the mop of hair on Ricky's head and pulled the young man's chest up toward his, making Ricky look directly into Denton's eyes, showing him the pain-pleasure of the fuck in Ricky's eyes, while Coach picked up the pace of vigorous, deep strokes. Ricky was moving with him. He wasn't just submissively being fucked. He was fucking Coach back. There was no doubt that Ricky was lost to Clay Denton—that this was what Ricky wanted from the coach.

Wanting Ricky's surrender to be complete, Coach turned them, with a laugh, so that he was the one lying on his back on the bench. He made Ricky sit on his cock in a cowboy position, facing Denton's head, the young man leveraging the rise and fall of his ass on the cock by pushing off on the ground on either side of the bench with his feet. Coach let Ricky do the work until he was close to coming and then he grabbed Ricky by the waist and slammed him up and down on his shaft, with Ricky flopping back and forth like a rag doll, his eyes rolled up in his head and his tongue hanging out. I could tell when Coach came, because they both tensed, let out their breath, and Coach let Ricky collapse onto his chest. Coach always preferred barebacking and coming inside the other guy's channel.

We drove in Coach's double-cab Dodge Ram to Ricky's house to the west of Henderson, near the Henderson Community College campus, where Ricky's mother taught. His stepfather, Steven, taught English at the Graham Hall Academy we went to. We drove in silence, but that Ricky had been fully satisfied was obvious. He was humming to himself and reaching over and touching Denton on the arm, on the thigh, and on the tattoo as if to assure himself the man was still there, as Coach drove the truck. Coach had fucked him good, and Ricky obviously had been just fine with that.

I, of course, sitting in the backseat, seemingly odd guy out and neglected, was consumed by jealousy and want and was wondering why I was there at all. Coach could have taken me home first—I lived across the Ohio River, in Indiana, in Evansville, but everything was close to everything else here despite there being two states with a river running between them. Henderson was on the less-populated side of the river, so my dad, a lawyer, wanted to live on the side with more money floating around.

Coach let Ricky out a block from his house.

"Should I come up to the front seat while we're stopped," I asked. I wanted to touch him too while he drove. I wanted to run my fingers over his tattoo and to feel how hard bodied he was. I wanted him inside me, pumping me with that thick cock of his. I wanted to feel his hot cum blasting me deep inside.

"No, stay back there. We aren't going far," he said. That deflated me. He was keeping me at arms' length. It wasn't my fault I wasn't eighteen anymore or that I was beginning to mature and muscle up—that my body wasn't boyish and my cock and balls weren't those of a younger guy, like Ricky's were, anymore—or that I now was well used, that he didn't have to work hard to get his shaft inside me. That he was no longer fucking a tight-channeled near innocent, like Ricky was, when he was on top of me.

I was festering for no good reason, though. We indeed were only driving a short distance—not even across the river into Evansville. He drove to the grounds of the Graham Hill Academy and into a vehicle garage that he had a garage opener to. As he lowered the garage door behind the tail end of the Dodge truck, he was getting out of the front seat and moving to the backseat.

In the backseat, he laid me on my back across the seat; pulled my athletic shorts off my legs while he possessed my mouth in a deep kiss; came down between my spread legs; thrust his hard cock into my channel, as I cried out for it; and fucked the shit out of me. I was in heaven. I fit him like a glove now. He slid right in and back out and then in deeper, and, with me moving with him, we became one efficient fucking machine. He put his forehead against mine and looked straight into my eyes, concentrating on me and only me as he pulled back and then thrust forward with his thick cock, pushing in deep, and beginning to pump. We did it smoother and more intense than he'd done it with Ricky. We were better at it. I lay back on the seat, slit my eyes, and moaned deeply as he reached into the very center of me and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. I cried out in ecstasy as I felt him release is hot cum deep inside me.

Clay Denton still wanted me.

* * * *

Everyone said the Rusks had the best-kept lawn of anyone in Henderson. Mr. Rusk—Steven Rusk—an English teacher and head of the English department at Graham Hill Academy for the last eighteen years was the reason for that. He had River Landscaping in at least once a week to mow and trim his yard. The Rusks were prominent in the community. Mrs. Rusk was a professor at the nearby Henderson Community College and was president of the Graham Hill Academy Association, an organization including faculty, students, and interested parents. Their eighteen-year-old son, Ricky, who had just started at the academy and was on the academy's summer league soccer team, was the lad Clay Denton, coach of the soccer team, was fucking this year.

Steven Rusk, pushing forty, wasn't pushing it too hard. He was an unusually handsome man. He was tall and slim—one could say willowy—and had a Peter O'Toole look about him, which meant you couldn't really tell whether he just moved with grace or whether he was a bit fey, a little limp wristed. (When the subject was hinted to his wife, she just said he admired the British and liked to emulate them—whatever that meant.) The fact was that if he had a choice of being on top of—or under, as she was a strong woman—his wife, Theresa, and pumping away or having a man on top of him, between his legs, he'd go with the man every time. And he'd happily be submissive to that man. I suppose knowing he was a bottom for men made it easier for me to see him coming across as effeminate. And it made me worried about appearing effeminate too, as I liked to lie under men. I guess it had me acting especially manly, to the extent that I could figure out what that was.

The reason Steven Rusk's lawn was so immaculate was because he requested the services of hunky River Landscaping Company employee twenty-year-old Greg Gerard, stepson of soccer coach Clay Denton, every week—and sometimes more often—so that Steve could stand in an upstairs window and watch perfectly formed, hard-bodied Greg mow his lawn in just athletic shorts and sneakers—and then, when he could, find an excuse to come down to the garden shed while Greg was putting the mower away. Neither of them seemed to realize that Theresa Rusk stood at the kitchen window, also admiring and fantasizing over the young Greg.

Greg was fucking Steven Rusk. Greg was also fucking Steven's son, Ricky. On occasion he'd fucked Theresa Rusk as well. For that matter, Greg was fucking me too. Greg was an aggressive top. He fucked any good-looking guy (or cougar) who would open his or her legs to him.