The Summer After

The muscle-burning peddle up into the base of the Thompson Gap had helped. I'd had to think about what to do next—what to think about and what not. Mom wanted me to stay a couple of more weeks before leaving for Wake Forest for my first year there. The university coach had suggested that guys trying out for track and field couldn't show up early enough to start working out and giving the coaches a look at what they could do. I had my own reasons both to stay and to go.

The encounter the last week of school at the Steven Academy in Benton had me tied up in knots. I knew what I wanted, but I'd fought against it this long. Damn Coach Wilson. I thought I had this licked—that it didn't matter. But he'd brought it right back to the surface again. I wanted to stay, to maybe see him again, with the surprise factor gone. What would I do with the surprise factor gone? I don't know. Could I go off to the university without knowing?

I knew I probably should. I probably should peddle right back home, throw my gear into my car—I already was packed up—and drive off to Winston-Salem and continue choosing to be normal.

I paused at the side of the road at the Green Hall grocery store. It was all sharp uphill from here, up to the Thompson Reservoir and the swimming hole in the stream feeding that, near the top of the gap, where I liked to go and swim and think.

Maybe I needed a break—and a drink—a sugar-laden drink to give me the energy to peddle on up the hill. I peddled over to the porch leading up to the country store and propped it against the wall. The cooler was just inside the door. I opened the top and reached in for a Coke.

"Here, let me buy that for you. You out training on the cycle?"

I froze, but then turned. "Coach Wilson," I said. I hadn't seen him since that day of the last meet at Stevens. But that was burned into my mind—the encounter in the locker room afterward. The sudden, unexpected kiss. The hand on my jock pouch. Me staying there with it a moment too long, in the kiss and with his hand on my package, before I pulled away, grabbed my clothes, and left the locker room. Hearing him laugh and muttering, "I knew it," as, in embarrassment, I escaped.

"So, can I buy you that Coke? And then maybe we should go outside and around back. We've needed to talk."

I stood there, dumbly, as he paid for our drinks, brushed past me, and left the building. Equally dumbly I followed him around to the back of the building. He'd taken the Coke out of my hand as he passed me, so I followed him. And he'd been my coach; I was programmed to do what the coach told me to do.

At the back of the building, he was facing me. He'd maneuvered my back against the wall and he stood in front of me. He handed me the Coke and I took a big gulp. He took a swig of his too, but his eyes were boring into mine.

God, he looked good. Still. Of course it had only been four weeks since that encounter in the locker room. He'd been a Marine before becoming a geography teacher and track and field coach at Stevens, and he looked it—tall and wiry, muscular, rugged looking. A buzz cut, and a "no nonsense" look in his steely gray eyes. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, the veins in his arms popping out on the surface because they had no fat to run in. His hard chest was the same way, I knew. He liked to go bare chested when he coached—as an example for his guys of what they were striving for in development. That had had an arousing effect on me. Somehow he had figured that out—and taken advantage of it.

I had fought against it. I was fighting against it now. He raised an arm and planted the heel of his hand in the wood to the left of my head. I wondered if he could tell that I was trembling.

"You're trembling," he said.

"Sorry, Coach," I answered, like it was something was doing wrong and could control if I wanted to.

"I didn't see you again. I hope you weren't avoiding me."

"Uh, it got busy those last days of school," I responded, lamely.

"Did you talk to anyone about it?"

"About what?"

"You know what, Chris. Did you talk to anyone about it?" His addressing me by name jolted me into the here and now. This wasn't some sort of hypothetical. He was challenging me to face the here and now—with him.

"No, Coach."

"Do you want to talk to me about it?"

I didn't answer.

"You know what you want, don't you?"

"I don't know what I want, Coach. I just know it isn't right."

"It's natural. There's no right or wrong to it. You want it. You want it now, don't you?"

"No, Coach. I don't want it. I'm leaving for Wake Forest now. I've got trials for the track and field team. There's a scholarship on offer if I make the team—even the reserve squad. I need to just get on with my life."

"I agree you need to get on with your life, Chris," he said, leaning in to me, whispering it into my ear. "You need to be honest with yourself—honest about what you want. You can't study or be any good on the track without being honest with yourself in this."

He kissed me on the neck. I moaned. "Coach, no, don't. I don't—"

"Yes, you do," he murmured.

I didn't get any farther, as he moved his lips to mine and we were kissing and I moaned. He had lost the Coke can and I let mine fall to the ground too. His free hand went to my basket. I couldn't help myself. I jutted my hips out from the wall and widened my leg stance, giving him full access to fondle me. And he groped me, becoming increasingly intimate. My moans deepened and my crotch began to move against his hand.

We froze at the sound of a car pulling up beside the building, just around the corner from where we were. We heard car doors open and two "good ole boys" chatting about the hunting they'd just done up in the mountains. Their voices became more distant as they stomped up onto the country store porch.

The interruption had been enough to cause the coach to pull his hand away and take a step back from me, ready to look like we were just talking if someone came around the corner. The heat was off, at least for the moment.

"We have to talk," Wilson said. "My van is over there, on the other side of the lot. We can talk there."

I turned my head, my eyes focusing on a beat-up blue delivery van over in the shadow of the trees well away from the store. "Just talk?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He just looked hard at me.

"No, I don't think so, Coach," I answered. "I'm on my way up to the Thompson Reservoir."

"To the stream above that? To the swimming hole where you guys go to skinny dip?"

"Yeah, I'll be gone soon. One last go at the swimming hole. I need to think."

"You don't need to think, Chris. You just need to do. Come into the van with me. We can't pretend there's no attraction—that you don't want it as much as I do. We need to talk about this situation."

"There can't be a situation, Coach. I'll be gone soon."

"We'll just talk, if that's what you want. We can't be seen out here. We need someplace we can just talk."

* * * *

Inside the truck, Coach in the driver's seat and me in the passenger seat, Wilson said, "There's a lever at the side of seat, Chris. It reclines the passenger seat. Do it."

"You just wanted to talk," I said.

"Do it," he barked. "You knew that wasn't what a just wanted."

The voice was that of a Marine, commanding. I reclined the seat. He got his right arm around me as I did so, turning me toward him, as he twisted toward me in the seat. He moved his face to mine and took my mouth in a kiss. His left hand went to my basket. I groaned, but I didn't resist him. He pressed his tongue between my lips and opened my mouth to him.

His hand was moving under the waistband of my skintight riding shorts, pushing the waistband and the jock pouch under my balls. I was exposed to him. I struggled against him momentarily, unsuccessfully and half-heartedly trying to fight him, but he was too strong for me and my desire was too strong for me as well. His hand encircled my dick and started to stroke me and I collapsed under him. He pulled off my mouth, laughed, and said, "Yeah, you want it."

"Coach, don't," I whimpered, but then as he continued stroking me, I groaned. "Coach, oh, Coach."

"Yes?" he growled.

"Yes, I want it. Don't stop," I murmured, defeated. He moved his hand lower, brushing my shorts and jock lower down my legs. When he moved the hand back up, it didn't come up to my cock. It came only as far as my crack, under my balls. He placed the heel of his hand under my balls and pressed his index finger at my hole, moving it around the rim.

"Coach, oh, Coach," I whimpered.

"You want this too?"

"Yes," I responded, my voice ragged.

He pressed the finger inside, penetrating me, and I shuddered and began to pant.

"Widen your stance," he commanded. "Give me more access."

I complied, murmuring "No, no, please." But he knew that my widening my stance was a "yes" and he began to move his finger in my ass. His finger found and rubbed my prostate. I'd never had such arousing feeling before. I felt my cum stirring in my balls. The sensation of need did nothing to help me resist him.

"Yes, yes," I whispered.

"You want me to do it . . . to go all the way."

"Yes," I whimpered, the word coming out in a moan despite what my mind was screaming that I didn't really want.

He laughed, and his lips took possession of mine again. He pulled away from me, pulled his finger out of my ass, and pulled my riding shirt over my head. He'd been stroking my right nipple with the hand of the arm he'd had around my back. He took time out to glide his other hand over my torso.

"So, young, sweet, fresh, supple," he murmured. I shuddered under his touch.

"Yes, yes, yes," I whispered. I had no control over what I was saying. It wasn't what I wanted to say.

His hand worked its way down my chest and my belly and into my bush. My arms were paralyzed. They just hung there at my sides, useless. He stroked my cock again for a moment and took my hand in his and put my hand where his had been encircling my cock. He obviously wanted me to stroke myself, and I did. His hand went under my balls again and he was back to moving his finger inside me. All of my muscles gave way. He felt me go to putty, and his finger moved deeper inside me. I was stroking my own cock and rising and falling with my hips on his buried finger. He kissed his way down my torso.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," I murmured as he opened his mouth over my cock and moved his lips down the sides of the shaft. For several minutes there was nothing but heavy breathing, with me occasionally murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes," and moving my hips with the rhythm of him going down on me as he sucked me off.

He pulled off me and stroked me the rest of the way off as I tensed and came close to—and then past—ejaculation. When I had shot my load, he sat up, unzipped himself, and fished out a thick, long, erect cock. I'd known he was hung. He'd shown it to me before in the showers at school.

"Move over here, in my lap, facing me. Ride my cock. You're open enough for me now." He was pulling me toward him, raising and turning me.

"No, please. I can't. I've never . . ." I whined.

Nodding to the interior of the van behind us, he said, "OK, I'll help you. I'll take care of you. I'll do it all. Let's move to the back. I'm gonna do you right."

I turned my head and looked into the back of the van. A small stack of padded blankets covered the floor and restraints were attached to the walls on either side.

"You don't have to do a thing," he repeated. "I'll do it all."

I panicked. "No, Coach. Not that. Please." He raised my hips off the seat in pulling me up and I managed to jerk up my riding shorts and jock, get the passenger door open, and grab for my shirt as I rolled out of the van. I immediately was on the move, stumbling toward the country store. I pulled my shirt on as I walked. He didn't follow me. At the front of the store, I pulled my cycle off the wall, mounted it, and, without looking back, peddled it hard on the road rising up the side of the mountain, into the Thompson Gap, up toward the reservoir.

* * * *

Charged with adrenaline, I peddled like mad up the crease in the mountains south of Ashville. When I reached the Thomson Reservoir, wedged into a hollow, which helped service the water needs of the town of Benton below, I just kept on peddling. Normally, I would have had to stop there and rest, but I didn't this time. Up I went, past the parking lot to the reservoir, higher up in the gap of the mountains to where I could see the highest of the treetops in the crease of the mountains. There was another parking lot there, a smaller one than the one at the reservoir. There weren't any cars parked there. Not many people came up here.

I propped my cycle against a tree, stripped off my sweaty bike jersey and micropolyester Craft bike shorts and my shoes, hung them on the bike to dry, and found the nearly invisible trailhead that would lead me up to the Pools of Daniel, a series of three pools cut in the rock below falls on the stream running down the mountain and feeding the reservoir. An old wooden sign gave the name, based on the family that had once lived up here, according to speculation. The pools, though, were mostly a secret known to the students of the private Stevens boys-only high school down near Benton. The boys came up here to skinny dip and cavort. I came up here, now only wearing my jock strap, to swim in the pools and think about my future—and the complications of my present.

There were three pools, the one at the top and the one at the bottom shallow. The one in the middle, the broadest one, overlapped by lips of flat rock, was the deepest one. You could dive into the pool from this level or even dive in from the top of the falls into the pool and not worry about touching bottom.

I dove in immediately upon approaching the middle pool and swam vigorous laps from one side to the other, forcing everything out of my mind, wanting to think about nothing at all until I was utterly exhausted and my body had recovered from the shock of the ice-cold water. Then, with difficulty, I hauled myself out of the pool and lay on my back on one of the flat slabs of rock hovering over the pool. I dozed off for a few moments, but only for a few moments. When I woke, from a reverie of what I hadn't done in Coach Wilson's van—from a dream of being in his lap and riding his cock. I had my right hand under the waistband of my jock and I was stroking myself.

My ass was twitching. I wished that I had brought the device. I was keyed up. I sought relief and release. When I'd told Coach that I'd never done it, I'd been technically correct that I'd never had a man's cock inside me. But I did own a battery-operated dildo and I had used it before.

I had been so confused and frustrated for so long. Emotionally, I wanted to go with men—to be submissive to them, but I had understood the difficulties and heartbreak of living that sort of life. I wanted to be in the mainstream. I had thought I could fight it—or at least keep it to myself and my own solitary devices. Coach Wilson, the power and beauty of his body and his flirty and, eventually, overt propositioning, had thrown me for a loop. My body wanted him.

I had ached to give myself, fully, to him back in that van. If he'd told me one more time to come into his lap, I would have done so. He was thick and long, but I had practiced, and he had taken time to open me up. I thought I could manage him with less initial pain than pleasure. It had been when he'd wanted to take me in the back of his van and bound me that I had balked from fright. I didn't want to lose control. I wanted to be able to walk away from it at any time it was too much for me. It was all too much for me.

What would I do now? What if we came together again? I had been so easy for him—right up to the point of commitment to full possession. I'd even told him that I wanted it—that he could lay me all the way. I had pulled away from that not from total innocence of fear of the pain, but from continued indecision—and because he'd wanted to tie me up and take all control away from me.

I lay there, stroking myself and thinking of Coach Wilson—and of some of the other men I had looked at. If he approached me again, would I go with him? I had to admit that I probably would—not if he wanted to bind me and do anything he wanted with me, though, I didn't think. So, I was all packed at home. And the coach at Wake Forest would be happy if I showed up there tomorrow or even this evening. The only thing that kept me here any longer was the prospect of going over the hurdle with Coach Wilson.

So, what did I want to do? I thought of the coach and of his body, as I had seen it in the showers and how I had seen some of it today. His body was hard, and muscular, and cut. Thought of his thick, long erection made me moan. I thought of running my tongue along the lines of the veins that bulged out on his arms and torso. And as I thought of that, I thought of him embracing me, setting my entrance on the bulb of his cock. Of pulling me down, down, down on the cock and the lifting me and pulling me down again.

I even pushed myself to the limit and thought of having my wrists and ankles bound and him fucking me, helpless, from behind and above like a dog. I can't claim that that didn't send me even more over the moon in arousal.

I ejaculated into the pouch of my jock strap. Pushing myself up off the rock, I took two steps to the edge of the rock overhanging the pool, and dove in. I swam across the pool and then back and then I pulled myself up on the rock again, stretched out on my belly, and dozed off to sleep, dreaming of being helpless and under a muscular man's control. I'd crossed some sort of barrier, because I was now thinking of being bound and having no control over what the man did to me—and not just any man. It was Coach Wilson who was conjured up in my dreaming.

* * * *

I woke with a start from having my jock strap shoved into my mouth. The man was on top of me. He was strong, muscular. He wove his arms under my pits, closing his fists on the back of my neck, trapping me in a full Nelson, and forcing my cheek to the cold surface of the smooth rock underneath me.

"Up on your knees," he growled in my ear. It was the voice of Coach Wilson. I wasn't the least bit surprised that it would be. I drew my legs up, planted my knees in the smooth, but hard, rock underneath me and watched him plant his foot to the left of my thigh as he rose up on his feet, giving me room to raise my tail in the air, which I did, responding to his command. His leg was unclothed. I was sure he was naked. I was positive his cock was free and in erection because it went from poking me in the small of my back, to running up and down in my crack.

He suspended the cock play to restrain my wrists behind my back with leather leads so that, even though my tail was waving in the air, my weight was on my chest and shoulders. Then he restrained my ankles together as well, after which he returned to slapping his dick against my buttocks and running it through my crack and across my hole.

And then it was positioned, and he was grunting at the effort to force it inside me. But I opened to it and he was in without too much difficulty. In some ways it was like the dildo, but in other ways different. The real cock was more pliable and was throbbing. The dildo had been inert and I had controlled what it did, when it did it. I had no control over the coach's cock, which seemed to want to be inside me as deeply as it could get as fast as it could get there. The real cock was thicker than the dildo too.

I struggled against him, realizing I was chaffing my cheek and chest and bloodying my knees, but it was no use. He was much stronger than I was and he was crazed, determined to have me. He was mounted high on my buttocks, using the leverage of his feet to manage strong, long thrusts deep inside me, followed by a withdrawal almost to the surface and then a long slide again. The jock strap gag muffled my cries but not my deep groans. His mouth was close to my ear. His was murmuring dirty talk about how nice my body was, what he was going to do with it, and how long he'd wanted to do this, had planned to do it. His breathing was ragged and noisy. He was taking me like an animal.