COACH Luke Miles (olcoach44@ gmail.com)
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DISCLAIMER: The following story is FICTIONAL. It contains descriptions of homosexual activities. If you are not over 18 years of age, or if you find this type of story offensive, or viewing this material is illegal where you are, then please DO NOT READ IT! If you choose to read it, then - I hope you enjoy it!
Oct 10, 2007 Jason's First Workout – (Jason Saga, Part I)
I'd almost finished my lunch-time workout at the University Gym. My workout buddy, Max from the Environmental science department, had begged off today because of a department meeting so I'd worked on back and biceps, leaving chest and tri's for the next day when I had a buddy to spot me. I'd noticed the ROTC kid since he'd come into the free weight area because he was dressed in field fatigues and a skin-tight t-shirt, and because he was absolutely chiseled. Probably less than 3% total body fat and the defined chest and abs beneath that tee pretty much signaled he all wanted us to see. No more than 5'7 or 5'8, he was perfectly lean and proportioned with a chest and biceps that showed some serious gym work, but he wasn't overly defined or bulked. The combo of the body, the fatigues, the boots, and the high and tight, dirty blond crew cut assured the boy that I was gonna steal a glance or two. Fuck, I couldn't help myself.
I was finishing up my fourth set of preacher curls, admiring the 'pop' in my guns and wiping sweat, when the lean soldier laid down on the bench next to mine and started doing reverse crunches with extended legs. I swear I could've bounced a quarter off of his abs as he worked them. I caught him taking a third glance over at me, and I popped out one earpiece from my iPod and extended a hand. I introduced myself as he swung his legs around and he responded with a warm baritone.
"My name's Jason, sir. Sorry for staring but I swear you look just like my high school track coach."
I smiled. I got this all the time. I was always somebody's favorite uncle, coach, teacher, or even, Dad. Hell, if they liked what they saw, who was I to complain. At 6'2", 210, well-defined and muscled, I was probably in better shape at 43 than I had been at 33. If not, at least I felt a hell of a lot better.
"Seriously, sir. At first I thought you were him. Do you have a brother who's a high school track coach, a former tri-athlete maybe?"
"No," I laughed. "But I was a high school basketball coach, in a former life, and played my share of 3 sports a long time ago." I wiped the sweat from my brow and continued,
"I haven't seen you here before with the ol' timer's lunch crowd."
"No sir," he answered. "I used to work out afternoons with my frat brothers, but this last term, I could only schedule my last ROTC PT on afternoons, so I'm trying to get some lifting done during my lunch break."
"Well, join the club," I chuckled. "For some of us, that's about the only time we can work it in. Besides, I would think with PT and what, about 30-40 miles of road work with ROTC, you wouldn't need much of a workout."
"Oh, yes sir. I'm getting so much cardio, I can't hardly build any muscle. I tried supplements but they just make me feel weird. I guess I won't be able to bulk up much anymore until after I graduate in June and stop with ROTC."
"So, you're not enlisting?" I wondered.
"No sir. I'm on scholarship – but it's academic. I just did ROTC because I'd done it in high school and I really enjoyed it. It's been good for me here. Keeps me disciplined."
"Bud, it looks like you've been pretty disciplined with your workouts, so I don't think you have much to worry about."
He reddened from ears to cheeks. The damn boy was blushing.
"Well sir, you didn't see me after my study abroad in Paris last year. I lost a lot of my muscle weight not having regular PT or a gym to go to."
"You were in Paris? In the business program?" Our Economics program only averaged about 40 majors at any one time and its yearly study abroad program with the L'Ecole de Paris Institute d'Economique was extremely competitive. Typically only two to three students per year were chosen to participate. This boy was as smart as he was built.
The blush continued.
"Yes sir. I was lucky enough to go. I learned a lot, including that I think I need to find a quality graduate program to continue my studies, if I can get a grant or scholarship."
I smiled. "Well, you know, my expertise is graduate programs."
"Really? We don't have a program in Economics here, right?"
"No, but in my role as director here, I happen to know many of the other graduate deans and directors across the Southeast. I could advise you on some programs if you want."
"Wait a minute, you're that Dr. _____________."
"Yep, that's me."
"Man, I thought Deans were supposed to be older!" He stammered, "no offense."
"Well, I work out a lot," I laughed, "and I've been fortunate to be the 'youngest' in many of my career accomplishments. And as you know, our program's pretty small. The big schools, all of their Deans are very old." We both laughed.
"Hey," he asked, "do you think if I came by your office later today you could give me some tips or information on where to apply for next year."
"Sure," I said hurriedly without thinking, "but you know it may be a bit late for applications for programs for next year."
"Yes, sir, I kinda figured that but you never know. Maybe I can find something."
We agreed that he'd come by my office later. I picked up and headed out to the locker room, surprising myself by whistling in the damn shower! What the hell was I thinking?
It was well after office hours when I heard the outer office door opening and a voice calling out. I had sent the secretaries home by 5 PM so it was just me back in my office, answering email. Jason walked in and I was surprised because he was absolutely filthy, covered in sweat and grime, and I could smell him before I saw him!
"I'm sorry, sir, but we finished up PT late and I was afraid I'd miss you if I tried to go home and shower and then come back."
"It's okay Jason. Former coach here, remember? I'm sure I've smelled worse before, of course I don't know when."
He looked a bit shocked.
"I'm just teasing, son. Sit down."
"You sure it's okay?"
"Sure. Go ahead. Okay, I took the liberty of downloading your transcript and with that GPA (it was a perfect 4.0 in one of our toughest majors) and that year abroad, you are an excellent candidate for a graduate assistantship. I just don't understand why your undergrad advisor hasn't told you all of this."
"Well sir, it's sort of a long story, but I finally just decided recently to do this. I mean, I've been on scholarship here and it's just my Mom and me now. I really felt like I needed to try and find a job as soon as I could after graduation and start earning some money. But after break, my Mom really convinced me that if I thought I needed grad school and I could get some help to go, then she would be okay. I mean, she's a teacher and has a job and all, but we don't have tons of money running in."
"It's okay Jason. You don't have to explain this to me. I wasn't prying. I was a scholarship student too as an undergrad. I just wondered, what with your record, why you hadn't explored this before." There was an awkward silence.
I offered, "Why don't you take all of the information I've put together here. These are the top five programs that I think, 1) would be interested in you and 2) would still have something to offer at this late date. Take 'em and read over them in your dorm tonight and you can let me know this week if you need any additional help."
"Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it. But I, well, I don't live on campus. As a scholarship senior, I got permission to live off-campus."
I was a bit confused and must've looked it.
"Yes sir, I know, on scholarship but able to live off –campus. It's not that big of a deal. My father's parents' farm is just north of here, about 9 miles up in the mountains. After they died, our family started working on it as sort of a cabin. After my Dad died, my Mom and I held on to it in case I ever wanted to stay there after graduation and live here. This year, it seemed cheaper to stay there rather than on campus. After last year's ice storm when I was away, it really needed some work and it gave me something to do on the weekends."
"But how do you have time, what with classes and ROTC?" I asked.
"I'm kind of 'driven', sir. I like to stay busy."
I could feel the flush deep within my chest and knew very well what was happening. This boy was trouble for me and was pushing every button I had. Forget the fact that he was gorgeous, totally buff, smart, driven, and accomplished. BUT he was also a student. I was in a mentor position. This could only lead to trouble for me and my dick. And besides, despite the obvious case of the boy checking me out in the gym, I had no reason to suspect he wanted anything more than some information and some fodder for a jack-off fantasy after his workout.
He squirmed a bit, taking the packet of information and clearing his throat with some hesitation.
"Ugh, do you think, maybe later, after I've showered and changed, we could maybe meet for a beer and we could go over this stuff together?"
I was surprised. Despite his awkward hesitation, this boy clearly wanted something more from me and fantasies aside, I wanted something from him.
"Jason, you obviously must be of legal age..."I began,
"I'm 22 –will be 23 in July" he interjected before I could finish.
"Well, okay Jason, but you're still a student. We do have some limited rules about 'fraternization' with students and drinking. I'd be happy to continue to advise you, mentor you as you do this, but it probably wouldn't be good for either of us to be seen out in public, drinking together. I know it seems archaic, but that's the gossip-bed of academia that I function in."
He laughed. "Well, I have beer up at the cabin. You could advise me there just as well as here or at a bar. Why don't you drive up the mountain after you close up here. I'll offer you a beer, it's the least I can do for the work you've already done, and we'll talk grad programs."
I hesitated. This boy clearly had thought this through. I was beginning to wonder if it was purely happenstance that had led to our gym meeting.
"It's a gorgeous drive on an early spring evening like tonight. Here," he hurriedly wrote out the directions on a pad on my desk, "follow these directions. I'm gonna head on out and shower so I'll smell better by the time you get there. I appreciate all of your help, Doc."
He rose, turned, and headed out of the office before I could interject a reason for not coming. I shook my head. Was I seriously going to entertain the idea of meeting a student for what? What did I think was going to happen? Had he really just called me "Doc?"
I continued to debate with myself as I robotically locked the office, walked to my car, and pointed the car north, toward the mountain and Jason's cabin. This would be an advising session only. Maybe I wouldn't even drink the beer. I could always say, just water please. What was I thinking anyway? In the seven years since I'd officially ended my marriage, and unofficially 'come out' to a few close friends, my sexual encounters had been limited to the NSA variety online until recently. Just 9 months ago, I'd finally found someone that I thought was 'the one', although we continued to work through the frustrations of a long-distance relationship. He was 2 hours away by interstate. I had my teenage sons every other weekend and one weekday. We made time for each other when we could and we were, when together, totally into one another, both physically and emotionally. Why the hell did I all of a sudden have this urge to, what? With a student of all people? Violating one of my clear, self-initiated rules of intercourse requirements?
I turned off the highway at the appointed sign and followed the curving two-lane through stands of just budding hardwoods and copses of rhododendron that reached out to my car at every turn. I noticed lights popping on at houses set back from the rode, hidden amongst the hillside and trees as I drove by. Past the closed vegetable stand, I turned and then slid in past the designated mailbox into a curved allee, paved and surrounded by trees and shrubs. After a moment, a front-porched farmhouse, an old dog-trot of probably 12-1500 square feet appeared at the end of the lane. Tin-roofed and sturdy, the house sported a fresh coat of grey paint with white trim. Jason had clearly spent some weekends working on the 'cabin.' I parked and got out, laughing at the unsteadiness of my shaky legs and made my way up the three wooden steps. A screen door stood closed but the interior door stood open, revealing a warm great room suffused with light from lamps and a sputtering fire in the fireplace. The room was clearly furnished in hand-me downs and 'old' furniture that looked comfortable, albeit a bit threadbare. I raised my hand to knock and Jason emerged from a doorway within, gym shorts hanging loosely from his chiseled frame, shirtless, toweling his still wet hair. Before I could speak he said warmly,
"Hey, come on in. I heard your Mustang in the driveway. Come on in, it's not locked."
I opened the screen door and responded to a squeaked hinge from my childhood. I smiled inadvertently.
"What's funny?" he said. I looked up, into the blue eyes I'd noticed earlier that day in my office.
"Nothing. Just, my grandparents' farmhouse had a screen door just like that. That sound sort of took me back there for a moment."
"Yeah, no matter what I oil put on that, I can't get rid of the squeak. Old houses sorta speak to you, you know. That's what I like about this place. Come on, I'll give you the 'grand tour.'"
It was rustic, simple, and stoutly made. I emitted a low whistle as he led me out back onto a terraced back porch and deck. There, he'd made a partial outdoor gym that lead from French doors in the converted bedroom/gym on the back.
"I keep my free weights inside or on the porch in foul weather but I move 'em out during the summer. There's nothing like working outside here, when I can hear the brook down there and feel the cool breeze through the mountain laurel."
I smiled. "It must be something. It's pretty amazing. Not what I expected."
"Yeah, to look at it, you wouldn't think we'd have this deck or this view off the back." He handed me a Corona long-neck and we both just stood and stared for a minute. So much for my 'control' of the situation and my desire not to drink.
"Look Jason, "I began, but he countered with "Hey, why don't you show me a bit of your coaching expertise here on the bench? You said you used to coach right? I bet you could help me with my lifting technique."
I admired his chiseled shoulders, biceps, and abs. The gym shorts hung barely on the protruding hip bones and the muscular V that led down each leg. A trail of dirty blond hair rose from the waist band up to his inverted, lean navel, planting a track down from his six-pack abs to his...
"Honestly Jay, I don't think I could teach you one thing about lifting that you don't already know."
"What?" he asked.
"I don't think I could teach..."
"No, what did you call me?"
"Oh, Jay, sorry. I tend to shorten names or add a Bud or Bubba to phrases. It's part of my colorful, good-ol' boy coaching past. I meant Jason."
"No, I'm sorry. It's okay. It's just, my family calls me that, since I was little. It was just..."
The awkwardness hung on the air and I knew I needed to just get out of there, get away from this man-boy who exuded every ounce of what I thought I required physically and emotionally. If I didn't retreat soon, it would all be over. What did he want from me? No father. A former coach/idol? Was his sexual interest in muscle, in family, in men at all? The air was ripe with possibility and longing.
He moved to the bench and added a large amount of weight. More than I could press.
"What do you think, Sir ?"
"Well, I'll spot you Jason, but that's more than I typically lift. Here, let me see your grip. Is that where you normally place?"
"Yes sir."
"Well that may be some of the problem for bulk. You want to vary your hand placement on the bar over your reps just like you want to vary your weight."
"Oh, okay."
"Here, how many you wanna try?"
"Typically, I can go 5-6 at this weight."
I positioned myself at the end of the bench, my khaki'd legs placed taut, hands below the bar, and stared down into that young, handsome face.
"Okay, go – on three"
He lifted, and I could see the strain and taut muscles move across his defined, bare chest. My eyes couldn't turn from his small, erect nipples, plum-colored, perfectly at attention on his smooth and defined pecs. I heard four and a grunt and came to as he lowered the bar.
"Sorry, Bud. Can't squeeze out any more?"
"Nope, Coach. After PT today, I'm pretty spent." He laughed.
I looked down and his hair was blocked by the partial hard-on pressing out of my flat-front khakis. I laughed nervously too. "Well, lifting often has that effect on me but usually I'm the one lifting."
He reached up a shaky hand, tentatively, and stroked my hardening cock through my pants.
"Look Jason," I stammered, but he turned on the bench and rose, looking me right in the eye.
"It's okay, Coach. It is okay if I call you Coach, right? It's okay. I don't want to make you uncomfortable but I wanted you to come here tonight. For all the reasons you've probably figured out already. It's probably the craziest thing I've ever done, but from the moment I saw you in the gym months ago, I needed to know for myself."
"Months ago," I wondered.
"Yeah. I've sorta been stalking you Coach. Well, in a good way of course." He laughed.
I reached over and grabbed the longneck and took a long draught to steady myself.
"How did you get so self-assured at 22?"
"Look, I'm just a chicken shit (pardon the expression). I'm just, honestly, I've never done anything like this before."
How many times had I heard that in my life!
I set down the beer and moved around the weights and bench. I put both hands on Jason's shoulders, cool and strong beneath my grip. My eyes swept the hard torso and took in the now growing hard-on beneath his loose shorts. I looked him square in the eyes, those intense, cool blue eyes set squarely in that lean, handsome face. He took in a breath as I stared into him intensely, letting him feel the force of my gaze, for 30 seconds, a minute, another minute, then I pulled him to me, forcing my mouth onto his, pulling him up and into my 6'2" frame so that our hardening cocks were now pressed against one another. I wrapped him up, pressing my gym-worked guns tight around his back and kissed him harder still. This boy, this man-boy of hardened steel and muscle, kissed me back with all of his might and then I felt him go limp, surrendering to my embrace, my want, and his own desire.
To Be Continued...