My Lover, My Athlete

MY LOVER, MY ATHLETE by K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2001 by the author.

It's late afternoon. The corridors of the campus swimming center are quiet. The crowds, the reporters, all of the media have finally left. My office is in a part of the building they don't get to see. I'm waiting there now, behind my desk. Around me, team photos and shelves of trophies line the walls. There will be another trophy added after today. My team has won the conference championship, as they were favored to and as I knew they would.

I wore a suit for the meet and for the press conference afterward, but I left early and changed back into my usual practice uniform, white polo shirt, coach's shorts with jockstrap underneath, and sneakers. They didn't really want to talk to me anyway. They wanted to ask my star swimmer about the conference record he set in the hundred free. They wanted to grill him about Olympic possibilities. I'm sure my athlete handled it fine. He's polite, modest, respectful of his elders, a good kid. He was brought up well by his parents and I've made sure he's stayed that way.

He's coming to see me for a private post-meet conference, which we never skip. The sports columnist in the local paper has talked in print about the "special rapport" we have. It's impossible to keep my feelings about him entirely hidden. The other team members have been surprisingly supportive of my athlete despite his rising star, partly because I stress teamwork and partly because he's a genuinely likable guy. He doesn't have an enemy in the world. He understands, though, that some things have to be kept discreet.

There have been others whom I've taken aside and worked with intensively, others who have become special to me. But there's never been anyone quite like my athlete. As I think of him my breath quickens and my heart beats faster. I look at the clock on the wall. I know he'll be here at the time I gave him. He obeys me without fail. Yet, a irrational fear grips me that he might not come, that I'll be left waiting here, bereft, alone...

There's a soft knock at the door. "Come in," I say, trying to keep audible relief out of my voice.

The door opens. Even now, the first sight of him after any absence is overwhelming. He walks forward and stops in front of my desk, tall and poised. His blue and white nylon warms emphasize the long limbs that allow him to knife through the water so cleanly. Dark blond hair, still damp, is slicked back against his head. Blue eyes are set in a pleasant, open face. He brims with the virility of a twenty-year-old swimmer about to break into the world class.

Right now, his face is anxious. "You wanted to see me, Coach?"

I nod, my expression serious. This is part of the ritual. "Let's talk about your race, son."

He smiles, forgetting himself for a moment, saying, "It was great, wasn't it? They loved me--"

My voice crackles as I interrupt him. "I'm not interested in THEY. I want to know what YOU thought of your race, son. Your record-setting race," I add, with heavy sarcasm.

He nods, abashed, steeling himself for the litany of self-criticism he knows he must give. He begins to speak softly.

"Well, my start wasn't the greatest. Bit slow coming off the blocks."

He waits, then continues more reluctantly.

"I went out too fast. Trying to compensate. Might have faded in the last twenty-five, gotten caught."

I incline my head in a slight nod, indicating my agreement with his analysis.

"But you didn't. You held off the field. Do you know why?"

He says, unwillingly, "It... must have been the new training program."

Not letting him off the hook, I say, "Yes. The one you've been resisting, dragging your feet on all season. Are you saying that it worked?"

He bows his head. His voice is barely audible. "Yes."

Silence hangs between us. At last he says, hesitantly, "Coach--"

He is beginning to shift his body weight slightly from side to side. The equipment must really be bothering him after the long day.

"What is it, son?"

He tries to keep the pleading out of his voice, without success. "Please, may I remove the equipment now, sir?"

"You cannot remove it," I correct him, my voice steely. "Only I can do that."

"Yes, sir." The expression on his face is abject. "Please...may I have the...the equipment removed now?"

I torment him a little. "I don't know. I was thinking you might sleep with it tonight."

"I...I don't think I can, sir."

I raise my eyebrows mockingly. "Not man enough, eh?"

His body is swaying, his discomfort visible. He drops his head and shakes it, ashamed.

I sigh. "All right. You know what to do."

Trying not to appear too eager, he pulls the zipper down on his warmup jacket, removes it and lets it drop to the floor. His skin is pale--swimmers, ironically, don't get much sun during the competitive season. His arms, hanging from wide shoulders, are formidable, the biceps bulging even when relaxed, the forearms roped with sinew and muscle. Even for a competitive swimmer his chest and abdomen are beautiful. The hairless pectorals are two symmetrical discs of flesh, topped with large, dark, and I know, very sensitive nipples. From the cleavage between them drops another cleft down to his navel. Horizontal ridges of muscle radiate out to either side.

He undoes the drawstring on his nylon pants and with swift motions of his legs gets them off. He is still wearing the dark blue racing trunks underneath, and his powerful thighs strain against the tight leg openings. The Speedos hug his slim hips. There is a noticeable bulge in front and a faint stain on the otherwise dry fabric. The equipment has had the desired effect.

Coming from behind the desk, I walk up very close to him and look into his eyes. "Let me." I hook my thumbs under the waist of his trunks and slowly draw them down his thighs. His cock springs free. It is surrounded by dark blond pubic hair--the only body hair I've let him keep today. Long and circumcised, it juts out above his smooth ball sack.

I take a long look at what belongs to me and me alone, then shift my gaze to his face again. He is blushing, still embarrassed when I scrutinize his anatomy this way. His lips are unusually full and sensuous for a man. I want to kiss them, but not just yet. I kneel and lift each of his feet in turn, making him step out of the trunks.

Naked, he turns and walks stiffly away from me. He bends forward at the waist, bracing his arms against the nearby wall, head down. I move behind him and lean forward until I can feel the heat from his body. I reach around and grasp his cock, stroking it to full erection. With my other hand I probe the crack between his cheeks. Even here the skin is smooth and hairless--I shaved it myself this morning. I find his asshole and the small loop of nylon cord that pokes out of it. I hook my index finger through the string.

I grasp his cock and begin stroking him again, simultaneously beginning to pull on the loop at the end of the string, slowly but relentlessly. A low groan rises from his throat, turning into a cry as a round, hard object is suddenly ejected from his hole.

I continue relentlessly despite his pained protests, keeping a firm grip both on the string and his cock. Globe after glistening black globe emerges from his anus. Finally the last ball comes out. His head sags and his body heaves with harsh gasps. I imagine the sensations he must be feeling as his bowels adjust to the sudden emptiness. I'm holding a string of five pleasure beads, each an inch and three-quarters in diameter. He swam his race and set the record with hard rubber thrust more than eight inches up his ass--punishment for having resisted my coaching.

"Get up and turn around."

He obeys. I shove the balls, slick with his secretions, at him.

"Go in the bathroom and clean these up in the sink. Take care of yourself while you're at it. Oh, and get a towel and wipe up the mess here."

"Yes, Coach."

He comes back with the towel and cleans the floor, then disappears again. He is in the bathroom a long time.

I stand, waiting for him. He's worn the balls at my command quite a few times now, but never for this long. I remember his shocked dismay when I showed him the string this morning, his useless pleas, his grunts and moans as I inserted them one by one, slowly and lovingly. My cock presses against the front of my shorts.

I'll never tell him this, but I'm immensely relieved that he won. I admit I let my need to teach him a lesson get in the way of what was best for my athlete. Compelling him to wear the equipment today might have affected his performance. Instead, his brilliant victory has justified both the training and the punishment.

I hear the toilet flush and water running. At last the door opens and he emerges, walking gingerly toward me, the string of balls, clean and dry, in one hand. He pauses before me, eyes downcast, and holds them out. I take them from his hand.

"Good."

He waits for further instructions.

"Up on the table, son."

He casts a quick glance upward and his face brightens, though he knows better than to let himself smile. He knows now that I've given him at least a passing grade on his performance today. He might also be hoping that the rubdown I'm about to give him will end the way it sometimes does. I suppress a smile. I haven't quite made up my mind whether or not to give that to him.

Obediently he mounts the table and lies on his stomach, reaching underneath himself. He adjusts his cock so that it is pointing downward, the head poking out under his balls and accessible between his legs.

Looking at him lying there, prone on the massage table, arms passively at his sides, I wonder which side of him is more beautiful. Does it seem absurd, that I might prefer the rear view to the front? Yet the back of his body is perfect. The triceps swell on his upper arms. His broad shoulders and his back, corded with muscle, taper down in a classic V-shape to his narrow waist and hips, below which his pale buttocks rise in gently swelling globes. Long, sturdy legs and large, flexible feet complete the picture.

I move to the massage table. I take a look at the entire picture before I lay my hands on him. I pass my fingertips lightly over his entire body, beginning with the back of the neck, moving down his arms and back up, down his back, across the buttocks and down his legs, ending at his feet. Despite his efforts not to react, I feel him shiver, and hear him draw in his breath as I pass over the sensitive regions near the cleft between his cheeks, then just above the balls gathered between his legs. Breaking contact momentarily, I pick up the jar of massage cream on the counter nearby, take a handful and go to work.

As I knead his muscles, occasionally taking some more cream, his breathing deepens and he seems to melt closer to the surface of the table. My trained hands press against the knots I find in his back, working them out. I want to get his body as relaxed and loose as possible after the hard race today. I won't tell him this, of course, but he deserves no less.

After finishing on his upper body, I move down and begin anew from his feet up. I sit on the table and cradle each of his legs against my body while I work his feet, ankles and calves. I put his legs down and next concentrate my attentions on his thighs and butt. I begin gently to arouse him again, first getting very close to, then actually brushing the bottom of his ball sac as I knead his strong, thick thigh muscles. I make sure his balls and the head of his dick are coated with massage cream, keeping the strokes just light and short enough to send shocks of pleasure through him. He shifts his body as his cock swells underneath him. He would love to do something to relieve the pressure of his erection pointed the wrong way, but he knows he can't.

Then, on to my favorite part. I massage his gluteal muscles, slowly and carefully, using all of the different strokes at my disposal. I finish by grasping his cheeks with both my hands, thumbs pointed inward, separating them as I move upward, applying pressure, exposing the small rosebud of his asshole in the shaved crack. I see the pucker twitch a bit, a sign of his continued arousal. I grasp his calves, bending both his legs upward and pushing them apart, stretching his front thigh muscles. His balls and the engorged, purple head of his trapped cock come into tantalizing view. A small wet spot is forming on the table underneath him. Letting go of one leg, I reach under his body and grab the slick head. He grunts. I stroke him, stopping before he goes over the edge. I hear another faint sound, a small moan of frustration and desire.

I lay a hand on his back. "Why don't you turn over, son." He obeys with alacrity, his erect cock springing up, released from its prison. As he settles on his back, looking at me, his eyes questioning, I give him the answer he seeks. "Ready for the cuffs?"

He draws in his breath sharply. "Yes, please...coach."

"Good boy." I go to a drawer underneath the counter and take out two buckled straps of leather. Each has a length of stainless steel chain about two feet long attached, ending in a spring clip. As I bring them over he holds both his arms up and out, the hands relaxed and passive. I fasten the leather straps around each of his wrists and tighten the buckles. Positioning myself behind him, I take his arms and draw them back by the chains, toward the head of the table where two eyelets are screwed into the wood. I quickly fasten the spring clips to them. His arms are now pinioned on either side of his head, unable to protect him. The short chains don't allow him either to extend them fully or lower his elbows to the table--the discomfort is deliberate, of course.

I look at my athlete lying naked on his back, arms chained, eyes closed. My cock takes another leap in my shorts. I'm not going to be able to restrain myself much longer. Still, I'm going to finish the massage. His arms are bent, so that I can work easily on his bulging biceps. I rub the fingers and palms of both of his useless hands.

I find the edge of each of his superbly shaped pectorals and gradually work around and inward to his nipples. I brush each of them lightly , drawing more gasps--they are fully erect. An idea enters my head. Shall I subject him to an extra cruelty tonight? Yes, I decide, it's a special occasion.

Standing by his side, alternating hands, I gently begin to rub the rippled rows of muscle on his abdomen. His cock, which had softened slightly, springs back to full erection, begging to be released. His breathing quickens as his mouth opens. His eyes seek mine again.

I pull my shirt up and over my head, tossing it to the floor. His eyes drop to my hairy chest and stomach. He licks his dry lips.

I unbutton the front of my shorts and let them drop. Now I am nude except for my jockstrap, the pouch damp and full. I pick up the nearby jar with my free hand.

He does not take his eyes off me for an instant as I slowly move to the foot of the massage table to which he is shackled. Bending down and putting the jar on the floor for the moment, I straighten, reach forward, grasp his hips and pull him roughly toward me. His arms, still cuffed, fly up over his head as his butt reaches the lower edge of the table. He quickly raises his legs to avoid hitting me.

Again, I pause to look at my captive, imprisoned arms stretched above his head, legs in the air, hard leaking cock pointing upward on his muscled abdomen. Bending down quickly once more, I grab a handful of cream. As I rise, I grasp his calves and put them on my shoulders, reaching between his legs into the cleft between his butt cheeks. I quickly find the hole and push a greased finger into it. His canal is still stretched and ready from the burden he has carried up there all day. I nudge his prostate and watch his eyes dance with pleasure. I withdraw, step back and, with the same hand, pull down the waistband of my jockstrap. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him raise his head to look at my thick, uncircumcised cock, poking from my dark pubic bush. The waistband presses my balls upward and outward. I peel back my foreskin before I apply the cream to both head and shaft.

I skin the jockstrap down my legs and step out of it. We're both naked, captor and captive ready to join in the embrace of conquest. There's just one other thing. I walk to the desk and open the drawer. I rummage inside and find the alligator clamps, connected by a short chain. His eyes widen as he catches sight of what I am holding. Returning to the table, I bend over him and fasten one clamp to his left nipple, turning the screw, hearing him hiss with pain. I screw the other clamp to his right nipple in the same fashion, tightening this one until a wail of anguish issues from his throat. I watch, impassive, as he writhes and twists, his face contorted.

I bend down again and tell him, "If you can't take it, I'll remove them. Just say the word." A long pause, broken only by his ragged breathing. At last, he slowly shakes his head from side to side. I nod approvingly. "Good."

I rise and quickly move into position, placing my cock against his asshole and pushing my pelvis forward, breaking through and sliding in. He yells again, momentarily distracted by this new pain. He's used to the penetration, though, and the invasion will quickly become pleasurable. I go in deeper until my balls are pressed against his cheeks, steely hard in his bent position. I look into his eyes, darkened by the pain and pleasure I am simultaneously inflicting on him. I reach around his legs, resting on my shoulders, toward his chest. He cries out in terror, but instead of tightening the clamps as he had feared, I flick them gently, rapidly, back and forth. He gasps and moans, his head thrashing, driven close to insanity by the simultaneous knifing pain and tickles of pleasure from his nipples coursing through his body. His hands clench and unclench in their restraints.

Leaving the clamps for the moment, I stand upright and withdraw slowly, looking down, watching as my shaft emerges from his hole. I pull back until I see the head of my cock start to emerge, then shove it forward again into him in one massive thrust. My athlete cries out again as my body slams into his. Holding his legs relentlessly apart, I repeat the motion, over and over, gradually increasing in speed.

His head is raised off of the table, the pain from the clamps momentarily forgotten as he watches the assault intently. He can see my stomach muscles working as I fuck him. He'd be masturbating his own unsatisfied cock right now if it weren't for the restraints. You'll get your release, son--all in good time.

After a while I feel the fire build up in me and I know I'm going to have to finish this, much as I'd like it to continue. I slow my motions, then let myself be still inside him for a moment. Then, I withdraw my cock and push on his thighs. He obeys, hiking his body back on the table, bending his elbows, until his head is at the edge and there's enough room for me to climb on.

I mount the table, kneeling and ranging my body above his. Quickly I slide again into him and stretch full length on top, bending him almost double, his knees against his chest. I slip my right hand under his thigh and take hold of his cock, completely coated now with his slick precum.

Simultaneously I resume thrusting and stroking his cock, watching his face intently as I take him to climax. His expression is frantic as the sensations flood his body--the friction of my ramming cock in the tender flesh of his hole, the deep, welling warmth from his prostate; the familiar pleasure of his cock being jacked; and the continued burning pain from his tortured nipples. He can't hold out for long. Short whimpers begin to emerge from his throat, becoming louder, turning into wordless cries, finally merging into one keening wail of combined agony and triumph. His cock comes to life, expelling hard spurts of warm, sticky fluid over my hand and onto his heaving chest and stomach.

I release his cock and quickly grab his face, smearing the handful of spunk onto his eyes, nose, cheeks and lips. His tongue licks his seed from my palm. Seeing his features covered with his cum, feeling his asshole gripping my cock convulsively in the throes of orgasm, all this sends me over the edge. My eyes close involuntarily and I grit my teeth, hissing, "Fuck I'm cumming..." Then I explode in bursting release, my body slamming down in one last involuntary thrust as I empty myself into him. I hear hoarse shouts of triumph and realize it's my voice.

Finally I open my eyes. He is looking up at me, the convulsions passing, his expression changing from ecstasy back to suffering. Now that he's cum, I need to release him in other ways. I pull out of him slowly, carefully. Still panting, I reach down and unscrew the clamps squeezing his nipples, first the left, then the right. He shrieks as the blood rushes back into the nubs of flesh. His eyes are suspiciously bright. In a moment I'll break him down completely.

I reach up and undo the buckles on the leather cuffs, releasing his arms. He sighs and lowers them to his sides, waiting. I let him wonder for long moments what I'm going to do now. Just as the anxiety begins to mount in his face, I lean forward and down, taking his face in my hands and kissing him long and tenderly, tasting the cum on his lips. I release him and smile at him for the first time.

"You swam a great race today, " I say. "You're a champion. I'm proud of you, son."

I watch the tears well in his eyes as he hears the words of praise for which he has hungered so long. In a moment they spill over as his face crumbles and he begins to weep. I put my face down next to his. "Shh...it's all right."

Abruptly his arms grip me in a fierce embrace. We lie there, glued together by his cum, our bodies rocking as they press urgently against one another.

He is sobbing against my neck, the tears wetting my skin, wailing in total release.

"Let it go, son. Let it all go."

His voice emerges, watery, still full of hiccuping tears. "I-I... I did it for you, coach."

I kiss him again, my own throat tightening. I run my hands through his hair, almost dry now.

"I did it for you."

"No," I tell him. "You did it for you, son."

I hold him as he gradually quiets down. Time slips away unnoticed.

Later, both of us showered, cleaned up and dressed in our best, we go out for a victory dinner with his parents. His parents are quiet, pleasant, well-mannered people. Toward the end of the evening his father raises a wineglass in a toast.

"To you, coach," he says. "And to all that you've done for our boy." His mother nods in agreement.

The three of them drink. I smile and say to the parents, "Thank you for entrusting me with your son."

The mother speaks hesitantly. "I have to tell you, Coach, at the beginning, his father and I...we wondered about the...special arrangements. Taking him into your home, having him live with you." She brightens. "But it's worked out beautifully, hasn't it."

I turn to my athlete. "Do you agree, son?"

He sits, grave and handsome in coat and tie. Involuntarily I draw in my breath at the sight. He shakes his head and smiles. "Can't argue with a conference championship. And maybe the Olympics." He looks me in the eye and says, "These past two years have been fantastic. You've brought out the very best in me, Coach. I couldn't have done it without you."

I nod and smile slightly in acknowledgment.

Soon afterward, we say goodbye to his parents outside the restaurant and drive back to my home. As soon as we are inside the door, he clasps me in a long embrace. "Thank you," he says.

"Thank you," I answer. We kiss. Now there is no thought of control or submission, just the warmth of our mutual respect and affection.

Later, he lies asleep in our bed with one long arm thrown over my bare chest. I listen with rapt wonder and joy to his quiet breathing. I can't sleep because my heart is too full.

From the moment you walked onto my team and into my life I was determined to possess you. I set out to make you mine in every way. I've succeeded, my lover, my athlete. But you've had the last laugh, because now I am yours too. I am yours.

END