Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2007 11:01:26 -0400
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: CHRIS & THE COACH - 1

CHRIS & THE COACH - 1

Copyright 2007 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written
permission of the author.   However based on real events and places, "Chris &
the Coach" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  As in real life, however, the
sexual themes unfold gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may
be addressed to the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the
"Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults
and teenagers.   As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal
enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of legal age to read
such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or
if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally,
remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 1

(That Stormy Night)

In brief, John Kearns, the creative and nationally respected coach of one of the East's
small-college football powerhouses was hot, tired, and thoroughly frustrated.  After
spending six hours in an NCAA Rules Committee meeting, the group was breaking up
after accomplishing little if anything.  Why were some people so determined to legislate
how the young men had to tie their shoelaces...or the color of their jockstraps?  Bullshit!
In a foul mood as he located his car and prepared for the long drive home, little did he
realize that he would be sweating blood within minutes after leaving the hotel parking
lot.

Unfortunately, a heavy summer storm front was beginning to move through the
Washington, D.C., area.  Radar maps showed powerful storm cells embedded in the
storm that stretched far to the West and promised to lash the District and surrounding
areas of Maryland and Virginia - not to speak of extensive areas well to the North and
the South - with torrential rain, thunder, lightning, and wind.  A major tornado watch had
been posted for hours.

He was no sooner heavily involved in the District's going home traffic than the sky
suddenly grew dark and the air, oppressive.  Huge raindrops splattered his windshield.
Then it really began to rain - and the "crazies" began driving their mammoth SUVs in
ways calculated to beat their best record home by at least five minutes!  At this point,
Coach realized that he was pretty well trapped in the vehicular insanity and probably
couldn't escape the mammoth, tightly-packed stream of traffic if he wanted to stop for
the night!  Fortunately, it appeared to be flowing in the direction he desired.

Perhaps a dozen miles from his exit on I-95 (the main north-south interstate highway on
the Atlantic coast that runs from Houlton, Maine, on the Canadian border to Key West,
Florida), another major storm front came through.  Suddenly, save for car lights, every
light on the eight-lane highway and in the hilly areas bisected by the road went dark.  As
his mid-sized car was buffeted by the fierce wind, rain, and electrical displays, he was
seriously considering pulling over to the side of the road and turning on his blinkers - as
questionable as that was in terms of safety.  Suddenly, his mind left "automatic."
Returning to full control of his driving, he realized that he was well out of metropolitan
traffic.  Near midnight and in terrible weather, there were very few cars on the road and,
thus, he was able to drive in the slow lane at a markedly reduced speed.  (Never had
the occasional D.C. trip taken so long!)  Further, he knew that his exit was only a few
miles ahead.

Every nerve jangling, he finally reached his exit, carefully negotiated the cloverleaf, and
turned towards his town.  Fortunately, it was not too far distant on a well-paved state
highway.  His was now the only car on the road; there wasn't a light to be seen in any
direction.  (He wasn't too surprised, for he never remembered seeing as many lightning
strikes as he had observed on the trip from D.C.)  Evidently, they had really scrambled
the power grid and led sane people to figure out that this was a good night to stay
indoors!

Kearns had just crossed the State line when he caught a glimpse of something white
that his headlights had momentarily illuminated.  Though he continued slowly for a few
yards, instinct told him that something was seriously wrong.  Backing up to a spot where
he could park partially off the pavement, he set his blinkers and stepped out into the
torrential rain.  The coach hadn't sloshed through water for two minutes when his flash
illuminated the white object he had spotted earlier.  It turned out to be a white T-shirt,
the only clothing still on a muscular youth who lay crumpled on weeds and crushed rock
somewhat off the side of the road.

Bending down, he first ascertained that the boy was still alive and that his face was out
of standing water.  He then called 911 and requested police and an ambulance.
An occasional faint groan or sob announced that the lad was conscious.  He spoke
reassuringly to the youngster for a moment and then returned to the car for a blanket to
give him some protection.  Flashing lights and sirens soon announced that help had
arrived.  While the paramedics attended to the youth, Coach spoke with a young officer
named Mike Saunders.  (He had to snicker that the youngest man on the force was the
one who always had to come out on a night like this!)  When the ambulance pulled
away for a short trip to the regional hospital, Coach followed the officer to the town
police station.  The officer-in-charge quickly identified Kearns as the College's football
coach as soon as he stepped in the front door.  Apologizing, he said that he had to
have a report of the incident, but that Coach could drive home, dry off and, inasmuch as
power had been restored, send it in by e-mail.  Morning would be time enough for him
to stop by the station and sign it.

(Continuing Questions)

Entering the police station the next morning, Coach was cordially greeted by the Chief
of Police who talked with him for a few moments over a cup of coffee before he signed
his statement and was told he was free to leave.

Nothing further transpired that day, but  around mid morning on the next, he was
contacted by the Chief.  Other than a bullet that he had caught in his shoulder, the
youth's other wounds - cuts and gashes in the main, plus some deep bruises - were
relatively minor. Following removal of the bullet, he had been cleaned up and observed
overnight.  Though he was groggy and could remember nothing of his past, he thought
he had been attacked and beaten at a car/truck stop on the interstate.  Indigent, the
hospital did not feel it could keep him further.  (In all fairness, every bed in their fairly
large charity ward was full.)

The Chief reported that the young man appeared to be eighteen.  That was as good a
reason as any to avoid sending him to a juvenile facility.  Having little faith in what they
taught, he sent an officer over to the hospital to speak with the boy and see what could
be done.  Evidently, the youngster had vaguely remembered the "kind man" who had
found him - and wondered, somewhat naively, if he could stay with him "for a couple of
days" until his bruises and other wounds healed.  The young officer who had responded
to the 911 call the night before took a chance and phoned Kearns.  Needless to say,
the Coach was taken aback.  This was not his normal role as an educator!  Further, the
heaviest part of his work year lay immediately ahead.  Somewhat against his better
judgment, he said that he would come over to the hospital and speak with the boy and
staff.

Before speaking with the youngster, Coach had a very frank conversation with hospital
staff members, two of whom he had known personally for some years.  (One doctor,
Tom Adamson, had actually been named a collegiate All-American a few years back
when a member of his team.)  He was assured that the youngster was neither an addict
nor did he have any communicable diseases. He had been severely beaten and brutally
kicked.  A bullet in his shoulder had done no lasting damage.  In deepest confidence,
the doctor whom Coach knew best said that he had been raped by several men within
hours before arriving at the hospital.  (Evidence had been turned over to the police.  It
was also the case that he would have to be checked again for STDs.)  The general
impression was that he was intelligent. The doctors saw no reason why he could not
recover his memory, though no one could say when or under which circumstances.  For
the record, the hospital accepted the Police notation that he was eighteen, although he
could be slightly younger or, less likely, one or two years older.

Coach then spoke further with Officer Saunders whom the Chief had detailed to remain
at the hospital and answer any questions that Coach might have.  The young man had
been registered as a missing person, though initial national and regional searches using
fingerprints and physical descriptions had produced no results.  Mike Saunders said
that he thought nutrition and other indicators (e.g., his general physical condition,
including his athletic build, the brand of his T-shirt, his diction, and his demeanor)
suggested that the youth came from an upper middle class family.  Though he said
nothing, Coach got the strong impression that the police in this college town hoped the
boy would not be put into the system, either as a juvenile or an adult.  Not that politics
allowed them to say so openly...

After sitting for a bit in the hospital cafeteria, he took the elevator to the boy's floor and
spoke with a nurse at the first station.  An on duty nurse guided him to the boy's bed
which stood in the hall outside a large ward.  He had no sooner said "Good morning"
when the young man smiled, somewhat painfully, and whispered, "Hello again, sir.
Thank you for your kindness."  Coach lightly touched his shoulder and commented that
thanks were unnecessary.  Human beings had certain obligations by virtue of being
human.  Besides, he said, he'd been a teacher for 15 years and knew a "good guy"
when he saw one.

After talking for perhaps 20 minutes, the youngster accepted Coach Kearns' invitation
to stay at his home "until things settled down a bit."  There were tears in his eyes as he
clung tightly to Coach's hand.  Inasmuch as the police had no objections, the hospital
released their "John Doe" to the Coach.  Though he was stiff and sore, and it didn't
appear that he could put his fully body weight onto one leg, he was helped into a pair of
surgical scrub pants and a robe and wheeled downstairs in a wheelchair.  As he was
lifted into the ambulance, the young doctor pressed a bag of pills, powders, and other
medications into his mentor's hands, telling him to call him if needed.

(Promise of a New Life)

Once they reached the Kearns home, the ambulance drivers helped the lad to Kearns'
first floor office which Coach planned to convert into a temporary bedroom.  (It was
connected to his bedroom by a full bathroom.)  As Kearns sat on the edge of the bed,
they said nothing, simply looking each other in the eye.  Suddenly, the youngster
reached out his arms and collapsed tearfully into the embrace of the older man.  After
the worst of his tears and shaking had subsided, the man said gently, "Now, you know
that you can call me 'Coach', 'Coach Kearns', or even John, but what in hell am I going
to call you?  You know," he said with a sparkle in his eye, "you're just too dammed big
and too damned old for me to call you 'boy' - and I refuse to use 'Hey, you" even on the
football field.  So what's your pleasure, Big Guy?"

"Dunno, sir," the youth replied, "I don't remember my name - or anything else about my
life other than some faint impressions of being attacked.  Officer Mike told me that they
never did locate any ID where you found me.  You know," he continued with a slightly
impish look in his eyes, "parents name their kids."  With something of a giggle, he
added, "What will you call me...D-a-d?"  (Beyond the joking, however, there was a more
serious note in his voice - a yearning - that Coach caught.)  The yearning wasn't
completely one-sided.  After the son the 37 year-old man had never had - but had so
desperately wanted - agreed to cast a veto if he couldn't stand a suggested name, the
name 'Christopher' was eventually placed on the table.  Smiling slightly, the young man
looked into a mirror that hung nearby and said, "Hi, Chris."  Looking up at Coach, he
grinned and said, "Super, sir!  Chris it is!"

As Kearns promised to pick up some minimal clothing for him on the morrow - before,
that is, he could join him for a more complete shopping trip - his train of thought was
interrupted by some serious growling that seemed to be coming from inside the
youngster.  Remembering the near constant hunger that had accompanied his own
teen years, Coach retired to the kitchen, soon reappearing with a bowl of soup, a grilled
cheese sandwich, fries, and a soft drink.  He had no sooner mumbled apologetically
that the kitchen was rather bare than Chris skillfully eased the tray out of his hands and
launched a serious attack on the sandwich and the fries.  In less time than it took to
describe it, the big teen gazed at the empty plate with a look of infinite sadness and
moved the bowl of soup into position.  Unfortunately, as he slightly raised the bowl in
his hands, he began violently shaking and the soup went flying everywhere.

"Oh God, sir, I'm so sorry!  Leave it to me to try to do too much too fast.  I'll be more
careful...promise."  "Don't worry about it, lummox!" Coach chuckled as he helped the
boy clean up the mess.  "Besides, I suspect it's getting time for you to have a bath."
Chris lifted an arm and sniffed.  "You might just be right, Dad," he murmured with a
grimace.  "It's not just that I'm getting a little ripe.  Those pills and shots they gave me at
the hospital made me smell like..."  (Pause.)  "Well, they did," he added a bit lamely.
"One problem:  I don't think I could even crawl into the bathroom."

"First things first," Coach murmured.  Chris could hear him gathering supplies next
door, adjusting the water in the tub, and the like.  On his return, he grinned and said, "I
think, young sir, that you are about to experience the results of staying in shape."  With
that, he threw the bedclothes back, gently stripped the scrub pants from the boy's long
legs, and easily lifted the naked teen into his arms.  The look on Chris' face was
indescribable, but believe that he enjoyed every second of the ride.  He did wince as his
buttocks, bandaged right shoulder, and left leg contacted the tub, but as the youngster
relaxed - stretching, closing his eyes, and smiling peacefully - Kearns had his first
opportunity to really look at his guest.  He could not avoid hardening as the superbly
built young man lay openly before him.

The coach's lifetime of work with young men suggested that he was somewhat younger
than the "official" estimate.  Nevertheless, he could easily understand why others had
pegged him at eighteen.  If he were less than six feet in height, it was by the smallest
margin.  Further, his was not the gangling body of a teen who had just gone through a
major growth spurt.  Rather, he was solidly built from top to bottom.  If he were younger,
he had clearly begun working out years ago.  One hundred seventy-five pounds tops,
Kearns guessed.  Nearly one hundred seventy-five pounds of muscle topped by a curly
mop of medium brown hair that spilled down over his forehead and set off a pair of
Mediterranean blue eyes that would put anyone - male or female - under their spell...
(If that weren't enough, Coach admitted to himself that he had never seen a more
handsome young male.  In fact, his good looks fast approached the level of "beauty,"
although he was clearly "all male.")

After shampooing his hair, Kearns gently washed the lad's face with a washcloth,
grinning when Chris moaned and thrust his head further back as the cloth massaged
his thick, athlete's neck.  The boy actually raised his arms while they were being
washed and softly muttered, "Oh, yeah" as Coach lightly massaged his prominent
biceps and heavy forearms before soaping his uninjured shoulder, traps, and thick
pecs.  Kearns then slowly ran soapy fingers down the youngster's striking abs and onto
the hairless, heavily muscled plain that was his lower stomach.  (While there had been
small amounts of hair in his arm pits, the rest of his torso was essentially hairless.  Even
his forearms showed nothing more than traces of colorless fuzz.)  Noticing moisture
beginning to seep from behind the boy's closed eyelids, the Coach asked him if
everything were ok.  With a sob, Chris suddenly opened his eyes and exclaimed, "Oh,
yes, sir.  Everything is so 'ok' you wouldn't believe it!  It's just that I can't remember the
last time anyone touched me with anything other than hate...and anger.  It feels so
wonderful.  Don't stop...please.  Please..."

Smiling warmly down on the young man, Kearns contemplated his next problem.  Chris
obviously had equipment that was both noteworthy in size and classical in its beauty.
On the other hand, decisions as how to reduce his pain were complicated by vicious
kicks that had reached his genitals and resultant swelling and discoloration of the penis,
scrotum, and testicles alike.  He finally looked the youth straight in the eye and said,
"Chris, those bastards really did a job on your equipment.  I suspect that any help I
might give would involve some pain.  Given the fact that it's also your private turf, would
you like me to keep my hands strictly off?"

"Coach, please do anything you can," the lad answered after a brief pause.  "I already
know you won't hurt me purposefully.  The truth is that my stuff hurts like hell - and it
itches like crazy.  Unless you are thinking of grabbing a scalpel and cutting it all off, I
can't believe that anything you might try would make things worse."

"Well, Chris, over the years I've had a few of my players on the table due to getting
kicked in the balls - and I haven't castrated one yet.  I guess you're safe on that score!
Let's see if I can help, even a little bit."  The teen looked on intently as Kearns used a
special soap to work up a rich lather between his hands, adding a pinch of powder from
a small container.  Then responding to his mentor's request to spread his legs a bit
further apart, he closed his eyes, leaned against the back of the tub, and made a visible
effort to relax.

Moving quickly, but with care, the Coach dipped his two hands into the shallow water
and under the youngster's expansive scrotum.  Lifting the scrotum slightly - while
making a tremendous effort to avoid jostling Chris' prominent balls - he simply held the
heavy mass of flesh in his hands, allowing it, as it were, to soak in the medicinal lather.
This was repeated.  Finally, he returned it gently to the water and turned to the six to
seven thick inches of flesh that normally hung down in front of the scrotum below a
sparse thatch of pubic hair.  Somewhat in surprise, he noted that it was still relatively
soft - surprised, that is, until he noticed the beads of sweat on Chris' forehead and the
effort he was making to avoid erecting.

Chuckling deep in his throat, the College coach asked the boy if he could make a
personal comment.  Opening his eyes, Chris exclaimed, "Sure, Coach!"  "Well, Big
Stuff, speaking as a guy who has had to spend many hours in locker and shower
rooms, let me tell you that you never need to be ashamed of anything related to your
equipment.  Indeed, men are going to look at yours with envy all through your life.
Have fun!  (Pause.)  May I continue, Chris?"  Though blushing, the boy promptly
responded, "Yes, sir!  By the way," he added, "that's the area that has been driving me
mad with itching."  At that, Coach put the regular soap down and again worked up a
lather with the special bar, augmented with a pinch of powder from the orange
container.

Slowly, Kearns enclosed the boy's incomparable piece of meat between his two hands
and slowly moved them from the root of his cock up towards the uncut head.  The
results were instantaneous...and dramatic.  As if a proud and only partially tamed
animal, Chris' cock seemed to lurch with a certain ferocity before rapidly expanding,
both in length and thickness.  "Dear God," Kearns mumbled to himself, "this kid's
packing ten inches at a bare minimum!"  (A low giggle from Chris reminded him that the
youngster was conscious and that he had to watch his big mouth!)  Holding the near
fully erected shaft in one hand, Coach smoothly skinned back the remainder of the
foreskin with the fingertips of the other, freeing the rose-colored head or glans.  "What a
beauty," he thought - silently this time!  The teen's glans - shaped something like a
firefighter's helmet - was extremely large, smooth, shiny, moist...and sensitive.  (In
many males, of course, it is shaped more like a mushroom or the nosecone of a
missile.)  At the top, he observed a large, healthy-looking meatus (piss slit); at the
bottom of the glans, the flesh was separated from an area of banded skin and the
remainder of the shaft by a ridge.  In the depression between the glans and the
retracted foreskin, he showed Chris a rather large deposit of white, cheese-like
secretion.  The boy grimaced and moaned that he generally kept himself really clean.  It
was just that it had "been a while."  Coach nodded, but added that the "smegma" might
be part of the itching problem.  He'd clean the area up pretty thoroughly, but then they'd
have to wait and see.  In any case, Chris wasn't to worry, for they would stop the itching
in short order.  Furthermore, the doctor was stopping by tomorrow, as would a physical
therapist from the College.

Realizing that the boy was nine-tenths of the way towards falling asleep, Coach rather
hurriedly washed his smooth, muscular thighs, and the strong calves on which he could
see a little light brown fuzz.  ("Eighteen?" he said to himself.  "No way!")  Coach lifted
him up onto the broad bathroom bench, dried him thoroughly, and carried him back into
his bedroom.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he ran his fingers through the boy's brown
curls, allowing his hand to drop down onto his ears and the sides of his face.  "Ah, son,"
he murmured.  "My life is complete.  Now let me try to help you complete yours."  Chris
forced one heavy eye to open slightly and murmured, "Oh, Dad, I ..."  With that, the eye
closed abruptly and a light snore told John Kearns that he could relax for a few hours.
He did...reluctantly...leaving doors open in case Chris needed him.


(To Be Continued)