Date: Wed, 29 Aug 2007 10:18:57 -0400
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: CHRIS & THE COACH - 2

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 2

(Revisiting Chapter 1)

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.

(Continuing Our Story:  An Uneven Ride)

The youth slept for a solid four hours without turning over.  When he awoke, however,
his color was much improved - and he had a big grin on his face.  "I didn't dream it!  I
didn't dream it!" he exclaimed jubilantly.  "You're here, I'm here, I've got the chance I
never thought I'd have!"  "The chance you never thought you'd have?" the Coach asked
in some confusion.  Chris' feeling of jubilation suddenly cooled, giving way to a feeling
of...emptiness.  He regarded his host with some despair, saying, "Sorry, sir, I don't
know what that means - but little bits of my life are coming back."  Kearns ruffled the
boy's hair and replied, "Don't push it, son.  It'll happen soon enough."  His face breaking
into an iridescent smile, Chris whispered, "Yes...your son.  I can't believe how lucky I
am."

"Well, your body hasn't been quite as lucky, Big Stuff!," Coach growled, changing the
tenor of the conversation.  "You've got a lot a healing to do.  Let's be about it!  You
won't believe it, but when I finished my degree, physical therapy was a minor in
Physical Education.  For years, I was the one who had to take care of my team
members - unless the problem was so serious that a doctor had to be called in.  Let me
help you climb up on this massage table, and I'll see if I can work a few kinks out.  Then
I'll feed the ravenous beast who has invaded my home.  Ok?"  "OK, SIR!" the happy kid
almost shouted.

Kearns gently lifted the still naked youngster up onto the padded massage table and
helped him to stretch out in relative comfort on his stomach.  The teen's body viewed
from the rear was as spectacular as the view from the front!  Broad, heavy shoulders
gradually narrowed down to a waist of perhaps 32 inches.  Beautifully muscled, his lats
were particularly well developed.  Avoiding the right shoulder, he slowly worked a fine
oil into the youth's flesh until it softly glowed.  Coach's oiled fingers reached lower,
encountering the work of art that was his ass: lightly tanned as was the rest of his body;
completely flawless, hairless rounded cheeks that curved sensuously into the proverbial
"bubble butt", then literally flowed into long, muscular thighs and calves.  Like all other
parts of the boy's body, it was perfectly formed...neither too small nor too large, neither
too soft nor too muscular.

Wondering what was happening to him - for Kearns had had no sexual problems with
his team members and students at any point in his tenure - the Coach felt his desire
rise as he began to knead Chris' buttocks.  The effect on the youngster was also
marked.  Where he had occasionally moaned in pleasure as his mentor had worked his
back, he began to moan...almost musically...as Coach took his cheeks in hand and
kneaded them as if they were loaves destined for the oven.  When the Coach guided a
thin stream of the oil down into his hairless crack until it reached the perineum, he
groaned loudly, writhed slightly in the Coach's hands, and cried out in pleasure.  It was
several minutes before Kearns again heard Chris' unique musical moan.  Working the
oil into the heavy muscles of his thighs, his hand unintentionally rubbed the oil across
that portion of the blood-engorged scrotum that was protruding from between his thighs.
He could even see one of the teen's massive testicles quivering in its protective sack.
This time, the moan quickly gave way to a convulsive jerking of his entire body and a
great cry.

"Damn, Chris!  I am so sorry!" Kearns sputtered, his near hypnotic mood suddenly
broken and suddenly feeling the deepest kind of guilt.  It had to be a good 30 seconds
before he realized that the boy was howling his head off in laughter.  "Dad," he finally
managed to say, "I woke up this morning in the hospital having to cum so bad I could
taste it, but I've been so banged up and sore that I couldn't manage it.  I thought you
were going to kill me this afternoon in the bathtub with those two hands of lather, but it
didn't work out.  Thank God I finally got some relief!  I think I might have had my first
wet dream in years if it hadn't happened!  Or, on the other hand, I might have gone
stark, raving mad!"

Trying to conceal some of his embarrassment as he cleaned the youngster up, Kearns
said, "I see that you have very little body hair.  What's the story there?"  "I'm not sure,"
Chris answered hesitantly, but I vaguely remember three or four of my buddies and I
starting a gym club when I was real small.  I think my mother was still alive and told my
step father that they were going to spend the money for a gym and that was that.  We
decided to shave off what little body hair we had, and kept it up.  I remember liking the
feeling.  I still do.  After a few years, especially if you also use a depilatory" he added, "it
grows back real slow and there's less and less of it."  "Looks great on you," Coach
observed.  Chris blushed and grinned.  "Gonna feed me?" he asked with a pained look
on his handsome face.  "Yeah," Kearns growled, "as soon as I finish with those legs
and feet and take care of a little clean up."  It didn't take long; the food disappeared
miraculously; and Chris, swathed in a blanket, joined Coach on the couch for a little TV.
He was asleep again before Kearns returned him to his bed, drew the covers over his
magnificent body, and kissed him on his forehead before turning the light off and
withdrawing.

All things considered, the next four days passed very smoothly.  Doctor Tom stopped
by twice.  The salve he gave Chris for the itching stopped it in its tracks.  Pete Allioto,
his team trainer, also stopped by twice, giving the lad considerable relief, especially as
regards his left leg which somehow had gotten jammed in his assault.  Given a couple
more days of healing, he promised to begin restoring a full range of motion in the
shoulder from which the bullet had been removed.  On those rare occasions when the
Coach couldn't be around during the first week, one of his student assistants was.
(There were board games; a small TV was set up; the boys talked incessantly of
everything under the sun.  Needless to say, the Coach continued his own efforts,
watching fondly as the youngster's spirits rose by leaps and bounds.  It surely didn't hurt
that his bathing and rubdowns helped his patient to bring himself off on the third day.
He also purchased several pairs of boxers, T-shirts, socks, and a pair of cargo shorts
for those time when minimal clothing seemed appropriate.  Whenever possible,
however, Chris definitely preferred to remain "au naturel" - and his host couldn't bring
himself to complain.  One morning, he actually found Chris using Pete Allioto's battery-
powered "personal grooming" razor to remove the small amount of stubble from his
body.  He even helped Chris handle some hard-to-reach spots and promised to pick up
a bottle of an effective depilatory for him later that day!

The reader will guess that all of this left Coach Kearns completely unprepared for their
first Monday Night Football (preseason) game together.  Coach was preparing to settle
down for an enjoyable evening when he heard a knock behind him.  Turning around, he
saw Chris standing rather unsteadily in the open doorway.  "Mind if I join you, sir?"  His
formal, almost defeated demeanor was a complete surprise.  Controlling his initial
reaction, Coach invited the boy to come over and get comfortable on chair or couch.
Strange what you remember when things get really rough.  All he could picture ever
after were the kid's huge nuts that hung low between his legs and swayed sexily to and
fro as he moved toward him.

Trying not to break into tears, the youngster whispered, "I remember most of what I had
forgotten, sir."  "It's not good news."  "Well, let's get it out, son." Coach replied kindly.
"Then we can deal with it together."  "Yes, sir," Chris answered, almost mechanically.

Looking down at the floor, Chris began to describe his earlier life.  "Until recently, I was
a junior in a private high school," he said dully, "a good student and a strong athlete.
My mother died a couple of years ago.   This spring, I've been really out of it.  My
grades were suffering almost as much as my batting average.  My counselor called my
stepfather and asked if he had noticed I had been having a rough time of late.  He
asked if I might have realized that I was gay and was having troubles adjusting to it.
The counselor may have had a big mouth, Coach, but his analysis was right on the
money.  I'd been holding it down for a couple of years, but it was becoming increasingly
impossible.  The moment I came in the front door, my stepfather dragged me into his
study and asked me point blank if I were queer, a girly boy, a cocksucker, a fudge
packer.  As cruel as his questions were, they were like a key that opened a heavy lock.
I admitted to myself for the first time that I WAS gay.  Worse, I told my stepfather the
truth.  His reaction was vicious.  He'd never liked me very much.  I guess he resented
the close relationship that had always existed between my mother and me.  He took me
out of school, locked me in my basement gym for most of the day, and forbade me to
have any contact with my friends.  Years ago, I had rigged the gym so I could get out,
but there was no place to go so I stuck around.

Promising that he would beat the queerness out of me, my gym became a place of
horror.  When he threatened to bring others in to help him, I got my things together,
secretly - or so I thought - packed them in my car, and took off.  A rough dock type
came up to me at a rest stop on I-95 and told me he needed my help with a friend who
was sick.  When I bought his story and joined him, he and a couple of other thugs beat
the hell out of me.  I didn't come to until I was in the back seat of my car, driving
somewhere.  Most of my clothes were gone; pain told me that I had probably been
raped.  Eventually, the car slowed down.  When they opened the door, it was pouring
rain and dark as the ace of spades.  As I was tossed out of the car and tumbled on the
ground, one of the guys shot at me, getting me in the shoulder.  The car stopped, and I
heard one of the guys yell that "the boss" had said I had to be dead...after they'd had a
little fun with me.  They should get the hell out of the car, find me, and make sure.
They started screaming back at him, saying that "Bert" had put a slug in my brain and
that was damned well the end of it.  After a lot of yelling, the car took off.  I don't know
how long it was before you found me.  I guess I was unconscious most of the time."

"Do you remember anything else, son?" Coach asked patiently.  "Not much, sir," the
youth answered.  "I remember seeing your face as if I were looking at you through a lot
of fog - and, yeah, I remember saying to myself that I was going to get another chance.
Anything else?  Well, people have been asking me how old I am."  Sadly, he added that
his birthday was next week.  "And how old will you be?" Coach asked.  "Seventeen," the
boy answered dispiritedly.  "So you're 16 tonight?" Coach asked quietly.  "Yes, sir," the
lad answered, "though I don't think it matters much.  My stepfather was a bastard, but
he was right on one thing.  I'm part of the trash that needs to be swept out the door.
Ha!  A chance that I didn't think I'd have!  Your being my father...or even my friend!
Don't worry.  You're safe.  I'll move on quietly...tonight."

Chris looked stupidly at my arm that was extended towards him from the other end of
the couch.  Pushing back into the armrest behind him as he retreated, he whispered,
"No, I'm trash, I'm shit, I'm queer.  Don't let me hurt you any more than I have."  "And
why shouldn't I let you hurt me any more than you already have?" the Coach asked in a
voice that could barely be heard.  The tears were flowing as the big teen answered,
"'Cause I love you, Coach, and it hurts ten times more than when I got raped."  He
looked at the hand that beckoned him to come closer as if it were a mirage.  When he
was unable to move, the hand reached out, grabbed a handful of brown curls, and
gently guided his body closer until his thick chest was directly over the man's lap.  Then
it let him drop softly.  The tears began anew as he felt the man's lips on the back of his
neck.


(To Be Continued)