Date: Wed, 26 Sep 2007 03:20:46 -0400 From: carl_mason@comcast.net Subject: CHRIS & THE COACH - 9 CHRIS & THE COACH - 9 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 9 (Revisiting Chapter 8) Fortunately, Chris had the benefit of a wise mentor in John Kearns. On evening, for instance, several days after he had first met the boy outside the gym and sensed the force of the affection between the two youngsters, he took his son aside after supper. Carefully, he pointed out the legal problems that Chris faced if sex were to develop and be discovered. He also went to some length to talk about the old saying that "the cock follows the heart." With his help, Chris gradually gained control of the situation, avoiding the quicksand while at the same time providing Howie with new possibilities and deepening his trust in those around him. Coach knew that he had done the right thing, but he was nobody's fool. On several occasions, for instance, he wondered about the degree to which hypocrisy was involved in his own relationship with Chris. (Continuing Our Story: Spartacus!) Came the morning after the Friday night presentation of "Spartacus," Chris sprawled in his comfortable chair, illuminated as by spotlights by the morning light that streamed through his room's two large windows. "Eleven o'clock," he mumbled. "Oh man, that cast party was something! How much sleep did I get? Two hours, maybe three..." Yawning widely, he groaned, "Come on, Chris! You promised Coach that you'd mow the lawn and trim in front while he was out of town. Get with it!" Hesitating, Chris grinned as he fingered the narrow, flesh-colored micro thong that was his only covering in the first scene. Absent-mindedly, he fingered his smooth, freshly shaven skin at the top of the thong and on either side. The circular chair's rough canvas seat told him that his buttocks were still completely bare. The micro thong sure as hell DIDN'T cover much - especially when the monster began to stir! Had he (and several others) actually worn this thing to the party? Holy cow! Grinning even wider and closing his eyes as he leaned back in the chair, he lightly ran his index finger along the quivering shaft. The whole panoply of the wildly successful class play began to play back in his mind as if he were watching a movie. For instance, he saw himself looking out through the slightly parted curtains, seeing that the large auditorium seemed packed. As a matter of fact, additional people were still arriving! What cooperation there had been! Jimmy Lester's New York City uncle not only advised them on the processes of projecting a backdrop from the rear, but loaned them the professional equipment for nothing more than a credit. He also helped them to rent costumes at minimal cost in the City that they could not otherwise produce. Supplemented by weeks of work by mothers of the class participants, they assembled an impressive wardrobe. Students in the art classes provided paintings of scenes which were transformed into slides by two knowledgeable computer students. Mrs. Miller, the Theater teacher, had gone to bat for them with the school administration, arguing that they weren't presenting "Our Town" or a Victorian parlor farce. Hence, there would be times when characters needed to appear clad in no more than they would wear at a pool party. True, there would be no complete nudity - no matter what was happening on and off Broadway - and Mr. Brocco, the principal, would be informed of the scenes in question and have the final word. The school's orchestra had enthusiastically prepared for a strong role in the presentation, as had the choir. A dance instructor who commonly worked with the students outside school had agreed to prepare two dances for possible inclusion in the program. The adapted script submitted by Beth Powers was rewritten several times until the class agreed that it reflected the soul of the story. As the orchestra played the last notes of the overture and the curtain was about to be opened, he scurried to his position. As the curtain opened to disclose a mountainous scene in the Libyan desert, he labored under the whips of Roman guards to provide minerals needed by Rome. His body - as well as those of his fellow slaves - was heavily tanned and muscled. The audience again burst into applause. Suddenly, he reached out to steady a smaller slave who has lost his balance and collapsed. Guards were on him like flies, punching, hitting with their weapons, kicking him viciously. Defensively, he grabbed the leg of one guard and bit viciously into his hamstring. The Chief of the Guards strode up, knocked him unconscious, and ordered that the frequent troublemaker be staked out in the sun with neither food nor water until he was dead. Horns were heard as a litter containing the noted gladiatorial trainer, Lentulus Batiatus (Sid Anderson) entered from the lower left. Seeing Spartacus as good gladiatorial material, Batiatus purchased him and other slaves from the Libyan work camp. As the curtain closed, the storyteller (Jimmy Lester) recounted how Spartacus was transported from Lybia to the south of Italy and Batiatus' gladiatorial school. When the curtains reopened, the painting of the interior courtyard of the gladiatorial school by one of the top school artists had been projected on the screen. Behind heavy fences, gladiators clad in rags practiced their various techniques within the cages. As the cart carrying the new slaves entered, Batiatus' voice boomed out, welcoming them to the school and warning them of what lay ahead. As they climbed down off the wagon under the supervision of the head trainer, Marcellus (Seth Callum), a chained Spartacus passed by the slave girl Varinia (Sue Mercollini). Horns sounded from outside the compound, signaling the arrival of guests as the curtains closed. Opening within less than a minute, the curtains disclosed an opulent observation balcony at the rear of Batiatus' home. Joining Batiatus were Marcus Lucinius Crassus (a powerful Roman Senator), his wife, plus a young protege and his fianc‚. Over Batiatus' objections, four gladiators were chosen to fight to the death for a bit of pre- wedding entertainment. It might have been nothing more than "theater," but Chris did not believe he would ever forget his match against a tall "Ethiopian" armed with trident and net. He still felt the paralyzing fear that gripped him as he sprawled on the ground against a wall, the trident held to his neck. How could his opponent refuse that final thrust that would take his life? How could he stand, rush the balcony on which his oppressors sat, and accept the certain death that was his lot? Completely involved in the emotions of that moment, reeling from the tumult that filled his brain, pushing back into the chair as if to escape the cruel prongs of the trident, he never heard Seth Callum enter his room and kneel beside him. "Dude, what's wrong?" his alarmed friend growled. "You're safe! No one's going to mess with you! Chill!" His breath suddenly escaping from his lungs, his heavy torso deflating, Chris vigorously shook his head and returned to this world. "Oh, man...Seth... I'm glad it's you! I was back in that damned ring at the gladiatorial school. Dizzy" (Dizzy Johnson, an African-American classmate - and star basketball center for the maroon and white - who had played the Ethiopian) "had that trident right against my neck! In a minute, we'll be going back to the slave's quarters where you and I have that little 'disagreement' about Varinia. Get your ass down here on the rug and get back into the play with me!" "Little disagreement? Ha!" Seth spat out. "Ok, Spartacus, I'm with you, but get down here on the rug with me. Hey! I don't have my Chief Slave Trainer's uniform!" "No matter," Chris growled and pried himself out of the chair. Quickly he shed his micro thong as Seth threw his muscle shirt, cargo pants, and sneakers onto another chair and sprawled naked next to his buddy on the floor. "Ok, Seth, eyes closed," he commanded. "Look...down the hallway. That bastard Crassus is taking Varinia out of our quarters." "Eyes front, slave!" Marcellus yelled. "That little tart isn't for the likes of you. Here! Here's something for you." Spartacus didn't have to open his eyes to imagine the brutal slave trainer's beating him about the shoulders and back with the heavy, short-handled flogger he had used the night before. The slave whom Marcellus had molded into a powerful, intelligent killer ducked and wove as he tried unsuccessfully to protect himself against the multiple strands of leather. When Marcellus laughed cruelly and increased the force of his blows, Spartacus exploded, throwing himself against his legs. Crashing to the ground, they rolled over and over before the guards and slaves in the narrow confines of the torchlit slave quarters. In seconds there was nothing faked about their struggle. Muscles flexing, sweat glazing their bodies, they completely outdid their performance of the night before. Finally, Spartacus was able to leap on Marcellus' back and force him to the floor. "Here's something for you, you Roman lackey!" the gladiator snarled. With one thrust, he buried himself deep in Marcellus and fucked him as if he were fucking Rome itself. As his orgasmic howl reverberated against the stone walls of the dungeon, Spartacus placed his arms under the slave trainer's head, simulated a move that would surely have snapped his spine, and leapt off the body, his arms held high in victory. As sprang to his feet, he yelled, "Come on men! Take the bastards!" With fearsome cries, the tough gladiators threw themselves on the Roman guards, overpowering them and sweeping out into the training courtyard. Crassus with his entourage and Batiatus had to flee for their lives as fences fell and the remaining guards were cut down. Against a projected backdrop of the exterior of Batiatus' villa, the slaves surged towards Vesuvius as it smoked in the background. His foot on Seth's muscled back, Chris laughed, "You ok, dawgg?" When there was no answer, he knelt beside his buddy and, with some concern lacing his words, repeated, "You ok, dawgg?" Suddenly, Seth uncoiled and struck with the speed of a cobra. After a short, albeit sharp struggle, this time it was the "slave trainer" who had his way with the "gladiator". After the dirty deed was done and they lay together on the rug in each other's arms, Seth looked deeply into his friend's eyes, kissed him and, in a voice dripping with concern, asked, "You ok, dawgg?" Chris simply snorted...loudly...and returned the kiss. Seconds later, his fingers caressing Seth's heavy upper arm, Chris asked if he could stay and run through the rest of the play with him. "Yeah," the burly one replied, "but don't make me imagine everything! My guidance counselor says I'm a 'hands-on' kind of guy." His hand pointing off into the distance, Spartacus told Seth (now appearing as one of his chief lieutenants) to look at the former enslaved hordes as they ravaged the countryside, freeing every slave in sight, and training the new recruits as gladiators. Seth snickered, commenting that he had never seen so many naked fannies outside of a locker room! "Man, Chris, you really made good use of those narrow micro thongs that the Actors Guild let us borrow." "Yeah, Seth, between those and the skimpy rags that the mothers put together, that scene where all the new recruits crowded around you and called for Roman blood was fantastic! I think we had half the senior class in that crowd...and quite a few lower classmen. How in hell did Mr. Brocco let that one pass? From the audience, it HAD to look like a horde of naked peasants and slaves!" Chris suddenly picked up his thong from the floor where he had dropped it and slowly drew it up Seth's muscular legs. "Here, dawgg," he murmured, "you wore yours to the cast party, too. Remember how it felt?" With that, he brushed his thumb over the freshly shaved skin above the pouch that barely covered the base of his swollen shaft. His fingertips played with the open skin at the sides of the narrow scrap of cloth that fought to contain his long scrotum. He then ran his hand under Seth's naked buttocks. As a finger sank deeply into Seth's anus, his buddy gasped, stiffened, and arched his powerful body. His voice husky with lust, Chris asked, "Remember when Betty Washington and Kathy Collins waylaid us?" "Yeah, man," Seth growled, "I was groped! Actually, I had hands on my ass all night!" "You weren't the only one," Chris chortled lecherously, "and not all of them belonged to students!" Suddenly the scene morphed into the interior of the Roman Senate. Even though they were fighting among themselves in the twilight of the Roman Republic, the Senate could no longer ignore the danger. One after another, they sent forces of minimally trained troops based in Italy to destroy the slave army. Several backdrops were flashed on the screen as, one after another, battles raged, the Roman forces were chopped into ribbons, and valuable weapons were gained by the slaves. Having reached the sea near Brundisium (on the southeastern edge of the Italian peninsula), Spartacus tired to finalize his plan to pay pirates to help his people escape by sea. As they camped on the seashore, however, he was unaware that Roman gold had bribed the pirates to refuse their promised help. When he learned that first-line legions were even then marching against him, Spartacus was forced to rally his forces, frankly admitting that the only way out of Italy was to return north and assault Rome itself. In a great battle in the shadow of the Apennines, Spartacus' forces were defeated by several legions that converged under the command of the new First Consul Marcus Lucinius Crassus. History has it that Spartacus was himself killed in the final assault that fought to reach Crassus. The school's adaptation of the story, however, followed the legend that Spartacus was among the six thousand survivors whom Crassus ordered crucified on the road to Rome when they would not identify their leader. "I don't think I'll ever forget that last scene, dude," Seth said. "It was worthy of Broadway, and the packed house told you so." "Yeah," Chris whispered. "That's something I'll always remember, too. What a job the art and lighting kids did! People out front told me that the backdrop looked so much like the real thing that they felt they were there! For miles and miles back down the Appian Way, all they could see were crosses, each bearing a crucified figure." Meditatively, Seth broke in, "That's all well and good, dawgg, but lashed and nailed to that cross right across from you, you were the center of my life...my crushed dreams of returning home...of being free...of just living. Guess Crassus figured out who we were before we reached the gates of Rome, huh?" "Yeah," Seth responded, once again feeling the pain and the sense of utter futility that had gripped him during his time on the great wooden cross. "Why did you do it, Chris?" the hunk asked. "Why did I do it?" his buddy responded. "Oh, you mean why did I refuse to completely fake the crucifixion. Couldn't make it look real otherwise... If my body was going to look right, those lashings on my outstretched arms had to be what held me to the cross. It was ok to fake the nails on my palms and at the juncture of my ankles, but I couldn't have my body supported by a platform under my feet. Besides, I didn't have to hang for long." "Maybe," Seth responded, "but it was plenty long enough for me to get a major hard-on! Gawd, I was so glad that my back was to the audience and the spotlight was on you! What a sight it was to see your waist covered only by a belt of thin white gauze with a narrow gauze panel hanging down over your stuff. Believe me, no one in the audience who had eyes was forced to work overtime on imagining what lay below!" Chris chuckled and continued. "Frankly, I'm glad that we followed the Kirk Douglas movie ending for the play rather than some of the alternatives. When Varinia rolled out of the city gate in that cart, saw me, and came over to say goodbye and show me our newborn son, it was the easiest thing in the world to project a mixture of overwhelming pain and pride! And as we found out as we mixed with the audience after the play, they got it! Oh, man, Seth, what an evening!" Saying not a word, Seth responded by ripping the micro thong off his body, rolling over on top of his buddy, and ending discussion...at least for some time! When Coach Kearns returned home later that afternoon, he looked into Chris' room after knocking lightly on the door. Before him on the carpet, their bodies still joined, lay the two naked hunks. Grinning, he quietly closed the door and moved away. (To Be Continued)