Date: Fri, 7 Dec 2012 06:15:07 -0800 (PST) From: Joe Hunter Subject: UNDERSIZE RUNNING BACK All the usual disclaimers apply: +This story is a work of fiction. If you think it is real, you have a very active imagination. +Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do so. +Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are represented. Do not read further if this offends you. +Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story. If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions. Keep the Archive online! Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. This story is for the football fans (American style football that is) and for you readers (you know who you are) who like a story to "get right to it", without all that build up! I did my best, and I'm hoping you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you do, get a contribution in to Nifty! Joe ____________________________ UNDERSIZE RUNNING BACK (copyright 2012, Joe Hunter) "Stretch... Yeah, like that..." The naked boy arches a little, extending his arms further behind his head, and my hand drifts down his silky flank... across his hip... into smooth hairless groin where a rigid boy stick juts upward. As my fingers begin to rub, I tell him, "Now squeeze your butt." Hips lifting slightly, the boy tightens himself. Beneath my stroking fingers his hard shaft swells. "Yeah," I whisper, rubbing faster. "Good... That's good, Jake... Keep squeezing... good... now relax... relax... stretch out... way out... point your toes..." The boy's head goes back further as he extends himself, slender body stretching across the bed. Jake is eleven, going on twelve. His legs have begun to grow faster than the rest of him, but his silky upper body is still undeveloped. We have the shades pulled down and in the subdued light the boy's smooth pale skin glows against the dark bed coverlet. "Yeah," I whisper, leaning over him, continuing to rub. "Good... stretch... that's it... now squeeze again... hard... harder... good..." My shirt is off, but I am still wearing my pants. Though I am hard beneath and want them down, the boy has made no move to touch me there, so they remain. Jake's mouth opens, breath catching in his throat. His jutting shaft, displaying the first signs of lengthening and thickening that herald onset of development, strains upward, so hard I can see it quiver with his excited heartbeats. My fingers slide from base to helmeted tip in quick steady rhythm. "Yeah... now relax... stretch... stretch... good... squeeze... make it hard... real hard... that's it... now relax... stretch..." Over and over I have the boy tense and relax, stretching his slender young body, my fingers stroking. Finally his breaths come faster, his hips lift. He arches in tension, head back, arms extended... a little jerk... a moan... "Ah... Ahhh..." Suddenly, his hips are bucking in fast hard thrusts. Then he collapses on the bed, panting, "Uh... Uh... Uh..." I stop rubbing to stroke my palm gently across the satiny sheen of stomach and chest. "That was good, Jake. Yeah... good..." He is one of my football kids; a sandy-haired boy of average height, average looks, ordinary ability. I notice him in practice because he is a trier, and because he is overmatched. In other years a boy Jake's size and build would be a receiver or defensive back, but this season we have a runty team. Some of the bigger, more developed sixth-graders we would ordinarily use as running backs have to be linemen instead. Jake runs fast enough to be put in the backfield, but I worry about the hits he will take and so does the head coach. The old man tells me to keep an eye on him. "Don't know how we ended up with so few big kids this year," he growls, shaking his head. "Must be something in the water." Among the quarterbacks, running backs and linebackers Jake is the shortest and slightest. He would take a pounding in practice if I did not rearrange things to avoid it. I take care to pair him most of the time with a boy taller but not much heavier and am relieved when I discover that Jake is more resilient than he appears. Sometimes, despite my precautions he still gets an occasional pasting, but he always gets back up, shaking off the hit, going on with dogged determination. Even so, for full Contact blocking and tackling drills, I usually partner him myself to control the physicality. Jake thrives on this attention, finding ways to be constantly at my side in practice; always there looking up happily waiting to be noticed whenever I turn around. At first he is shy, keeping a foot or two away, but after the first tackling drill, when I wrestle playfully with him a few times, he moves closer and now is happiest when he can stand right up against me, a hand on my arm, elbow or waist. I soon discover that no matter what he does in practice he always checks to see if I am watching. If I squeeze his shoulder or give his butt a pat to let him know he has done well, his plain face lights up. He looks for any opportunity for physical contact, putting himself in position for it, coming over constantly for approval. During tackling drills, partnered with me, he is always begging for extra turns. Jake comes to practice in a carpool with two other sixth graders, both bigger boys and both members of the wrestling team where I am an assistant coach during the winter. From various overheard snatches of conversation I gather that he talks to them about me and is envious not only of their size, but also of the easy familiarity they and I share. "Coach?" he asks once. "Did Luke and Ronnie get like all big 'cause they wrestled?" He is standing next to me, looking up, and I see in his face all the doubts, fears and anxious hopes that lie behind that question. "Well..." I smile at him. "I'm sure wrestling didn't hurt. But I'd say they got big because they started growing fast, like all you guys do at your age. You're growing, too, you know. You're just starting off a little slower than them is all. You'll catch up, don't you worry." He thinks about this, frowning, then looks up again. "I can wrestle." "I bet you can." I squeeze his shoulder. "I'll bet you're a good wrestler. I know you're a fine running back. You're doing just great." This contents him and he is happy for a while. But in practice that day he wants to tackle me so I can wrestle with him, and as we tussle he does everything he can to prolong our contact. He does not lack courage. Although well aware of his size disadvantage, and somewhat fearful because of that, Jake never flinches from making tackles or from carrying the ball into a pile up no matter how hard he knows he will be hit. Despite being a substitute, he takes great pride in his position as a play-making member of the backfield, constantly looking to me for reaffirmation that he is doing his job. I give him what support I can and protect him in practice, but worry about what will happen in games. When the first game does come it is a severe test for Jake, and very nearly calamitous for both him and the entire team. Right from the start our team's lack of size is apparent. The opposition scores quickly, running back a kickoff and then cashing in on a fumbled exchange between our inexperienced quarterback and the center. "Nerves," I tell the quarterback after he has trotted glumly to the sideline and is standing next to me, watching the other team miss a second extra point kick. "Opening game jitters. I used to get 'em all the time myself. Don't worry about it." A few yards away I hear the head coach telling the center something similar and when it is time for the quarterback to lead our kick-off receiving squad onto the field I send him out with a pat on the butt for encouragement. "Take it to 'em, kid!" Jake also has assignments on special teams, but his trial does not come until later. After the game has see-sawed back and forth a while with no more scoring, he substitutes at linebacker and is immediately flattened when a play goes right over him. I hold my breath but he gets up quickly enough, runs after the ball carrier and gets a piece of the subsequent tackle. Then the first stringer goes back in and Jake comes trotting to the sideline obviously close to tears. "Good job," I tell him with a little pat on the shoulder. "I got dumped on my ass, Coach," he protests looking up in anguish. "They got a big gain!" "Yeah, maybe this time," I say, getting down on one knee to comfort him. The boy is so distraught I know I have to do something. My hand slides down onto his butt where I can feel the underwear briefs he is wearing beneath the tightly stretched nylon of his uniform pants. "The important thing is you got back up to follow the play. That's real heart! That's the kinda' player I want! Next time you'll fight off that block and it'll be your turn to shove somebody on his butt, right?" "Uh-huh." Jake's eyes are still glistening. He gives me a timid look, while I rub the firm mounds of his butt. "You're doin' great," I assure him. "You know I'd tell you if you weren't. Keep your head in the game for me. Remember what we practiced!" "I will, Coach." If I had asked him to swear on his life, he could not have said it more seriously. Giving him one more pat I straighten up and turn my attention to other players, but Jake remains close, hovering nearby as I pace the sideline following the action. Luck aids us when a backfield mix up on fourth and goal keeps the other team from scoring again. Our quarterback pulls off a quick kick that gets a favorable bounce; somehow the defense manages to hang on. We go into halftime still down by only 12 points. During the break I hustle around making sure all my backfield kids have Gatorade along with an orange to suck on, then huddle with them next to the head coach. "We're gettin' killed out there," the quarterback whines, but I smile at him and shake my head. "You're doin' better than you think. Yeah, they got the size on you all right, but what do you beat size with? What have we talked about in practice?" "Speed," the boy tells me. "But..." "But nothin'," I say, shrugging. "Speed's the answer. You've all got it. Start using it. Run to the outside, bootleg, flat pass - do whatever works." "That's right," the head coach tells him, nodding in agreement "With luck we can handle 'em on defense. It's up to you to generate a little go power out there. Use what you've been taught and get us some points." Perhaps the talk helps because the second half does go better. By the fourth quarter we have not only scored twice, but have the lead as well because our kicker manages a rare extra point. Jake goes in for a series of plays at running back, then is distraught because the two times he gets the ball he is caught in the backfield for losses. But I console him by pointing out how well he has done not to fumble. "What's the first job of the running back?" I remind him. The boy regards me with a solemn expression. "Protect the ball." "Right. And you did that perfectly. What's the second job?" "Get up the field, gain yards." I give his butt a pat. "There you go! And that's the part we'll work on next. You'll get there. You'll see." Later, when he is a linebacker again on defense, he makes a tackle that I suspect probably saves the game for us. When the sides change he runs to me on the sideline wreathed in smiles. "Bamm!" I say, high fiving with him. "That's the way! Just like in practice! Way to go!" It is a wonderful moment for him, his first real tackle of the season-- plus praise from me, which he wants more than anything. Jake is hanging on to me, trembling with excitement. "I played off the block that time, Coach. Just like you said!" I go to one knee, stroking him. "I'm so proud of you." "It worked, just like in practice!" My arm slips around the boy's slim waist and he leans against me as we watch our offense take over the ball. "I saved like a big gain, didn't I, Coach?" "You sure did. I think you saved the game." My palm slips onto his butt and Jake moves even closer, allowing my other arm to reach across the front of his uniform pants so I can stroke his hip. This puts my forearm over his crotch. Beneath is the hard bulge of his cup. Jake leans against me, shifting slightly so the bulge rubs on my arm and then I feel his butt tighten. The hardness presses outward. "I am really, really proud of you, Jake," I say in a low voice and the boy looks at me with an expression of absolute contentment. He stays with me, hugging close, while the offense runs out the clock giving us a one-point victory. With a pat of his butt I get to my feet, saying, "You're the best, kid," Jake is looking up at me as if ready to burst with happiness and I give him another pat. "Let's get everybody together! Coach'll probably want to celebrate a first win with some pizza. Come on!" We do have a pizza party and at it I lose track of Jake who gets dragged off by the people in his car pool. But I think about him on the drive back to my apartment that night. Once games began there is no practice on Fridays or Saturdays. On Saturday afternoon I am finishing the yard work I do for the landlord to get a break on the rent when I hear light footsteps in the grass behind me. Turning, I find Jake standing just a few yards behind me. He is carrying a football and looking very unsure of himself. "Hi, Coach," he says in a timid voice. He is scared that I might not want to see him, but my welcoming smile is so reassuring his face brightens when I say, "Hey! What's up, Jake? Been playin' some touch?" He nods, then looks shyly at his feet because he has no idea what to say next. "How 'bout a Coke?" I suggest, and he follows along at my side while I put the landscaping things away. Then we go up the stairs to my apartment. He is wearing the same clothes he does at practice: loose shorts, old tee-shirt, a pair of worn-out Nikes with no socks. The shirt has grass stains, there are dirt scuffs on his knees and his sandy hair is tousled. Standing close to me there in my tiny kitchen, sharing a Coke with me, smelling of sun and boy sweat... I think he looks wonderful. When I put an arm around his shoulders the boy leans against me, apparently quite happy and content. "Feelin' good after that game?" I ask. "It's great winnin' the first one, huh?" "Uh-huh," he nods. I reach down to pat his butt, cupping my palm on the round firmness. "That tackle you made was the best! I know it saved the game for us. You just keep playin' like that, Jake. You're gonna' have a great season!" The boy loves this kind of praise and he looks up at me, his face glowing. When the Cokes are finished and I'm rinsing the glasses with Jake pressed against my side watching, he asks, "Coach? Is there like stuff I can do to get bigger? Like exercises or something?" "Sure. They're not easy, though. But I can show you some. Want me to?" He nods eagerly. "Yeah." We go out to the living room where I adjust the slats in front of the sliding glass doors to the balcony so we are shaded. Then we sit down on the rug and I have Jake take off his Nikes. "Wow!" I say, catching a whiff of the worn sneakers. "How long have you had those!?" The boy giggles and when I grab hold of him to tickle he wiggles happily, writhing with me on the floor. It is something I know he loves because he is always looking for excuses to tackle me in practice. Here, where we are alone, he is free to do what he really wants--to hug and be held, pressing his young body to mine, squirming against me. A hardness in his groin pushes on my thigh as he twists his hips and I hug him close, breathing in a smell of sun drenched, heated boy, exploring the slender silkiness of his sturdy form through the clothes. Jake's hands are moving on me as well, stroking and clutching. As if by accident he pushes them under my shirt sliding palms on the bare skin of my sides and back. Then he curls up, laughing, as I tickle him harder. Squirming, rubbing his hard bulge on me, hugging tight, he tucks his head against my chest while I press my lips to his sandy hair. Only when he is out of breath from all the laughing and giggling does he stop wiggling and lie panting in my arms as I run my hands over his back and butt. I can feel the excited thumping of Jake's heartbeat against my chest. He lets go of me reluctantly to sit up when I nudge him. "All the exercises we do in practice are good ones," I tell him, "But I'll show you a few the wrestling team does that are a lot tougher. Let's start with diamond push-ups..." I demonstrate this more difficult variation on the basic push up, and after trying a few himself, Jake looks at me in dismay. "These are hard!" "Hey, I warned you... The kids on the wrestling team all learn how to do 'em and so can you, you'll see. Start with five at a time and work up. Now - here's another one. It's called a back arch..." This tricky exercise Jake handles fairly well and I nod with satisfaction when he does a set of ten for me. "That is very nice." Afterwards he lies on the floor, arms flung over his head, knees pulled up, while I rub his shoulders through the tee-shirt, sliding my palm across the cloth over his slender chest. Jake is looking very pleased with himself and tells me, "I can do those good." "Damn right," I say, nodding. "Those are real good for you. You should do at least fifty every day and work up to a hundred. They build up your shoulders, your back and your butt." Jake giggles. My hand has slid down to feel his stomach and I let my forearm drift over his crotch where a hardness pushes up against it. He pulls his knees further apart and squirms a little, squeezing to make the bulge lift. "I can like feel it in my butt. It makes it like all tight." "Yeah, it does." I nudge him. "Roll onto your side." Jake rolls toward me and I slide my palm around his hip to cup the rounded curve of butt cheek, massaging through his clothes. Beneath the thin baggy shorts I can feel the tightly stretched cloth of briefs. The boy makes a little sound, staring straight ahead with his mouth half open. "Make a muscle for me." I half whisper this and Jake tightens his butt, squeezing to harden it while I keep rubbing with my palm. "Yeah," I tell him. "That's real good. You're strong there. That's why you got some quick. I want you doin' a lot of those back arches. An' there's somethin' else, too..." Giving the firm mound a final pat I get to my feet, then pull Jake up as well. The boy's plain features are glowing with eagerness. "You got a book bag at home, right?" "Uh-huh." "You got like some heavy stuff you can jam it with. Big books or anything like that?" "Yeah." "OK, here's what you do. You load that book bag up. Then you put it on and do like squats, right?" "Uhhh," Jakes mouth opens and he looks up at me with an anxious expression, so I give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I'll show you. This is a squat..." When I demonstrate the boy's face clears. He does several, holding his hands out for balance as I nod in approval. "Yeah. That's good. Now, it won't be so easy with that loaded up pack on, right? So make sure you keep your back straight. Do everything from the legs. That's where you got to feel it. Try not to lean forward. Don't let any strain come on your back, OK?" "Uh-huh." The boy's eyes are glowing with excitement. I place my hand on his shoulder, squeezing it through his shirt. "You do that exercise every day and you'll see some changes. It helps the wrestling team kids a lot." Leaning against me, Jake puts his hand on my waist, pushing it beneath my shirt to slide a palm on the hard muscled ridges. "You're really strong, aren't you Coach?" I give him a fond smile. "Maybe some. But I work at it and so can you. I was no bigger than you when I was your age." He moves closer, pushing the hand up further under the shirt. When I take it off for him, tossing it away on the floor, he strokes the muscles of my chest with his fingertips, then touches my bicep when I flex it. "That's big." "Naw," I tell him, laughing. "Not really. There's plenty of guys bigger. You'll be bigger someday. Let's see your arm muscle." He pulls up his sleeve, flexing so I can rub the hard little swell he produces, telling me apologetically, "It's kinda' puny." But I shake my head. "Not really. Pretty good for your age and size I'd say. It's a good start." I get back down on the floor and Jake settles next to me as I can put my arm around his chest. "I just wanna be bigger, Coach." There is a note of desperation in his tone. "You will be. Look at the way you're starting to grow. Your legs are starting already. They're your strongest part, see?" I reach down, squeezing his thigh through the baggy shorts, and Jake pulls his knee up a little so I can rub on the inner part of his leg. Then he reaches to pull the bottoms of the loose shorts up, bunching the cloth on both sides as far as he can to bare his legs for me. They are perfectly smooth and hairless, a graceful swell of muscle in the calves. My hand strokes down to one of the boy's delicate knees, then slides back up over the satin warmth on the inside of his thigh. "Make a muscle for me." Jake straightens the one leg, tensing it while I rub my hand back and forth on the hardened thigh muscle, working it upward. As I push into the crease of his groin, he parts his legs further. The boy is wearing tight underwear briefs and beneath them I can feel his small nut sac and the bulge of an erection. My hand goes to his other leg and after the boy tightens it for me so I can feel it, I give his hip a pat. "Your legs are good, Jake. That's why you can run so fast. That exercise I gave you will make them even better. Right now they're your strongest part." He turns his head to look up at me. "I got another part that's like even better." "Yeah? Where?" Fumbling with his shirt, he pulls it up to show me his stomach. Jake's waist is small and taut, the lean sheet of muscle in his tummy beautifully defined. In the light coming in through the slats covering the patio doors his smooth skin glistens like a thin coating of cellophane on the hardness beneath. "Wow," I tell him. "Wow, that is really good." I touch with my fingertips while Jake tightens for me so I can feel the small swells of muscle. "Yeah," I nod. "That is really, really good." When I tug at his shirt to pull it higher the boy raises his arms inviting me to slip it off and I do, tossing it aside. Jake's upper body is still undeveloped, the little slabs of muscle in chest and shoulders delicately formed, skin smooth as polished marble. I rub a palm across his chest with Jake looking down, watching, and he makes a tiny, soft giggling sound when I brush over the hard points of his nipples. Then I caress the arch of his ribs stroking again over his stomach, rubbing back and forth while the boy tenses to bring out the definition for me. "This is like really, really good." The boy nods proudly. "Last year in fifth - I did like way more setups than anybody in the fitness test!" My fingers keep moving down until they are sliding against the waist of his bunched up shorts. Jake glances up at me, then pulls at the waistband, lifting both it and the elastic waist of his briefs. "It like goes all the way down..." My hand slips under the cloth and the boy's lower belly is firm and silky smooth beneath my palm. Pushing downward, my fingers encounter the circumcised head of a stiff little boner, straining up against the cloth of the briefs. The helmeted tip slips easily between my third and fourth fingers, which I use to rub gently. Jake's shaft is still boy sized, but the first indications of lengthening and thickening are there. As I move my palm back and forth feeling the muscle of his belly, I let the rigid hardness rub against the back of my hand. "This is really, really good for a boy your age," I assure him. Jake looks up anxiously when I take my hand out, as if to ask if he has done something wrong. But then he giggles when I tickle him. Getting quickly to my feet, I pick Jake up in one smooth motion, toss him over my shoulder, and with his head and arms hanging down behind me, carry him into the bedroom where I toss him onto the bed hard enough to make him bounce a little. Jake giggles again and I sit down next to him, stroking him while he stretches out face up to look at me. "That rug is too scratchy to do exercises on. This is better, isn't it?" He nods, smiling back happily and lifts his head to watch as I begin to stroke his tummy again, rubbing my fingertips over the small ridges of muscle. "I can't believe how good this is. You're right, Jake. This is almost your best part. Do you do sit-ups at home?" He nods. "Uh-huh. Sometimes." Tensing his legs, now covered again by the shorts, he lifts his feet off the bed to harden his stomach even more. "Yeah. This is incredible, Jake." My hand drifts over the silky warmth of stomach, then down over the front of his shorts. Beneath his clothes the boy is still erect, a hard shaft of boner still pushing up against the tight constriction of the briefs. I slide my fingers once more under shorts and the elastic waist of tight brief. Jake sucks in his gut to give me plenty of room as my hand glides onto the smoothness of his lower belly, the back of my fingers stroking his rigid boyhood. "Squeeze your butt," I tell him. Jake tightens himself, arching slightly to do it. I feel his engorged shaft swell against my hand that is rubbing back and forth. "Yeah, awesome... You're really solid here." Pushing down further I attempt to stroke the boy's thighs, with Jake trying to help me by pulling in his gut even more. But the briefs are too tight. My fingertips only get to the very top of his leg. Jake makes a tiny sound and then brings his arms from behind his head to reach and fumble with the waistband of his shorts. He unbuttons, unzips, and I take my hand out of his briefs to help him slide the shorts off. Once we have them clear of his hips, revealing his tighty-whities, I slide the shorts below his knees and Jake pulls his legs free. When I toss the shorts onto the floor Jake puts his arms back over his head, stretching out for me, his hard erection tenting up the front of his underwear. The boy's slender body appears sculpted in the dim light, a shadowed form of graceful symmetry and surprisingly delicate beauty. I run my hand over it, stroking from ankle to hip, pausing to massage the swell of thigh muscle, and then continuing up over tummy and side to tickle very gently in the velvety softness of his armpit. Jake gives a tiny little giggle and then squirms pulling up a knee. "You're the best, Jake," I tell him, rubbing my palm across his chest, stroking his warm smoothness. "I was so proud of you in that game. I thought I was gonna' bust. There's no kid in the world I'd rather coach. You make sure you do those exercises every day for me, okay?" "I will." Jake is staring up with his large dark eyes. It is as if there is something he wants me to do. "Man, I can't believe how solid you are here," I tell him, rubbing his stomach once more. Jake pulls his head up to watch as my palm glides down over his briefs. My fingers trace the outline of his hard shaft and as I touch him through the cloth the boy squeezes to harden himself, then squirms a little. "Coach?" "Yeah?" He squirms again. "Am I... Can I like..." When he gives me an anxious look, I pat his hip to reassure him. "It's OK, Jake. You can ask me anything. What?" After another squirm he finally gets the nerve. "Is there like..." Another glance at me. "Like... like stuff I can do to like get bigger there?" The words come out in a half whisper and he watches for my reaction, fear in his eyes. I nod in understanding, pat his hip again, then rub the front of his briefs with my forearm. "You're big there." "Um," Jake lifts his hips and squeezes. "It's like... It's like all these other kids are like longer..." "Oh." I nod in understanding. "OK. I get what you mean. Well - it gets longer and bigger as you grow. And you're growing." My fingers rub him through the cloth. "I think yours is starting to get bigger." Jake reaches down to hold his thumbs under the elastic waist of his briefs, lifts himself and pushes the tight underwear off his hips. I help him get the elastic clear of his jutting boner and the boy strips himself, pulling his legs up to get the briefs completely off. As I take the underpants from him to drop on the floor Jake looks at me again, eyes wide and anxious, but he relaxes as I stretch him out with his arms behind his head. "It's OK," I whisper, stroking his silky hip. My fingers move to his rigid boy stick and he makes a tiny sound, squeezing to harden it for me as I began to rub. The engorged shaft is thickened and lengthened, the early changes accompanying the boy's growth, but his groin is still completely smooth and hairless. The jutting rod strains upward in a slight curve, quivering with his heartbeats and as I keep stroking him, sliding my fingers all the way up over the blunt circumcised tip. Jake makes another sound, a catch of his breath, and then moves his legs apart. My thumb and forefinger brush the shaft's slick, stretched skin, then I lean over to whisper, "I'll show you something you can do, OK?" Staring up at me, mouth half open, the boy nods, squeezing again as I rub faster. "Stretch back," I tell him. "Stretch your arms out... Point your toes... That's it... Stretch..." Jakes slender body arches. He brings his legs together, extending his arms like a diver. "Yeah..." I whisper. "Like that... good... feel it... stretch it out... now squeeze... hard... harder... perfect..." Jake squeezes his butt, hips lifting. He stares upward, breathing through an open mouth as I rub his jutting four inches firmly. Suddenly I feel him quiver and slow my rhythm, whispering, "Relax... that's it... relax... stretch out... stretch... all the way... point your toes... get your arms way back... stretch..." In the dim light of the bedroom, Jake's smooth young body gleams as he extends himself on the bed. There is nothing special about this boy. His features are ordinary and soon his growing legs will give him the gangly, unfinished look of early adolescence. Yet as I gaze down at him, the play of sunlight leaking past the window blinds onto his angular form reveals all its tender beauty and hidden grace. Feelings well up and suddenly I know Jake is precious to me beyond price. To cherish and care for him is more important than life itself. "Squeeze," I whisper, my hand shaking a little as I continue to rub his straining shaft. "Tight... Make it real hard... Yeah... Good... Good, Jake..." The boy stares upward, head pulled back as he tightens himself. I feel a tiny throb in the base of his rigid hardness. "Yeah," I tell him, "Good... OK, relax... relax... stretch... that's it... stretch out... point your toes..." Over and over again I take the boy through cycles of tension and release, stroking him firmly while sensation builds. At last a series of quick hard pulses throb in his shaft beneath my pumping fingers. Jake squeezes, lifting his hips. His breaths come in little gasps... "Ah... Ah... Ah..." I rub faster, my fingers moving from base to tip, and the boy's eyes open wide... "Uhhhhhhhh..." Suddenly he quivers, arching up off the bed like a drawn bow, every muscle in his young body visible. The rigid boy pole strains outward. Then I feel a series of throbs pulse in the engorged shaft, like the beating of a tiny clock. Jake's hips buck, thrusting again and again, quick hard jerks that bring dribbles of clear slippery wetness oozing from his slit. When it is done the boy lies collapsed on the bed, panting to catch his breath while I stroke the silky sweep of chest and stomach. "Yeah. Good Jake. That was perfect. You did great. That was really, really good." Gradually his breathing slows. Jake looks up at me, eyes wide and staring in mute appeal, drinking in my praise. "That was perfect," I keep telling him, stroking and caressing. "You did really great." "Does it help get me bigger?" "Yeah. Right now it'll be hard to do by yourself though. But if you want I can always help you, OK?" Jake nods. "Uh-huh." He puts a hand up to feel my arm muscle, then with an anxious glance asks, "How come I like don't make anything like other kids do?" My hand stops moving on him. "What other kids?" The boy looks frightened so I resume stroking to reassure him. "It's OK, Jake. You can tell me." His eyes flick to mine. "Like this kid, Danny. We were at his house. He like showed me. He like had this stuff come out... like this white stuff he said was jizz. But like..." I smiled at him. "But you didn't." Jake shakes his head. "I like pretended..." "It's OK." I pat his smooth rounded hip. The boy's shaft is still erect, lifting out of his hairless groin in a slight curve. I rub a few times for him, sliding a fingertip over his slit where there is still a bit of slippery wetness. "You had a little something come out this time. Did you feel it?" The tip of Jake's tongue appears at the corner of his mouth and he nods but I can tell he is still doubtful. I tickle him just enough to make him squirm, then give him another pat. "Trust me, you did. And as we get you bigger you'll make more. But, listen Jake, there's something you've gotta' do for me." Instantly the boy is all attention, his dark eyes wide and solemn. "Uh-huh." "It's OK for you to tell me about that stuff with Danny..." I keep stroking his silky body tenderly. "It's OK for you to tell me anything. We're friends. I'll help you with everything. But it's not OK to tell anyone else, OK?" "Yeah." Jake nods, eyes locked on mine. "And it's not OK to tell anyone about what you and I do, either. That is really, really important, OK? Nobody." "I won't, Coach." I can tell he would rather die than give us away, so I slide my hand back down into his groin to rub his boner. It is still so hard the shaft quivers beneath my fingers. "I'll help you with this all I can. But it's just you and me. Nobody else. Nobody..." Jake nods. "Uh-huh." He reaches to stroke my arm again, feeling the muscle then brushing his fingers across my bare chest. I tickle him again and the boy rolls toward me, letting his naked smoothness be taken into my arms, play wrestling with me. It is all pretend, because what he really wants is to be held with his silky warmth pressed to the bare skin of my upper body while he squirms, rubbing his stone hard boyhood on my thigh. I hug him close, letting him cling as I keep tickling, and we roll laughing on the bed. The boy scent of Jake's heated body fills me with such longing I press my lips to his hair--hair that still smells of sun and grass. My palms stroke down a satiny smoothness of firm back, taut waist, silken butt... then back up to rounded points of sculpted shoulders... At last I roll onto my back with Jake lying on top of me, arms held tightly around my neck, his hips grinding against the front of my jeans. I caress him, running my palm all the way down onto the hard glossy curve of his butt, whispering, "What time you gotta' be home?" The boy squirms, clinging tighter. "Not 'til later." "It is later" I give his glossy hip a fond pat. Outside, the light is dimming. "I better get you home." But Jake hates to stop. He squirms, tugging at me, then laughs and reaches back to grab my arm when I push my fingers into his butt crack to tickle. "Come on," I tell him. "It's getting late." With patient coaxing I finally get him up off me. Once he is dressed and has his football, we go downstairs to where my truck is parked. "Can you drive a stick?" I ask with a grin. "If you can I'll let you drive us to your house." This makes Jake giggle as he scrambles up into the cab. When I get behind the wheel he slides over so I can put an arm around his shoulders. "Watch. I'll show you how to start," I tell him. "Then next time you can do it." The boy settles against me while we back out into the road. I put his hand on the shift lever and help him push into first gear. "That's first..." I let out the clutch, "Now wait till we're moving. OK, here's second..." Jake's face is a study in concentration, but I can tell he is very happy. Halfway to his house he looks up to ask, "Are you gonna' be here tomorrow, Coach?" "Sure. Why don't you come over early - like nine or ten." The boy nods eagerly, then with an anxious glance asks, "Can you like... Can we do like that thing again?" "Yeah. We will. And there's a lot more stuff I can show you, too. OK?" "Uh-huh." Settling against me he rubs his palm on my thigh, then when my hand touches his, he parts his legs so I can push up into his crotch. "How 'bout we go bowling and I take you to the arcade," I suggest. "We can get a pizza." Jake looks up, dark eyes filled with happy contentment, and nods again. As he leans back once more, pressing my hand into his crotch, he whispers, "I'm really glad you're my Coach..." *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment, my e-mail address is: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com I will try to answer all serious mailings. My on-line access is very limited. Rants and ravings will not get consideration. To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions and keep the Archive online. Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. I have other football stories you might like: "Fall Football", "Little Quarterback", and "Football Team Pack Trip". You can find links to all my stories on Nifty under my name, Joe Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the Prolific Authors List. To get that list click the Authors tab at the top of the Nifty home page and then select 'Prolific Authors'. I hope you will read and enjoy! All the Best. Joe