Date: Wed, 12 Sep 2001 23:31:14 EDT
From: RMar562282@cs.com
Subject: Fantasy Football Camp - Part 1

This is my first attempt at writing a story and I told the story at the
pace that seemed right.  Respond to: rmar562282@cs.com


Chapter 1 - Playing Center

Driving hard downfield, then cutting sharply left, I turn to look for the
football.  It's high, forcing me to jump and stretch out to reach the ball,
which leaves me unprotected.  Just as I get my fingers around the ball, the
defender catches up with me and shoves me out of bounds, which he can do
even though we are only wearing helmets but no pads.  Because of the
jarring push, I lose the ball as I crash and roll on the ground.  Two times
I roll over before stopping face up on my back.  Then I hear a deep voice
say "nice try" as a strong hand reaches down to help me up.  Using his
right hand to take my right hand, he helps me up and, in a continuous
motion, he guides my right hand in front of and across his body.  Naturally
the rest of me follows my hand, so I'm almost perpendicular to him as I
take a wobbly step forward.  At that moment he smacks me on my butt, then
smacks my butt again, then smacks my butt for the third time, all the while
telling me how he liked my effort.

Slowly I return to the huddle, confused.  What was that?  And who was that?
Why do I still feel those smacks, even though I am back in the huddle?  I
have been patted by guys before, although never before three in a row,
especially not for a miss, and usually on the back or helmet.  I look back
to the sideline, but only see a bunch of guys, not just one man.  I can't
distinguish who might have made me feel like a kid again with just a few
words of encouragement and approval and a few quick smacks.  It could have
been one of the other football fantasy campers, since most of them have a
lot of enthusiasm (or else they wouldn't be here).  Or it might have been
one of the coaches, who were all former NFL or college players.

Before I can consider it any more, Coach Hendricks blows his whistle and
yells for us to change positions.  At this camp, we're learning each
position, so we are rotating regularly.  So far I've played at wide
receiver, fullback, safety, and offensive tackle, which is something since
I'm only 5'9" and 175 lbs.  Actually it works okay since the tallest camper
is 5'11" and the heaviest weighs 195 lbs.  Although most of them have an
advantage over me because they have played some football before.  Several
of the campers are surprised that I hadn't really played before, since I
have a solid trunk, short but strong, thick legs, and a broad, big butt,
the type of build that works well for a nose guard or maybe a fullback.  I
tell them that I never played team sports in school and that basketball is
my favorite game anyway, but I wanted to give football a shot.  And when I
heard that the camp was run and staffed by former NFL and college players
and was for guys over thirty, I decided to try.

Now it's my turn at center, so I run over to the ball and Coach Blackledge.
"Nice hustle," he says, looking down at me from his 6'4" height, 230
lb. mass.  "Now let's practice some snaps."  The drill is to have a former
quarterback work with the center to get the exchange right.  So I get over
the ball, put both hands on it like I saw another camper do, and wait.  I
wait and wait.  Finally Coach Blackledge says: "What are you doing?  Get
your butt up."  I'm not sure what he means but try to follow the order.
Obviously I didn't do it right since he barks again: "I said, get your butt
up!"  Before I can figure out what to do, he pulls me by the top of my gym
shorts, which makes me stand up.  He growls: "I want your head down over
the ball and your butt up in the air!  How else can I take the snap?"  So
he pushes me down by the neck.  Not surprisingly since I've never done this
before, I go right back into the same semi-squat position.

He pauses and then says: "Alright, let's try it another way."  He then puts
his right hand on the top of my back near my neck to hold me low there and
reaches down, cups the left side of my butt with his strong left hand and
lifts up to raise my butt to where he wants it.  "Oh, is that the way?  I
get it now," I say.  He then chuckles and gives my now properly raised butt
a firm swat while saying "It's a good thing you got some meat on you, son,
so you can play center, since you might be too dumb to play quarterback.
Now, let's see if you know how to snap the ball."

Without another word he reaches down and puts the back of his right hand up
under me.  The contact shocks me and I jump a little.  His hand is so big
he more than covers my jockstrap encased balls and cock with the back of
his hand.  "What's the matter?" he says as he stands up.  "Nothing, sir," I
answer and get back into my squat, which forces him to repeat the process
of holding my back down and raising my butt up.  He then puts his hand up
under me again and I promptly jump again.  I've never been vulnerable quite
like that and am not used to the contact, which I can really feel because
I'm not wearing a cup or pads, just a supporter and thin shorts.  He asks
again: "What's the matter, son?"  Again I answer: "Nothing, sir.  Sorry,
sir."

Being an experienced quarterback, he understands that I need some warning
but am embarrassed to admit it.  So, after he repositions me by raising my
butt up a third time, he says: "Okay, we're going to do this like I used to
do at Penn State.  Each time you get over the ball, I'll lift up your butt
like I've been doing, although you'll need to keep your head and back down
on your own."  "Yes, sir," I answer as he positions me.

"Now, you liked it when I patted your butt before in this position, didn't
you?" he states more than asks.  Embarrassed, I don't answer.  Seeing me
hesitate, he says quietly but authoritatively: "It's okay, son, a good
center likes it when his quarterback pats him, especially one with a nice
firm butt like yours, and I can tell you have the makings of a good
center."  Feeling a little flushed by his assurance, I shyly respond:
"Thank you, sir."

"So once I have you in position, but before I come up under you, I'll pat
your butt like this."  And he gives me a firm pat with his right hand on
the right side of my upraised butt.  "Just remember, that's my way of
saying 'I'm the quarterback, you're my center, and I'm coming in, babe.'"
"Yes, sir.  I'll try, sir," I respond meekly.  He then puts his right hand
up under me again, but this time I don't jump.  "Atta boy," he says, "I'm
your quarterback and my hand belongs up under you."  "Yes, sir."  "Now I'm
going to leave it there for a minute so you can get used to it.  And don't
worry, you're my center and I will protect your balls when you snap the
ball."  Hearing that comment I realize that I'm not thinking about
protecting my balls, but rather how surprisingly good it feels to have his
hand there.  But that thought is too strange.  What would he think if he
knew that I was enjoying the contact?  So I answer: "Thank you, sir.  I'm
sure that's what's making me jump."

As he keeps his hand up under me, I begin to relax and enjoy the contact,
which leads to a growing problem, one that I don't realize immediately.
I'm starting to get hard.  I can't get hard!  This is football and he's a
man!  What am I going to do?  In a few seconds he's bound to feel it, since
his big hand goes beyond my cock now.  Oh no!  This coaching is going so
well, I don't want to mess it up.  So I wiggle a little to try to minimize
the contact, which is actually the wrong thing to do since it increases the
friction and stimulates me a little more.  Right then he commands: "Be
still, son.  I want you to remain motionless when I'm up under you.
Otherwise the ref might call a penalty for illegal procedure."  He then
pushes his hand more firmly up under me, so that his hand covers from below
the base of my balls to beyond my growing cock.  I obey and stay
motionless, except for one part of me I can't seem to control.

After what seems like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, he
asks: "How's that feel, son?"  I don't know what to do or say-I'm afraid if
I respond it'll reveal my arousal.  But I have to respond to him, he's the
coach and in charge of me, in more ways than one at that particular moment!
So I mumble: "Okay, sir."  "I can tell," he responds, "now I'm going to
bring in my other hand."  What does he mean by "I can tell," I wonder.  Can
he feel me getting hard?  But if he's going to bring in his other hand,
maybe he can't tell.  Otherwise he'd probably stop and get mad at me for
getting aroused.  As I await his other hand, I realize to my dismay that my
growing panic has not decreased my arousal.

He then puts his left hand up under me, making contact with the heel of his
right hand in preparation for the ball snap.  The upward pressure from his
left hand pushes his right hand up into my balls and cock even more.
Involuntarily I give a low grunt right before he says: "Now I'll call a
play and you snap the ball on three."  As he barks the numbers, he turns
his head to call them in both directions, just like during a game.  But in
doing so his right hand rubs me forcefully, further stimulating me.  I no
longer know how big my cock has gotten.  All I can think is "hurry up
before I lose it and you get mad at me."  Finally he barks: "Hut, hut,
hut."  I then thrust the ball up into his awaiting hands, which pushes them
up further into my arousal.  He takes the ball and removes his hands in one
quick motion and drops back as if to pass.  I only come up part way,
resting my hands on my knees, hoping to hide my erection.

"Stand up," he orders.  Slowly I stand erect, in both ways, but I keep my
back to him in a futile attempt to keep my secret.  "Turn around."  I don't
want to turn around, but I can't refuse his order.  Stifling my panic, I
turn around.  He moves right in front of me as I look at the ground, puts
his powerful hands on my shoulders, and says: "Look up at me."  As I slowly
raise my eyes I can see nothing but him, since he now fills my vision with
his bulk and towers over me with his height.  Finally I lean my head back
and look up into his eyes.  "How do you feel," he asks.  As if struck dumb,
I just shake my head slightly.  After staring down at me, he softly says:
"Don't be embarrassed, son.  I have some of the best hands in the business.
When I go up under my center, I usually get him to snap more than the
ball."  I half blink one time in surprise as he continues: "And I always
get my boy hard when he responds so well to being patted on the butt before
I even go up under him."  Just then he reaches around me with one hand
while slightly leaning over and gives me a penetrating pat on the butt.  My
cock immediately goes full mast as he returns his mighty hand to my
shoulder and straightens up to his imposing height.  "Yes, I knew you had
the makings of a good center," he says with smirk.  "I'm sorry, sir," I
plead.  "Boy, stop that.  You are my center and I made you stand up, so
there's nothing to be sorry about.  And I'll make you stand up as long as I
want.  You have the kind of butt a quarterback likes to see when he stands
over center-hard, muscular, and ready.  So no more of that sorry shit, you
hear me?" he barks.  After gulping several times at his forcefulness and
complete masculinity, I respond: "Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."  And I feel a
wave of relief wash over me as I realize that I won't have to leave the
camp, that he won't punish me for getting hard, but instead acts like he
owns me and my erection.  I don't know what to make of this, but don't have
time to think any more about it as he forcefully commands: "Bend over and
let's get to snapping.  We've got work to do."

End of Chapter 1