Date: Thu, 12 Oct 2017 13:53:18 -0500 From: Scott Coffin Subject: A Coach's Tale 2: Steel Town Knock Down (Gay/Celebrity) by scoffinator69 Disclaimer: This story is complete and utter fantasy, and should in no way be believed to say anything definitive about the characters involved, their sexual orientation, or their personal desires. It is 100% about the author thinking that this scenario would be fucking HOT. You should also realize by now that in a fantasy world, everyone is always safe from disease and disfigurement. We do not live in a fantasy world, so do with that knowledge what you will. If you are underage according to your jurisdictions applicable laws (18 or 21 in most cases), please do not read or disseminate this story in anyway. This story is copyrighted by the author as of 10-04-2017 Constructive input and/or encouragement is welcome at scoffin.2814@gmail.com. Flames will be ignored. I do hope you enjoy this story. Please consider donating to Nifty Archive. The archivist does awesome work here, and doesn't get any support except for our gratitude. Help keep this amazing site open for all of us! A Coach's Tale 2: Steel Town Knock Down (There are some bondage and discipline elements to this installment) Prologue Antonio Brown knew with every fiber of his being that he was wrong, and that there would be hell to pay for his actions. He knew even as he was flinging his helmet and the Gatorade, and it didn't stop him. And he would be damned before he would apologize to anyone for any of it. Both the knowledge and the defiance grew over the next hours. Each time any teammate or any of the coaches looked at him in disgust only served to steel him for whatever was going to come his way. He would not be called out by anyone. Part 1 Mike Tomlin had been terse at the press call. He had no desire to litigate this particular situation anywhere but in private with the guilty party. He wasn't even sure now, moments later, what he had said in order to get away from a rabid press corps. All that mattered to him now was dealing with the fact that one among his team had embarrassed and disparaged the rest, not with words, but with petty and petulant actions. Walking into the locker room he made his way, surprisingly stoically, to Brown's locker. Finding his wide receiver still half in uniform, and currently removing his shoulder pads, he wasted no time. "Office. Now." The calmness with which he spoke fooled no one left in the room except the one person who had the most to lose by being fooled. "In a second, coach. Gonna fini..." Antonio Brown's voice was choked off in a gasp of pain and surprise as Tomlin ripped the pads the rest of the way off and flung them across the room, nearly knocking over a training cart (as well as the trainer that was pushing it). Clamping his massive palm on the back of his players neck, Tomlin dug his fingers in hard, lifted Brown to his feet, and before one of the most sure footed men in the NFL could even grasp what was happening, began dragging him along behind him, feet and legs scrambling and flailing madly. "I said NOW Fuckwad!" The running back's mouth was still agape, eyes still wide with shock when he hit the hard metal of the chair Tomlin threw him in. Had that chair been any farther from the wall, it and Brown would have gone over too quickly for either man to react. As it was, Brown's reflexes were quick enough to at least make the collision of head and wall nothing more than a glancing blow. He wasn't sure what he was going to try to say, was even pretty sure that he should not try to say anything, but still, the slight twitch he felt in his lips let him know that something was going to be coming out. Mike Tomlin's hand clamping over his mouth told him that his coach knew it too. And that he, in fact, should not have even been thinking of talking. His massive coach came down eye to eye with the running back. "You do not say a word. You do not move. I will fuck you UP!" Turning away from the petulant superstar seated in front of him, Tomlin stormed out of the room, slamming the door hard behind him. Part 2 Over the next hour, Brown was in a state of needling agitation. Catching himself shaking where he sat, he would force the defiance to well back up in him, steeling himself against the onslaught of the knowledge, only to find his will being snuffed out. Lather, rinse, repeat. Fuck! He didn't have to sit here and take this. Any fucking team in the ENTIRE Fucking League would be glad to have him, passionate petulance and all. He told himself SEVEN FUCKING TIMES that he was going to get up and walk right the fuck out of the locker room, and then through the stadium, and straight to his ride, and never fucking come back! Seven times his voice echoed inside his head 'you are fucking pathetic, son.' as he remained seated. At the 57 minute mark, he was shocked to realize that the sweat he had earned out on the field today, honest sweat through honest action, smelled entirely different than the sweat of his current hyper-anxiety. His muscles, cramping at sitting still for so long, had just begun to slacken as he started to ponder that new knowledge when the door opened. The seizing of his un-stretched muscles, the hard re-clamping of his jaw and the reflexive grinding of teeth told him with the force of a punch to the gut that the agitation and anxiety was now irrevocably fear. And it was easy to see why. He knew Tomlin's anger. They all did. And while that anger was fearsome, it would burn out. Coach would make his point, loudly, the player or players it was being directed at would show real and proper remorse, and it would be over. Let's all move on. Nothing more to see here. This was not Tomlin angry. This was something much, much worse. Brown knew this look, too. Knew it just the same as the other. This look was a wild card, anything could come from this look, the inability to even guess what he was in for brought goosebumps to every inch of skin. This look was completely calm. Mike Tomlin walked like a man in absolute control, quickly crossing the room toward his running back. "You wanna be a petulant, bratty little shit, then that's exactly what you gonna be." The edge of something like humor in his voice amping up the menace levels to an explosive degree. It was like he had given the opponent covering him a couple of free steps. He was working from behind on this, comprehending what was happening to him seconds after it had happened when it was already too late. Antonio Brown was staring slack jawed at his hands gripped tight together by Mike Tomlin, but was only just realizing that he was sprawled across the desk that had, seconds ago, been ten feet away from him. Suddenly needing to breathe through his nose, he realized that his hands were taped painfully together, arms stretched as far in front of him as possible, the tape continuing on in front of him to wrap itself around the handle of the door of a storage cabinet. The knowledge that the cabinet would come down on top of him in a struggle supplanted by confusion. By the time he finished the thought 'what the fuck does it's Roethlisberger's mean' he remembered that he had started breathing through his nose because something had been shoved into his mouth. He was feeling hands scrambling along the back of his neck when he realized the wiry, gritty feeling on his tongue and in his teeth were pubes, and the rank piece of cloth in his mouth was the stud QB's sweaty game jock. By the time he tried to force it out, it was already too late, because of course the scrambling hands had been tying a knot. As he caught up to real time, he knew that it was only because his coach wanted him to see this. Mike Tomlin wanted Antonio Brown to be fully and irrevocably aware now. Part 3 Through eyes he wanted desperately to be able to close, but still knew that he had better fucking not, the running back watched the coach's hand come into view and touch the belt buckle at his waist, slip it loose, and pull it free from his pants. The world turned upside down, and suddenly Antonio Brown was racing ahead of the moment as in a nightmare. Struggling feebly for a way out even as he knew that whatever horror movie monster was chasing him was going to fucking win. He watched his coach move from his line of sight, and knew the big man was walking around behind him. In a single, fluid movement, two strong hands grasped two layers of fabric and dug in and pulled, exactly as a powerful leg kicked, and two equally powerful (but woefully unprepared) legs splayed dangerously. All of this accompanied by the tearing of virtually indestructible athletic gear. Antonio knew that his uniform pants and his compression shorts had failed him and now left him pathetically exposed to his doom. The fevered humiliation was ramped up even further when his 9 inch cock was pried painfully away from and behind his body, betraying him with it's pulsing hardness. His legs and mind abandoned him simultaneously, when he caught himself trying to shift into a safer position, and just as suddenly returned to his precarious and painful perch. Even as he relaxed his neck, letting his head loll over the edge of the desk, he was aware of the completeness of the surrender, made all the more mocking given the almost gentle cupping of his ass by his coach's warm hand and the whispered 'good boy' now echoing in his ears. He did not hear the sound of the belt slashing through the air until he felt it's whip-crack into his flesh. It was not until the seventh or eighth blow that he began to register the sounds his coach was making, and was bizarrely aware that he had actually thought the man had gone, even as the beating had carried on. THWACK! The 19th crack of the belt brought with it the realization that a wet something was trailing down the back of one of his thighs and he convinced himself he was bleeding. THWACK! The 22nd crack brought with it the knowledge that his cock throbbed painfully behind him each and every time the leather made contact with his flesh. The 23rd came with the understanding that it was not blood on his thigh, but swinging spider webbings of precum being flung from his cock. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! The pause after the 25th should not have even been enough for him to register, but even as the hopeful thought that it might be over finally had yet to completely finish forming, it was violently choked from his brain. "You getting off on this." THWACK! "You leakin'..." THWACK! "...like a fuckin' sieve, BITCH!" THWACK! On and on it went. Each stinging swing of the stud coach's belt brought new and deeper revelations about himself into the fore of Antonio Brown's fevered brain. As much as he was desperate for this to stop, he was even more so for it to continue. To escalate. To completely overwhelm him. Even as he felt vital parts of his psyche slipping away into oblivion, he was eager to learn what would rise up within to take their place. He was anxious to meet the new man that Mike Tomlin was building inside his quivering shell. THWACK! The 50th was followed by the dull clang of the metal buckle hitting the hard floor. The relief in his fevered brain was immediate. It was over. Or was it not relief, but rather anticipation. Try as he might, the running back could not force that thought from his fucked up mind. Antonio Brown's achingly hard cock was grasped suddenly and wrenched back in a crushing grip so quickly that he felt it must surely separate from his body before he even fully registered the pain. Just as suddenly, he felt it flying through the steamy air of the room so quickly he decided that it had indeed made it's desperate stab at escape, even as he felt it slamming into the front of the desk he was splayed over. He was disgusted in himself with the realization that his pre was now running freely, and he might as well be pissing like some terrified little kid. The crushing grip returned once again, and even as he braced himself for the wrenching away he knew he would feel, every ounce of breath in his lungs was forced out in a choking gasp. Every drop of blood in his body seemed to rocket to two points. His cock and the back of his throat. Dizzy in the deprivation even as he did his best to roar through his jock choked mouth. Then sucking in heaving, moaning gasps of air. Eyes wide. Muscles tensed. Joints locked. Mike Tomlin was inside him now. The scrape of the khaki fabric of his coach's pants, the bite of the metal zipper aggravating his already burning flesh. The length and girth of the massive cock buried deep inside his twisted gut. The hand tangling itself in the longest part of his hair. Yanking him back. Part 4 Mike Tomlin was not displaying any finesse at all, he knew for a fact that he could do better, and if the man beneath him now played his cards right, the jock cunt might find that out first hand. But this was not the time for finesse. This was not meant to be fun. At least not for the man under him that seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. This was punishment. This was all about knocking this petty little superstar down a half dozen notches or so. And there was only one thing that would let Mike Tomlin know when that lesson had been learned. He was perfectly happy to keep this up just as long as it took. Still, there was something in the back of his mind that told him it would not take as long as he would like. That this cocky fuckwad had been desperate for a lesson just like this for probably his entire life. Mike Tomlin knew that Antonio Brown would soon realize that truth about himself, and like all the others before, would be a better man for it. In fact, the only thing the coach knew with a greater certainty, was that this bruised, sweaty running back ass felt fucking incredible wrapped around his uncut 11 inch cannon. Tight as all hell, and while probably not cherry, certainly not far from it. Dragging his hog back until it was almost free, then thrusting his thick powerful hips forward, Mike Tomlin drove in a power fuck of unfathomable strength. Hand grasping in that haircut the boy was so proud of. The haircut that had made him think, even as he first saw it "Gimme a reason, son. Just one reason to pull you back against me with that 'do!' and you will only think you regret it. For five minutes he had been drilling in against the desperate but feeble attempts do squelch him out, the fight of this stage had always driven his libido to greater and more demanding heights. He was grateful for these men refusing to accept what was happening to them, and even more so for their naive belief that they had the power somewhere within them to stand against this onslaught. The next skirmish in this battle was the one he felt them slipping into now. Resignation. The running back went slack. Tomlin knew what was going through Brown's mind right now. He was thinking that if he just laid there and took it, the man ripping him apart from the inside would either grow bored or get off, and that either option would result in this being over. And these men claimed to know Mike Tomlin. For his part, Tomlin recognized two things about these men when they were in this particular phase. One: They were, without fail, painfully and only half-ashamedly erect. Two: They had, without fail, already begun the long slide down into intoxicating pleasure, the likes of which they had never thought possible. The stud coach helped them along at this point, just as he was helping his running back through the rabbit hole at this very ball tingling moment. The pounding, punishing drives inward shifted. Gone now were the purposely bone crashing thrusts, and while the strokes were just long and just as commanding, there were punctuated by a twisting grind instead of a bruising thump. Tomlin was now giving his hips a freer rein, letting them twist and swivel even as they thrust forward and drew back. And he felt his running back beginning to respond. A man, well-versed in sex among men (especially when it was the type of sex necessary for exerting control and establishing power), would give a man like Antonio Brown four minutes, max, before he crumbled. Mike Tomlin knew better. Two and a half minutes. That was how long Antonio Brown was resigned to his fate before he embraced it. A less intuitive man than his coach would not have noticed that soon, of course a less intuitive man would not have been able to get this far in the first place. Fuck, they still wouldn't have noticed how much Brown needed (no, WANTED) this! And it was, very much, something Antonio wanted very, very badly. The shifts were nearly simultaneous. A long, even, steady breath like that of a content sleeping child. A whimpering series of moans expelled through the jock clogged mouth. A slight gripping of the cock inside of him by a freshly woken, desirous channel. Mike Tomlin's furiously hard cock was being massaged by the rectum of his stud running back, Antonio Brown, like a thousand magic fingers. Both men recognized this. Both men were driven to even further heights of aching passion by this knowledge. And even as the man splayed across this desk, silenced by his (rightfully) angry teammate's jockstrap, and immobilized by his hulking coach as much as he was by the tape on his wrists, Antonio Brown still didn't understand how he had gotten right here, right now. All that mattered was that he was. And so was his coach. Hunched over him, wrapped around him, and deep inside of him. Mike Tomlin was exactly where and how Antonio Brown most desperately needed him to be. And that realization was thrilling. Liberating! The thick cock pulled back out, it's owner savoring the caresses of the ass it was fucking as it withdrew to the blunt tip, kissing the tenderest of flesh just inside the quivering sphincter. Tomlin felt the first push of truest desire, and he pushed back, slipping in to the hilt. Claiming, once again, the man beneath him. The fingers of his left hand disentangling themselves from man's hair, knuckles dragging along the strong back to the gate of the promised land where the spine becomes buried in the dimple heralding the cleft of his ass. Thumb hooking in there, fingers spaying out, their tips digging exactly into the curving line of flesh, and the palm resting flat on the glorious rise of Antonio Brown's truly spectacular bubble but. Mike Tomlin shifted his right hand, wrapping it lightly around the thigh of his running back, then lifted it gently. Raising his man's right knee assuredly onto the desk, his fingers teased their way back inward before wrapping fully around Antonio's iron hard spike. Right thumb hooked around the aching ball sack, digging into the new fuck-slut's taint. The steady insistent thrusts of his masterful cock inside the man echoed by the dancing strokes of his fingers on the burning flesh of the bottom's cock. For minutes that seemed like days the men moved together, their shared fever ticking up by degrees with each thrust of the powerful cock of the coach into the welcoming ass of the running back. Two men felt two cocks swelling to grotesquely erotic proportions. Mike Tomlin stood stock still, bracing himself for the onslaught that was already beginning, he shifted his right hand again, cupping his palm under the drooling cock head and twirling his thumb along the ridge and over the pronounced cum tube. Antonio Brown raised his head, and arched his back. Coming up dangerously high, he dragged the storage locker he was attached to several precarious inches closer. And the he thrust himself back. And again, and again. Fucking himself as fully and as greedily as possible back onto the massive cock of his stud coach. His clenching ass, his entire quivering, starving being hungry for the man's potent seed to soothe his tormented flesh. The slapping of flesh on flesh, the crashing of bone meeting bone as the two man spilled load after load of cum into and on each other echoed through the space surrounding them and the space within them. When each was able to draw steady breath again, they were collapsed together. Mike Tomlin on top of Antonio Brown. Thick-muscled trunk across sleek-muscled back, each guiding the other back down to normalcy. The running back felt his coach's lips press between his shoulder blades even as the big man's right hand came up between them to smear his own load across his back. He knew the coach was rising up off of him, and that the cock would soon be extracted from him, and he was surprised to feel something like sorrow at that knowledge. He hadn't even fully comprehended how profoundly this man had changed him when he realized that he was once again standing before him. The similarity to the beginning seemed ludicrous given how much had changed between them, hell, within him, in the last 40 minutes. Mike Tomlin quickly and assuredly began removing the tape that bound his hands to the storage locker, then moved in closer and began untying the knotted towel holding the sweaty and spit soaked jock in his mouth. Once the strap was free, the suddenness of the movement took Tomlin off his guard, making him think he was being attacked. In truth he was. Antonio Brown took the half hard greasy cock flesh of Mike Tomlin into his gaping throat, devouring the shared essence of their fuck, savoring the sharp, salty tang like only a true, born anew, cock slut could or would. And Mike Tomlin smiled down at his boy, even as he extricated himself from the vacuuming orifice. Crouching now, he kissed the still splayed man deeply and possessively, then pulled back and smiled briefly before rising and turning back into his usual stoic self. He held out the hand holding the jockstrap. "You will take this back to Ben. You will apologize to him. And you will mean it." Mike Tomlin walked away, hauling his spit slick cock back into his pants as he moved. Turning back from the open door while still zipping back up, he said: "It will be entirely up to Ben whether you get new pants, or if you will practice this week in those. You may need to plead your case, and it is possible you will need to seek an appeal." That last brought a curl to the running back's lips, and a hardening shudder to the cock still trapped against the desk he was splayed across, as he listened to his coach whistling on his way out of the stadium. The End