Goin' Down In Four Horse Crossing

© 2014


Jonathan Longhorn

Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.

Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don't ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.

Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord's Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie being watched by characters in several of my stories - in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, `has his way' with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.

All trademarks used in this work are the sole property of their owners and have been used without permission or endorsement.

Chapter 1

Long, powerful fingers snaked through sun-kissed bronze hair—alternately scrubbing vigorously and then gently massaging. Occasionally, the fingers stopped their duties and moved to windshield-wipe at errant streams of shampoo heading for his eyes before returning to scalp scrubbing and massaging.

These tender moves seemed in dark contrast to the fact that these were the same fingers that rocketed a baseball at over 100 mph into a catcher's mitt. The same power that hurled bombs 70 yards into the outstretched hands or the bread basket of any one of his impressive members of the receiver corps; a corps that was always there, waiting hungrily to carry the football into the end zone.


He was that good. Actually, even he had to admit that he was magnificent out on the field. He wished he didn't hate it so much. The quarterback slot, anyway. He really hated being the quarterback. He so preferred pitching or center field or third base. Football? He'd never really thought much about it because he was so passionate about baseball but, if he `had' to think about it, he'd rather take a wide receiver or tight end slot. But, after Aaron Drummond's family disappeared practically overnight, nobody else had stepped up, much less—pulled it off.


Coach Brookshire had come into the picture before last season and had been driving down the road alongside their farm. Until he saw him out in one of the fields, throwing baseballs. Nine tires were strung 3-on-3-on-3 and hung from a set of poles. He was stripped down to boots and jeans—his chest and shoulders, abs and arms glistening as rivers of sweat poured down—baseball cap and Aviators.

Thankfully, they had just harvested that particular field because the next thing he knew, a 4x4 extended cab pickup was sailing through the dirt and remnants of the harvested crops toward him. The truck slid to a stop and the door sailed open. The driver jumped out with footballs clutched in his arms and he was marching toward him like a bull charging a matador.

"Please tell me you can throw a football like that," the man had pled.


The balls were dropped at his feet and then the man was peeling out of his shirt and preparing to run a random pattern. His eyes roamed over the man's body—a strong-jawed, Romanesque face of unquestioned handsomeness was topped by jet black hair and sparkling green eyes; he had broad shoulders and a chest with the lightest dusting of hair that were joined by incredibly cut abs and a `V' that dripped down into the back of his waistband. A butt that looked like it was sculpted from the highest grade marble.

He swallowed hard. His throat bobbed like a buoy in the rising waves of an upcoming storm. He swallowed again as the main turned to face him full on. Dime size rock hard nipples, those abs, a trail that dripped and cascaded downward into the front of that waistband, and—a bulge. An enormous bulge.

"Show me."

"Um ... who...?"

"Chase Brookshire," the man said as he extended a hand. Taken. Shaken. "I'm the new head coach over at the high school. You go there, right? What's your name? Okay, show me."

"But, I don't play foo..."

"I'll be the judge of that," the coach had said, flashing a blinding smile that radiated against the brilliance of the sun. "Throw the balls, Stud."

He swallowed dust and remnants of the last plowed under crops. Fuck, he'd do anything this man wanted right now. He swallowed again as he reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

"Yes, Sir."

Twenty yards. Forty yards. Fifty yards. Seventy...

"Good! Great! That's my man!" the man shouted from across the field. "Now pull out the guns and show me what you've really got!"

He grinned. Okay. The man asked for it.


He stepped back to show him eighty yards wasn't out of the question, to be honest. He paused. He focused on his target. That face. That hair. That body. Holy shit, that body. He licked his lips as he studied every muscle group ... every ripple and bulge ... everywhere.

Chase Brookshire?

His eyes narrowed and he pumped his right knee. Immediately the man took off. He pumped the ball once. He pumped it twice.

"Chase Brookshire?"

The man kept running. The mental link `locked'.

The guy wanted to see the guns? Okay. He'd give him the cannon. His arm cocked and exploded; the bomb was hurtling in his direction and beyond. The man had to kick it into overdrive to try to haul it down.

"Holy fuck," he said with a sudden glow of admiration and awe. "Chase Brookshire? They hired Chase `Chaz' Brookshire?"

The ball sailed 80 yards with the same result. It feathered into the man's outstretched hands.

"Holy shit," he said again. "I've been throwing balls at Chaz Brookshire? Three-time Heisman?"

One more before the guy had recovered. He looked up and saw a bomb hurtling toward him. He dove. He caught.

Yeah, just like the others. Perfectly into Brookshire's hands. Dead into the breadbasket. Like the others.

Every pattern.

Every ball.

Every time.

"You are the new starting QB," Brookshire had said after 40 minutes of runs and patterns and bombs. "Practice starts next week on Tuesday after the last bell. I expect you to be there," he'd said flashing that knee-melting smile.




"I play baseball and wrestle. I don't play foo..."

"You do now."


"I'm coming into this school and this football team with the warning I have no quarterback. They tell me the starter moved out and nobody has taken the slot." He eyed the sweat dripping off the coach's body ... those hands ... those biceps ... that chest ... those shoulders ... those eyes. "Don't say no. Not yet anyway. Come to tryouts and just see how it feels."

He had shown up. He had shocked the returning teammates and those that were trying out. They had all known each other all their lives. Everyone knew that his heart was in baseball and not football. Nearly all of them had to pick up their jaws from the concrete floor of the locker room.

Shocked? Surprised? Bewildered? No one less than he was himself. He had stood outside the locker room door for ten minutes rehearsing his `Thanks but no thanks' speech. He had paced. He had reached for the handle. He had walked away. He had stopped and turned back. He had sighed enough to inflate a hot air balloon.

Opening the door, fully intending to tell the coach `no', he was suddenly stopped in his tracks by the sight of Chaz Brookshire, in bulge and butt hugging coach's shorts and a muscle hugging sleeveless tee, as he marched over to shake his hand, and offer a grin nearly as big as the state of Texas.

"You're late."


I am? But...

All thoughts of saying `no', vanished as he fell into those sparkling green eyes. So, there he was. Inside, already being chewed out by his new coach. His new coach? Fuck, what was he doing?

He had shown up.

He had tried out.

He had nailed every throw.

The entire team looked at their new coach and threatened his life and balls if he didn't give the slot to him. There and then, on the spot.

Those threats and glances didn't just come from the team, in general. His best friend, Sutton finally recovered enough, after a few heartbeats and missed breaths, to toss a football into his hands and breathe an audible sigh of relief—it had looked as though he would be stuck with the `by default' duty of starting quarterback simply because of his height and acceptable stats. Now, he could go back to his chosen position and not have to fret about it night after night, day after day, practice after practice.

God—he hoped that someone would come forward and try out for quarterback this year. Someone good. Someone who coveted the position. Someone with the ravenous hunger and the raging fires of passion that burned through him for baseball but was so lacking in `this' sport. Someone that would offer what this team needed ... what the team deserved. The leadership to keep them in line but push them and make them reach just ... that ... much ... farther. There was the goal line week after week but then, well, there was that Championship trophy down the road—at the end of the season. A trophy they were all hungry for but needed that passion to get there. The team needed that kind of a quarterback. The kind of a quarterback that burned with a passion that only a quarterback with those same deep seeded hungers of his own could fuel. A quarterback that had the fires of hell in his heart and soul for football; his hell fires were in wrestling and most of all, baseball.

He knew that he was the prince of this school. He knew he held the crown and occupied the throne. He knew he was worshiped, looked up to, adored ... more. But in that lofty place of leadership, he also knew that he wasn't the man for this position. Not long-term. He was good and he fought and strained and worked out and became one of the best quarterbacks in the state—the nation—but he hated every second of it. He loved winning. He loved his teammates. He just didn't `love' football. Not enough, at least, to occupy that starting quarterback slot.

Football was great but it didn't ignite his internal fires the way that baseball did. He'd very willingly step out of the pocket and take one of the other positions to help out the team, or this coach that he was beginning to worship in ways he didn't even realize as of yet—any position, really—or, step out of it altogether and go back to `just' baseball and wrestling. And, hey—if he stepped out of the starting quarterback slot and he didn't snag one of the other positons on the team? No sweat. He'd be there every game, every snap, every win or lose ... for the team. For the guys. For the glory of it ... from the stands.

Those same hands and fingers that had won him a slot that he didn't want, in a sport he really wasn't interested in, now scrubbed away dirt, sweat, grime, and who knew what else from his thick mop of loose curls and his scalp. A full head of shampoo bubbled and frothed even as ribbons of water snaked their way down the body of a god. And, that was what he was, here anyway. A god. A god on, and—off the fields or the mats.

He gave them his all, and more. He threw out just enough brash cockiness to make him fit into the expectations of others to fill that mold, though never fully pulling it off. The cocky arrogance that he delivered was more adorable than foreboding.

In truth?

He hated being pressed into someone else's mold, anyway—who he should be, what he should be... Inwardly. Deep. Deep down inside, he was `so' not like that. His true, genuine, `real' friends knew that. They knew the `real' guy beneath the uniform, the pure studsmanship, the All-State pitcher ... the nationally ranked quarterback. Both positions. He was a double threat now and he'd be a killer in the pros one day. The pros knew it, too; they were already watching him.

They were `all' watching.

And, yet—not even his closest friends—his very `best' friend, even—knew him deeply enough to `know' him.

What would any of them—his teammates, classmates, Coach Brookshire, the other coaches, fans, the jersey tuggers, the reporters, the throngs of scouts—think, or `do', or say if they found out?

The fears.

The insecurities.

The anxieties.

The hungers.

The desires.

The all-consuming need for ... `something' other than...

What would they think of him then?

Sometimes? The mere thought of their possible reactions would make even Lancelot quake and sweat oceans in his sparkling suit of armor.

God—the water felt amazing as it pummeled against his tired body. The feel of it caressing its way over bulges and ripples, down crevices and under hangs...

It was good. It was all good. And, the steam. Oh, yeah—the steam. He couldn't forget about the steam. Soaking and saturating. Opening pores and brain cells. Permeating every muscle, every inch, every fiber of his body—his very soul; all the while rising higher and forming a thick shroud around him.


There, in the showers—on him.

He rolled his eyes as he shoved his face into the streaming jets of water and allowed a whispered snort to slip through his lips.

What else was new?

There were always eyes on him. It didn't matter where he was at any given time—football stadium ... baseball field ... wrestling mats ... in the pool at the Natatorium. Eyes. Everywhere. Eyes, on `him' no matter the time or the location ... the circumstance. They were there in the classrooms, the science lab, the halls, the parking lot ... at home. Church. Hell—they were on him at the grocery store, the drive-in ... the theater.



Always watching him.

Always studying him.

Always looking `at' him.

Always looking `to' him.

Right now. Here. In the pelting waters of the showers. Eyes. Eyes were on him.

He knew that if he turned around he would catch them. The eyes. More than a dozen pair, still—after the majority of the guys had already headed out. Eyes, lingering. Scanning him from head to toe—and back. Studying him. Devouring him. Wanting him for one thing, or—another. Or, another still.

Eyes following his fingers as they scrubbed and stroked and palmed across his body. He knew they were watching him. They `always' watched him.

His left hand trailed down ... down ... down, and—around. Fingers soaped up and then trailed one after the other into the deep valley of the most mouth-watering ass in the school, after making several looping swirls over the mounds of granite cheeks. His fingers sailed into that valley and worked their way along its depth. Its width. Its full length; they met the base of his nut sack and then reversed course upward to where his tailbone met the opening of that valley and, then—dipped back inside. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down, and—up.

He smirked at a thought. He wondered what they would say ... do ... the gasps he'd hear if they saw his middle finger circle and dip, well into his pucker with each of those passes of that finger train.

Sometimes he was embarrassed—even at home in his own personal space. `His' shower and no one else's. How many finger trains? How many times? How many `years'? He had grudgingly convinced himself long ago that it was a cleanliness thing. Like his ears. What was it with a mother's obsession about her son's ears?

Did you scrub behind your ears?

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. And, he scrubbed his asshole too. In case anyone wondered. Apparently nobody did. Or, maybe they were afraid to ask. Or, more likely—they were afraid of the answer. That finger always felt so good, sailing into the depths of that marble encased valley. He did his level best to ignore how good that felt. His finger circling his pucker. Circling and jabbing. Jabbing and circling. Rutting over it, around it, into it...

Those eyes.

He knew they were watching this intimate moment with his finger train. They were watching. Some—wishing it was their fingers making that trek through `that' valley. Their middle finger, kissing and caressing the lips of his pucker. Some—absently licked their lips, hidden there behind the cloud of mist of their own shower. Licked, and wished. Wished it was more than fingers caressing that body. His body. His stunningly perfect body.

He slowly turned under the unending flow of water and began to rinse. His hands followed the streams and rivers—rinsing ... rinsing ... rinsing...

The eyes followed too. Like two visual surfboards, they rode those rivers across his drop-dead, gorgeous–as-fuck face. They surfed through his pits—pausing ever so briefly to admire `that' view. Yes, even his pits were perfect and enticing—inviting. He could swear he even heard a lip lick, or—five—as this or that shower occupant gazed at his pits.

Those eyes picked up speed as they zigzagged across the rivers and streams while they cascaded down the most perfect chest any of them thought they had ever seen. They raced downward, still—now, surfing eyes mastered his 6-pak. A `6' that was edging ever closer to an `8' with each passing day, or—so it seemed. They followed water and fingers helplessly now. Drawn like a moth to a flame. To his manscaped, massive cock, and balls hanging heavy. Was it manscaped, or was it simply that perfect naturally? Considering the rest of his whole package, it was probably Mother Nature's doing, down there, too.

Eyes were on him.

He knew that eyes were on him. Right there. Right then. Devouring him. Wanting him. Needing him. Silently pleading with him to open his own eyes and see them—see them and trade a gaze, a long look, a nod ... a chin up of `sup...

Suds safely swiped away from his eyes, he slowly opened them. Yeah—they had been watching him. They had been devouring him for one reason or another, or—another.

Heads dropped.

Some, turned quickly, but—not quickly enough.


Bodies spun around ... away ... diving into their own streams of pulsating water.


Innocent, but—guilty as Hell anyway.

Eyes were on him.


Even here ... now—in the showers.

Watching him.

Wanting him.

Silently but so very loudly begging for his attention. For his acknowledgement. For his ... blessing.



On ... him.

Even in the relative silence of the showers. Deafening roars.

He made it a point to stop, fist bump and buddy hug as he exited the showers. He knew them. Every last one of them. Some were `just' teammates. Others, more. He acknowledged every last one of them. By name. Tight friendship circle or not, they had all grown up together in this small town in the middle of a rural county at the crossroads of North/South-bound and East/West-bound Interstates. Few of them were 'new'. But, he acknowledged them all, everything with a grin of confidence and leadership and maybe a moment of inspiration? He was unsure but he tried.

Here, in Four Horse Crossing, Texas—he was Lancelot—a position that he had been thrown into more than sought out. This was his realm. It was his duty. It was his responsibility. It was his birthright. Whether he wanted it or not.


Eyes everywhere.

He felt them, even now—as he sauntered down the main aisle and then hung a left and down two, to where his own locker was housed. He nodded, fist bumping as he went, the few remaining teammates who were already dressing.

He traded the greetings and acknowledgements, all.

The head pats.

The chest thumps.

The butt slaps.

He acknowledged them all, accepted them—

It was his duty.

It was his responsibility.

It was his birthright.

Locker door open, he dropped his towel on the wooden bench.

He glanced up toward one end and then down to the other. There were the three teammates that had been huddled in the far corner of the showers. The three of the few that had lingered behind everyone else. Lingering in the mist and spray there—with him. Though not in his tightest-knit friend group, they were all good-on guys. He knew they, too, were watching him as he scrubbed and shampooed and rinsed and... Yeah. Them, too.

Now, here in the metal jungle of the lockers, they were watching him. They were nodding. They were talking softly. He offered a jut of his chin and a smile—they froze. They blushed. They smiled and thumbed up and chin-jutted back at him.

He turned to the cavern of his locker and found his comb and spritz-of-the-month. It was funny—irritating, too—how his `scent' choices suddenly spread through the other guys' lockers, backpacks, athletic bags...

Another example of the eyes always being on him.

He regularly went back to his own personal fave; he carefully poured it into a different bottle that no one would be able to identify—just to tease them. Just to enjoy that extra sniff. That head tilt of bewilderment. That sigh of failure at identification...

His deodorant in hand. Three swipes in each pit. Any more than 3 swipes and he felt like a reject from a wax museum.


On him.

Three pair, now.

Watching him.

Studying him.

Whispers and nods.

Nods and whispers.

Eyes were on him.


He shook his head slowly as the snow white tee slipped over his head, and—down.

He listened to them talking casually amongst themselves; he heard bits and pieces. Food seemed to be the major, repeating topic. As he slid into his jeans, the talking stopped briefly. He didn't even have to look. He knew.


Eyes were on him.

As he walked down the next aisle toward the doors that opened out onto the student parking lot, he heard one of them say that ... `maybe we should ask him'... Ask who? Ask what? He didn't know.

The heavy metal doors banged closed behind him, the echo bouncing off the walls of the now still hallways.

Author's Note: Please show your appreciation for this wonderful service and help Nifty continue to exist by sending a donation using the Nifty donations page at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.

This is just the start of a story which may or may not be continued. If there is enough interest, there MAY be additional chapters. The interest shown in it will be a determining factor in continuing the story.

Please send your comments, thoughts, and ideas to Jonathan Longhorn using jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com. Please start the "Subject" line with the name of the story so I don't toss your email as spam.

Thank you to those of you who have taken the time out of your day to write me about my stories. The thoughts, comments, and feedback are VERY much appreciated.

My other stories on Nifty can be found using the Nifty Prolific Authors page: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#jonathanlonghorn