Date: Sun, 8 Apr 2007 23:07:11 -0700 (PDT) From: sammy garvin Subject: Little Jakie Likes Butt-2 Coach Pritchard had considered himself blissfully heterosexual throughout the fifteen or so years he had been teaching Physical Education and coaching Varsity Baseball at Warwick High School. Teenage boys came and teenage boys went but he had only experienced mild pangs of vague jealousy as those top-conditioned kids horsed around bare-assed in the locker-room just on the other side of his glass-walled peninsula of an office. He himself was in pretty decent shape for a man of 44 years, even if he carried an extra 13 lbs. of beer weight. He was a thick-set, strutting rooster of a man; dirty blonde and boyish looking with a chin dimple that made him appear as if he just sauntered in from the loaming, the only thing he lacked was a shaleleigh and maybe some lucky charms dancing around his head. His beefy forearms were covered with reddish-blonde hair and the sleeves of his coach's polo rode high up on his naturally muscular upper arms. His nylon shorts hugged his butt, package and thighs and the boys always made fun of Coach's "panty-lines" but Pat Pritchard never got the joke because he was a bit of a dork. He combed and greased his thick hair in an early 1970s-ish side part and he wore coke-bottle glasses which served to magnify his glacial grey eyes. His voice was nasal and his hyena-laugh could be heard resounding through the halls of Warwick High. In general, he was fairly satisfied with his marriage to his fleshy, big-boned high school sweetheart and their union yielded two red-headed boys: Steven, 4, and Jack, 3. He greeted at church every Sunday, was a die-hard Cubs fan, and secretly lusted for `X-Men' vintage Halle Berry. Yep, Pritchard walked the line, alright. Just a straight-up, straight-ahead fella any way you looked at it... But his ace slugger Mitch D'Amico was sure enough rattling his cage. Besides the fact that this D'Amico kid was a stellar athlete, he reeked of testosterone and pheremones and Coach noticed that his scholarship-candidate liked to take his own sweet time putting on his street clothes after long, luxurious, post-practice showers. Whenever D'Amico dropped by Coach's office to talk over team-related issues, he seemed always to be utterly indifferent to the fact that his unclothed, compactly muscled bubble-butt would unconsciously park itself on Coach's desk. The pouch of his jock-strap, barely containing its contents, uncannily managed to position itself just a hairsbreadth away from his mouth-breathing coach's face. Pritchard tried hard not to stare at the furry anal-cleft lewdly cached under the boy's Bike brand cotton-blend mesh straps which met just below the boy's bloated cock-cup...but it was a nearly impossible task. Pritchard would inevitably have to remove his glasses and wipe them off with his polo shirt. To Coach, it was as if the boy was daring him not to simply surrender all sense of common decency, say to hell with it, and put his slobbering hot mouth all over that musky pouch. And Mitch didn't fail to notice that Coach couldn't quite relax whenever he paid a visit to his office, which caused the catcher to compulsively tweak and scratch at his package for no discernable reason. Lately the boy had been popping semi-hardons in the office which would call the ad-hoc consultation to an abrupt halt. Mitch would try to find any excuse to get the fuck outta there and trail off to somewhere he knew he could find guaranteed quick relief from this embarrassing situation. Coach was left with little to do but moan to himself dejectedly as the D'Amico kid's hair-dusted ass-orbs undulated and strained against the barely confining elastic which framed his lewd jungle rump as it exited out the door. After all that, there was usually nothing left to do but to mop his brow with a Warwick H.S. handtowel. Mitch would then hustle across the locker-room to the equipment room, trying in vain to avoid the suspicious scrutiny of his teammates. He would exhale mightily in the cool half-lit room and search through the banks of shelves for Udo, the seventy-something silver-haired toothless janitor who spoke not a word of English but who would sometimes lurk in the supply room waiting, oftentimes in vain, for an opportunity to lotion up his left hand and stroke a Warwick Panther to overheated and trembling, premature orgasm. Mitch had benefited from Udo's talents only once but it was the most incredible handjob he had ever received. Certainly put his girlfriend Jill's tortured yanking to shame. "Udo, ya perv...where are ya?" Mitch was in luck, Udo stepped out from behind the hockey gear bank with a nasty lopsided grin plastered to his face. Mitch was his favorite by far, and the liquored-up maintenance engineer wasted no time. He sidled up to Mitch and slipped his cold fish hand down deep into the boy's jockstrap. "Hurryhurryhurry! Get me off quick you freak!" But Udo faked him out. He dropped to his knees, yanked the boy's strap down to his big barefeet, clutched at the boy's generous ass with both gnarled hands and suckled the flexing boypork into his drooling, toothless cumtrap before Mitch could do anything but gasp in shock, his knees buckling at the sensation of moist heat. Udo knew he had only minutes to work with so he gave the boy The Full Treatment. Burying his bulbous, gin-blossomy nose in wiry, black bush, he gummed the swollen tube from its base on up to the piss-slit, his broad tongue swirling from cockdorsal to dickbelly to corona, alternately coaxing precisely and teasing all the while. One hand reluctantly unhanded a cheek and came around to massage the kid's bloated sac while the other fished for the boy's asshole. Wet, guttural sucking sounds filled the dank air. Udo was hellbent on milking this dumbfucking American punk in record time. The boy's ass was clenched too tight and so access to its sweet, sweet boyhole was denied. "Ohfuh...ohfuh...rrrrrrr..." Mitch protested through grinding, clenching teeth as he clung desperately to whatever shelving was available. He nearly collapsed as his mighty ass quivered, quaked then finally flexed fist-sized dimples in the meaty expanse of each cheek. His nuts drew up painfully as his cock reared back and spasmed within the seething velveteen confines of the old man's relentless spit-choked craw. Mitch sputtered and muttered nonsense as he bounced uncontrollably on the balls of his feet. Searing, viscous ropes of astringent cum slathered the vibrating tonsils of the humsucking senior. Udo sucked and sucked and sucked some more until the spitting, helpless prick surrendered that last painful oozing slimetrail of spunk. Mitch shuddered, exhaled and relaxed and then went about the difficult task of extricating the elderly pervert's skull from the cummy mess that was his retracting package. The entire blowjob lasted a grand total of one minute, fourteen seconds, from initial engulfment to wrap-up piss-slit tongue-swipe . Flushed with disgust but suddenly needing a nap, Mitch turned away from the old dude, thought to blow a fart at him, but couldn't muster the necessary gas. Good thing too, because the dirty old freak might mistake the Bronx cheer for an invitation to further perversion. Mitch opened the door and blinked groggily at the harsh fluorescent lighting of the locker room. He feigned an attitude of `all-casual' as he swaggered back to his locker but he was clearly busted. His teammates snickered knowingly at their pal's unsteady walk of shame and, most especially, the most damning evidence of all: The residual runner of pearlescent spunk that dangled and dipped from the crown of their Italian Team Captain's glistening, depleted pecker. Coach Pritchard popped an Ibuprofen and tried to blink away all of what he just imagined as Mitch D'Amico staggered out of the equipment room. That perverted immigrant janitor had just molested his prize player, no doubt about that: The dazed, unsteady gait, the flushed face, the full-body sheen of sweat...the kid had been mauled, no doubt about it. Coach had heard the rumors. He'd have to take matters into his own hands and have a little talk with the filthy old deviant himself .