Date: Thu, 28 May 2020 16:20:54 -0500
From: BD
Subject: Molding Clay Chapter 2

  Clay was already on the way to school by 7 a.m. he knew he would be
early, but also knew it was better than staying home waiting on another
full beer can to come flying his way, his body seemed to accent this
thought by bringing his hand to the swelling bruise at the top of his
jaw, when he pulled away, he glanced at his fingertips.

 "Least the bleeding stopped," he spoke again to himself. He wasn't
exactly sure if his father DID tell him to mow the lawn yesterday evening
as he drunkenly claimed, but if he did Clay certainly held no memory of
it. He definitely didn't feel he deserved to be walking to school on the
first saturday of Spring Break with a clotting bruise, a change of gym
clothes, and reeking of stale and drying PBR, yet here he was.

  The one saving grace this morning seemed to hold for him is it was
unusually cool for this time of year in Texas. As if Mother Nature was
actually swayed by the thoughts of the kid, a chilly breeze ruffled the
loose hairs on his head gently, soothing the burning sensation in his jaw
just a little. To Clay, it reminded him of a mother dog cleaning the
wound on one of her puppies. It was strangely comforting. But aside from
that? This entire day could go straight to hell for all he cared.
Regardless, he continued his pace and by 7:20, he was almost on campus.

  Coach Duncan, or simply "Coach Dunc," as the students referred to him
as, or even his first name "Rusty," that the fellow faculty used had
arrived on campus around 6:30 that morning. He remembered the "Community
service," he had with Clayton Knotter that was scheduled for later that
same morning but his first business was to finish up the paperwork for
his Health class.

  As he was just tying up the last few loose ends, he noticed the
obnoxious "CLACK!" of heels coming down the hallway and visibly rolled
his eyes at what he knew was coming. As if right on cue, a short petite
middle aged woman with pointed glasses and a shiny neck scarf the color
of freshly deposited vomit appeared in the doorway to the teachers
lounge. It was Ms. Skipper.

  "Good morning Rusty!" She said with enough fake sugary sweetness to
kill a diabetic, "Hope your mornings' been BLESSED so far?"

  To most people this would seem as nothing more than a friendly "Hello,"
exchanged between two coworkers, but Rusty knew better. Ms. Kathleen
Skipper had been eyeing him since the day he first transferred to this
highschool 6 years ago. And the woman was anything if not persistent. He
had shot her down countless times in the time he'd worked here, so much
so that he actually had to admire her vigilance. Nevertheless, a short
"Mornin'," was all the acknowledgement she received.

  Seemingly unfazed, she merely shifted her stance a bit and flashed that
sugary smile that made his teeth hurt. He'd come close to simply telling
her he played for the "Other team," Countless times in the midst of all
her failed courting attempts, but knowing she attended the local Southern
Babtist church  and doubled down as a high ranking member of the district
PTA (and oh how often she bragged about both of those very titles,) had
always made him worry on what lies she may spew to have him terminated by
the school if fully rejected, so instead he withstood her assaults day in
and day out.

  "If you can survive the shit you did in your twenties, Rusty, you can
survive a woman needlessly clucking around like a starved hen," he told
himself.

  After a few more seconds of showing her none of the attention she so
desperately craved, her smile cracked just a hair and she turned and
walked down the hall toward her English classroom, the "CLACK!" of her
heels the only reminder she was there at all. Thank God for that... maybe
now he could get some peac...

  That train of thought was interrupted as he spotted Knotter walking up
the ramp to school from the large window in the teachers lounge.
Something about that sight bothered some deep part of his mind but he
shrugged it off, placed the Health class paperwork in his leather satchel
bag, and started off to meet the kid at the front of the office
building.

   Approaching the kid yet still a couple of yards away, he simply said
aloud, "Knotter, least I can see you're capable of being early for once."
He was just about to top the statement off with one of his trademarked
smirks before he stopped himself. When the kid looked up to meet his eyes
he noticed the bruise at the top of his jawbone.

  Rusty was many things, but stupid or incompassionate weren't him. He
knew the kid  was having trouble at home, only didn't know how to help
him...

  "Yet, Rust, you don't know how to help him yet," his mind's optimist
chimed in, "but that's another reason for today's community service."

  The look in the kid's eye was pure shame when he realized what the
coach must've seen, his not-so-well hidden cut. He was waiting for some
remark about the smell of beer and drinking before class from Coach Dunc
also, but it never came. Instead he was a bit surprised at what came
next.

  Coach Dunc just reached out his large left hand and placed it firmly on
Clay's right shoulder. He looked him dead in the eye and for a moment,
Clay thought he saw a flash of some sympathetic emotion for only a brief
instance before the coach spoke aloud once more.

  "Rough morning? I had a few of those when I was your age too. Bullies?"
He inquired, though they both knew better than that. Bullies rarely left
the smell of cheap beer of their victims.

  "Something like that..." Clay replied, dropping his gaze down and to
the left.

  "Well, we still have 20 minutes before your community service starts,
let's head to my office and take a look at that shall we? Don't need you
getting an infection and missing even more of my class." He finished the
last part with a hearty smile to show it was only a joke, but the kid
didn't seem to want to be cheered up, so with a shrug from Clay as the
only answer, they made their way to the locker rooms.

  "Well, the good news is it only looks bad." Coach Dunc said, "I think
you'll heal up just fine, may even have a neat scar to impress the
ladies." Coach accented his remark by raising and lowering his eyebrows
twice in quick succession. He was still trying to cheer the kid up. It
apparently wasn't working, as his only reply was a flat "I'm not exactly
worried about what the ladies think. Coach." The emphasis he put on the
man's title at the end made it pretty clear he was ready to get on with
whatever punishment the man had laid out for him that was apparently more
important than him sleeping in and NOT walking to school on the first day
of spring break... Fair enough. Rusty got the hint.

  "Fine, but I just need to check to be sure nothing chipped below the
surface." The Coach reached his large, rough hand out towards the boy's
face for the second time that day and let it come to a rest gently on the
wounded jawbone. He held half the kid's face in his hand and, admittedly,
it made him stir just a bit down below, beneath the black elastic gym
shorts and white cotton jockstrap that held his "Prized Possessions,"
snugly in place.

  Brushing the though aside, he began to lightly press around the edges
of the bruise, careful not to tear open the scab forming around the cut
area. Clay was a bit surprised at exactly how delicate the coach was
being. He felt he was being weird all morning but he wasn't necessarily
sure that was a bad thing either... he kinda... liked it?

  "Does it hurt?" Coach asked sincerely.

  "Nah, I've had way worse. Little scrapes like this one only get me
going even stronger," Clay responded seeming to finally be getting in
better spirits. He wasn't sure why, but that rough hand delicately
cradling his injured face made him feel peaceful, safe, and some other
strange emotion that reminded him of the bubbles he saw when he looked at
Axel. Little did he realize at the time, but his comment about taking the
pain urged a similar response from his coach.

  "Well! Let's put some antibacterial on it and get you a bandage, injury
or not, we got a lot of work to do today, I'm sure you're familiar with
the lax hygiene practices of adolescent males." Coach said with his usual
smirk returning. Usually Clay hated that smug look, but this time he only
smiled back genuinely.

  2 hours later, and they had finished scraping most of the gum from the
bleachers, swept and mopped the entire Gymnasium floor, and were moving
on to the weight room. Clay was genuinely surprised at how quickly the
time passed, there was plenty of small talk between him and Coach to keep
the chores from being too monotonous. He had always thought of the guy as
a total hardass, and he definitely was, but he was actually peaceful to
talk to now that he actually got to meet him one-on-one. Suddenly, it
seemed Clay couldn't shake the sensation he was missing something he
never even had. That, and of course, the bubbles in his torso.

   The weight room was nothing special, Alma Mater colors, generic
painting of the mascot on the back wall, (GOoooo! Timberwolves!) Multiple
yellowish hanging lights, two bulbs of which were out, and of course the
usual benches and machines one would find in practically any highschool
weight room. The one thing that was special about it to Clay was the
smell. It wasn't so much a stink, but almost like a heavy humid air,
fashioned by years of sweat, pains, and gains. (And probably quite a few
tears too.) It hung in the air perpetually in this room and it always
seemed to make him just a bit dizzy every time he entered it.

  Said dizzy feeling cleared a bit, suddenly remembering who he was here
with and why, thanks to an "a-hem," from Coach.

  "So, lets just wipe down the equipment and call it good huh?" Coach
offered. He figured the kid had a rough enough morning as it was.

  "Sure," Clay blurted out before he thought about it a moment longer,
weighing if he really wanted to go home right now. Sure, his dad could be
passed out right about now, snug as a bug in a rug in that stinky old
recliner he lives in 20 hours a day, but he could also just be even more
drunk with even more imaginary unfinished chores to get angry about.

  "Well, I guess since we are here we can get some sets in?" He honestly
had no idea why he said that, he didn't care for lifting AT ALL, but he
assumed his brain just panicked at what the other choice could be and
landed on something that seemed safer.

  "Uhh. OK? ... I didn't really realize you were into that stuff from
your past... attempts... but I'm for it. He replied cautiously, (this all
seemed a bit odd to him as well,) He did continue and even told Clay that
they might as well do their sets before whiping down the equipment so
they don't have to do it twice.

Clay agreed, though a more-sane part of his brain was asking himself
exactly WHAT in the hell he was thinking.

  Coach wasted no time and dived right in with Clay, He asked him about
his height, (5 10') his weight, (130 Lbs) If he knew how much he could
lift, (not a single clue,) and lastly any medical problems. (None, the
first answer he actually wasn't a bit embarrassed to give.)

  He figured the kid may be bluffing for some reason or another about
wanting to do some sets, but why he hadn't a clue yet. What he did know
is he had a struggling student asking to spend time with him and possibly
even offer some advice or guidance, and that was the very reason he
became a coach in the first place after all, Some people needed to be
reminded they are more than where they are now. So instead, he simply
asked Clay if he's fine with a few tests to see what kind of condition
his body is in and what he should work on. Clay, of course, had no other
choice than to accept, unless he wanted to try and face the thoughts of
why exactly he didn't want to go home. And he did not.

  "OK, so first thing is basic deadlifts, just pick up the weights in
front of you on the floor without using your back, I'll add more weight
slowly between sets of 3 to see where you should stay." Coached
explained. Clay complied, and after around 20 sets, he had his number.

  They moved on to every other machine type and bar set in turn, doing
the same thing, adding weights to see where he should start. By the time
they finally got around to the last set, inclined bench presses, his arms
and legs felt like pudding that had been left out in the blazing sun that
was his body heat right now. Congealed and extremely wobbly. Every pore
on his body was squeezing out a heavy sweat, and Every bit of muscle
tissue simply cursed him like the damned fool he must obviously be. He
couldn't remember if he was wearing deodorant when he started, but if he
was it was long gone, replaced by the ripe and musky smell his heated
body was now emanating forth like waves. He was pretty sure he got sent
to hell somehow and Coach Dunc was actually the demon that gets totorture
him for the rest of eternity in this God forsaken highschool weight
room.

  But even with his exhausted state, he proceeded to the last bench, laid
on his back, and waited for Coach to load the bar.

  Coach Duncan was actually kinda impressed with the kid, he showed a
certain resiliency for punishment that reminded him of some of those
darker, younger years that felt like decades ago to the man. He guessed
some of them were. But making that comparison didn't go unnoticed to his
snugly tucked away, slightly sweaty package that started shifting around
just the smallest bit. He tried to shift his thoughts and succeeded for
the most part, but he still had a very healthy sized chub still concealed
by the fabric around it. He scolded himself a bit, fucking students is
something he should NEVER be thinking about. But he was thinking about
it.

Without a word, he went to loading up the weights, still combating the
thoughts he denied as if he didn't secretly enjoy every minute of bossing
this kid around all morning. After all, his package had the proof slowly
gaining a bit more ground each second. If he didn't get himself under
control, it could get noticed by the kid and he didn't wanna terrify him
into thinking he was a rapist and no feel comfortable speaking to him
about his problems at home, hell, any problems really. Aside from the
unexpected attraction the Coach was feeling bubble up out of his dark
half, he genuinely liked the kid. Maybe it was just pity cause he had it
rough...

"Bet you'd like to give it to him rough alright" his predatry side
managed to squeeze up in a bubble before he could stop it. His junk
stirred a bit more even as he shush the voice back down in shame.

  Even though thy were both internally conflicted a bit differently, one
trying to hunt and one trying to survive his situation, the sets were
going pretty smoothly, what felt like autopilot even as both party's
would agree.

  That was until Coach Dunc, distracted by his growing desires and
package, accidentally added a bit more than Clay's tired, pudding arms
could manage at the time. Clay didn't have much time to think about it
before he Jerked them free from their place, where they immediately made
both of his arms shake heavily first, and then fall fully on his flat
stomach, the bar coming down with all the weight he couldn't manage to
hold steady across his lower torso. Luckily for him he was tensing that
area so the weight wasn't crushing him yet, but he only needed a few
seconds for Coach to come to his rescue anyways, with an unexpected
bonus.

  Snapping back to reality as he noticed the kids arms start shaking, he
watched the bar bring itself firmly on its makeshit resting place. The
reflex part of his brain silenced all others with astounding speed as he
leaned over the kids upper half to get a hold of the dumbell. He managed
to grip it and pull it up quickly enough, but in doing so, his entire
neatly packed away, semi hard, and now heavily sweaty bulge mashed itself
firmly against Clays face, Who just so happened to instinctively take in
a huge breath of air when Coach lifted the weight from his crushing
abdomen. But it wasn't only some oxygen he got wind of like his body
expected...

  On that day, the first Saturday of spring break, inside the mostly
boring weight room of his highschool, Clayton Knotter got himself a giant
lung-full of some premium, ripe, sweaty, musky, jockstrap dick from his
Coach Duncan... And his vision blurred, his dizziness returned instantly
tenfold, his mind swam in realization, and something he'd tried to lock
away deep down enough that he could even forget about running from it
woke up. And it was NEVER going back to sleep now.



Hope y'all enjoyed so far! First story and doing it on a phone letss some
of the grammar slip passed me sometimes but let me know y'alls thoughts.
I'll have the next part up as quick as I can! (I promise, the sex is
coming soon.)