Date: Wed, 17 Jan 2024 06:06:21 -0500 From: Hank Subject: Sophomore Year 14 Sophomore Year 14 In this chapter, under Buck's guidance, Hank's appreciation for the jockstrap deepens greatly. He also learns of a new potential source of income. Many thanks to those who have sent words of encouragement. I love hearing from Nifty readers. And remember - Nifty depends on our donations! Let's help it survive and thrive! If you have ever shot a load reading a Nifty post, then please contribute if you can at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Sophomore Year 14 "Take Jack's room," Buck said at the top of the stairs as we repacked the flip flops that we'd temporarily `borrowed' and put our sneakers back on. "That way, you decide to stay, you're partly settled." "Thank you, sir." I nodded, my mind too full of new information and emotions to process much else. "We got a little time before dinner," he continued, "whaddya say we toss those jeans and that sweatshirt of yours in the wash real quick? No offense, but they're lookin' like they wouldn't mind a little soap and water." Buck gave a good-natured laugh, and I had to agree. I had planned to go to the laundromat that day instead of looking for a place to live and in my rush to get out of that biddy's house had pulled my outfit from the dirty clothes bag. It was hard to believe that was just hours and not ages ago, so much had happened since. "Meantime, you're fine hanging out like that," he gestured towards my briefs, "it's just me and you here. Or if ya want, I'm sure we can find you something else to wear. Hey," an idea suddenly occurred to him, "how `bout those shorts you found in Jack's room? Why dontcha go try those on?" "Uh, ok," I responded haltingly, "sure, why not?" and started towards the doorway. "Only not with those panties!" Buck's words stopped me in my tracks. He motioned me over to the display case by the lockers where the jockstraps were stored. As I walked towards it, past the doorway to the pool room, I once again noticed the curtained doorway in the corner. "What's that?" I ask. "Oh, that's the massage room," Buck answered, "y'know, for oil massage versus the soap scrub kind we do in the showers." Curious I asked, "So, who gives the massages?" Buck laughed, "Well, me mostly. Not that I'm much of an expert or anything, but I guess I always had a sense of where and how much to press and squeeze. I mean, I know what feels good to me when I get one, so I just try to copy that. And these guys don't expect miracles; I think they mostly just enjoy the excuse to lay there doin' nothin' and have somebody work on `em." "Now, Jack," he continued, "Jack took to it early and loved helpin' me give the guys rub downs and pretty soon startin' doin' `em by hisself. He really has a knack for it. I told him he should go to college, but he wanted to study massage first and get certified and then see about doin' physical therapy or chiropractic or somethin'." "Anyway, pretty soon a lotta the guys here started preferrin' Jack to Buck," and here he laughed again, "and now they miss him. Don't be surprised if some of the guys ask you if you can give `em a rubdown." "Me?" I asked surprised. I'd had a little experience with massage when the coaches would get us players to help each other stretch or work out knots and cramps. I'd actually enjoyed it and remembered one time doing homework with a teammate in his dorm room when he offered to work on any sore spots I had if I'd give him a backrub. So, we started working on each other and it was really nice. But then his roommate came back and started teasing us and that was the end of that. "Sure. You look like you could work a guy over pretty good. Anyway, think about it...and what your price would be. Jack used to charge `em fifteen for almost an hour. Some guys would even tip." Fifteen bucks back then was like a hundred dollars today, a lot of money to a college kid for an hour's work. I was definitely interested, but wouldn't know where to start, and said as much to Buck. "Hey, no rush." He responded calmingly, "you can watch me do one of the guys and then practice on me if ya want." My head started to swim as I envisioned what Buck described. Before I could fully bring the mental images into focus, he continued, "Like I said, these guys ain't expectin' miracles. Ya just keep askin' `em, `That pressure good?' `Ya want more there?' and ya tell `em what good shape they're in, how ya don't usually see muscles this firm, y'know, that kinda stuff." I nodded dumbly, trying to stop my head from spinning from the images and ideas Buck's words were filling it with. "Anyway," returning to the topic at hand, Buck said, "Let's see if we can find you somethin' better than those pretty little panties to wear with Jack's shorts." He stepped over to the display case and retrieved a small key from somewhere behind it and unlocked the door. He rummaged through the glass bowl of jockstraps and, with a quiet "Aha!," pulled one out. He held it up towards me with both hands, reminding me of the guy in the poster above the case. "Here, hold this for one sec," he said and then fiddled with relocking the case and replacing the key. "OK," he held out his hands again, "let's take another look at that." When he'd handed me the jock, I had mindlessly balled it up, and now handed it back to him in my fist, palm down, ready to drop it in his hand. "Hey!" he barked, making me jump. "Show some goddamn respect!" The shift in tone was sharp and vehement and frightened me. "That is not some old sock you're tossin' in a rag pile." His eyes glared at me. "This jock," and he grabbed it from my hand, "is almost legendary." He turned it over in his hands, staring at it intently. "This pouch," and he pointed to it, breathing heavily, "has cradled manhood of the caliber you can only hope to achieve!" "Every `strap kept in this bowl," and he jabbed his finger towards them, "has earned that distinction." Looking more closely I realized it was not just a careless jumble of jocks, but now only three, carefully arranged so the pouches faced up and out in repose. "Yessir," I blurted, "Sorry, sir. Meant no offense, sir!" Buck's demeanor softened a bit. "That's not some dirty Kleenex to ball up in your hand, son, like you're gonna dunk it in the trash. You hold it with both hands, pouch forward, alright?" I nodded contritely. I guess I'd always felt embarrassed about underwear, maybe because its associations were so intimate. I was so bashful I'd always tried to keep mine out of sight or out of notice, while I marveled at the roommates who'd leave their underwear out and around and didn't seem to care who saw it. Or guys who'd nonchalantly strut through the gym with their jock strap laid across their shoulder or stroll across campus on their way to the pool calmly swinging a Speedo in their hand as though it were nothing more than an umbrella or set of keys. I could not imagine having that kind of brash self-confidence, though today I was starting to realize that deep down I hungered for it. "OK, Sailor, so..." Buck now sounded conciliatory, "...lesson number one: this is how you hand somebody a jockstrap, with both hands, to show respect. It's nothin' to hide or get embarrassed about," he said, as though reading my mind. And then his face briefly darkened as he added to bring home the point, "Not balled up like a used Kleenex, ok?" "Yessir!" I responded, "Respect. Both hands." "The same like if you're givin' somebody a present or showin' `em somethin' they might wanna buy. You actin' like it's worth somethin' helps them see that it's worth somethin'. Make sense?" "Yessir." I said, and it did make a lot of sense, like one of those things that makes so much sense when you hear it, you wonder why you didn't already know it. "OK, then," Buck seemed to consider that matter settled, "Let's see if this'll fit ya." He leaned in close to hold the jock to my waist. The sudden intimacy of the gesture knocked me off balance, and I instinctively placed a hand on his shoulder to steady myself. He seemed not to notice. Once again, his earthy aroma felt familiar and soothing, and I calmed watching the broad expanse of his bare back as he bowed before me. Noting the fit of the waistband, he nodded, "Yeah, this oughta do it for ya, alright." Handing the jock back to me, again with both hands, he added, "This is a top-notch `strap. A Bike #10, all cotton. Classic. I guarantee you have never worn a jock like this one. And should work perfect with those shorts. Hurry back and we'll see." I bounded up the stairs, through the living room and hallway, still in just my underwear and sneakers. After living where I hadn't been allowed out of my room unless completely dressed, this somehow felt naughty or taboo. And kind of fun. Entering Jack's room, it looked different to me than last time, like maybe I might belong here. At least for a while. I started to toss the jockstrap on the bed, but then paused, heeding Buck's words, and with both hands laid it down gently, with the pouch facing up. I took a moment to contemplate this thing of value that had been entrusted to me. It was clearly older and well used, though still in excellent condition. What had likely been its original crisp white color was now burnished, and a bit unevenly, especially the pouch, but it didn't look dingy or soiled at all. As a matter of fact, it almost seemed to glow with a soft patina. I took a minute to gently drag my fingers across it, noting the soft nubby texture. The fabric was worn smooth, like an old blanket, but retained its stretch. I don't know what came over me next, but I scooted my hand underneath it and leaned in close to lay my face in the pouch, as though willing it to tell me its secrets. That sounds crazy, I know, but I think you'd agree it had been a pretty crazy day up to then. I breathed in a faint but definite scent of earth and spice. I doubt I had ever thought of a jockstrap before as anything more than a basic item of clothing required by coaches to play sports. But this one seemed like something more, though exactly what, I wasn't sure. Something almost alive. Something that could hold a history, a story to tell; a powerful symbol intimately linked to manhood and its finest qualities: valor, strength, potency, and beauty. For reasons I'm sure I could not have explained, I was growing more and more eager to try on the jockstrap, wondering how it would feel against me, who had worn it before, and whose balls had nestled in this pouch that would soon hold mine? It felt like a small but important step on the road I was poised to take, to claim my rightful place as a man among men. Excited at the prospect, I yanked my underwear to my ankles and stepped out of them. I picked up the jockstrap with both hands and, standing naked in the middle of the room, held it up for a minute, imitating the young man in the poster downstairs, holding his jock high in victory celebration. I pretended that I was that football star, standing naked in front of adoring crowds, brandishing my winning jock strap to wild applause at every turn. Had anyone seen me, they would have thought I'd lost my mind, and maybe I had a bit. A bolt of joy coursed through me, and my face cracked into a huge smile as I realized that I was entertaining a fantasy that would have been inconceivable just one day ago. I then carefully, almost ceremoniously stepped into the revered jockstrap, one foot at a time, cautious that my sneakers make no contact to defile it. I then slowly and deliberately pulled it up, as though inviting it into my most intimate spaces. I relished its smooth caress along my calves and thighs until their growing thickness required a series of small tugs on each side. The waistband resisted as I stretched it to drag it over my butt and it repaid me by leaving traces of its harsh path in faint burn marks. And then all effort and struggle suddenly ended as it landed in place, as though arriving home after a long and arduous journey. It fit perfectly everywhere, like it had been tailor made for me. It was snug, but not tight as though it were holding me with great care. I'd never felt anything quite like it. I'd had a few jockstraps before, all of them routinely assigned by coaches based on waist size. I'd heard of other coaches who actually held fittings to make sure that jockstraps as well as other gear fit their players properly, but I'd never been so lucky. In retrospect, mine were always a bit small and pinched or were too large and slipped around. I'd never felt a jock that fit so perfectly as this. In the past, I was always ready to peel off my jock as soon as I could after practice or a game, but I felt like this one I could wear forever. I gave the leg straps a little snap like I'd seen Buck do all afternoon. It stung my ass a little but left me invigorated. I sensed a strange new power or energy as I took a few steps around the room. It sounds crazy but my balls somehow felt bigger and heavier. I felt an urge to flex and check myself out in a mirror but didn't see the one Buck had mentioned. Since Buck had told me to hurry, I grabbed the white shorts from the dresser. I hadn't noticed earlier how little they weighed. They also seemed very worn, though, like the jock, they retained a lot of stretch. These were clearly from an age of superior craftsmanship. I pulled them on and was a little surprised by how snug they clung to me. At that moment, Buck hollered, and I ran back downstairs, my footsteps thundering. I burst back into the gym with renewed vigor to find Buck at the far end of the room, by the trifold mirror, moving the little platform back into place in front of it.