The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1.

So I was, like, What the fuck is going on here?

First, the wrestling team wins a big match against our university’s big rival. Our team was supposed to be the underdog, but they ended up winning. As the lead sports writer for the weekly campus newspaper, that smelled like Big Story to me. I’d wrestled last year too—though I quit because I couldn’t balance school, my job at the paper, and wrestling practice all at the same time—so that gave me kind of a personal stake in stories about the team too, y’know?

So the day after the match, I called up the new coach and asked if he had a second to give me some comments. He turned me down flat. Me! Okay, maybe I’d never wrestled since he took over the team, but hell, I’m with the press, and everybody talks to the press.

I still knew, like, half the guys on the team, including this guy Karl, who lives in the same apartment complex off-campus where I live. I caught him out by the mailboxes and started asking him some questions about the match and the new coach’s methods. He wasn’t too forthcoming—hey, I didn’t know him that well. He said he wasn’t supposed to talk about that, and he just turns around and walks off. Now, hell, there’s no way I’m gonna let him do that, so I trot along after him, and I keep after him with questions, and he just ignores me. Just walks back to his apartment and shuts the door in my face.

I went back to my apartment—I share it with my older brother Russell who’s, like, a graduate student. I ranted and bitched. Sheesh!—The nerve! What the fuck was up with that? Russell didn’t say much. He just let me bitch and moan and pace back and forth like a caged animal.

Russell didn’t pay me too much attention. Usually he’s not even around the apartment much—he’s always off working on some mumbo-jumbo project for his degree—but today he’s sitting around, playing with the multi-function wristwatch he’d gotten a few days before. He didn’t given too much mind to my bitching except to say I was letting them get to me and what I needed to do was chill out and take a step back.

I was like, Hell—Why didn’t I think of that—Thanks, big bro. That’s sarcasm, in case you missed it.

I guess Russell knew I wasn’t gonna stop ‘til I got my story.

So I’m like, Fuck this! The paper is weekly. I’ve got a few days before I have to have my story in. I’ll just show up at the gym the next day and corner the coach. He’ll have to talk to me if I show up in person, right?

So I show up at the gym. Sometimes the team is in the weight room. Sometimes they’re out at the track running laps. Sometimes they’re on the floor doing drills and practice matches on the mats. They weren’t in the weight room or at the track. So I checked the drill room.

Locked? I’m, like, Dude, what the fuck? I could hear them in there—the grunts and the squeaks of their shoe soles on the mats and their coach occasionally yelling something. It made me wish I hadn’t quit the team.

But the door was locked. It was never frickin’ locked before.

So I hung out. I had my little digital camera in my pocket, and I figure I’m gonna take a couple of shots of the team practicing. I’ve got my tape recorder and my note pad. I kind of jotted down potential opening sentences while I waited.

And waited.

And ... waited.

I’m, like, Daaaamn.

So I’m sitting against the hallway wall when—Boom!—the doors burst open and the team comes streaming out. I’m a muscular guy, but they’re brushing past me, not paying me any attention, and I have to really push my way against the tide toward the coach.

The wrestlers are heading for the locker room, a pack of shirtless guys, all sweaty from working out hard. I don’t let myself get distracted by the parade of bare chests. I figure I can nail the coach for a quick interview, but he just pushes right past me too. I’ve got my tape recorder out and I’m holding over the heads of the guys shoving past me. I’m, like, “Hey, Coach! Oof! Hey, I’m from the school paper—Ow! I want to get your thoughts—Coming through!—on the match—Hey!—Watch it! Coach! Hey!” And he just pushes right past me like I’m not even there. Doesn’t even glance at me. One of the last guys accidentally catches my ribs with his shoulder, and my tape recorder goes flying. By the time I retrieve it, they’ve all disappeared into the locker room.

As if that’s gonna stop me!

So I give the door a shove and start to go charging in and—Whump!—I nearly bust my nose on the door, which doesn’t budge. Locked? What the fuck? Since when does the team—any team—lock itself in the locker room after practice?

So I knocked on the door. “Excuse me,” I yelled, “press-type person out here! Request permission to come aboard, Cap’n!” No answer. At all. I can hear them moving around in there, someone talking. Maybe they didn’t hear me knocking? Uh huh—sure.

So now the reporter in me was really going ballistic. This is just so ... not right on so many levels. No way was I going to let them stall me this way. Something’s going on, and I was damn sure going to find out what.

I could say I saw this in a movie once, some spy-versus-spy flick. There was a public men’s room toward the far corner of the gym. No one ever went in there unless there was a basketball game going on. And there was a janitor’s closet next to it, and the janitors never locked it.

I got the stepladder and a screwdriver out of the janitor’s closet. I wrote “Out of Order” on a piece of paper and taped it to the door of the stall on the far end in the men’s room, using duct tape I found in the closet. That way, no one would question why the stall door was locked or bother the ladder. After all, if I couldn’t find what I was looking for, I had to get back out again.

The ladder let me reach the big ventilation grill near the ceiling. The screwdriver let me get the grill off. I hoisted my happy ass into the duct. I’m strong and slim, so I could fit, but it was an awkward crawl.

Maybe I figured, once I found the locker room, I could kick out the grill and lower myself down. The coach would be so impressed with my persistence, he’d let me interview him. Who knows what I was thinking, y’know?

So I’m crawling through these squared-off ducts, and it’s pretty much pitch-black since I don’t have a flashlight. I kind of head the way I think the locker room is, and since I know the gym layout pretty well I can orient myself when I peer through the vent grills. I passed by a couple of equipment storage rooms, including one that had some lights and video equipment set up in it, for whatever reason, and the handball courts. Pretty soon—voila!—I’ve found the locker room.

Damn, I’m good.

So there I was, stuck in the ventilation duct, peering out through the grill down into the locker room. First thing I notice is that pretty much the whole team is naked. Nothing too unusual about that—that’s what locker rooms are for, right? The guys are all lined up in two rows, standing up straight, not quite like soldiers but close. I figure that’s some part of the coach’s military discipline I keep hearing about. All I can see of the coach on the other side of the room is from the waist down, and he has some other guy with him—can’t tell who it is since I can’t see above his waist. They’re both fully dressed—I guess you can’t have everything, huh?—and the coach is talking to the team. Sounds like a pretty standard pep talk, going by the tone, but I can’t hear anything specific. See, the ventilation system had turned on, and all I could hear was the whistle of air rushing past me.

From that angle I was mostly behind most of the team, looking kind of over their right shoulders and down. I couldn’t see much except their backs and bare asses. Nice view, huh? Like hell was I going to let a chance like that pass me by. So I pull my little digital camera out of my pocket. I know what you’re thinking, but I was really careful—I turned off the flash.

Hey, I was looking for an interview, not an ass-kicking.

Okay, maybe I needed an ass-kicking too.

Naughty me took a couple of quick pictures of their naked behinds, purely for my personal enjoyment later. I stuck my camera back in my pocket—heh, heh—and turned a little to try to kick off the vent grill.

That’s when I accidentally kicked my recorder down the metal duct.

Damn, what a fucking racket!

No way they could have missed it, even with the air running. Sure enough, I look through the grate and there’s the Coach and that other guy looking right back at me.

Okay, maybe “looking” isn’t the right word—maybe it was more like ... uhm, “glaring.”

They were not happy campers.

I’m a jock, but I can figure a few things out, and I figured out quickly that they didn’t like being spied on. Maybe it was when Coach started bellowing at the team. Things like: “Get dressed and get that fucker out of there,” and “He got in there somehow—find where and pull his ass out of there!”

Sheesh, what a grouch! Like he’d never been spied on from an air vent or something.

So here’s a quick review of my options. Stay and ask for an interview now?—Not for a million bucks! Get the fuck out of there?—Bingo! I fumbled in the dark until I found my recorder, and I scrambled the fuck out of there as fast as I could go. Okay, maybe “scrambled” isn’t the right word. I’m crawling on my belly through a damn air duct, remember? “As fast as I could go” doesn’t mean I was moving that damn fast.

I had one major advantage: I knew where I was going to exit. They didn’t. In a game of cat-and-mouse, that’s the mouse’s—my—only advantage. As the cats, they’d either have to guess where I was going or have somebody stand by every aid vent. And that gym had a helluva lot of air vents. The roaring air coming through the vents probably covered up some of my noise too. The cats had the numbers, but this mouse was the odds-on favorite.

I always bet on the underdog. Especially when he’s me.

Okay, so I didn’t really remember too well where I was going. Hey, it had taken me a while to find my way from the restroom vent to the locker room, and that was when I could take my time. They don’t exactly put lights or “You Are Here” maps in air vents, you know. I’d find a vent and I’d peer through it and try to guess where I was and which way I needed to go next time I found a junction. Once, when I thought I must have been getting close to the restroom, I was looking down into a storage room and trying to decide whether I needed to go left or straight at the next fork, when two guys I didn’t know in wrestling singlets came bursting into the store room. They must have seen my eyes behind the grate because they start yelling, so I feign like I’m scuttling back the other way. They yell out that I’m heading for the handball courts, and I give them a second to go off on their goose chase before I double back the right way.

Okay, so I found the restroom. Stuck my head out. The coast was clear. Now all I had to do was get out of the duct, out of the restroom, and out of the gym through the nearest exit.

I dropped my happy ass out of the duct and onto the ladder. So far, so good.

I got out of the restroom stall. Piece of cake. Check myself in the mirror as I pass—yeah, I’m looking cool. My clothes were a little dusty from the vent, but nothing a few swipes won’t take care of. As long as I didn’t do anything suspicious, I was pretty sure none of them had gotten a good-enough look at me to identify me if I passed them in the hallways. I’m one smart mouse.

I’m halfway to the door when it bursts open. There’s the coach, three guys from the wrestling team, and that other guy whose face I never saw—I recognized him from his shirt.

Well, shit.

Split-second decision time. I could play it cool, like I’m just some guy who was taking a leak, or I could try to talk my way out of it, ‘cause they can obviously see the open air vent behind me. Well, they’re charging my way, and I feel about ten gallons of adrenaline kick in, and I turn and run.

But y’know something? There’s not a lot of places to run in your average men’s restroom.

I’ve got three guys in singlets all over me. I’m a muscular guy, and I stay in great shape, but they’re all bigger than I am. Madder too. Pretty soon they’ve got me face-down on the cold tile floor, and I can’t move at all.

And you wanna know what I’m thinking? This can’t be too sanitary.

That other guy, the one who looks like a professor or something, he whispers something into the coach’s ear, and the coach thinks a second, then nods, all serious. I’m thinking, like, Oh, yeah—this can’t be good.

“I know you,” the coach says, bending down to inspect at me—well, what little of me he could see, probably. I’m not sure how he can recognize me with my face smushed against tile by this one guy’s forearm, but I’m not asking questions—for one thing, I can’t move my jaw.

Coach is asking questions, though. “You were on the wrestling team last year. Right?”

I manage something like: “Wuh huh.”

“You were pretty good too, weren’t you?”

Somewhere in the tangle of guys holding me down, the guy whose arm keeps my head pinned shifts a little. I still can’t move anything except my eyes, and now I can move my jaw even less. All I can manage is this kind of humming sound: “Mmm mmn.” I’m thinking, If these guys get any more friendlier, we’ll be giving each other hernia exams.

The coach points at something and mumbles something, and the hulkster getting cozy with my jaw moves his arm—just enough to allow my jaw to resume its normal alignment.

“What was that?” the coach said.

““Yes, sir,” I say, in my best “I’m sorry, mister” voice.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Chris. My name is Chris.”

“Chris, just what were you trying to accomplish with that little stunt?”

“I was trying to get an interview for the campus newspaper. I wanted to get your attention.”

He chuckled, without humor. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He stood up and stepped aside. “Well, you got my attention—that’s for sure. You about ready?”

I kinda guessed the coach wasn’t talking to me with that last bit, and sure enough, that professor-type guy, his shoes stepped up in front of me, and he said, “Yep. Should we wait for him ...?”

“No. We need to do this now,” Coach says, and he says something else to the thugs holding me down, and they shift around a little. Now they’re more intent on keeping my body immobilized—and doing a damn fine job of it too—with my left arm pulled out to one side. Okay, now I can move my head. About fucking time!

So, what am I supposed to do with all this new head mobility? Well, me, I look up. And I see this professor-guy has a small brown pack stuffed under one arm. And he has a syringe in one hand, and he’s drawing a back the plunger and filling it partway with fluid from this little bottle, the kind you see on hospital television shows with drugs in them.

“Whoa!” I say. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s that? I don’t do drugs, dude.”

It’s pretty tough to be eloquent and shit when you’re pinned face-down to the restroom floor by three muscular men in singlets.

He’s paying more attention to measuring out the dosage. “Don’t worry ... It’s just something to help you relax.” He looks down at me. “What do you weigh? About one-sixty? One-sixty-five?”

“One-fifty,” I say before I realize it—I mean, no fucking way am I one-sixty!—then, “Hey, wait a minute. I said no drugs!”

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor.”

I’m, like, Oh, yeah—it makes me feel sooo much better to know the total stranger about to inject me with some I-don’t-know-what drug on the restroom floor is a real doctor.

He kneels beside my arm, the left one, which is stretched out and turned. It’s kind of an awkward angle for him because he has to do it kind of sideways. I feel his fingers in the crook of my arm. “Just a little sodium pentothal. You’ve probably heard of it as ‘truth serum,’ but it’s so much more.”

I try to jerk my arm away, but these guys have me pinned down butt-ass good. Somebody’s foot hard on my wrist makes sure my arm isn’t moving much.

“Used properly, it’s a great training tool. As it starts to take effect, it helps you relax, and that’s when your mind can open up, focus more fully, and become receptive to helpful suggestions. Then, you’ll sleep a while, and we’ll do the same thing when the drug starts wearing off. This is how we trained some of the team members who ... resisted the normal methods. For you, let’s just say it’s our way of putting you on the fast track.”

I felt a prick in the crook of my arm as he started trying to find the vein, and I flinched. “Look, why’re you doing this? You want me to back off? I’ll back off. I won’t say a word to anybody about anything. Just ... no drugs, okay?”

“Try to hold still. It’s going to happen anyway, so you might as not make this harder than it has to be.”

Hello! What am I supposed to do, Dr. Frankenstein? I’m pinned face down to a tile floor here!

“There we go,” he says, pulling back, but he’s talking to himself.

I feel the drug in my arm. I thought it would make my arm feel cold, but it didn’t. The drug felt like a warm glow, spreading up toward my chest. I thought it would make my arm feel heavy, but it felt light, like it was floating in spite of the weight of these guys on top of me. I could feel it moving inch by inch through me.

That professor-guy is counting off the seconds. “... Seven ... Eight ... Nine ... Ten. Okay. You can let him up now, men.”

The three guys climb off of me. I’m feeling dizzy, disoriented. I can feel the drug pretty much all through me now, making it tough to focus. Everything seems to have gotten disconnected, and I can’t make my body parts move quite right.

“Carry him to the office,” the professor says. “Coach, why don’t you and the others go back and finish the training session. I’ll take care of our friend Chris here. And we’ll have to inform him about this too.”

I didn’t much like the sound of that, but what was I supposed to do? And who was this “him” he was talking about?

One of the wrestlers hoists me up—my body feels pretty much like a rag doll’s right then—and he flops me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He carried me down to the coach’s office and lowered me, a little clumsily, down into a chair, an old recliner than I didn’t remember being in the old coach’s office last year.

The recliner tilts back. Whee!—My thoughts and my body feel like they’re just floating all over the place, and I can’t seem to corral them.

“You can go rejoin the others,” the professor-guy says, beside me. “They’re waiting on you.” He was talking to the wrestler, who left then, left me alone with the professor.

His face swam over my head for a second. “The human mind is a strange and wonderful thing, don’t you agree?” I heard a squeak, like he was pulling up a chair of his own next to mine. “Don’t worry—the hard part is over. All you have to do now is focus.” This little coin-sized circle of light appeared on the ceiling tiles over my head. “Just look at the light. Focus on it ...”

2.

You remember those dreams you have sometimes? You know they’re really vivid, and a lot happens in them, but then you wake up and pretty much immediately you start forgetting what happened? Well, I woke up the next morning in my own bed. I remembered the day before pretty much right up to the part where I saw that light on the ceiling, and then ... nothing.

Hell, I might have thought even the parts I remembered were all a dream, if I didn’t have a couple of bruises from where I’d been massed against the tile floor, lingering streaks of air vent dust on my discarded clothes, and this little red mark in the crook of my elbow where the professor had injected me.

But someone had erased the photos from my digital camera. Fuck.

My brother Russell, who I share the apartment with, he didn’t act like I’d done or said anything weird the night before when I got home. I don’t see him much, because he’s always busy with grad school stuff. Even when we do run into each other, sometimes he’s so caught up in what’s going on in his life, I could prance through the apartment bare-ass with a brass band behind me, and he wouldn’t notice.

I didn’t know what to do. The smart money said to be glad I got off light and stay way away from the professor, the coach, all of them.

Maybe I’ve never been that smart. I found myself heading into the gym around the time wrestling practice was supposed to start. Maybe I’d apologize to the coach. Maybe I’d punch that professor guy for drugging me. Or maybe I’d wuss out at the last minute and just go home.

The coach was storming out of his office as I approached. “You,” he growled before I could say anything, and he gave me a poke in the chest with one finger, hard enough to make me take a step back. “You’re ... late. I don’t like late.”

He clamped a powerful hand on my shoulder and turned me around. There stood the professor, looking at me and grinning slyly. “Come along, Chris,” the professor said, and walked into the coach’s office as the coach continued storming off after whatever else.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” the professor said, patting the recliner. “Have a seat.”

For some reason, I just sat down in the recliner, not saying a word. Don’t ask me why. I guess I just couldn’t think of a reason not to.

“I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t come,” the professor said absently as he concentrated on drawing out a dose of the drug into the syringe. “After all, I made sure the suggestions would be very effective.”

Then he bent over my arm. I just sat there and watched him inject me again.

3.

The next day, I’m there at the gym again. Don’t ask me why.

I’m half-expecting the coach to kick my ass, but he just takes one look at me and aims me toward the professor. I follow the professor into the office, just like the day before.

Only, this time, while he gets the injection ready, I take off my shirt before I park my ass in the recliner. He didn’t even tell me to sit down yet. But when he turns around, I can tell he’s pleased.

As the drug starts to take hold all through me, the professor pats my shoulder and tells me I’m coming along fine, maybe even a little better than he expected.

4.

And that night, I can’t get my head together. I woke up in my apartment. I guess I slept off the last of the effects. It wasn’t the next day though—hell, it wasn’t even midnight yet. Maybe I was building up a tolerance?

I parked my ass on the couch in my boxer shorts. Russell was gone somewhere. The television was on—cartoons with the sound off—but I wasn’t paying it any attention. I kept trying to think back over what the professor had said. He’d said I was progressing, but did he say toward what? He said I might not need the drugs soon, but did he say what would happen instead? And why did I feel so fuzzy-headed and distracted every time I tried to concentrate on the details?

I heard some voices outside, and I pulled back the blinds to sneak a quick look. Just some people passing by. But I saw, across the way, Karl leaving his place with a stuffed garbage bag, heading for the dumpster.

Karl from the wrestling team. He might be able to fill in some of the gaps.

I pulled on some sweatpants and shoes, bagged the trash in the kitchen—hey, Karl and I knew each other but we didn’t hang out, and I didn’t want to seem like a total user. He probably thought I was some total spazz or something for spying on the wrestling team through that air vent. I’d just pretend I was taking out the trash too, and maybe we’d get to talking.

The dumpster is on the other side of the apartment complex, and I had to run, but I caught him just as he was closing the lid after dropping in his bag.

“Hey, Karl,” I said, trying to sound all casual and shit.

“Hey, dude,” he said, looking at me like he was seeing me in some new light. I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t put on a shirt. But, hell—all Karl had on was a pair of ratty old gym shorts and a pair of sneaks. Somehow, though, he seemed a lot more confident showing off his body than I was.

Yeah, he had a great body too.

I won’t tell you his last name, but Karl’s family is German. He’s blond and he has blue eyes. He looks like a beautiful athlete from one of those German Olympic posters come to life, only even more trim and muscular. Total eye-candy übermensch material—Aryan enough to make Leni Reiffenstahl wet herself.

Okay, show of hands: How many of you know who Leni Reiffenstahl was? That’s what I thought. It’s called the Internet, people—look her up.

So Karl was standing there. I was standing there. I’m staring at his chest, which—trust me—is really easy to stare at. I’m thinking, Jeez, Chris, can you be any more obvious here? So I make a real effort to look up at his face, and he’s still looking right at me. He’s grinning a friendly grin. I decide that’s a good sign.

“How’s it going?” I ask, as I turn and hurl my trash bag into the dumpster.

“Pretty good,” he says, still looking at me and grinning. “You?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “A little sore from working out, the last couple of days, but good.”

“Good,” he says, reaching a hand up to scratch his shoulder. In a totally non-sexual way that somehow still managed to be sexy as hell. Yep.

He says, “Coach said you might be working out with us some. It’ll be good to have ya around again.”

“Thanks,” I say, aware that I was blushing.

We made small talk about classes and the team. Karl started heading back toward his apartment, and I fell in beside him. Now that the conversation was stumbling forward, it was time for me to push it my way. “So, what do you think about the new coach?”

“He’s great. I wasn’t sure about all the boot camp type drills and stuff, but it seems to be working for us.”

Karl opened his apartment door and walked in, leaving the door open. Of course I followed him in. “It’s about discipline,” he’s saying, or something like that. “The discipline has been good for us.”

There’s a confidence in Karl now that I don’t remember from last year. An intensity too.

He’s standing there looking at me, saying something about the coach’s training methods, but I’m not really paying attention to that. I’m fascinated by the geometry of his chest, the angles from his to mine, as we stand less than two yards apart. He’s saying things like “discipline, skill, success,” but it’s more like my dick was hearing “lick, sex, fondle, suck, sex.” All I wanted right then was to sink to my knees and find out how big his cock is and what it would feel like in my throat.

Damn, had it really been two weeks since I’d gotten laid?

And I’m staring right at the crotch of his shorts, and I realize: Karl’s getting an erection. A damn big erection.

I practically couldn’t take my eyes off of it—and when I did, Karl was looking right at me. Man, I was so busted!

But Karl didn’t look pissed. He looked ... intense. Like he was concentrating on something else and not really paying much attention to me.

He was talking about how everyone on the team was such good buddies, and the word caught my ear. “... And we’d do just about anything for each other,” he was saying, “because we’re buddies, and buddies are there for each other.” He reached down and scratched casually a the base of his hardon. “Buddies will do anything for each other.” And he closed in a step, nearer, too near—I could feel the heat of his body now, crossing the narrow space between us as he looked me right in the eye. “Isn’t that right, buddy? You’re one of us again. Coach said so. Ain’t nothing wrong with helping out a buddy, is there? When he needs you?”

And he eased in another step closer, body practically touching mine, just an inch or two away.

His voice was thick, almost drowsy, falling nearly to a whisper. “You gonna help me out, buddy?”

He put his hands on my shoulders. A little downward pressure. My head—I couldn’t seem to think straight. My body knew what he wanted. I knelt in front of him. His hands went from my shoulders to his shorts, and they slid those shorts down his thighs.

Well, hello there, Mr. Erection!

With one hand, he guided his long rod toward my lips. His other cupped the back of my neck, both a caress and a control to stop me from pulling back.

“What’s the matter, buddy?” he asked. “It’s okay. I need some relief, buddy. Help me out, please? Please, buddy?”

His hand behind my neck eased my head steadily closer to his cockhead, closer to his huge, hard cock. Part of me wanted to pull back. But when Karl whispered, “Please suck it for me, buddy,” I couldn’t stop myself from opening my mouth and letting him sink half of himself into my mouth.

I closed my lips tightly around his thick shaft. Some part of me responded hungrily to the taste of him, and I wanted more. I sucked up and down the length of it. “Yeah, that’s the way, buddy,” he breathed as I worked the head of his cock. I ran my tongue over the veins along his shaft. I eased his long dick down in my through as far as I could take it.

In just a couple of minutes, Karl threw his head back and groaned, “Oh, fuck, buddy—I’m gonna nut!” The first burst of his cum exploded across my tongue. He pulled my head hard toward his bucking hips, forced his huge cock into my throat. “Suck it, buddy!—Ugh!—Uh!—Yeah!” He held my head tightly up against his crotch as he emptied his balls into my mouth and throat. Finally moaned, “Ughhhh ...,” and he dropped his hands to his sides. I slid my mouth off his softening dick and looked up at him.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, patting my shoulder, grinning down at me. “Looks like you could use some relief too, huh? Right, buddy?”

I guess for some reason I wasn’t thinking too clearly. Or maybe at all?

I didn’t say a word. Karl leaned down, leaned in, toward me. I leaned back, lay back on his floor. He eased himself down, between my legs. I was conscious of my hardon aching in my sweatpants. If I was thinking about anything, it was how close the warmth of Karl’s body was to my dick now, how much my cock was begging to come out and play and get off.

When Karl ran his fingers along the tight skin of my abs and curled them under the waistband of my sweats, I lifted my hips. He tugged my sweatpants down efficiently. He was one hundred percent business now, one hundred percent dedicated to getting me off.

He threw himself into sucking me off enthusiastically. I’d always thought Karl was straight—and maybe he was—but he had obviously done this before. And more than just a few times too.

He was good at it. Better than me. And that’s damn good!

And he knew what to do with the finger he slipped between my legs, zeroing in on my ass like guided missile.

But I wasn’t thinking about that just then. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything, except maybe how much I needed to spurt my load right then. Down his throat, all over his face, whatever—I didn’t care about the specifics as long as I came, and soon.

And suddenly it was happening. I was shooting. Karl was swallowing it. I was cumming and cumming and cumming, like my body was trying to turn itself inside out or something. One of the most intense orgasms ... ever! Everything felt stretched out, like a wire burning white-hot with pleasure and pulled taut.

Finally, my body sagged limply against the floor. Karl looked up at me over my spent cock. He patted my bare abs softly and grinned at me. “It was good, wasn’t it, buddy? Just like Coach said it would be, right?”

“Uhm, yeah,” I said, not really caring what he was talking about, letting my head sink back against the floor too, enjoying the profound feeling of contentment that washed through my limp body like the tide, the satisfied sleepiness overcoming me, and I let my eyes close. It wouldn’t hurt to close my eyes ... Just for a moment ... So ... sleepy ...

5.

And the next day, I went to the gym again. This time, instead of steering me off toward the professor, Coach just shoved a practice singlet at my chest and pushed me toward the locker room. He told me to hurry and dress out. For some reason, I’d brought my gym bag with me—I guess that was why.

Got changed into the singlet. Thought about putting on a jock first, but none of the other guys were wearing one, so I didn’t either. Besides, I’d always liked the freedom of working out without my jock. It was, like, so obvious now.

We hit the weights. We ran the drills. I paired up with Nate, this guy I knew from last year when I was on the team. He’s Nathan, but the boys called him Nate. His usual workout partner, Gabe, had to miss practice—some kind of special session with the professor—so I got to replace him, to keep things balanced.

Nate and me, we didn’t talk much when we hit the weights. We’d just look at each other and smile, like we knew what each other was thinking or something. I kept getting lost in my reps. Kind of spacing out as I’d work through a set. Nate did too. We’d smile, and we didn’t have to talk much. None of the guys did.

We slammed our way through some drills, then Coach had us hit the mats for some one-on-one practice sparring. I felt really relaxed and stretched-out, all over. Made it hard to think, so I stopped trying—I just let go. Let things happen. You know—just kicked back and let my body slide on through it. Like autopilot or something.

I would have sworn there was another man there too, off to the side, watching us. But none of the others seemed to notice him at all. And whenever I’d try to get a good look at him, I’d get distracted by something else, and all I had was this indistinct impression that might have been just my imagination, like when you see someone out of the corner of your eye, almost in your blind spot, and that someone is just a shape with no details.

Coach told us to pair off for some practice sparring on the mats. Good thing Nate was about the same weight as me.

It was fun. We wrestled and grappled. Nate and me—we were pretty evenly matched, and being friends didn’t stop us from being competitors. In my head it felt like I was just sitting back and letting my body do what it needed to do. It met Nate’s every move, and it gave at least as good as it got. Crossfaces, grapevines, nelsons, cradles—every move had a counter-move, and our bodies knew them all.

I just took a step back inside my head and let my body do its work. I felt my skin moving across Nate’s, griping here, sliding on sweat there. Muscles surging. It felt great. Masculine and primal. I felt myself getting hard as some move ground our bodies together. I could just let that happen too. Didn’t try to fight it.

Coach blew his whistle at us and we separated. “Stand up,” he barked at me, and I did, suddenly conscious of my hard cock clearly visible though my skintight singlet and stretching up along my hip. Coach stared at it. He reached out and touched it, stroked it lightly through the fabric. I just stood there, hands at my sides, and let him. It felt ... nice.

Coach pulled himself away with difficulty, like he had felt himself getting sucked into something. He shook his head and swore, “God damn, don’t you boys ever get enough?” He looked over at a couple of the younger, lighter guys wrestling next to us. “Shawn!” Coach growled at them. “Shawn, you got a buddy over here who needs some relief.” And as Coach spun on his heel and stalked away, Shawn looked up at me and said, “... Buddy?” And his glazed eyes locked onto my hardon.

This Shawn I knew by name and stats only. He was a freshman—hadn’t been on the team with me last year. About eighteen years old, maybe nineteen. A little late-adolescent skinny and lanky, but starting to muscle up. Wrestled at one-fifteen or one-twenty, I think? He crawled over on his knees and knelt in front of me. My partner Nate and Shawn’s partner paired off to keep practicing. I wouldn’t be missed while Shawn took care of business like Coach had told him to.

I just stood there, looking down at him. I was still panting from wrestling hard, and feeling pretty relaxed and groovy. Shawn’s mouth came close, and I felt his hot breath on my cock through the thin fabric of my singlet, as his lips traced the outline of my shaft. He reached up. His fingers curled between the shoulder straps and pulled them aside and down, off my shoulders, over my arms. He peeled the fabric slowly down off my torso, down past my tight abs, down to my groin. Down past my crotch. Pulled it smoothly down, down to my thighs. I didn’t have anything on underneath, not even a jockstrap. My hardon swung out to meet him, and his tongue came out to say howdy, and they proceeded to get very friendly with each other.

Part of me nagged that there was something weird about getting a blowjob in front of the other guys, but the rest of me said it felt too damn good. Besides, everybody else was ignoring us. Except for the professor across the room. He was kind of glancing at us every now and then and smiling. I had the feeling I was being watched by someone else too, somebody I couldn’t quite see, but that didn’t matter at all.

Shawn had a talented tongue. Felt fucking fantastic! He sucked on me, slow and smooth, with one hand clamped around the base of my cock shaft. His other hand played with my balls, stroking the wrinkled skin, rolling my heavy balls around in their sack. That always drives me wild.

It was hard to talk, but I managed to moan, “Mmm, yeah—play with my balls ... So good ...”

He sucked me like a dude who really likes sucking cock. He’d done it before too—a lot. My cock is a nice, big mouth-stretcher, and he managed it easily. Every now and then, he would take his hand off my shaft and run it up my chest, or between my legs to tease my asshole. I didn’t care what the fuck he did, as long as he kept sucking my cock and playing with my balls.

It probably took just a couple of minutes, but time seemed to slow down. I felt my balls buzzing, the familiar feeling or orgasm sparking, then blazing out through my entire body. I got swept away in it, and I felt myself cumming, cumming, shooting, Shawn’s mouth swallowing, milking me, swallowing ...

Oh, man!

And then it was over. Shawn patted my ass. He pulled back and headed back to his partner. He slapped Nate lightly on the shoulder, and Nate broke away and headed back my way. By then, my body—since my mind was still wiped out by my explosive orgasm—had pulled my singlet back up over my softening cock. Nate and I went back to wrestling.

Across the room, Coach and the professor watched us, smiling to themselves.