He could feel my hole clamp down and pulse from where his thumb was lodged, and instead of pulling away, he pressed in further, pulling out slightly only to push in again. I was red, hot and throbbing down there, and a big, jock senior was soaping up my ass. The coach had taken one look at me during tryouts and muttered something about “potential,” which I’m pretty now was just code for “we need warm bodies.”
The first practice was a wake-up call. He started soaping himself up casually, not a trace of insecurity, running the lather across his chest and down his arms with a casualness that made my skin crawl with envy—and something else I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. My legs trembled, my breath came in shallow gasps, and my mind was a whirlwind of sensations and conflicting emotions. My face went hot. The showers were the real kicker. My brain was glitching, caught between panic and other nerves as he washed my hairless globes. My breath froze. His shoulders were broad, his chest defined, and his abs looked like they’d been chiseled by Michelangelo himself. I learned a new sense of pleasure. On the contrary, I was pretty sure I would be leaking pre-cum at any moment.
