Turning Out The Blind

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As I look back on my coaching career, I can’t help but smile. I have a respectable record of wins and season trophies, a long list of young men trained as sportsmen, and a couple of Most Valuable Teacher awards. I also keep a private list of names and telephone numbers.

Men, you see, come in three varieties, and three only: * Curious (wants to try sex with a man, eager to suck a cock, maybe get fucked–a bottom) * Confident (knows how hot man-sex can be but wants to “preserve his manhood,” so he accepts blowjobs or performs the fucking–a top) * Blind (has no idea of the world of sexuality available to him, usually has a religious hang-up–a straight)

Years ago, when I first came to Hohenpastle University, a coach turned me out–actually turned me inside-out. What he taught me is printed in no textbooks, but it turned out to be the bedrock of my life. In fact, what he showed me about man-to-man sex–demonstrating my asshole as the real ecstasy-machine of my body–gave me my life’s hobby when I went on to become a coach myself: showing others.

A few days after Coach Niengweik stuck his magic wand up my ass and in the course of a single fucking turned me from an arrogant, anal-retentive teenager into a more rounded, anal-receptive man who saw things from more perspectives.

Not long after that, I set myself a goal: to show a bone-solid straight guy what could happen if he just loosened his belt a little. I figured, of course, to find another college student, a guy like myself who had not yet reached Coach Niengwiek’s level of consciousness–whose asshole was virgin–but things didn’t turn out that way, as things often don’t.

That afternoon as I walked out of the laundromat with a bag of newly cleaned clothes, I spotted a healthy-looking young man waiting at the bus stop. Close-cropped hair, white shirt and tie, black pants. Very handsome and attractive but very uptight-looking.

What the hell. I hopped in my car, pulled up to the bus stop, leaned over, and called through the window. “Where you headed?”

He bent over and looked through the window. “Carnaby Street.” Clear skin, blue eyes, straw-colored hair.

“Hop in, that’s on my way.”

He looked down at me, tugging at his ear, then climbed in, and we took off. I looked over and smiled. “Name’s Edgel; what’s yours?”

He held out his hand. “I’m Elder Sunneray. I’m a missionary for the Mormon church.”

Damn, I should have known! Then I noticed the big, plastic nametag in his shirt pocket. “Don’t you guys go around in twos?”

“Yes, but my companion was transferred to another area, and my new companion hasn’t arrived yet. In the meantime I have to run my errands alone.”

Blam! My guy! My Blind!

I looked him over more closely. Age 20, maybe, about my age. Built well, stocky, muscular. Pants weren’t tight enough to tell anything. I’ve got to play this carefully. He’s a rare bird, and I don’t want to scare him off.

He went on: “The problem is that I don’t know how to cook, so I’ll be eating at McDonald’s for a few days.” He smiled. “What church do you belong to?”

Aha, perfect opening. “None. I’ve been curious about the Mormon church, though.” After we’d driven for a while, I took a very casual tone: “I’m going to my apartment to make lunch. Want to have a bite with me?”

Again, he looked over at me, thoughtfully tugging at his ear. “Yes,” he said cautiously, “yes, thanks! I’m sick of Big Macs.”

Thanking my lucky stars I had cleaned up my apartment, I drove to my place, unlocked the door, and led him in. My apartment could be considered the Mother of All Bachelor-pads (clean variety), a Temple of Muscle Worship.

Around the living room, along with the couch and a couple of overstuffed chairs, was my collection of exercise machines and a set of barbells. The floor was “carpeted” with a large, green, foam rubber mat I used when I did calisthenics and weightlifting. I kept the joint clean, but in the darkness, before I switched on the light, the place smelled like the unmistakable den of a male. Walls in pastel orange, the color of sunlight, heat, suntan, and passion.

A few exotic plants brought a little color to the place, each in a large ceramic pot I bought in Mexico, horny pots decorated with naked males in various contortions. My favorite was a pot shaped like the torso of a naked athlete–the large Red Torch flower jutting up from it looked like the thick, hot, fevered-red shaft of his cock, ending in a devilish cockhead with flaring petals around it, like hooks locking that fantastic cock into whatever hole it entered.

Elder Sunneray walked into the room, mouth open, tugging at his earlobe. “Have a seat,” I said, moving to the breakfast bar at the side, next to the only source of light, the glass sliding door to the balcony. The refrigerator had bad news: two frozen macaroni and cheese and three turkey TV dinners. Turkey it is. “Care for a cup of coffee?” “Mormons don’t drink coffee or tea, so the ‘intoxicant’ kilis escort of choice is Mountain Dew. More caffeine than Coca-Cola.”

“Too bad. I don’t have any Mountain Dew. Would a Coke do?”

“Sure.”

When he looked away, I poured a good shot of Stolichnaya into a glass, then filled it with Coke. “Here you go.”

“Ahhh, yeah, that tastes great.”

Great enough, in fact, that I refilled his glass twice, each time with increasing percentages of Stoli. While the microwave purred away, I directed his attention to a passing police helicopter then turned the room thermostat up to 80 while he looked away.

A few minutes later, “Wow, it’s really hot in here.”

“Sorry, my air-conditioning system is on the blink.”

“It’s really hot.”

I smiled. “You’re right. I can’t take it anymore. I’m taking my shirt off.” I peeled off my shirt, turning slowly to give him a good look at my upper body (of which I was–immodestly, perhaps–rather proud). I’d spent months in this very weight room building myself into a Charles Atlas type. I had even auditioned (and won) a couple of health food/health gym/underwear modeling contracts.

“Wow, you’re really built.”

“You look pretty hefty yourself. Are you a football player or something?”

“Naw, varsity wrestler at BYU.”

“Hey, let me see how buffed you are. Take your shirt off. We’re all men here.”

He smiled shyly, again pulling at his earlobe in that endearing little mannerism he had–tugging at his ear when he was uncertain. “I’m not built anything like you.” But he unbuttoned that white shirt. Underneath was the strange, silky underwear Mormons wear–apparently one piece, a jumpsuit. He pulled open the wide, elastic collar and pulled his arms through it, lowering it to crumple at his waist.

I licked my lips at his upper body. Nice. Hard pecs. Big arms. Washboard belly. “When was the last time you wrestled?”

“A year ago. Before I left on my mission.”

“Show me a few holds.”

He stood up, looking around the room, at the body-building machines, at the weights, at the flowers in their erotic pots. I wondered what was in his mind, but I had a good guess when he shrugged his pants a little lower on his hips.

We took off our shoes, and smiling, a little hesitant, he faced off against me on the soft surface of my foam calisthenics cushion, which had become our wrestling mat. As we engaged each other, struggling back and forth, I accidentally brushed my crotch against his a few times, making sure he could feel the jockstrap-bound tiger in my nylon tank, and–Damn!–he had a hardon, too.

In a couple of moves, I was in a hold that controlled his legs. I moved my hand swiftly over his buns, between his legs, under his balls, then sinuously over his crotch bulge, pressing gently (as if I were off-balance), stimulating him, groping his crotch–all “accidentally.” All “unintended.”

A few movements and reversals later, I was surprised when he did the same to me.Yes! I flexed my hips, pressing my bulge into his groping hand and let out soft moans. Damn. He actually started stroking.

A few movements later, I fell into a trap he set, and damn, he really did have me helpless. I lay backward over one of his knees as he knelt on the mat. Theoretically he could’ve broken my back in that hold, so it was a “slap the mat and give up” situation, but instead of flexing me backward into pain, his hand slid down over my crotch–a bogus move: securing me down there was meaningless.

Whatever. As I lay powerless over his knee, his hand groping my iron-hard cock, all 10 inches up and hard–I sensed my cockhead sticking up over the waistband of my pants. Still he stroked me! Up and down. Slowly. Sensually. I let out another moan and looked up at him.

Breathing hard, he let out a little smile. “Sorry. Guess I got a little horny.”

He let me up, and I glanced at his pants. Yep, hard cock tenting out the soft wool. “No worries. Happens to everybody. You see hardons in wrestling competitions all the time. Can’t be helped.”

We got up and circled each other again. No doubt about it, his upper body is solid. I got a little horny, myself–no, make that I had been very horny from the first moment I saw him. I moved in close and grabbed him, taking advantage of my superior height and strength. I yanked him off balance then around until I had his back to me. Yeah! By then we were both hot and sweaty, and his moist back against the sweaty hair of my chest hardened my cock to Total. I smelled him. Made me even hornier.

With a quick movement, I pinned him against me by crossing his arms across his chest, pulling his hands back toward me. He let out low grunts, struggling as for a second or two I rubbed my hard cock against his ass–I couldn’t resist. I should’ve been more careful, though. He dropped to the floor to break the hold and came up twisting away from me. But there was that handsome butt of his, kırıkkale escort and I grabbed it in both hands. Nice ass, man, can’t wait to bust your cherry! As I pulled him off balance, I also got a very good feel of the strong muscles in his buttocks–my first chance to give him a good grope. My cock grew even harder (if that was possible).

But he writhed and twisted, sliding his legs through my arms, and he escaped. A wrestler’s countermove. Shit.Next thing I knew, he’d grabbed me, and my face pressed into his naked chest, and with a tripping move, we went down together, his legs struggling to entrap mine. Again our crotches came together. His hardon–even bigger and harder than before–pressed against mine.

From then on, every combination sooner or later brought our crotches together, pressing our hard dicks against each other. We almost took turns as the one who “accidentally” arched his hips up to cause the contact. My face was against his chest so often, I gave in and tasted his sweat, even licking at a nipple a couple of times.

He was losing control, too. His hand moved across to form another hold, but on its way, the hand slid over my crotch bulge, and for a second–just for an instant–he gripped me tight. Good boy, cop a feel!

The more we sweated, the hotter we got in those pants. Also, the more we struggled, the more I got the upper hand–which was strange; I wasn’t a wrestler. At one point, I had him (but I think he let me have him) in a hold from behind, like a State Trooper controlling a felon, locking his legs with my own, my right arm under his armpit, my hand locked behind his neck in a half-nelson.

I could’ve forced him to the mat for the winning pin, but I had other plans. I pressed my crotch up into his ass, my left hand holding his chest back against me, then moving slowly, sensually–almost in a caress–my hand slid down his hairless belly to his belt.

Then over his belt, and lower, lower, lower.

Finally, my hand cupped his crotch bulge, and I squeezed gently, pulsating, gripping his big cockshaft. We were both panting. He even turned his head, my heavy breathing right in his ear. For a moment I thought it was just about “Mission Accomplished,” but I heard a soft whisper: “I can’t. I just can’t!”

With a surprise move, he clapped his hands above his head, moving his arms straight up, which lost my leverage under his armpit, and he shot his legs out straight, dropping straight to the mat on his butt, slipping out of my hold like a ferret. Shit.

By then both of us were breathing hard and sweating. And excited. We both sat on the mat, catching our breath, looking at each other–and he pulled at his earlobe, uncertain. I forced myself to be calm, to move slowly.

I stood up and unbuckled my belt. “We’ve got too much clothes on.” I let my pants drop. Underneath I wore a jockstrap. “Yeah, this is much better. We can wrestle better this way.”

He looked at me with worried eyes.

I smiled. “Go ahead, take your pants off, so we can really wrestle.”

“But–“

–“You can take that underwear off. I’ve got a jockstrap you can borrow.”He stood up and dropped trou–Yes!–and the silky jumpsuit slid to his ankles. He stepped out of it. “Nice cock, man.” Couldn’t help myself. I was bigger, of course, but he had a good 8 inches, and he was thick. Damned thick. Like as big around as my wrist. Barely grippable. And he was hard! “Fine cock.”

He smiled shyly. Then he said something I couldn’t believe: “Let’s see yours.”

I pulled down my jockstrap, and ol’ Siege Mortar leaped out, all 10 inches throbbing and reaching skyward. His mouth dropped open. His eyes locked onto it. His voice was a hiss. “Darn, never saw a penis like that.”

“I’ll get you a jockstrap. You look like you take an XL–like me.”

Suddenly I got a satanic inspiration. In my bedroom, I grabbed the container of souring yoghurt I hadn’t quite finished from the bedside table, grabbed one of my jockstraps from the drawer, and pasted a handful of warm yoghurt in the pouch.

Back in the living room, I handed him the supporter, careful to make sure he took it by a strap so he wouldn’t notice the creamy pouch. It went better than I could’ve dreamed:

Holding the waistband in two fingers of each hand, he stepped into the straps, and embarrassed to be naked, he pulled it up in a single, powerful yank. The pouch covered over his cock with a slushing sound that I could hear from where I stood, and his eyes widened in shock.

I gave him an astonished face. “Oh, god, no! Oh, shit, man, I’m terribly sorry! I just jacked off in that jockstrap earlier today! I grabbed it by mistake!”

His face went white. “This is . . . your sperm?”

“I’m terribly sorry, man! Let me help you take it off.”

He looked at me like a drunk (it was possible, he drank a lot of vodka-Coke). “Your . . . sperm is all over my . . . penis!”

“Here, let me help!” I kırklareli escort reached out and cupped the pouch in my hand. But I didn’t pull the nasty jockstrap away. My hand just stayed there. He was hard.

I squeezed his cock. He didn’t resist, so I did it again. Then I began to stroke him.

Finally he spoke: “Wait! Wait a minute!” Breathless. Excited. I kept stroking. “Ohhhhh, hell!”

Something about my sperm “all over” his cock really turned him on. After exactly 10 seconds of stroking, his whole body jerked, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell back on the mat, his hips lurching. I jerked down the jockstrap to see his cock spouting. Damn full balls! Fuck, look at that! He sprayed a real mess all over himself, from his belly up his chest, neck, and face.

I was impressed. I thought only horses cummed that much.

He put his fists over his eyes. “Oh, Brother Blaylock, I am so sorry! This is shameful! Please don’t think negatively about the church because of my sinful weakness!”

No worries, dude. I gloated. This was going to work.

I decided it was time to strike. He lay before me, naked (jockstrap pulled down), his hands still hiding his face in shame, moaning, “I am evil, evil! I am a sinner!” I moved closer, put my hands on his shoulders and rubbed them gently, massaging.

“Hey, that’s okay, man. Perfectly normal. You know as well as I do that guys sometimes ejaculate in the wrestling ring.”

He paused. Finally he said, “Yeah, that’s right.” Soft voice. Hopeful.

“You’ve got a big, cock, Elder Sunneray. A man with a dong that big–“

–“Not nearly as big as yours–“

–“will have problems if he doesn’t get sexual release.” I smiled.

He smiled back. “We don’t get to date girls for two whole years.”

“So you beat off?”

“We’re not even allowed to do that.” He looked down. “At least, we’re not supposed to.” After a long pause, he looked up at me again. “Let me see your penis once more.” His voice sounded like rubbing velvet.

I instantly yanked down my jock, and he murmured, “I’ve always wondered what angels looked like under those white robes.” He stared at my rapidly inflating cock. “I bet their cocks look like yours.”

Cocks! He said “cocks”!!

“You’re so hot,” he went on, “God must have cried when you left heaven.”

Damn, he isdrunk. But who cares? I tossed an old sock at his head playfully. “Hey, you’re going to turn my head with talk like that.”

“You must be what God was thinking of when He said, ‘Let there be man.’ “

By then my cockhead was slippery with drools of precum, and he stared even harder as each burp of clear, slimy liquid oozed out. Finally he shook his head as if to clear it. “No, I’ve to get out of here–“

–But I put a hand on his shoulder. “How can you do it, man? How can you go without girls for a whole two years?”

He settled back again, his head down. “Sometimes it’s hell.” I kept my hand on his shoulder.

“And you really don’t jack off for two whole years?”

He looked up with miserable eyes. “We’re not supposed to.” He sighed. “I’m really a self-righteous, bossy hypocrite. We’re not supposed to go swimming, you know–“

–“What? Not even a summer swim?”

“No. But I went swimming at Piriapolis Beach.” He paused. “And I masturbate. Can’t control myself. I’m a sinner.” An opening! “Well, look, man, it doesn’t count if you don’t do it yourself.” I licked my lips, dropped my head, and slid my lips around his big cockhead.

“No, I can’t do that, can’t let you . . . Ohhh, my god, yes! Suck my cock!”

I had to make this a quickie, no time for him to reconsider. I jacked the lower part of his shaft and bobbed my head up and down over the head. I figured he would be horny, what with two years of no sex or even Rosy Palmer. Sure enough, after only 30 seconds or so, he stiffened, preparing for another orgasm.

At that point I worked a finger into his asshole, and that shock blasted him into Valhalla. He growled loud and climaxed, his balls pumping his jism up in big arcs. He fell back, delirious, moaning wordless sounds. Finally, “Ohhhh, god, what did you do to me?”

“Just helping you out, Elder Sunneray. Taking the pressure off you.” I smiled. “Don’t you feel better now?”

He sighed. In his afterglow. “Yeahhh. Damn, I feel good.”

I dipped my finger in the jism on his belly and brought it to his lips. “Your sperm, Elder Sunneray. It came out of your own body. Surely it can’t be a sin to taste your own cum.” He licked at it. Yes! I scooped up a gob and brought it to his lips. He sucked it all up.

“Thank you, Brother Blaylock.” He looked down. “You’ve been so good to take care of me.” He looked up again. “What can I do in return?”

To cut a long story short, five minutes later he sucked on ol’ Siege Mortar, and I blew his cheeks out like balloons when I shot him my load, which he swallowed, every drop.

He was ready. I had just one more preparation for him. As he lay back, savoring the taste of my jism in his mouth, I pushed him past one more line in the sand. I grabbed his feet, lifted them up, and pushed his legs back toward his chest. It was an eerie moment–he didn’t know exactly what was coming, but he knew it wasn’t going to be saintly.

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