The Trainer's Table


  Illustration by

Michael Kirwan  

 Story by

Eric Scott 



Originally published in Honcho magazine - July, 1994



Touchdown in the locker room.




Trudging from the trainer's room to my cubicle, my gait resembled that of an eighty-four year old widower instead of a thirty-four year old lineman. If only the fans could see me now. Charles "Chainsaw" Richardson; All-American, All-Pro, Super Bowl Veteran.

I should have seen this coming a year ago, when my former team left me exposed in the expansion draft. I guess they felt that nobody would be interested in someone my age, with my contract, who has had a back operation and six knee operations. I had seriously contemplated retirement. Hell, I had invested wisely, so what did I have left to prove? But a new team snatched me up. Before spring camp even opened, the general manager informed me that their intention was to shop me around to a contending team, one that needed one more impact player to put them over the last little hump to the next level. They'd had two offers, and he respected me enough to discuss the options and ask which team I felt I could best fit in with. I wasn't going to be here very long.

Coming to a new team had given me that little lift I needed for just one more season. But now, in training camp, I wondered if it was all worth it. I was in the trainer's room at least an hour after the rest of the team had dressed and left, struggling to keep myself sellable.

I had never lived in the Midwest and can't say that I was immediately impressed. One problem I've always had when moving to a new area was finding some hot sex. It isn't like moving around for a salesman. He can go to the local club or hangout and find someone interesting. But at six-feet four, two hundred and fifty pounds, you tend to stand out, which draws attention to just who you are. I had managed to hide my sexuality over the years. I always remembered how one of my baseball card heroes was discovered as gay and, despite his youth and ability, was traded several times over a two-year period. In no time at all, he was out of the game. I wasn't about to let that happen to me. Thus, I remained very selective and discreet. I'd been here several months and resisted the temptation to check out the local gay scene.

I pulled off my T-shirt and tugged my workout shorts down over my scarred left knee, then slumped into a pile on the stool in front of my cubicle. I was even too tired to go to the shower. I sat with my back against the front of the frame of my cubicle, my legs stretched out and spread in front of me, with my cock and balls hanging over the edge of the stool.

My trance was broken when, somewhere in the distance, in what seemed to be some sort of distant canyon, I heard someone calling, "Mr. Richardson! Mr. Richardson!"

I opened my eyes and immediately realized that the sound wasn't coming from a dream, but from Bobby, the towel boy. His title was "Assistant Equipment Manager," a pompous name for a guy who had to do the laundry. The players left their uniforms, practice gear, towels, jocks and old socks in sweaty, dirty, sometimes bloody heaps all over the locker room. It was Bobby's job to gather them up, wash, dry and fold them for the next day. I thought I was the last person in the facility, but I'd forgotten that Bobby was always here. He was now trying to get my soiled clothing, wondering how long it would be before I had showered, dressed and left for the night.

He came around the corner and saw me. "Evening, Mr. Richardson," he said.

Most of the guys treated Bobby like he was their personal errand runner. I hadn't any errands that needed running, so we'd had a couple of conversations. He was eighteen, had played ball in high school, and truly loved the game. But he was too small ever to play at a jerkwater college. The best way he knew to stay around the game was to get this job while he went to the local junior college.

He asked how I was doing.

"Navigating," I said.

It hadn't really snapped as to how exposed I was. But as we chatted, I noticed that Bobby's gaze kept falling, and after a couple of ganders he just couldn't keep his eyes off my hammer. Could it be this easy? Had I been frustrated all this time in vain? If his gaze hadn't given him away, the steady increase in his shorts had.

I decided that I couldn't be too appealing, smelling of sweat and heat balm, so I headed for the shower. The shower is just what you would expect: a large open bay with several shower heads, definitely not private. When alone, I usually turn on several of the heads with just hot water to make some steam. After all, I wasn't paying the bill and I figured Mr. Rensenhouse, the owner, could well afford my little pleasure.

As I lathered up my body, I could see Bobby through the steam. He seemed to be trying to busy himself outside the shower, but he also kept a pretty close eye on what I was doing. The more he watched, the harder my hammer got. At first I wondered if it wouldn't be best if I turned my back and were not quite so bold? If I had thought that anyone else was there, I would have definitely exercised more caution, but since I knew we were alone in the building, I didn't turn my back. In fact, I kept slowly soaping and rinsing my cock. I could tell Bobby was going to need some prodding. I walked to the entrance of the shower with my thick, cut, ten inches bobbing its way through the steam, just to ask Bobby if he'd get me a different kind of shampoo from my cubicle.

When he returned, I could see that what had been a bulge was now a perfect outline of fully hard cock about eight inches, I would guess.

In an attempt to make conversation, he asked, "Isn't it awfully hot in there?"

I explained that the shower head I was using was adjusted to normal temperature and the heat and steam were from the other heads. Then I told him it was pretty healthy and invited him to try it.

Still a bit shy, he offered a slight protest, explaining that he was supposed to be working, but if I would promise not to say a thing, he guessed it wouldn't hurt.

I assured him his "secret" was safe with me, and emphasized the word with a quick wink.

Shoes, socks, T-shirt and those knit shorts seemed to fly off. When he pulled off his jockeys, his cock sprung out at me. It jutted from his belly like a divining rod, guiding him through the steam. My earlier guess had been right. He was about eight inches, cut like myself and, while it wasn't nearly as thick as mine, it was pretty healthy.

Bobby quickly lathered up and commented positively on the effect of the steam. I offered to do his back if he would turn around. My intentions were almost honest when I began, but, by the time my soapy hands had worked their way to his waist, those intentions had taken a new turn.

I used one hand to wash his small ass cheeks while my free hand gripped my hammer and started to rub it along the crack. At the initial touch, he flinched, but immediately relaxed. This was obviously no place to get down to business, but we had little doubt what was ahead.

Having shut off all the shower heads, we were now drying and attempting to make small talk. I sat on the wooden bench as if to dry my feet. I matter-of-factly reached my hand out to grasp his steel prod. He had one of those heads that seemed to be about half the length of the shaft. I no sooner touched it than it leaped in my hand. I slid my hand along the shaft a few times, prodding him to take a step closer. When he took that step, I lowered my head to suck some of him into my mouth. The location was awkward and the bench hard, so I suggested we go to the trainer's room and look for something more comfortable.

I swear that the trainer's table must have been made with sexual activity in the back of the designer's mind. Bobby hopped up on the padded green leather with his legs dangling over the end. I swung out the small stool built into the end, tossed a foam pillow on it to protect my knees, then knelt and started administering a blow-job.

It had been a long time since I had been with someone so young and I couldn't remember ever doing anybody whose nuts were so taut so soon. I had to slide my hand down the shaft to double-check and make sure they were there at all. They were as tight as a drum. While my mouth was busy sucking for all I was worth, my free hand found its way between his legs. As soon as I made my move in that direction, he spread his legs invitingly.

My middle finger sought out his hole: he was so ready that my finger slid in without lube. This excited me so much that my cock flexed against the overhang on the table. I could tell that Bobby was about ready to shoot his load. He eagerly arched his hips to meet my mouth and grasped the table with both hands.

When you are eighteen it doesn't take long to cum. It didn't seem like I had been sucking him for any time at all. His cock began bucking in my mouth and his asshole tightened around my finger. His first shot was so strong that it hit the back of my throat and slid down without my tasting it at all. The second burst was almost as strong as the first. It wasn't until the third and fourth that I could taste him on my tongue.

I sucked him until I was sure that he was spent, then let his tool slide from my mouth and withdrew my finger from his ass. Bobby sat up on the table and smiled, thanking me and telling me how much he had enjoyed it. He still called me "Mr. Richardson." I mussed his hair and told him to relax and stop being so formal. He smiled again and confessed that he had had his eye on my meat since the first time he saw me in the locker room. He even admitted that he had jacked off at home many times, dreaming of sucking my weapon. I stroked it a couple of times and told him that he didn't have to dream any longer. He slid off the table and dropped to his knees in front of me. He hefted my cock as if he were weighing it, then looked up at me and said, "This is great," as if he were about to dive into a fudge sundae.

My nuts, which are about the size of baseballs, filled his entire hand. He held them tenderly, while his mouth opened wide to accept the head of my hammer.

It felt great! It had been far too long since I had any head, and while he seemed a bit on the inexperienced side, he more than made up for it in eagerness. He sucked as much into his mouth as would fit. My hands worked through his curly blond hair, but I didn't want to shove in more than he was ready to take. The longer he sucked, the better it felt, and the more I thought of that inviting tight ass that I had washed in the shower.

Holding his head, I drew my cock from his mouth and told him to jump back up on the table. I went to the trainer's medicine cabinet in search of something to use as lubricant. I was pretty sure there would be some Vaseline or KY in there. I was correct. When I opened the door, a jar of Vaseline stood out as if surrounded by neon lights. I fetched the jar and dug out a glob and was smearing it along my shaft as I walked back to the table. As I swiveled the stool back under the table, I was now certain that this piece of furniture had been made just for fucking. When I stood up, my cock was aimed straight at its target.

Satisfied that my tool was well-greased, I slid my hands between his cheeks to ready his asshole. As I slid in a couple of fingers, he raised his head and said that he was more than willing he had always dreamed of losing his cherry to some big jock, and he couldn't think of a better choice than me. Flattery will get you everywhere, I thought.

The way my fingers slid in and out of his hole, I would never have guessed that this was his first time. But I knew relaxation had more to do with it than anything else. I removed my hand and gripped his already hard cock to continue the relaxation process. As I stroked it, I realized that I hadn't seen it get soft after shooting that monster load. Oh, to be young!

As soon as the head of my hammer touched his hole, it was sucked inside. I slid about four inches in on the first thrust, waited a second or two, withdrew to the crown of the head, then worked a little more into him. I repeated the process until I felt my nuts brushing the cheeks of his ass. I raised his legs up so they would be resting along the front of my chest, with his feet somewhere above my head. Sensing that I had him in the best position, and his chute well-lubed, I increased the pace and began a steady, slow, deep fuck. My nuts swayed and bumped against his ass with each downward stroke. I kept up my work on his rock-hard cock with my right hand, but my left hand held his hips in place so he wouldn't slide with my hard strokes.

He was going to cum again in less time than it would take me to cum my first time. I could feel his shaft grow thicker in my hand and his ass become vise-like as he prepared to erupt again. His eyes closed and spurts of cum began to fall onto his stomach. I took special care to milk it and watched even the very last, small drop fall on him.

Watching him cum and feeling him tighten around my tool triggered what was to be a real explosion in his ass. I may not be as quick as Bobby, but I pack a quality punch. His eyes opened and I could tell he could feel my shaft thicken and make the passage in his chute tighter still. He knew I was about to blow my load. The first shot was a dandy. I could feel it mix with the lube and make his passage slicker. I drove all ten inches in as deep as I could, three or four times just to make sure that I deposited all I had, as deeply as I could. Then I slowly withdrew from his ass. I had to sit down and catch my breath.

We quickly cleaned up the bench and the rest of the room so that the trainer wouldn't be yelling tomorrow. I even helped Bobby finish the wash. He definitely made the season worth playing. I never minded having to stay late for therapy the trainer's or Bobby's.



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Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only.
They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging;
used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site;
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