Molding Clay Ch 02

Clay was already on the way to school by 7 a.m. he knew he would be early, but also knew it was better than staying home waiting on another full beer can to come flying his way, his body seemed to accent this thought by bringing his hand to the swelling bruise at the top of his jaw, when he pulled away, he glanced at his fingertips.

"Least the bleeding stopped," he spoke again to himself. He wasn't exactly sure if his father DID tell him to mow the lawn yesterday evening as he drunkenly claimed, but if he did Clay certainly held no memory of it. He definitely didn't feel he deserved to be walking to school on the first Saturday of Spring Break with a clotting bruise, a change of gym clothes, and reeking of stale and drying PBR, yet here he was.

The one saving grace this morning seemed to hold for him is it was unusually cool for this time of year in Texas. As if Mother Nature was actually swayed by the thoughts of the kid, a chilly breeze ruffled the loose hairs on his head gently, soothing the burning sensation in his jaw just a little. To Clay, it reminded him of a mother dog cleaning the wound on one of her puppies. It was strangely comforting. But aside from that? This entire day could go straight to hell for all he cared. Regardless, he continued his pace and by 7:20, he was almost on campus.

Coach Duncan, or simply "Coach Dunc," as the students referred to him as, or even his first name "Rusty," that the fellow faculty used had arrived on campus around 6:30 that morning. He remembered the "Community service," he had with Clayton Knotter that was scheduled for later that same morning but his first business was to finish up the paperwork for his Health class.

As he was just tying up the last few loose ends, he noticed the obnoxious "CLACK!" of heels coming down the hallway and visibly rolled his eyes at what he knew was coming. As if right on cue, a short petite middle aged woman with pointed glasses and a shiny neck scarf the color of freshly deposited vomit appeared in the doorway to the teachers lounge. It was Ms. Skipper.

"Good morning Rusty!" She said with enough fake sugary sweetness to kill a diabetic, "Hope your mornings' been BLESSED so far?"

To most people this would seem as nothing more than a friendly "Hello," exchanged between two coworkers, but Rusty knew better. Ms. Kathleen Skipper had been eyeing him since the day he first transferred to this high school 6 years ago. And the woman was anything if not persistent. He had shot her down countless times in the time he'd worked here, so much so that he actually had to admire her vigilance. Nevertheless, a short "Mornin'," was all the acknowledgement she received.

Seemingly unfazed, she merely shifted her stance a bit and flashed that sugary smile that made his teeth hurt. He'd come close to simply telling her he played for the "Other team," Countless times in the midst of all her failed courting attempts, but knowing she attended the local Southern Baptist church and doubled down as a high ranking member of the district PTA (and oh how often she bragged about both of those very titles,) had always made him worry on what lies she may spew to have him terminated by the school if fully rejected, so instead he withstood her assaults day in and day out.

"If you can survive the shit you did in your twenties, Rusty, you can survive a woman needlessly clucking around like a starved hen," he told himself.

After a few more seconds of showing her none of the attention she so desperately craved, her smile cracked just a hair and she turned and walked down the hall toward her English classroom, the "CLACK!" of her heels the only reminder she was there at all. Thank God for that... maybe now he could get some peac...

That train of thought was interrupted as he spotted Knotter walking up the ramp to school from the large window in the teachers lounge. Something about that sight bothered some deep part of his mind but he shrugged it off, placed the Health class paperwork in his leather satchel bag, and started off to meet the kid at the front of the office building.

Approaching the kid yet still a couple of yards away, he simply said aloud, "Knotter, least I can see you're capable of being early for once." He was just about to top the statement off with one of his trademarked smirks before he stopped himself. When the kid looked up to meet his eyes he noticed the bruise at the top of his jawbone.

Rusty was many things, but stupid or uncompassionate weren't either of them. He knew the kid was having trouble at home, only didn't know how to help him...

"Yet, Rust, you don't know how to help him yet," his mind's optimist chimed in, "but that's another reason for today's community service."

The look in the kid's eye was pure shame when he realized what the coach must've seen, his not-so-well hidden cut. He was waiting for some remark about the smell of beer and drinking before class from Coach Dunc also, but it never came. Instead he was a bit surprised at what came next.

Coach Dunc just reached out his large left hand and placed it firmly on Clay's right shoulder. He looked him dead in the eye and for a moment, Clay thought he saw a flash of some sympathetic emotion for only a brief instance before the coach spoke aloud once more.

"Rough morning? I had a few of those when I was your age too. Bullies?" He inquired, though they both knew better than that. Bullies rarely left the smell of cheap beer of their victims.

"Something like that..." Clay replied, dropping his gaze down and to the left.

"Well, we still have 20 minutes before your community service starts, let's head to my office and take a look at that shall we? Don't need you getting an infection and missing even more of my class." He finished the last part with a hearty smile to show it was only a joke, but the kid didn't seem to want to be cheered up, so with a shrug from Clay as the only answer, they made their way to the locker rooms.

"Well, the good news is it only looks bad." Coach Dunc said, "I think you'll heal up just fine, may even have a neat scar to impress the ladies." Coach accented his remark by raising and lowering his eyebrows twice in quick succession. He was still trying to cheer the kid up. It apparently wasn't working, as his only reply was a flat "I'm not exactly worried about what the ladies think. Coach." The emphasis he put on the man's title at the end made it pretty clear he was ready to get on with whatever punishment the man had laid out for him that was apparently more important than him sleeping in and NOT walking to school on the first day of spring break... Fair enough. Rusty got the hint.

"Fine, but I just need to check to be sure nothing chipped below the surface." The Coach reached his large, rough hand out towards the boy's face for the second time that day and let it come to a rest gently on the wounded jawbone. He held half the kid's face in his hand and, admittedly, it made him stir just a bit down below, beneath the black elastic gym shorts and white cotton jockstrap that held his "Prized Possessions," snugly in place.

Brushing the though aside, he began to lightly press around the edges of the bruise, careful not to tear open the scab forming around the cut area. Clay was a bit surprised at exactly how delicate the coach was being. He felt he was being weird all morning but he wasn't necessarily sure that was a bad thing either... he kind of... liked it?

"Does it hurt?" Coach asked sincerely.

"Nah, I've had way worse. Little scrapes like this one only get me going even stronger," Clay responded seeming to finally be getting in better spirits. He wasn't sure why, but that rough hand delicately cradling his injured face made him feel peaceful, safe, and some other strange emotion that reminded him of the bubbles he saw when he looked at Axel. Little did he realize at the time, but his comment about taking the pain urged a similar response from his coach.

"Well! Let's put some antibacterial on it and get you a bandage, injury or not, we got a lot of work to do today, I'm sure you're familiar with the lax hygiene practices of adolescent males." Coach said with his usual smirk returning. Usually Clay hated that smug look, but this time he only smiled back genuinely.

2 hours later, and they had finished scraping most of the gum from the bleachers, swept and mopped the entire Gymnasium floor, and were moving on to the weight room. Clay was genuinely surprised at how quickly the time passed, there was plenty of small talk between him and Coach to keep the chores from being too monotonous. He had always thought of the guy as a total hardass, and he definitely was, but he was actually peaceful to talk to now that he actually got to meet him one-on-one. Suddenly, it seemed Clay couldn't shake the sensation he was missing something he never even had. That, and of course, the bubbles in his torso.

The weight room was nothing special, Alma Mater colors, generic painting of the mascot on the back wall, (GOoooo! Timberwolves!) Multiple yellowish hanging lights, two bulbs of which were out, and of course the usual benches and machines one would find in practically any high school weight room. The one thing that was special about it to Clay was the smell. It wasn't so much a stink, but almost like a heavy humid air, fashioned by years of sweat, pains, and gains. (And probably quite a few tears too.) It hung in the air perpetually in this room and it always seemed to make him just a bit dizzy every time he entered it.

Said dizzy feeling cleared a bit, suddenly remembering who he was here with and why, thanks to an "a-hem," from Coach.

"So, lets just wipe down the equipment and call it good huh?" Coach offered. He figured the kid had a rough enough morning as it was.

"Sure," Clay blurted out before he thought about it a moment longer, weighing if he really wanted to go home right now. Sure, his dad could be passed out right about now, snug as a bug in a rug in that stinky old recliner he lives in 20 hours a day, but he could also just be even more drunk with even more imaginary unfinished chores to get angry about.

"Well, I guess since we are here we can get some sets in?" He honestly had no idea why he said that, he didn't care for lifting AT ALL, but he assumed his brain just panicked at what the other choice could be and landed on something that seemed safer.

"Uhh. OK? ... I didn't really realize you were into that stuff from your past... attempts... but I'm for it. He replied cautiously, (this all seemed a bit odd to him as well,) He did continue and even told Clay that they might as well do their sets before wiping down the equipment so they don't have to do it twice.

Clay agreed, though a more-sane part of his brain was asking himself exactly WHAT in the hell he was thinking.

Coach wasted no time and dived right in with Clay, He asked him about his height, (5 10') his weight, (130 Lbs.) If he knew how much he could lift, (not a single clue,) and lastly any medical problems. (None, the first answer he actually wasn't a bit embarrassed to give.)

He figured the kid may be bluffing for some reason or another about wanting to do some sets, but why he hadn't a clue yet. What he did know is he had a struggling student asking to spend time with him and possibly even offer some advice or guidance, and that was the very reason he became a coach in the first place after all, Some people needed to be reminded they are more than where they are now. So instead, he simply asked Clay if he's fine with a few tests to see what kind of condition his body is in and what he should work on. Clay, of course, had no other choice than to accept, unless he wanted to try and face the thoughts of why exactly he didn't want to go home. And he did not.

"OK, so first thing is basic deadlifts, just pick up the weights in front of you on the floor without using your back, I'll add more weight slowly between sets of 3 to see where you should stay." Coached explained. Clay complied, and after around 20 sets, he had his number.

They moved on to every other machine type and bar set in turn, doing the same thing, adding weights to see where he should start. By the time they finally got around to the last set, inclined bench presses, his arms and legs felt like pudding that had been left out in the blazing sun that was his body heat right now. Congealed and extremely wobbly. Every pore on his body was squeezing out a heavy sweat, and Every bit of muscle tissue simply cursed him like the damned fool he must obviously be. He couldn't remember if he was wearing deodorant when he started, but if he was it was long gone, replaced by the ripe and musky smell his heated body was now emanating forth like waves. He was pretty sure he got sent to hell somehow and Coach Dunc was actually the demon that gets torture him for the rest of eternity in this God forsaken high school weight room.

But even with his exhausted state, he proceeded to the last bench, laid on his back, and waited for Coach to load the bar.

Coach Duncan was actually kinda impressed with the kid, he showed a certain resiliency for punishment that reminded him of some of those darker, younger years that felt like decades ago to the man. He guessed some of them were. But making that comparison didn't go unnoticed to his snugly tucked away, slightly sweaty package that started shifting around just the smallest bit. He tried to shift his thoughts and succeeded for the most part, but he still had a very healthy sized chub still concealed by the fabric around it. He scolded himself a bit, fucking students is something he should NEVER be thinking about. But he was thinking about it.

Without a word, he went to loading up the weights, still combating the thoughts he denied as if he didn't secretly enjoy every minute of bossing this kid around all morning. After all, his package had the proof slowly gaining a bit more ground each second. If he didn't get himself under control, it could get noticed by the kid and he didn't want to terrify him into thinking he was a rapist and not feel comfortable speaking to him about his problems at home, hell, any problems really. Aside from the unexpected attraction the Coach was feeling bubble up out of his dark half, he genuinely liked the kid. Maybe it was just pity cause he had it rough...

"Bet you'd like to give it to him rough alright" his predatry side managed to squeeze up in a bubble before he could stop it. His junk stirred a bit more even as he shush the voice back down in shame.

Even though thy were both internally conflicted a bit differently, one trying to hunt and one trying to survive his situation, the sets were going pretty smoothly, what felt like autopilot even as both party's would agree.

That was until Coach Dunc, distracted by his growing desires and package, accidentally added a bit more than Clay's tired, pudding arms could manage at the time. Clay didn't have much time to think about it before he Jerked them free from their place, where they immediately made both of his arms shake heavily first, and then fall fully on his flat stomach, the bar coming down with all the weight he couldn't manage to hold steady across his lower torso. Luckily for him he was tensing that area so the weight wasn't crushing him yet, but he only needed a few seconds for Coach to come to his rescue anyways, with an unexpected bonus.

Snapping back to reality as he noticed the kids arms start shaking, he watched the bar bring itself firmly on its makeshift resting place. The reflex part of his brain silenced all others with astounding speed as he leaned over the kids upper half to get a hold of the dumbbell. He managed to grip it and pull it up quickly enough, but in doing so, his entire neatly packed away, semi hard, and now heavily sweaty bulge mashed itself firmly against Clays face, Who just so happened to instinctively take in a huge breath of air when Coach lifted the weight from his crushing abdomen. But it wasn't only some oxygen he got wind of like his body expected...

On that day, the first Saturday of spring break, inside the mostly boring weight room of his high school, Clayton Knotter got himself a giant lung-full of some premium, ripe, sweaty, musky, jockstrap dick from his Coach Duncan... And his vision blurred, his dizziness returned instantly tenfold, his mind swam in realization, and something he'd tried to lock away deep down enough that he could even forget about running from it woke up. And it was NEVER going back to sleep now.

*

Hope y'all enjoyed so far! First story and doing it on a phone lets some of the grammar slip passed me sometimes, but let me know y'alls thoughts. I'll have the next part up as quickly as I can! (I promise, the sex is coming, but it's going to be a slowburn buildup story. They won't be diving straight in to hardcore bdsm, but work their way to it chapter by chapter.)