"That's my guy. I knew you could bring it home. Your first big score!"
Coach Golden was there at the bench to shake my hand as I ran back from the three-pointer at the buzzer to put my Antioch College intermural basketball team over the top in the final score. It was my first three-pointer, it was an important one, and I was ecstatic. So was Coach Golden. He'd been working with my net play all summer. I'd had everything else down pat before that, but he'd done wonders with me. I'd spent just about the whole fall with him.
The three-pointer had made the difference and he was standing there, with another man--a tall, solidly built man who maybe was in his forties--when I came to the bench as everyone was dispersing after the game. Coach Golden was taking me to dinner before driving me back to the dorms.
"This is Mr. Dawson, Jim," Coach Golden said to me as I walked up. "He's the man who paid for our new uniforms." The man gave me a smile, and there was some other look in his eyes too, so I wasn't all that surprised that he was here and the coach was introducing me to him. "He's here about what we talked about. I want you to go with him now. I'll pick you up later."
Just like that. We had discussed this, yes, several times. And it made sense. I was ready for it; we'd been building up to it all fall. But I had always assumed Coach Golden would be first. But he had other ideas. He kept saying we could make money off the first and the first wouldn't need to be last. This wasn't all on Coach Golden. I'd had my curiosity and built up to willingness. We'd gotten here from conversations the coach and I had had and some touching we'd shared, but I'd had as much input into those conversations as the coach had.
"How you doin'?" Mr. Dawson said, touching my forearm with his hand. My instinct was to shy away, but there was no reason to do that. I was ready for this. Coach Golden and I had discussed this. I'd agreed. Mr. Dawson was a good-looking man. Just old, I guess. Coach Golden was in his early thirties. This man must be ten years older than that. And he was so tall and so big. Coach hadn't picked out a dog. He'd thought about what I'd like--or tolerate, at least.
And Mr. Dawson had done something for our intramural team. He'd bought our new uniforms. Coach had said Mr. Dawson was a rich man and we could hope that he'd pay for more equipment the team needed.
It was Coach Golden I wanted, but he was right about making the first time the big score--both of us profiting off it. Then it would be coach and me.
"Fine," I answered, tentatively, not knowing how this was going to proceed from here. His hand moved to my shoulder and then glided, slowly down my chest to my belly, feeling me under my T-shirt. I shuddered, feeling a bit like some horse being picked out for a race.
"Nice development there. How old are you, Jim?" he asked.
"Eighteen," I answered.
"As I told you, eighteen," Coach Golden said, a slight edge to his voice. So, no risk the age department.
"Sweet," Mr. Dawson said, as his hand slid on down to my basket and he cupped my balls through the material of my basketball shorts.
"Nice."
All three of us looked around to see if someone could see, but the gymnasium had cleared out. I was wearing a cup, so he wasn't getting a good feel. It was more, I'm sure, to gauge how willing I was. I held my ground and acted like nothing odd was happening.
Coach Golden copped good feels, so this wasn't really new for me. It was new being felt up by a stranger, though, and I had to resist not pulling away. I didn't, though, because I knew Coach Golden didn't want me to. If I pleased Mr. Dawson, there'd be some cash in hand and maybe some more equipment for the team later. I did whatever Coach told me to do. He'd told me about master-slave relationships and I'd made my choice on that. He'd always be good to me.
"So, OK?" Coach Golden said, sticking his hand out, palm up.
"Sure, OK. He's a real looker," Mr. Dawson said. He pulled a wad of banknotes out of his pocket and handed them to Coach Golden, who split the wad in two, handed me one wad and slipped the other in his pocket.
"Go with Mr. Dawson, Jim," Coach Golden said. "Do what he wants."
The master had spoken. He said we had to do this--to make some money off it--before he'd take me all the way--before he and I could be one. He had called it the big score.
"I'll call you when I'm done," Mr. Dawson said. His hand went to my shoulder, turning me to the steps out of the gymnasium, and then it went to palming my butt as we walked.
I went with him. I looked back at Coach Golden, but he just smiled and nodded assuringly. He had a hand on his basket, and it gave me a little thrill to think he thought this was arousing. I was going a little hard myself. At last, after weeks of talking about it, it was time for the big score.
At the door from the gym to the dark hall leading to the locker rooms, Mr. Dawson stopped us, turned my back to the door frame, and came in for a kiss. "Give him what he wants" ran through my mind and I opened my lips and let his tongue in. His right hand glided down my chest and belly and went under my waistband and then under my cup. "Give him what he wants" was going through my brain. I widened my stance and jutted my pelvis out toward his body as he leaned over me. Getting his hand under my cup, he felt me up good while we kissed. I'd gone this far several times with Coach Golden.
I rocked on his hand, going hard as he worked my cock and balls under the cup. I had no idea how I was supposed to do this, but I must have been doing OK, as he was breathing hard, and whispered, "Sweet boy," when his lips came off mine.
* * * *
The motel was a small one out on the edge of Yellow Springs, the Ohio town Antioch College was located in. Just one line of rooms, the back of the building toward the road. You drove around to the other side and parked in front of your room. The car wouldn't be seen from the road. The motel had been built for the purpose it now was being used for--for sexual trysts. Patrons knew there would be no awkwardness of checking in at the reception desk. Everyone was named Smith and paid in cash.
Mr. Dawson had already rented the room, so he unlocked the door, palmed my butt, guided me in, and locked the door behind us. The first thing he did was pull the drapes over the picture window looking out at his car. The second thing he did was pull me to him, both of us standing in the center of the room that contained a queen-sized bed, a sort of sleek Italian shallowly curved chaise lounge and a dresser with a TV on it.
Mr. Dawson laughed when he saw the sleek, curved recliner, and it, indeed, looked very out of place in a basic motel room like this. "Oh, look, a fuck chair," he said. "They provided a little flair for us. We'll use that." He seemed to know what such a chair was good for, so I was sure then what this motel specialized in. That helped me relax and feel less guilty at being caught at it here. We weren't at risk for the motel management being suspicion and bringing in the cops on us.
Pulling me close to him, he kissed me and ran his hands all over my body, undressing me as he did so. He made a big deal of pulling the jock and cup off my legs and having my dick and balls fully exposed to his separating, stroking, and squeezing hands. I moaned deeply as he got me hard and hot.
He had me naked and was kissing my lips and throat and nipples, while his hands were cupping and squeezing and separating my butt cheeks. A finger from each of his hands was pressed at my hole, pulling it open. I lay docilely in his embrace, trembling, the focus of my attention going to his fingers in my asshole. "Give him what he wants," ran through my brain. I could hear it in Coach Golden's voice.
'You want it bad," he growled.
"Yes, Master," I murmured. Mr. Dawson laughed, thinking, no doubt, that I was referring to him when I was thinking of Coach.
I let him work me, getting hotter as he did so. Coach Golden had gone this far with me. It was strange being like this with a stranger, but he was good-looking and, though heavy, not fat. More muscular. He had his shirt off, and his torso was heavy tanned. His pecs were covered in a swirl of curly hair that continued down the front of him to the waistband of his trousers. Coach Golden was smooth bodied and not this tanned.
I caught myself wondering if he was curly and trimmed like that in his pubes--and how hung he was, and I gave a little moan, feeling guilty that I was thinking of him as a sex partner in his own right and not just as a substitute for Coach Golden--someone I had to go under first--to lose my anal virginity to for money--before Coach wanted to cover me. This was all to be able to get it on with Coach Golden. He'd made clear that he wanted to get some advantage from my first time before he and I could be together.
Saying, "We'll shower first," Dawson pushed me away from him. "You go on in. Take a good piss and shower--clean yourself out well. Don't close the door." While I went to the bathroom, not closing the door, he fiddled with the TV and somehow got gay male vids on that kept going the whole time I was in the room. Men humping men just like Mr. Dawson was going to be humping me.
I was in the shower when he came into the bathroom, naked. He had a good, muscular body. He wasn't thin but he wasn't too well padded either. His dick was half hard. The tan lines showed that he must do a lot of swimming or work outdoors just in shorts. The contrast between the heavy tan and the milky white midsection put the focus of attention on his cock and balls. He was hung about like Coach Golden was. I'd seen other guys my age longer and thicker than this when we were in the communal showers together, but I'd seen ones with a lot less too.
He had a bottle of pills in his hand, and he shook a couple of them out at the basin and swallowed them. He fiddled around looking into the mirror, and when he turned, his dick no longer was sort of average for what I'd seen. He was longer and thicker, and it stood straight out, hard, from his body. I'd lain with Coach Golden before, each of us slow jacking the other--that was as far as we'd gone--and he got big like this, but not quite this big. Mr. Dawson remained fully erect like that for the whole time he was with me. He was still hard when he was dressing before he left. I think he got that hard and kept it because he took some of those pills.
He climbed into the shower with me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pressed down. "On your knees. Do it," he said, and I knelt in front of him, took his erection in my mouth, and gave him head. Coach Golden and I had gone this far--but, as yet, no further.
Coach Golden told me to give the man what he wanted--that Coach would take care of me after that. I always did what Coach told me to do and I wanted him to take care of me. I wanted to be a man's slave. In this moment Mr. Dawson was master and I was slave.
Mr. Dawson pulled me off my knees and turned me toward the tiled wall, grasping my wrists together in one hand and holding my arms above my head. He was close behind me, holding his cock and rubbing it on my buttocks and between my crack, rubbing it over my hole and making my sphincter muscle clutch and pucker. I wanted it. I wanted him inside me. When I got past this, I could have good times with the coach. Back and forth over the hole it went, and then pausing, his mushroom cap pressing it, teasing my hole, which puckered and blossomed for him.
"Fuck. Shit, yes," I murmured, ready for it--wanting it.
He was going to fuck me now. My first time. The first big score.
He kissed the back of my neck and put his mouth next to my ear. "You want it in you, don't you?" he whispered.
