My Jockstrap Gets Around - Chapter 3: Coaching Encounter

🔞 This story features graphic descriptions of m/m sexual content. All characters act with full consent. All characters are 18+ in age. 🔞

The man sold me one jockstrap and gifted me the other. Every man who fucks in it must pass it on. These are the stories of the men who wore it.

Share

It started by being in the wrong room at the wrong time. The ball rack was never supposed to be in the locker room, and certainly not the general club sports, but that’s where it was when Dane found it.

“Figures,” Dane muttered. “Fucking wrestlers using it to haul mats.” He used two fingers to try to lift the wrestling mats off the basketball cart, then gave up and used all fingers on both hands. He’d been the volunteer assistant coach with the men’s basketball program for six years, hoping for something better – maybe get hired for real, because this is what he loved.

Well, not this specifically. Six years, and in each of those six years – at least three or four times every basketball season – the ball rack was used for exactly what it was not supposed to be used for. The only thing that had changed about it was that he found it faster now because he knew where to look. At the same time, he had to be careful about how he looked, lest there be a complaint.

He got the sweaty mats off and wiped his hands on his shorts, immediately regretting it because now he had to wash them. Washing was Saturday. Not Tuesday. Even though basketball practice had started a week earlier, the club wrestlers apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Varsity basketball had its own locker room. There was no reason for them to keep going over to that side of the building to grab the rack unless it was intentional. After six years, maybe it was.

The wrestlers were starting to gather in the locker room as he was finishing. Dane kept his eyes at rack level and his hand on the clipboard. Look at the equipment. Look at the floor. The practice schedule on the wall is just fascinating, look at that and not the college guys in their prime undressing because that’s what gets people branded as gay and it just took one student and one angry parent and his dreams of being a full-on coach here or anywhere would be gone. A coach who liked men owed it to everybody to be invisible in a room where the players took their clothes off: That was what was safe, and he lived where it was safe.

He was carefully and slowly counting the balls to make sure none had disappeared when he heard a wrestler whisper loudly “Dude!” On reflex, Dane looked up in time to see two of the wrestlers. The bigger one had his singlet off and was standing in nothing but a jockstrap, digging around in his bag, brown hair still wet at the neck and shoulders on him. The smaller one, blond, was sitting on the bench half out of his own singlet. He reached over and grabbed the bigger one’s jock, right on the mesh pouch; from what Dane could see, there was definitely something there to grab on, and the blond’s hand carried purpose.

“Fuck Reese, let go! We’re gonna get caught!”

“You brought it.”

“I brought it to show you. Look with your eyes.”

The blond one let go and said something that faintly sounded like “I don’t wanna,” and then the two were laughing, and Dane looked at the basketballs. He counted them twice and got a different number both times, and neither was the right number. His eyes kept glancing up, but the two had separated and the blond one was headed for the showers, ass-naked but for two white straps on his cheeks and a blue band around his waist.

The bigger one was pulling shorts on over the strap, and Dane got just a second of the back of the waistband before it went under the red elastic waistband of street shorts.

There was writing on it. Thick, black marker, maybe some letters. He couldn’t tell anything else.

The wrestler grabbed his bag and walked out, and Dane took the average of two numbers that got to the right number and also walked out.

Dane thought about it on the drive home. He thought about it in the shower. He thought about it while drying himself. And he thought about it when he found the first gray hair on his temple, which broke him out of thinking about the jockstrap with the letters and the grab.

“Fuck! 32, I’m 32 and I have a gray hair!?” He grabbed the tweezers and pulled, swore again, and looked everywhere else. His head, armpits, chest, torso, and pubes -- still black. He sighed: Relief. One gray hair, it’s gone, never to ever return. He hung his towel and walked to the bedroom. Pulled out his clothes for tomorrow and when he got to his underwear drawer he paused.

Right. The jockstrap. The two wrestlers, the crotch-grab, and the letters on the band. The two wrestlers who weren’t that younger than him. He could pass for a grad student – probably – but not undergrad. But for some reason those letters ... he felt like he needed to know. He wasn’t sure why. Guys write their names on their gear all the time. But there was something ... different ... about these. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, though now for some reason that went against every bit of self-preservation he’d built up, that’s all he wanted to do. Put his finger on it. And by “it,” he meant the letters. Of course.

Bryce walked to class on Wednesday wearing the jockstrap again. He’d smiled when he put it on. It was weird, but the idea that it had cradled two other guys’ balls and dicks made it hot in some way that he couldn’t grasp, so each time he thought about it or started to get hard in it he added to a tally on his phone, and each time he got home he had to grope himself for a full minute for each mark in the tally. He wore the pride pin on campus, but he knew that grabbing his crotch and massaging it in public probably would have negative consequences, even if it might’ve been worth it to see the looks on some prudes’ faces.

Despite his general care-free attitude, Bryce Nadeau was attentive. He noticed things. He noticed people. He’d noticed when Nolan was looking at him. He’d noticed when Nolan pushed back into his crotch on the wrestling mat. He’d noti— ... okay, add another to the tally.

So when the assistant basketball coach had glanced up as Reese grabbed his crotch the previous night and the coach’s face almost looked like he creamed his pants, Bryce noticed. And Bryce planned.

Just in case.

And, maybe with a little extra help. Thursday afternoon, he grabbed the ball rack from the basketball team’s area and brought it into the club teams’ locker room. Fate has ways of working, Bryce figured, but sometimes it can use a helping hand. He also thought it was funny. No, he hadn’t been the one who misappropriated it year after year, but he and a few other guys were heirs to that shared tradition. They were warned not to do it too often otherwise the guy might get mad and actually complain to the coaches, but still often enough to get a rise out of the guy.

Bryce just didn’t realize what kind of rise that might be.

So, it was Thursday after practice, same time as Tuesday, and like clockwork the assistant coach was looking flustered as the wrestling team paraded into the locker room, hot and sweaty. Bryce and Nolan had their lockers close together, and like on Tuesday he made sure to quickly strip his singlet off and stand in front of Nolan wearing the lettered jockstrap.

When Nolan looked up – singlet half-way down again – he rolled his eyes.

“You’re wearing it again.”

“Yah.”

“That’s three days.”

“How would you know I wore it yesterday? We didn’t have practice.” Bryce walked around Nolan, as though inspecting him, giving the assistant coach a view of his ass as the white straps ever-so-slightly dug into his skin.

“I don’t. But that’s not a ‘no.’”

“Damn dude, you’re good.”

Nolan smirked as he looked up into Bryce’s face. “Smarter than the average jock, am I?”

Bryce shifted from one foot to the other, making sure his cheeks popped for the man counting balls. Then he walked back to his locker.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” he said and looked up just in time to see the assistant coach look down, his face red.

Nolan grabbed the strap’s waistband this time and pulled Bryce down. “How long are you going to flirt with him?” Bryce’s eyebrows shot up, and Nolan released the band and laughed.

“As long as I need to,” Bryce replied.

Bryce wore the strap every day they had practice after that, but for six days the assistant coach was nowhere to be found. Bryce didn’t know he had a different day job.

Bryce wasn’t a guy who let things go when he knew what he wanted, and for whatever reason, he now wanted the assistant coach. He didn’t even know his name. But there was something about him. Maybe the seriousness, or the dark and brooding or somber appearance, or maybe deep down he felt sorry for the pranks and thought a blow-’n’-go was a good consolation. Whatever it was, he’d made up his mind on Thursday that it would be the day.

After his afternoon classes, he went over to the athletic center and to the basketball team’s area. After making sure no one was around, he grabbed the rack and started wheeling it out and to the other end of the building when the assistant coach stepped out right in front of him.

He stopped short and swallowed hard. This was not the way he intended to catch him; in his head, he was the one laying the trap for the man, not the other way around.

“Uh, hey. Coach.”

“I’m not your coach.”

“Yah, sorry. But you’re a coach. So ... respect?”

Dane glared at him, and Bryce’s palms grew sweaty. Definitely not the way he had planned this in his head, playing with his dick in and out of the jockstrap the last week. Or two.

He swallowed again, hard, and despite everything, his dick started to feel around against the cotton and spandex or rubber or whatever-the-fuck was holding it tight against his body.

“What’s your name?” Dane asked as he pulled out his clipboard and a pencil.

“Wh–why do you want my name? Coach?”

“So I can report you for wasting my time,” he replied, shifting. He was glad he’d worn a jockstrap today because for some inexplicable reason, his dick was starting to get hard. But it couldn’t, not here, not like this. He’d never let himself fantasize about the coach-athlete scenario, it was too risky, but apparently his dick thought that now was the time to play out every single possible coach-athlete scenario that was known to gay porn. All in his head, all at the same time, all in front of this Bryce guy who he’d caught red-handed.

Share

Dane lowered his clipboard, slowly, slowly enough that he hoped the student wouldn’t notice.

Bryce’s palms were wet against the metal bar as he shifted and the elastic – yah, that’s the word – started to dig into his crotch and butt and for the first time he thought he might actually be in trouble.

“Your name?”

“Uh, Bryce. Coach. Sir.”

“Mmhmmmm.” Dane didn’t move, the clipboard now diagonal across his crotch.

And the guy who noticed things noticed that.

Dane pointed with his other hand holding the pencil. “Put. It. Back.”

“Yes Coach!” Bryce turned the rack around and walked it quickly back. When he’d returned, the assistant coach was still there. Clipboard still covering something. Bryce began to relax.

“You could get in big trouble for this,” Dane said. “Theft, vandalism, harassment.”

“Harassment?! Come on!”

Dane pulled up his clipboard and started to write something. Too late, he realized he was strongly tenting, and he shoved the board back down, and looked at Bryce’s face.

A face that was no longer showing any concern, but one corner of his mouth was up in a smirk.

“Shit!” he thought. “Okay ... Bryce, was it? Look, I’ll let you off with a warning this time. Just don’t do it again. I’ll be watching you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will ... Coach.”

Dane looked, and both corners of Bryce’s mouth were up-turned.

“Double-shit!” he thought. “Okay then, carry on.” He turned and walked towards his windowless office, just a few feet away, not looking back. He quickly opened the door and closed it behind, walked to his desk, and sat down. He put the clipboard down and exhaled, just as Bryce opened the door and walked in, closed the door, and sat down in front of him.