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Star Player, The
OK. I promise some sex in this one! Hope you have enjoyed the story so far. Thank you those of you who sent me emails of encouragement. It was nice! I will try to take your suggestions into account.
|Kent laid out the forks and knives on the cloth he had spread on the floor. Dinner with Tristan was something he looked forward to all day long. He had made meatloaf, with potatoes on the side, garlic bread, pasta, buffalo wings, and lasagna. The food, spread out across the floor of their small room, looked as if it were prepared for a huge party, but really it was just meant for Tristan, mainly. Kent had laid out a couple of candles, and even turned on the radio to an easy listening channel. But suddenly it struck him, “Christ! I’m acting like a fucking girlfriend!” and he blew out the candles, and turned on the alternative rock instead. Now all he needed to do was wait for Tristan, who would be home any minute now. He could hardly contain his excitement!
“Bam! Bam! Bam!” There was a loud pounding at the door.
“Who the hell??” cried Kent. “Are you trying to break the door down?” He got up and went to the door. “Who is it?”
He heard a familiar voice, “Kent… it’s me…”
Kent swung opened the door, and was shocked when he saw Tristan. Tristan’s shirt was ripped clean off him, and his face and chest were covered in blood. Tristan did not look p at Kent, and merely walked into the room. Kent was speechless for a moment, but blurted out, “What the fuck happened?”
Tristan sat down on his bed. He took the remains of his shredded jersey and wiped the blood away. “Long story, Kent.”
“No, you’re not going to say that again!” said Kent. He went over to Tristan and sat beside him. “Did you get into a fight? Tell me, please!” He put his arm around Tristan’s broad shoulders.
“Don’t touch me!” Tristan suddenly yelled, and he twisted himself away.
“Whoa!” Kent was taken by surprise. Tristan was not the person who was prone to sudden outbursts, and especially not towards Kent. “Take it easy, man!” he thought that he ought to leave Tristan alone for a bit, so he got up.
Tristan grabbed his wrist. “Kent… I’m sorry!” Tristan said, and when Kent turned to look at him, he saw that Tristan had tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry!”
“Hey! Hey!” Kent immediately went over and folded Tristan in a hug. It was a little strange that a 250 pound man would be crying, but Kent only felt sadness for what his friend was going through. “It’s all right,” said Kent, running his hands through Tristan’s hair.
“Do… do you think I’m… a freak?” asked Tristan softly.
“No!” Kent replied, startled. “Did someone call you that?”
“Yeah,” said Tristan. “Randy and his friends tried to gang up on me… but I… beat them up.”
“Way to go!” said Kent. He knew of Randy’s bad rep. “That’s the way to treat the bastard!”
Tristan looked up at Kent, and pulled him close. “Kent! You don’t understand… I went… crazy. I hope he’s okay. I don’t know what came over me. I think… I’m becoming a monster, Kent.” Tristan suddenly started sobbing. “I don’t know what’s happening!”
Kent held his friend close. He didn’t know what to say. Those strong warm feelings he felt for Tristan suddenly came welling up to the surface, and almost unconsciously, leaned over and kissed Tristan lightly on the lips. He held his big friend tenderly in his arms. “Tristan…” he said, and kissed him again, this time longer. “It’s all right.” He pushed Tristan gently down onto the bed, lying down beside him. “Tristan, no matter what happens, I’m here for you.”
Tristan embraced Kent tightly, feeling so close, for once in a long time, to another human being. He smelled Kent’s hair, so distinctive a scent, and felt Kent’s lean, hard swimmer’s body in his arms, warm and giving. “Kent… thanks, man,” he said.
They held each other for a long time, and slowly fell asleep still in an embrace.
“You asked for me, Coach.”
Tristan stood before Coach Mace in his office again. Everything seemed almost the same as it was six weeks ago. The ceiling fan turning lazily, the hot oppressive air, the strange smell of—what was it?—sweat and sex?
There was one difference, though. Tristan had grown even larger now. At 278 pounds of muscle, the boy was no longer just big. He was huge. He had repeatedly begged the Coach to get him larger uniforms, but the Coach had refused. Tristan now was bulging out of his clothes like never before. It looked as if too sudden a movement might tear his painfully stretched jersey to shreds. Tristan’s massive arms strained against his sleeves—they hardly reached his biceps now, stretched tight as they were by huge, rock-like delts.
His shoulders were hulking and huge, meeting at a think, bull-like neck. Thick veins ran from his neck down his arms, coiling around his biceps—thick as some men’s thighs—and his heavy forearms. The front of his shirt looked like it had two large bricks stuffed into it—his pecs were so large formed a little ledge. Further down, the shorts he wore looked ready to burst at any moment. Two massive thighs, as big as Tristan’s waist, threatened to rip through the tortured seams. The Coach wondered absently to himself how long Tristan took to struggle into those shorts, especially since the bulge where his thighs met was so pronounced, it was a wonder thaat Tristan could even zip up. It was so big it was obscene, as if he had stuffed a large ball down his pants. The Coach often noticed during practice how Tristan had to keep adjusting it. It must be uncomfortable for such a massive endowment to be squeezed into so tight a pair of shorts; and how his balls were big enough to even get in the way of his thighs when he ran.
“You’ve been doing very well, Tristan.” The Coach got up, and walked around the young man, studying him like a sculpture. “A lot of improvement.”
“Yessir,” said Tristan, staring impassively ahead. His massive chest heaved up and down as he breathed.
“Are we ready for the second shot?” Coach Mace asked. He went to his desk, and took out another syringe full of yellow liquid. “Take off your clothes.”
“Coach—“ said Tristan suddenly, “I don’t want to do this.”
Tristan did not dare look at his coach, and stared straight infront of him, stumbling over his words. “Coach, I’m becoming a freak—I don’t want to—Please, I don’t want to get any bigger…”
“Take off your clothes, boy. And that’s the second time I’m asking.” The Coach did not seem perturbed by Tristan’s outburst, and continued calmly preparing the syringe.
“Please—“ said Tristan, but his voice was wobbling, and already his hands were undoing his shorts.
“That’s a good boy.” The Coach came over. “Don’t protest like a girl. Shirt off too.”
Tristan took off his shirt. He felt powerless before the Coach, even though he was much bigger than that man now. The Coach kicked his clothes to a side. “Come to the desk. Bend over. Hands on the desk.” Tristan did as he was told, his face steadily reddening in shame and frustration.
He stood before the desk, bent over, all naked. Beads of sweat had dripped from his forehead onto the tabletop. At once he felt scared, disgusted, and at the same time, somehow excited. He felt the Coach’s big hands closing around his dick.
“Nice. How big is it now? Have you measured? It’s huge, I’d say. You’re hung like a fucking horse, you know, boy. A fucking horse.” He played with Tristan’s balls, and Tristan gasped as he felt his dick stiffen and lengthen. The Coach stroked his balls. “I can hardly hold both of your balls in one hand, boy. They’ve grown so huge. Like fucking tennisballs. Feel how heavy they are…” The Coach bent over and whispered into Tristan’s ear. “Your teammates see this? In the lockkeroom? No way you can hide a cock this size. What do they say? Freak dick? When you take a piss, do the people next to you notice? How monstrously hung you are?”
“Uh—“ Tristan gasped. He gripped the table tightly, grimacing as his dick swelled. He had never been so hard before, so swollen. The Coach continued to rub, running his hand up and down Tristan’s long shaft. “So think, I can’t get my hand all around your shaftm boy. Quite an anaconda you’ve got there.”
Suddenly, he felt the Coach entering him from behind. Pain shot through him. “Aaargh!” he cried.
“Don’t move!” shouted the Coach. “Take it easy. Fuck… you ass is tight. Shit, feel these boulders, man.” He ran his hand around Tristan’s muscular butt, as he slowly pumped in and out of Tristan. “Fucking tight muscle boy…”
Tristan felt so humiliated, but he could not stop himself from also feeling the pleasure that spread throughout his groin, and tingled up his spin. Precum flowed from the tip of his dick, leaving long trains of glistening fluid slowly dripping on the floor.
“You’re getting wet, boy. Huh? Liking it? Liking it?” the Coach began pumping harder and harder, and Tristan groaned, clenching his teeth, as the waves of sensation hit him.
The Coach stroked Tristan’s dick even more furious. “You’re my muscleboy, you hear me? Mine!” He shouted. Tristan could barely hear him, as he began to feel pleasure so strong it rang in his ears. He was going to cum, he knew it.
“Aahh… ahhh!” cried Tristan. The Coach only pounded his ass even harder, never relenting for a moment.
Tristan suddenly threw his head back, and screamed. He felt his balls tighten, and the semen rush up his shaft. At that moment, the Coach stuck the syringe into Tristan’s enormous, swollen balls and injected. Tristan sprayed his load clear across the desk in streams of white jism that never seemed to end, his orgasm mixed with pain and pleasure. Cum flew all over the books and papers on the desk. His hips bucked involuntarily, and his whole being seemed to be sucked up and spurted out through his engorged penis. Behind him, the Coach rammed his penis deep into Tristan one more time, and with a mighty cry, came deep into him.
Tristan fell onto the desk, exhausted and dizzy, panting heavily. The Coach withdrew from him, and slapped his ass. “There now, boy. Wasn’t that difficult, was it?”
Tristan could not answer. Already, he could feel the drug at work in him.
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