Phalen

Phalen - Reputation and Honor

Chapter Two

By Roy Reinikainen

Phalen, naked, bleary-eyed, and yawning, dragged himself into the bedroom, the smell of freshly brewing coffee following close behind. "I friggin' hate mornings," he grumbled, before theatrically falling backward onto the bed, his arms spread wide. "I feel like I'm . . . forty," he croaked.

Jeff did his best not to laugh. Phalen's morning antics had taken on an almost comic consistency. They were like a touch of improvisational theater each morning. "Your father is forty, Phalen. He doesn't act like you."

Phalen raised his head and tried to focus on the source of the correction. "Okay, I feel like I'm . . . fifty." He dropped his head back onto the mattress, spoiling the effect by scratching his pubes. "I'm a fifty-year-old with crabs, or some other hideous disease. My dick is gonna turn green and get all mushy before it starts to smell and fall off. It'll slide down my leg as I'm standing in line at the cafeteria or something, leaving a slimy trail behind, then land on the floor with a liquid splat." Phalen shuddered. "Ugh. Very embarrassing."

"Perish the thought!" Jeff couldn't help but laugh. "By any chance will mornings be any better after the loss of your crab-infested, green, mushy, smelly, falling-off dick?"

Phalen rolled his head from side to side. "No, mornings'll be the same, except I won't have a dick to scratch. S'all your fault, y'know." He paused for a jaw-splitting yawn. "Keeping me up half the night, squirming around on top of me." He held out a warning hand. "I know. I know. I shouldn't have behaved like a floozy in heat. If you weren't so damned sexy, I wouldn't be so tired." He raised his head. "So, it's all your fault. Mornings are probably your fault, as well." He dropped his head back onto the bed. "Nothing's my fault. All yours. If you weren't such a great guy, things'd be okay."

He turned onto his stomach, then quickly stole an alarmed glance over his shoulder, and returned to his back, with both hands covering his groin. "Message to Phalen," he mumbled aloud, "do not ever lie on your stomach when Mister Hung-Like-A-Hose is around. He'll do one of those disgusting medical procedures where some stranger sticks a twenty-five foot garden hose, with a friggin' video camera duct-taped to the end, up your butt, just for a look around. Ugh."

Jeff laughed. "I'll ask my doctor-brother, but it seems like I remember him talking about just that sort of procedure to help find out why guys' dicks turn green and fall off."

Phalen cracked one eye open and studied Jeff in disgusted silence. "Very funny," he mumbled, before indulging in another prodigious yawn.

"Sounds like the coffee's finished," Jeff observed, noting the lack of sound coming from the kitchen.

"Awesome!" Phalen sprang from the bed and jogged toward the kitchen. "Don't worry," he shouted. "I won't try to make breakfast!"

"Hmm, breakfast." Hank Osborn smiled at the waitress as she distributed the heavily laden plates on the table. Hank picked up a fork and dug in, behaving like a man who was having his first meal in days. Thanks for meeting with me, Ed," he mumbled around a bite of food.

Ed Bowen, the head coach for the university's baseball team, smiled and nodded, motioning for Hank to satisfy his hunger before trying to speak. He and Hank had been friends since they were in college, though since each had become a head coach, him at the university and Hank at one of Tempe's largest high schools, they'd not had nearly as much time as either wished, to meet for their regular breakfasts. 'Of course, wives and children probably had something to do with that, too,' Ed thought, thankful they were both married to women who understood their husband's love of baseball.

Hank swallowed, then went on, enfolding his coffee cup with both hands. "I've been thinking for months about whether to ask for this meeting. I don't want to interfere with your duties or decisions, but," he shrugged, "you know me; I always have had to say what I think."

"So, we're here to discuss one of my duties or decisions?" Ed asked, using his friend's words, and trying to speak in an attentive, but otherwise neutral, voice.

Hank nodded. "About a decision . . . a scholarship decision."

"About one of your players?" Ed's speculation was answered with a nod. "Which one? Do I know him?" Another nod. "Well," Ed laughed, "which one should I have offered a scholarship to, but didn't? That's what you're edging toward, isn't it? Slowly, I might add."

"Marty Kelly," Hank supplied. "Without a doubt, the best player I've ever had a chance to coach. He's also smart, academically. He applied for a scholarship, but was denied." Hank held up a hand, asking to be heard. "I know. A line has to be drawn someplace, and you do have an outstanding bunch of talent this year. That shortstop of yours . . ." Hank shook his head, "phenomenal. I was at yesterday's game," he added. "That final pitch - geez, Ed, I thought it'd burn a hole in the boy's glove, it was moving so fast, but he nonchalantly did exactly what you've coached him to do." Hank shook his head in wonder.

"Marty Kelly's one of our assistant trainers," Ed supplied. "Good man . . . really cares about the team. I've heard nothing but good things about him."

Hank made a, "you see?" gesture with a hand, reinforced by raised eyebrows. "He's being wasted, Ed, wasted. Almost anyone can be a trainer. That young man, while he isn't as good as that shortstop of yours, he very nearly is. I know you don't have an extra scholarship to hand out, but, if one should become available, would you at least take a look at Mr. Kelly? I don't believe you'll be sorry."

"That good? He's not a nephew or anything, is he?" Ed laughed.

"No, just a great player. And, speaking of looking out for one's nephews . . ." Hank began.

Ed bowed his head. "I know. I know. I probably shouldn't have hired my sister's boy as an assistant coach. I wouldn't have if he wasn't any good. Jackson's a little . . . prickly . . . but otherwise, a solid man. Not inspired, just . . . solid."

"Inspired would be better." Hank's grin was answered by a wry smile.

"But, lacking inspiration, I'll settle for solid."

"No!" Randy Shaw shouted into the darkened room, as he sat up, his chest heaving, vainly trying to free his legs from the sweat-damp bed sheets. He raked his trembling fingers through his dark hair, and willed his heart to slow, wishing the nightmare would fade, or, better yet, that it wasn't a reflection of reality. 'What was that?' he asked himself; 'the third or fourth time I've dreamt that same dream, tonight alone.' He finally managed to free himself from the grip of the clammy sheets, and sat on the side of the bed, cradling his head as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

'I'm not left at peace, even in my own home,' he thought, looking at the bedside clock. 'Only 2 o'clock?' He shook his head as he stood and walked to the bedroom window and stared, unseeing, at the darkened buildings nearby. 'What have I gotten myself into?' he asked himself, for the thousandth time, since succumbing to Coach Cline's advances. 'I thought I was going to have a harmless night of fun with an incredibly sexy man. Instead, I'm hounded by a laughing . . . sneering . . . sadist!'

Randy pivoted and headed back toward the bed. 'Even though I'm responsible for some of what's happening, I'm not afraid of going to the authorities. If all I had to do was take my own sensibilities into account, I'd have already done it, but . . .' he took a stuttering breath, 'I just don't think I could deal with the parents, once they found out. Mom would be hovering, wringing her hands as she talked about all the bad people . . . out there . . . and Dad would be swearing, asking over and over if I could possibly have a clue what the publicity of this sort of thing is going to have on his business. Margaret would be sympathetic, and make all the moves she thinks appropriate, but she wouldn't understand what's happening to me. Still, talking about . . . all this . . . to my sister, no matter how sympathetic, is not something I want to do, especially since she's only fifteen.' Randy tried to fill a glass of water from the bathroom tap, but until he used both hands, he was unable to steady the glass enough, either to fill it or to drink.

'I've allowed him to control me. My fears only fuel his need to inflict more torment. But, where does it stop? What does he have to do to me before he's satisfied that he's done enough?' He paused in mid-stride. 'What if there isn't a limit? What if he continues on until I have some sort of emotional collapse, or kill myself, or something? No matter what, I lose.'

Randy winced, as he downed one of his mother's sleeping pills, and a pain pill he'd begged from a friend. 'Maybe these'll help me get some sleep, and not hurt so much.'

Randy had thought it was he who was the aggressor. 'Love 'em and leave 'em,' had always been his motto. There was no reason for him to think otherwise. He'd never been in a situation where he wasn't the person in charge of any sexual encounter. After meeting Coach Cline, his view, of . . . everything, changed. The coach had done his homework. He knew exactly which buttons to push to get Randy to do precisely what he wanted. He knew what Randy wanted most, and had dangled the possibility of being named to the baseball team's starting lineup in front of him. 'I'm like the poor fish,' Randy thought to himself. 'I saw only what I wanted to see, and by the time I snatched the bait, I was hooked, and it was too late. After spending the night with the coach just once, I knew I had made a serious mistake.'

He yawned, hugely, as he sat on the edge of the bed, with only a slight wince. 'Gotta get some sleep,' he thought, as he lay back and pulled the sheet over him.

No sooner had he closed his eyes than the dreams returned. "Sit on it!" Coach Cline ordered, his voice like a whiplash in the darkness, stinging raw and exposed skin. He grabbed Randy's wrist in a vise-like grip and pulled him close enough for Randy to be insulted by the alcoholic cloud of his breath. "Did you hear me, Mister?"

Randy groaned in his sleep, and curled into a fetal position, something the coach would never allow. He flinched, feeling the slap on his buttocks, even in his sleep.

"You must remember," Coach Cline said, as he twisted one of Randy's nipples, already raw from prolonged abuse. "You must remember," he repeated, with a viscous twist, "that I am the person who tells you when to jump . . . and how high. You are nothing without me. I am the coach. You, on the other hand, are a pathetic little bug. I can crush you without a second thought. Your career," he sneered the word, "such as it is, can end in a flash. You, Mister, are not allowed to do anything unless I tell you to."

He pulled Randy astride him. "And, I am telling you," he bellowed, "sit on it!"

Randy glanced at the monster penis, which had already stretched him beyond endurance twice that evening. He'd contemplated running, but there was no place Coach Cline wouldn't be able to find him. The coach followed him, appearing in his classes, acting as an observer, always wearing a knowing grin. He was in the showers after practice, or in the weight room, during training. He was always nearby, always wearing a knowing smile, always threatening by his mere presence.

"NO!" Randy screamed into the night, as he dreamt of being invaded, yet again.

Head Coach, Ed Bowen glanced around to see who else might be near enough to hear what he was about to ask. He didn't like being sneaky, but there was no other way to find out if his college buddy and fellow baseball coach was right about Marty Kelly. Since their conversation, he'd paid special attention to the team's assistant trainer. Marty was invariably friendly, not only to the individual players on the team, but to the entire staff. According to Greg Layson, the head doctor in charge of the university's athletic programs, Marty was an exemplary student, never late with an assignment, always looking for ways to make a contribution to the baseball program.

'Doctor Layson should know, if anyone should, how dedicated Marty is to the program,' Coach Bowen thought. 'Hell, even the head trainer could find nothing to complain about,' and, after working with that man for the past four years, Coach Bowen found that fact alone to be amazing. The man did not suffer fools, or slackers lightly. Bowen had come to believe that, in the trainer's mind, nearly everyone fell into one category or the other. Everyone, that is, except Marty Kelly, and the man the coach was about to speak with.

Armed with his own observations, and the opinions of all those people who were close enough to Marty to have a valid opinion, Coach Bowen had decided to set up situations where he could evaluate the young man's potential.

"Hey, Phalen!" He motioned his star shortstop to his side. If anyone would be able to set up a situation to let Marty show his stuff, it would be Phalen.

"Hi, Coach!" Phalen smiled, trotting over, while he raked his fingers through his black hair, coaxing the sweaty spikes into a semblance of normalcy. He perched on the edge of a nearby table in the team's practice facility, one leg idly swinging. "What can I do for you?"

"I've been told by a good friend of mine, another baseball coach, that I made a serious mistake by not offering Marty Kelly, our assistant trainer, a scholarship." Ed Bowen smiled. 'The head trainer's right,' Coach Bowen thought to himself, as Phalen intently watched him. 'This man is no one's fool.'

"My coach-friend also spent quite a bit of time waxing poetic about your skills as a player. He thinks that you're one of the best he's ever seen." The coach watched for a reaction.

There was none. The flattery seemed to slide right past Phalen; a smile and a slight dismissive gesture were the only indictions he'd actually heard anything the coach had said. 'Immune to flattery, too,' the coach thought, with a broad smile. 'I love it!'

"Marty's a great trainer," Phalen spoke into the silence. "You can tell he loves the team by the way he watches everyone's moves, seemingly analyzing them. Since he's not the trainer I'm assigned to, I haven't dealt with him since he joined the team, but I remember playing against him in high school. I only saw him the few times my school played his, but I remember how he always stood out. I had no idea, though, that his coach thought he was consistently that good. If he is, he should be on a team; if not ours, someone else's. It'd be a waste of talent for him to do nothing but be a trainer. I mean, trainers are great, but if Marty plays great ball, he should be put in a position where he is able to play." Phalen shifted position. "What would you like me to do?"

"I was thinking that maybe you, and a few of the other guys, might invite Marty to 'substitute' for someone at a practice you'd set up. Then let me know when this is to occur; I'd like to see him put through his paces." The coach grinned. "You know the drill. Make it as close to real game pressure as you can. Don't go easy on him." The coach held up a warning hand. "Don't make things more difficult than normal, though," he grinned. "You know what to do. I'd rather no one but you and I know what the true agenda for this exercise is. To whomever you choose to work with you, Marty is actually a substitute, or whatever. Will you do that for me?"

"Sure, for you and for Marty. I like the guy. Everyone does."

"See ya, Marty," Paul Stevens, the team's left fielder called. "Here's one for you!" Marty reflexively reached out and plucked the damp towel out of the air.

"Great catch," someone called. "You should play baseball!" The comment was met with rounds of good natured laughter, which floated on the air, much like the warm mist hanging in the humid air, adjacent to the open showers.

"I am a baseball player!" Marty shouted. "I am." In frustration, he kicked at a towel which lay in a sopping heap on the tile floor, then silently chastised himself for the uncalled for display of emotions, and picked it up. "Not your personal maid," he finished, in a lower voice while actually thinking that was exactly what he was. "Not anyone's personal servant." The remaining sounds echoing in the large room faded, as Marty passed up and down each row of lockers, picking up towels and whatever debris the athletes on the baseball team had left behind. The team had returned earlier in the morning, from a road trip, adding two more victories to their already impressive list. The victories, and an unexpected Friday afternoon without a practice, left the entire team in a party mood. The newspapers had ranked the team as the top in the country, and nearly everyone was heading out to celebrate. 'Everyone on the team,' he amended himself.

In the distance, a single door closed, cutting off the last muffled conversation.

Marty shook his head in resignation, stooping to pick up another towel. "Slobs," he muttered, inhaling deeply of the humid air redolent of old jockstraps and naked men. The scents caused him to smile, as an electric tingle sparked in a line directly from the animal portion of his brain to his cock, which instantly began to thicken. 'Am I the only person around here who enjoys the smells of a locker room?' he wondered. 'Well, not only the smells, but the sights, too,' he admitted to himself. He stepped into the shower room and turned off the water from a still-spraying shower nozzle, shaking his head at the laziness of some of the players. "That's all I am to some people . . . a friggin' servant," he muttered, scooping up a couple sodden towels laying on the ceramic tile floor.

Stepping out of the shower, he tossed the towels, one by one, into the soiled laundry hamper, as if he were shooting a ball long distance in a basketball game.

"Three-for-three," he shouted, playfully raising his arms and dancing in a small circle, celebrating the game-winning throws before an ecstatic crowd. "Marty Kelly's game-winning shots will go down in school history! Woo-who!"

The imaginary cheers faded, as did his smile. 'I should be on the team, not cleaning up after them,' he told himself, in an argument even he was beginning to find tiring. He smiled as he snagged a sweaty jockstrap from where it was draped over the top of one of the locker doors. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, as he slipped off his t-shirt and wiped his chest, first with the wadded-up t-shirt, then with a hand, loving the pure sensuousness of the act. The sweaty t-shirt joined the towels in the overflowing bin. He pressed the jock to his nose and inhaled; then bunched some of the stained and sweaty pouch; stuffed it into his mouth; and sucked, closing his eyes in sheer pleasure, as he gently pinched both of his nipples.

"Fuuuuck," he murmured, as he rubbed the pouch over his chest, neck, and face, sticking his hand beneath the waistband of his shorts to grope himself. "Pervert," he teased himself, aloud, draping the stained jockstrap over his head, after briefly licking the garment's pouch, imagining the cock it held in place.

"Who are you calling a pervert?" An amused, disembodied voice came from a row of nearby lockers, in a room Marty would have sworn was abandoned. He stopped moving, and hunched his shoulders in embarrassment, his eyes wide, not sure how he should respond to the playful tone in the person's voice.

"I was speaking about myself," he responded to the air. "Sorry, if you thought I was calling you names," he said, as he turned down the row of lockers. A heartbeat later, he stopped, as he saw who he was talking to. "Phalen . . ." His brain searched through an index of appropriate things to say. Foremost was a request for an autograph. He'd never worked on Phalen, preparing him for a game, or tending an injury. The head trainer had taken the star player on after he'd badly strained a groin muscle early in the season, and Phalen had stayed with him since.

He barely stopped himself from an open-mouthed exclamation of, "you're freaking beautiful!" Phalen continued to smile at him from where he sat in a cross-wise position on the wooden bench running down the aisle between the row of open lockers. He leaned against the wall at the end of the bench, his legs crossed, and his hands resting in his lap. His all-over tan glowed almost as brightly as his smile and sparkling blue eyes. It appeared that he'd not showered yet. His hair stuck out in all directions in sweaty disarray, while his neatly folded practice uniform lay nearby, topped with the burgundy cap.

'He folds his uniform?' Marty wondered, not quite believing his eyes. 'I bet I've never had to pick up a damp towel or turn off a shower when this guy has finished with them.' He suddenly recalled that he'd been half-hard, when Phalen had first spoken. 'Geez,' he thought, 'I've still got the friggin' jock hanging around my neck! At least he didn't see me sucking on the 'strap!'

"I don't mind being called a pervert," Phalen responded, his smile becoming almost blinding, as his blue eyes danced, interrupting Marty's runaway thoughts. "In fact, I sorta like it." He shrugged his shoulders, as if settling a winter coat about them, then smiled broadly. "It feels like a perfect fit." The eyes took on a mischievous look, hinting at a fun-loving person, very unlike the man who seemed so serious when on the field. Marty liked him immediately; not as a baseball player, but as a person.

"Hi. My name's Phalen." He raised a well-muscled arm, causing the muscles of his chest to flex, at the same time revealing the black hair of both his pubes and an armpit. "I'm just hanging out, waiting for a friend," he explained. "He sometimes heads over after getting out of class, and we shower together. Saves some on the water bill at home," he grinned. Marty felt a renewed tightening in his groin.

"Um, yeah, I mean . . . you wait for someone to shower with?" He shook his head, hoping to impart some order into the words floating meaninglessly between his ears. "I mean, hi," he managed, feeling the heat of a blush. He shook Phalen's hand, then sat straddling the wooden bench. "I'm Marty. I'm, um . . ."

"The trainer everyone thinks so highly of," Phalen completed the sentence.

"That's not what I was gonna say," Marty laughed, "but it'll do," he added with a smile, as he studied Phalen. "Did you just make up that bit about being highly thought of, or is it for real?"

"Oh, it's for real," Phalen answered, as he scooted away from the wall, uncrossed his legs, and rested his bare feet on the floor on each side of the bench, shamelessly exposing himself, as he leaned to the left and reached for something inside the locker. Marty swallowed, willing himself to tear his eyes away from the dense pubes and thick penis which hung over a set of smooth balls. Phalen's chest, arms, and legs were smooth, but, mostly, Marty was attracted to the engaging smile, and . . . of course . . . the crotch. Phalen smiled and nodded toward the plastic bottle of body wash and body scrubber he'd pulled out of his locker. "Well, I'm ready." He made a face. "I hate being grubby." He laughed, as he absently scratched his pubes. "Sweaty is good; dirty is not." Phalen looked at himself with distaste. "Today, I'm definitely dirty." He grinned. "Sliding into base will do that to a guy." His carefree laughter seemed to hang in the air.

'Damn, I've got masturbation fantasies for months, just looking at this guy. I wonder what it'd be like to nuzzle beneath those balls.' Marty licked over suddenly dry lips. 'I wonder if he'd give me his jock. Fuck, if he did, I'd strip-off right here and shoot a load. I'm freaking ready to pop just thinking about it!'

"I remember playing against you when we were both in high school. I went to McClintock High," Phalen said, breaking into Marty's daydreams, as he once again leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs on the wooden bench. "You played for Pinnacle, didn't you?"

Marty nodded, dumbfounded. "You remember me?"

"Sure! You all beat us in the playoffs a couple years ago. It was your homer to right field that sealed the victory, bringing in two men already on base." Phalen shook his head. "We couldn't come back after your home run. That hit was spectacular, by-the-way. It's not often one sees a high school guy hit a ball over the wall in that stadium. I know I've never even come close."

"You do remember!" Marty laughed, inordinately pleased. 'Phalen complimented me. He remembers playing against me!' The urge to ask for his autograph was almost too strong to ignore. 'No paper,' he laughed to himself, continuing to think about an autograph. 'No problem. Tattoo the message on my back! For him I'd get a tattoo!'

"Hey," Phalen scooted closer, suddenly growing more animated. "From time-to-time, some guys and I get together for some practice. Would you consider joining us? We're practicing for fun, but sometimes it gets pretty intense. You can handle it though. You're a guy who can stand the pressure."

"You and your friends would really want me to work out with you? I mean, for real?" Marty winced, as his voice rose in pitch. Phalen nodded, his smile brightening the room. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't really want it. Once the other guys see what you can do, they'll want you as a practice partner too."

Marty squirmed in excitement. "Yes! I'd love to. Thank you!" It was all he could do not to stand up and cheer.

Phalen slapped Marty's knee. "Awesome! It's settled. We'll have to get you a uniform. What number were you in high school?"

"Hm, nine. A uniform?"

"Sure!" Phalen thought for a moment. "No one on the team has nine for a number. I'll get a jersey for you with that number on it. That way you'll feel right at home."

"Ah, but what about the coach? Won't he get upset, me using a jersey?"

Phalen made a dismissive gesture. "Nah, I'm sure it'll be okay. I'll get together with the guys and we can set up a time that's good for us all."

"I'm free anytime," Marty laughed, his first truly light-hearted laugh in months. It was as if a cloud had lifted and he was suddenly standing in the bright sunshine. "Morning, noon, afternoon, night, midnight . . . you name it!"

Phalen held out a warning hand. "No morning practice, that's for sure." He shook his head. "I'm not at my best in the morning, at least not until I've had some coffee and breakfast. Jeff laughs at me, thinking I'm putting on an act. I'm not."

"Jeff?"

They both looked up at the sound of someone responding to Phalen's voice.

"Hey, Jeff!" Phalen shouted. "Over here! I was just talking with a new friend about you."

Marty stood, prepared to leave Phalen and his friend alone, but was prevented when Phalen motioned for him to sit.

"Hey," the newcomer, a guy Phalen introduced as Jeff, said in a soft voice, shaking Marty's hand in welcome. "It's nice to meet you." He opened one of the locker doors and placed his laptop bag inside, then began to strip. Marty returned to his seat, prepared to enjoy the show.

"Marty's another ball player," Phalen announced. Jeff grinned at him, his green eyes sparkling, as he pried off his shoes and socks. "He's gonna join some of the guys and me for a practice." Phalen grinned in Marty's direction, as he continued talking. "You should see how this guy hits a ball. All those chest and arm muscles aren't just for show."

Jeff hung his shirt in the locker, then turned and flicked a finger at the dirty 'strap still hanging around Marty's neck. "Love the neck ware," he said, in a wonderfully lilting accent. "Since it looks like you're a collector, you should ask Phalen for one of his extras. He'd be glad to give you one."

"For sure," Phalen laughed, his eyes bright, as he searched his gym bag. "Clean or dirty?"

Before he could stop himself, Marty blurted out, "dirty!"

"Ah, a man after my own heart," Jeff laughed, as Phalen stood and, with great solemnity, draped a dirty white 'strap over Marty's head, where it joined the one from the unknown player. Phalen seemed inordinately pleased with himself, as he stood astride the locker room bench with his arms crossed, and nodded his approval.

"Give the man the one you're wearing." Phalen urged, as Jeff hung his slacks in the locker, then grinned, as he turned toward Marty and rubbed both hands over his chest and flat belly.

"Hmmmm." Jeff closed his eyes and sighed, as he cupped the pouch of his dark blue strap and gently squeezed with one hand, while . . . toying with his nipples with the other. Unlike his own or Phalen's hairless skin, Jeff's chest and butt sported a slight covering of short dark hair, made more prominent by his light skin.

"Are you showing off for my benefit?" Marty murmured. Without answering, Jeff nodded once and stepped close enough to drag the full pouch of his jock across Marty's face.

"Y'don't even know if I like guys," he commented, as if hypnotized, his eyes flicking from Jeff to Phalen.

"You like to wear dirty jocks around your neck," Jeff murmured, sensuously running his hands over his own butt cheeks.

"You're gay," Phalen finished the thought, seemingly as mesmerized by Jeff's show as Marty.

"I'll bet you suck on 'em when you masturbate," Jeff murmured, as he peeled the straps of the jock he was wearing away from his butt. He pushed the waistband of the 'strap down to just below his butt cheeks, then paused a moment to run his open palms over the twin mounds. After a moment, he leaned forward and stepped out of his 'strap, exposing a tight, pink, hairless hole, and dangling balls.

"Holy, fuckin' damn," Marty exhaled, first in appreciation of the erotic display being performed less than an arm's-length away, and at the amazingly sexy man who was the star. It was all he could do not to gasp at the sight of the fine spread of hair covering Jeff's chest. Since he himself was almost totally smooth, hair on another man had always held a special fascination for him. The narrow line of hair, both above and below Jeff's navel, spread to a pubic bush to rival Phalen's. And, nestled below the bush, hung a beautiful cock and balls, which swung with each of his movements. As Marty watched open-mouthed, Jeff ran the palm of one hand over his flat belly, then toyed with his cock for a second, before cupping his scrotum.

"Show off," Phalen playfully mumbled, grinning when Jeff flicked a glance in his direction. "You're getting the poor guy so worked up, he's not gonna be able to get it to go down until he shoots a load."

Jeff grinned and raised his eyebrows, as Marty squirmed, trying to find a position less constricting for his penis, which suddenly felt as if it was tied in knots.

Phalen nodded toward Jeff. "He didn't used to be like this, you know. I used to have to wrestle him to get him outta his clothes. Now, suddenly," Phalen laughed, "he's 'bout ready to hire himself out as a stripper."

Marty could do nothing but watch, and think, 'I'm in lust,' as Jeff hung his still-damp jock over his head. Then, as if Marty needed any extra excitement, rubbed the sweaty pouch over Marty's face. He wanted nothing more than to suck on each of the sweaty jocks and slowly masturbate himself to orgasm.

"You like?" Jeff asked Marty, in a soft voice, grinning as Phalen moved to stand next to Jeff, and began teasing his nipples.

"Oooooh, yes," Marty said, on an exhaled breath, unable to tear his eyes away from the two men in front of him. Phalen was now caressing Jeff's chest and belly. When he reached Jeff's pubes and cupped his thickening penis, Jeff inhaled deeply, leaning his head back. "I like both the show and the 'straps." Then, with both Phalen and Jeff watching, buried his nose against the mesh-like fabric of both jocks, and inhaled deeply. He grinned, after wiping the fabric over his face. "The smell of a 'strap, damp with sweat, is as much a turn on as watching you guys, or the smells of a locker room."

Jeff gently disengaged himself from Phalen, with an apologetic look. "We have to remember where we are, lover," he murmured. "If we're going to give a show, let's do it someplace where no one, other than Marty and the two of us, can enjoy it." Jeff turned to Marty. "Maybe you'd like to join us at our house?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in query. "Not necessarily for a continuation of the show," he grinned, "but for dinner. Phalen and I love having guys over."

"Great idea!" Phalen smiled, brightly. "Join us for a shower, why don't you? Then, head over to our place for dinner. I don't know about you, but I'm starved, and Jeff's an awesome cook. Besides, you look like a guy who enjoys being naked." Phalen slapped one of Jeff's ass cheeks, leaving a pink hand-shaped imprint. "We never wear clothes when we're at home, do we, Big Man. And, who knows, maybe Jeff and I can finish what we started a bit ago, and you can," he nodded to the jocks adorning Marty's neck, "enjoy those straps and shoot the load that you've been thinking about. Better yet, maybe Jeff and I can shoot our loads onto the jocks, first . . . while you're wearing them, of course."

'Big Man? Show?' Marty wondered. "Dinner? Y'sure? I mean, you've already done so much for me, just by inviting me to practice, and," he smiled, "and giving me my new neck gear." Phalen made a throw-away gesture, as Jeff snorted a laugh.

"C'mon, strip-off, and let's get cleaned up. You're not embarrassed by being naked, are you?" Phalen asked, making a hurry-up motion.

"Are you kidding?" Marty laughed, as he shook his head and dropped his shorts and jock, freeing his erection. He toed off his shoes, then reluctantly placed the three 'straps in a locker, along with his clothes, promising himself that he'd let his fantasies run riot as soon as he got home. 'Maybe, by them, the 'straps will be smeared with the guys' jiz.'

"Like I said, Jeff and I hang out naked, most of the time, when we're at home," Phalen continued, smiling as Marty absently toyed with his own penis. "That's why I've got this fabulous tan." Phalen laughed, turning one way, then the other, giving Marty a good view of both the front and back.

"You're gonna have to excuse the erection though," Marty murmured. He couldn't help himself. Focusing first on Phalen, then Jeff, he slowly stroked himself, pausing at his cock's head and squeezing. "I'm thinking that being around the two of you, I'm going to be hard, most of the time."

Phalen laughed. "I'm thinking maybe you're as much of a show off as Jeff."

Marty managed to tear his hand away from his erection, pleased to see that his little show had caused both Jeff and Phalen's cocks to thicken. He grinned. "I've never had a chance to," he shrugged, "do anything like this, but I think I'll like showing off as much as I enjoy looking."

"Hey, guy! I like the shaved pubes," Phalen teased, as they headed for the showers. Phalen looked down at himself, and ran his fingers through the luxuriant growth. "Y'think I should maybe shave mine?"

"No!" Both Marty and Jeff spoke at the same time.

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send a pic of the character(s), please ask.