Trapped Muscle Cop

Disclaimer: If you are under 18 years of age or if it is illegal to read material of this kind where you live, then please stop now. This story contains descriptions of sexual activity between men. It is entirely a work of fictional entertainment.

Trapped Muscle-Cop, Part 27 By Reflex (reflex012004@yahoo.com) Copyright 2008

Part 27: Coaching Lessons

Rick closed the letterbox and sifted though the assortment of junk mail as he made his way up the stairs from the drab and faded lobby of the Barrington Arms.

"Anything good in the mail or just a bunch of junk?" shouted Tom as he bounded up the stairs after Rick.

"Nah, looks mostly like the same old crap... hmmmm, hang on, buddy. I do believe there is something here for you."

Rick had a smug grin on his face as he handed Tom a white envelope. Tom looked at it and saw that it was addressed to him. His eyes darted up to the left corner where he saw a return address: 88 Cockspur Lane. The Adam's Apple in Tom's thick neck slowly moved as he swallowed. With a confused look on his boyish face, he followed Rick into their apartment.

"Huh, it's from Coach. I wonder what..."

Rick flashed a broad smile.

The light went on in Tom's small brain. "No way, man. I mean, Rick, you didn't really..."

Tom crumpled the envelope in his left hand and threw it to the floor. His right hand balled into a fist and he headed towards Rick. "You son of a..."

"Uh uh uhhhh!" teased Rick wagging his finger.

Tom stopped in his tracks just long enough for Rick to press the remote control in his jean pocket. All of the sudden, the bullet-shaped egg that Rick had stuffed up Tom's butt started to vibrate. Rick chuckled as he watched Tom's clenched fists fall to his sides. Through the tight faded jeans, Tom's clenching butt-cheeks could be clearly seen. His mouth was hanging gently open and his eyes took on a stunned and helpless expression. Rick took hold of Tom's chin and said, "That's thirty dollars well spent. Hee hee hee... Now go pick up that envelope and let's hear what your old coach Baxter has to say, buttboy." Rick turned off the vibrating egg and Tom let out a small groan. His butt relaxed, but he hung his head at how easily Rick controlled him.

"Ah jeez, Rick..." muttered Tom as he walked across the room somewhat bow-legged to retrieve the crumpled letter.

Tom opened the envelope and looked at the contents with a mix of anxiety and excitement. Rick told him to read it aloud.

Jenkins!

An unusual item appeared in the letterbox at my house last weekend. I would have recognized your voice on the tape even without the note attached. Well, stud, we have an interesting situation on our hands. Frankly, I am not surprised by what I heard. Boy, it was plain to anyone who looked that you popped wood just from the smell of your teammates. This tape just confirms what I long suspected. All those silly girls you used to go out with! I knew what you wanted even if you didn't. And yes, I knew it was you last May in the next stall in the men's restroom, shooting your load into your t-shirt as you listened to me turn that punk into a cocksucker in the next stall over. Well, Tommy-boy, perhaps you have finally realized that your hotshit muscular body was made for my pleasure. Or maybe you haven't? It doesn't really matter since your old "pal" from high school seems to have made the decision for you. I've thought about you on many an occasion these past few years! The question was, how to get you under my control. That question has been answered with this tape. You'll have to thank Carter for me. He never struck me as anything more than your average teen-age punk back when you guys were at school, but it seems he's turned out right in the end. Man! Jenkins, you were one hell of a hot jock when you were on the high school football team and from what I've seen of you at a distance around town, you are even hotter now. From the looks of things, you haven't got any brighter either. To get yourself in the sticky situation you are in now, well, you would have to be thick as two planks. But then, I remember training you. Real into your muscles and playing ball. That's about it. Not a lot going on upstairs, if I remember. That's fine by me, Jenkins. You are going to be so horned up for the rest of your life, you aren't never going to need to do any thinking. From now on, keeping fit and sucking my dick is all you will care about. Let me tell you, I am going to make sure that you are kept fit and firm, teased and tormented, horny and frustrated, hot and sweaty all day and every day. How am I going to do it? Well muscleboy, you and your hot bod are going to be sweetly and slowly humiliated and degraded. Hell, I might even call some of your old teammates, the ones you fantasize about and see if they want to join in on the fun. There is no escape. Yes, sir-ee, boy. I have finally got you! Be at my office in the school gym on Saturday at 8:00am sharp.

Baxter

PS. Remember your old football uniform? I've still got it and you are going to be wearing it. Of course, since it is from seven years ago, it should be a pretty snug fit on that buff body of yours. I will be sure to take lots of pictures!

"Ha ha ha ha ha HA!" laughed Rick, holding onto his sides. "Looks like your future is all sewn up, buddy!"

Tom stood staring at the letter. His mouth hung open. His right hand slowly moved to the sweaty crotch of his tight faded dirty jeans. He lightly rubbed the tightly packed bulge, unaware of what he was doing until he heard himself slightly moan.

"Nice one, Tom!" he heard Rick say.

"Huh, what? Oh shit!" Tom gasped. He quickly put his hand to his side, but the evidence was clear to see. His big dick was hard.

Rick clapped his hands. "Good old Coach Baxter. I knew I could rely on that horny fucker. He liked to strut around campus playin' the big tough pussybuster, but I had a feeling what he really wanted, what really got his big coach balls all worked up, was you. Something about the way he looked at you, bud. He'd get this look in his eyes and he'd wiggle his fingers like he had some kind of, I don't know, itch. Then he'd shake his head and try to snap out of it. I don't think any of the other guys in PhysEd noticed. But I noticed. Oh yeah, Tom. I noticed the slight swelling under his sweat pants and the way he'd look down at his own big chest and then he'd straighten out his arms by his sides and flex his triceps. He'd smile as he looked at himself and then he'd glance back at you real quickly and furtively before he headed off to his office or blew his whistle or whatever, getting everything back to regular."

Rick walked over to Tom and stood close, face-to-face. He flicked his thumbs back and forth across Tom's nipples through his sweaty tank-top. Barely above a whisper he said, "You know what, though? I'd betcha anything that big fucker would jerk himself silly at night thinking about you... thinking about what he'd like to do with you... to you. And now he's gonna get the opportunity." A Cheshire cat grin broke across Rick's face. "I'll be sure to let Dubrowski know you've quit on Monday."

"Wha... whadya me...mean?" Tom gasped with a confused expression on his face.

"I think Baxter's got plans for you and they don't involve workin' construction no more. Maybe if you're lucky he'll make you assistant coach or something. But then again, maybe he'll just make you assistant TO the coach. Hee hee hee."

Tom gulped. Mustering all his strength, he stepped back away from Rick. "Fuck, this, this can't be happening... This is all a joke, right?"

"Only one way to find out and that's at Baxter's office tomorrow morning. Anyway, let's go out for a beer and somethin' to eat. It's on me. We'll celebrate your last night of freedom!"

Tom looked down at his watch and blew a big puff of air from his nostrils. He lightly rubbed his right hand across his chest as if to cool the sexual itch Rick had started in his nipples. He wasn't sure what to think. Could this be real? "Fuckin' stictchin' me up with Baxter," he muttered to himself. It had to be a joke. These thoughts occupied his mind as Rick drove to their local beer and burger joint. By the time Tom had downed a pint of lager, he began to cheer up. Now that he thought about it, Baxter always was pulling jokes on the guys on the team. "I can just see him laughin' his ass off right now," he thought with a smile. Now he couldn't wait. He was looking forward to having a laugh with the coach and maybe coming up with a revenge trick to play on Rick. Tom looked at Rick as they sat at the bar. He pulled a light punch to Rick's upper arm and laughed. "Man, you are such an idiot, pulling a joke like this on me. Buddy, you had better watch out. Baxter and me, we're likely to drink a lot of beer tomorrow and we just might come up with a joke to play on you. How'd you like that? Ha ha!"

"Uh huh... we'll see about that..." Rick said with a big grin.

Tom slept restlessly on Friday night, waking up every few hours to a raging hard-on. Too tired to jack off, he would turn over on his stomach, pressing his stiff dick into the mattress. When he woke again, he found he was grinding his hips into the bed sheet. He flipped back over onto his back and put his hand down the front of his briefs. Half asleep he muttered to himself, "Damn, my big balls feel ike they're churnin' double-time..." He eventually fell back to sleep, his warm hand still cupping his nuts, softly mumbling "big... full... balls..." When he next woke up it was due to Rick shaking his bare shoulder.

"Rise and shine Tommy-boy. It's 6:30 and you got someplace to be."

Tom dimly looked up at a grinning Rick. "I ain't gotta be there until 8:00, man. It's only gonna take me 15 minutes in the car. Lemme sleep..."

"Ha!" Rick bellowed. "Car? Who said anything about you borrowing my car?"

Tom grunted. "Your car? It's OUR car."

"Yeah, right. Tom, I let you drive it, but uh, who paid for that piece-of-shit car? Huh? Who's name is on the registration?"

"Jeez Rick, okay, okay, it's officially your car. So what?"

"That's just it. It's my car and I need it. So far as I can see, you can get to your appointment with Baxter by taking the bus and changing a dozen times... which'll take about two and a half hours or you can get on your bicycle."

"My bicycle? Fuck, that'll take an hour at least and it's hot out there! I'll get all sweaty, man."

"Yeah, Baxter will like that. Better get moving, dumbass."

"Awww fuck," Tom moaned. He looked at his bedside clock, lept up bleary-eyed and headed for the shower. With his back turned, he gave Rick the finger as he headed to the bathroom.

Half an hour later and Tom headed off muttering "mother-fucker" under his breath. "Just for that, we're not calling you when we open the beers!" he shouted as he dashed out of the apartment. As he raced down the quiet residential streets, trying to take shortcuts to avoid being late, he worked up a sweat in the humid morning air. His white t-shirt was damp with perspiration and clinging to his torso. His briefs felt similar underneath his cargo-shorts.

Eventually, with five minutes to spare and grinning from ear to ear, Tom rode onto the campus of Pine Valley High School. He saw Baxter's pick-up truck in the parking lot. The sweaty blond muscle-stud jumped off his bicycle and leaned it against the brick wall, right next to the side entrance of the school gym. The heavy metal door was unlocked. Tom opened it and walked into the main all-purpose room, generally used for basketball and gymnastics. The lights were not on, nor was the air-conditioning, somewhat to Tom's disappointment. As the door started to swing shut behind him, he saw a piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up, and in the dim light coming from the dirty windows high up along the wall, he read: "Jenkins. Go to the lockerroom." He let out a puff of air and trotted across the wooden floor and through another door at the far side that led to the lockers, showers and other parts of the old building. At the door to the men's lockerroom was taped another note: "Go to locker 22." Tom did as instructed. Upon entering the lockerroom, he flipped on the overhead lights. As he walked down the aisle past rows of faded green lockers, he thought back to high school. Seven years suddenly seemed like yesterday, he thought, as he noticed that nothing had changed much - not even a fresh coat of paint on the lockers. Tom breathed in deeply, inhaling the musty, sweaty smell of the warm room. He felt his cock and balls stirring in the tight confines of his sweaty briefs. He watched as if her were trapped in a slow-motion dream while both of his hands made their way to his crotch, gently rubbing on the outside of his khaki cargo shorts. He looked at his muscular hairy arms and noted the way the sleeves of his t-shirt bunched up tightly at the top of his biceps. As he softly teasingly massaged his hot package, almost as if it was beyond his own control, he breathed in the warm smelly air of the lockerroom. Tom let out a little moan and shook his head. He had to find locker 22. He looked up and saw it near the end of the row, two steps away on his left. He couldn't miss it; there was another note. This one was folded and longer.

Tom opened the note with trembling fingers. He had no idea why he was so nervous, but his dick was still getting harder. It felt like his balls weighed 5 pounds. He read:

"Jenkins, be a good jockboy and open the locker."

Tom swallowed and lifted the latch. He looked inside, swallowed again and looked back down at the note: "It's your old football uniform, just as I promised. I've been keeping it in a plastic bag since you graduated seven years ago. I grant you it will be tight, but you are going to wear it whether it fits or not... stud. Follow the instructions and put on each piece, starting with what is in the ziplock bag."

Tom ran his clammy hot sweaty hands through the various articles of clothing. He was feeling kind of curious about what he would look like all suited up. "Man, my old uniform. Betcha I'm gonna look pretty good," he whispered to himself. Quickly, Tom stripped down to his briefs. He pulled his white football pants out from the pile and was about to step into them when he remembered the note. "Oh, wait, I've gotta find that ziplock bag and start with whatever that is..." he muttered to himself. His eyes glanced down to the floor of the tall locker where he saw what he was looking for. His eyes widened when he saw what was inside. "Damn, is that my old jockstrap?" Tom saw that there appeared to be another note, inside the clear plastic bag with his jockstrap. He pulled open the seal at the top of the bag and fished out the note:

"Yep. Your old jockstrap. Keep it in my desk drawer as a reminder of my goal. It was washed and clean until last night when I shot my thick coach cream all inside the cotton pouch - twice. That thing is soaked! Sealed it up in the little baggie to keep it real nice and moist for you. Now, be a good jock. Take off your underpants and put them in locker 15. Then put on your super super gooey jockstrap. A jock needs a jockstrap at all times and you are a jock. So slide that big hot pecker of yours into its new sticky home. Now Jenkins!"

All the mental and physical conditioning Coach Baxter had drilled into his hunky student athletes back in high school had Tom responding almost before he knew what he was doing. He looked down to see his thumbs hooked in the top of his briefs, slowly tugging them down as if it was beyond his control.

"Ooohhh noooohhh," he groaned softly. His trusty jockboy rod was now harder than steel. The waistband of his briefs could not be stretched out far enough to get easily past his dick. Instead, as he pulled his briefs down, the waistband likewise pulled his hard dick to a downwards angle. The tension on his juicy stud-muscle caused his nuts to steam in their big cum-bloated sack. The steaming turned into a boil as inch-by-inch, the white elastic band slid down the top of the rigid shaft delicately torturing the sensitive flesh. Momentarily, it caught behind Tom's big engorged cock-knob before finally snapping over the tender head. Tom grunted as his dick snapped back upwards, whipping of bit of pre-cum onto his tight, tanned abs. He took a deep breath, bent over and pulled his underwear the rest of the way off. Naked and horny, he walked to locker 15, put his briefs on the floor inside and closed the door. He returned to the ziplock bag and took out his old jockstrap. It was moist all over, but the pouch was practically dripping wet with Baxter's juice. The tangy smell wafted up to Tom's nostrils. He whimpered. Carefully, gingerly, he stepped through the openings between the pouch and the straps and started pulling the jockstrap up his muscular hairy legs. Closer and closer it came. It was going to be a tight fit. When Tom had got the waistband to the top of his thighs, he pulled it out away from his body and lifted up until the straps were in place around his peach-fuzzed butt-cheeks. Then slowly, very slowly, he brought the waistband back towards himself until finally his stiff dick and bull nuts were tightly enclosed in the slimy cotton pouch. Letting go of the sticky new wrapping for his studly equipment, he squeezed his fingers shut and flexed the muscles in his arms. "Unnnggghhhh...," he grunted as he felt his cock throb amidst Baxter's hefty deposit of coach ball-sap and then grunted again as he thought about his blond pubic bush getting a whole new kind of moisturizing conditioner treatment. "Man, I'm gonna reek of another guys stuff..."

Tom struggled a bit to get into his old football pants. There was no room to put any of the pads underneath. As it was, he could barely get the fly closed. Immediately, he felt the tightness across his crotch and wondered if the wetness from his jockstrap would soak through. The pressure on his cock and balls sent waves of horny sensation up and down his body. He reached behind and felt his firm round buttocks shrink-wrapped in the tight nylon. "Man, this is pervy," he whispered as he practically fondeled his perfect ass-gloves. Deciding to move on he stuck his head back in the locker looking for his socks. He couldn't see them until he looked down at the old black Adidas cleats. He didn't recognize the shoes as his own, but saw a sock tucked into each along with another note: "I figured your old cleats would be too small to be any use now. These are mine. Nicely worn-in. They should fit. Inside is a pair of long athletic socks - also mine. Wore them all week 24/7. They are rank! Enjoy."

Tom pulled the socks out. He could see they had once been white, but they were looking kind of gray. Suddenly, their odor assaulted his nose. "Oh Man! Shit these socks stink. Awww fuck." Mesmerized by the smelly socks in his hands, he sat down on the bench. Slowly, he put his feet into them and pulled them up his muscular blond-haired calves. Tom wiggled his toes in their stinking new confines. "Damn, they're not even fully dry from all his foot sweat...." If that's how the socks were, Tom knew the shoes would be no better. He held one up to his nose and sniffed. "Aw geeze," he grimaced, but he kept on sniffing until he felt his left hand rubbing his crotch. The realization of what he was doing caused him to shake his head free. With a frown, he started lacing his feet into the well-worn cleats. He looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 8:45. "Shit!" He leapt off the bench and fished around in the locker until he found his old cut-off white t-shirt. He held it up and chuckled. No way was this going to fit him now. Tom pulled the t-shirt over his head, stuck his arms through the sleeves and pulled down. "Grruummph!" The t-shirt was so tight he thought he wasn't going to be able to lower his arms. The ragged bottom of the cut-off tee only made it to just below Tom's pectoral cliff. He brushed his hand over his exposed abs, so neatly coated in dark blond hair. He put on the white cotton wristbands and then lowered the shoulderpads over his head. Some adjustments were required and it was difficult for Tom to do by himself, but soon enough, the pads were fastened and Tom was able to lower over his torso his old red football jersey with the white stripes. That jersey had never been loose at the best of times, but now seven years and a lot of time at the gym later, it looked like it was painted on. The sleeves didn't quite make it to the top of Tom's biceps. The bottom of the jersey hung a couple of inches above the waistband of Tom's pants. He looked at the clock again and looked in the locker to see if there was anything else. He picked up the note from the envelope: "When you are done, put your other clothes into locker 15. Then use the open combination lock on the shelf to lock it shut. Once you have done that report to my office. I will be waiting for you!"

Tom gulped. He picked up all the clothes that he had arrived in and shoved them into locker 15. He closed the door, threaded the lock through the latch and clicked the U-shaped bar into the lock-hole. Only then did he realize that he didn't know the combination! "Uh oh! Wait a minute. Shit!" He grabbed the lock and pulled with no success. His clothes were now locked away where he couldn't get them. The only clothing he had was the uniform he was now wearing. Tom slammed his fist into his palm. "Dammit, Rick always says I'm just a dumb muscle dude. He'd be laughin' his head off at me if he saw what I just did... Fuck... Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. Best go see Coach." On his way to Baxter's office, Tom ducked into the men's room and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt like he could barely move, but the sight of himself in his tight uniform made him feel hot and pervy and horny all at once. He couldn't help but smile at his handsome blond-headed reflection. Tom knocked on the door of Coach Baxter's office. The windowblinds were closed in the little window, but he could see that a light was on. Standing at the threshold to Baxter's office reminded Tom of the couple times he did some one-on-one training with the coach. Baxter's hands-on manner always made him a bit horny, but he was pretty sure coach never noticed. He tried not to focus on the tingling in his tightly packed and sticky crotch when he heard Baxter yell out "Come in Jenkins!" "Okay, ya got me. I'm here," said Tom with a big grin on his face and his hand outstretched, ready to shake Baxter's as the coach opened the door. Baxter took his hand, gave it a firm shake and ushered his former student inside. Tom looked at Baxter and noted he was still in the navy-blue sweat-pants and white trainers that he always wore at school. The white high-school-issue cotton ringer tee-shirt with the blue band at the collar seemed to tightly hug the coach's muscular frame. Across the front was emblazoned the name of the school football team: "Pine Valley Bulls". The somewhat faded letters from hundereds of washings were stretched tightly across Baxter's pecs. The short sleeves ended just above Baxter's biceps in tight blue bands that matched the collar. All-in-all, Coach looked like he'd hardly changed. Still darkly tanned. He still kept his thick black hair short and neatly gelled. There was a little gray in his trim side-burns, but that only further emphasized the masculine authority of his 39 years. Coach Baxter put his hands on his hips, raised an eyebrow and said, "You're late Jenkins." Tom looked at "Buff Baxter" as the girls at school used to call him. Straightening up and pushing out his own chest to match Baxter's he said, "Late? I ain't much late. Come'on, Coach. I've been here since 8 o'clock following all your notes and directions, sheesh..." Tom said, gesturing with his hands at the uniform he was wearing. "Uh huh, so I see, stud... so I see..." Baxter stepped closer and slowly walked around Tom, checking him out. "How you liking being in your old uniform Jenkins?" "Man, Coach, I gotta tell ya, it's kinda tight, but other than that it's pretty cool seein' myself all suited up again. I look pretty good, huh?" said Tom, craning his neck so he could see Baxter standing behind him. "Damn good, Jenkins..." Tom could feel Baxter's breath on his neck. "You wearin' the jockstrap... jockboy?" "Uh, yeah, Coach. I... I got your sticky cream soakin' into my thick busy pubes. Shee-it, makin' me wear that damn strap. You and your jokes, Coach." Tom gently pushed his right elbow back, nudging Baxter's firm abs. He let out a nervous chuckle and said, "Okay, I'm game Coach. Lay it on me. Whaddya have planned, huh? Ya got me here, all packed into my super tight uniform. What're we gonna do? A little practice on the field for old-times sake?" Baxter flipped a finger on the back of Tom's head and then walked around him. "You just stay put for a sec. Hear me? Don't move a muscle." "Sure Coach," Tom replied with a smile, wondering what Baxter was up to. Baxter went over to his desk and hit the "play" button on an old cassette-tape player. In a matter of seconds, Tom's eyes opened wide. "Huh! Holy fuckin crap! Shit! Uh, coach... fuck, that asshole really gave you that damn tape! Aww fuuuuukkkkk..." Tom was actually stunned and didn't know what to do. He looked at Baxter and saw a huge shit-eating grin. "You're screwed, Tommy-boy..." said Baxter as he walked back behind Tom and put his hands on either side of the former high-school football player's waist. "Coach, I, uh, I can explain!" Baxter leaned down and whispered in Tom's ear, "Can you?" Baxter's hands slipped forward, rubbing the taut hairy abdomen exposed by the short jersey. Slowly they crept upwards, fingertips lightly gliding across Tom's tanned skin until Baxter's hands cupped the blond stud's big rounded pecs. Tom softly grunted as he watched the coach's hands gently manipulate his muscular pectorals underneath his pushed-up jersey and cut-off tee. He could smell Baxter's musky scent. "Yeah, jockboy, big meaty muscle-pecs on you, all nicely covered in thick short dirty-blond chest hair." As Tom heard Baxter's baritone voice purring into his ear, he also heard his own on the tape being played. The combination of humiliation, entrapment, and physical stimulation was frying his brain. As Coach Baxter groped Tom's hairy muscular chest, he whispered again to his former jock student, "Can you really explain, Tommy? I think the recording is pretty clear. Now, Jenkins, can you imagine that tape falling into the hands of all the guys from the old football team?" Tom swallowed hard. "Ah geeze Coach. You wouldn't... I mean, damn, if those guys hear what I'm sayin' on that blasted tape, I'd, I'd never hear the end of it. They'd turn me into the team cocksucker. Me! I was the hottest jock in the school. I mean, shit, I get together with the guys for a bit of pick-up football now and then, and I'm still the guy everyone else wants to be!" Baxter chuckled at Tom's big ego. "Coach, ungh, we gotta stop this right now. You gotta promise me, 'cause, if those guys ever hear this tape, well, shit, I don't wanna even think about what they might do." "Yeah, Tommy, imagine the big annual homecoming game. All your buddies, they'd all be up in the stands watching the game and participatin' in the cheering and all, and you'd probably be tied up in the men's restroom, made to service their dicks during half-time. Fuck that's a nice thought!" As Tom thought about this he felt his football pants tighten around the crotch. He balled his hands into fists and flexed the muscles in his strong forearms. Coach Baxter laughed. "I could see you sucking all their cocks, especially if we win. But if we lost? Well, Jenkins, I think those guys wouldn't just content themselves with your mouth. No. I think I can assure you that they would give that tight round bubble-butt of yours a real long workout..." "Oh no..." Tom whimpered as he realized that one of Coach Baxter's hands was now squeezing and patting his buttocks. "So here's the deal Jenkins. If you don't want all that to happen, then you are gonna follow my orders from now on. Got it?" Tom just grunted. Baxter switched his attention to Tom's arms, possessively caressing the flexing muscles in the forarms, biceps and triceps. Tom grunted again. "Uh Coach, is this really my old jockstrap?" "It's got your name written on the front doesn't it?" "I... ungh... I just can't believe you still have it." "Used to keep it in my desk drawer." Tom's eyes opened wide. "Damn, Coach, you been sniffin' my old jock all these years?" Baxter rubbed his own hardening dick. "Nah, I did at first, but eventually it didn't smell of anything, so I washed it. But I kept it in the drawer as a reminder." "A reminder?" "Yeah, a reminder of my goal." "Your goal, Coach?" "Unh hunh... my goal to get my hands on you and turn you into my own horny muscleboy slave." Tom let out a little whimper and involuntarily tightened the muscles in his big hairy thighs and firm buttocks. "You know Jenkins, a good athlete has gotta have goals. This morning when I realized that I was about to achieve one of my biggest goals, I took your jockstrap out of the drawer and put it on. Then I thought about you, about all your big muscles, big as mine, your firm hairy chest and hairy arms, a brownish blond version of me. And I thought about your dimpled smile and that big broad mouth of yours. And as I thought about all this I rubbed myself. Real gently, slowly, like I'm gonna do to you... a lot. I squeezed my big coach balls and teased my big coach dick through the fabric of your jockstrap for a good long while until finally, man-oh-man, I dumped a gallon of my hot coach crud all inside the pouch. Then I carefully peeled them off and put them in that sealed bag. And now, now you are wearin' 'em. Your big jock dick and hairy jock balls are nestled in my sticky coach cream. And you're gonna like it. No use pretending otherwise. I know you Jenkins. No more briefs for you. You're a jock and a jockstrap is what you are gonna wear. From now on. And every day, before you slip your hefty package into a tight-fitting strap, and they will be tight-fitting and tailored to push out your cock and balls, I'm gonna deposit a load of my goo inside. So no matter where you are during the day, and no matter what you are doing, you are gonna be thinking of me, thinking of my hot coach body and my steaming coach cream. You're gonna feel that cream and you're gonna smell it, particularly when you sweat. And that is gonna turn you on. The mere thought of it is gonna get you horny and the feel of it is gonna keep you horny all day, every day and that's gonna help me control you big boy. You are literally gonna be my jock slave." Tom was panting. His mouth hung open as he listened to Baxter's words. He looked down towards his crotch and saw the beginnings of a wet spot at the front of his tight football pants. A stangled sigh escaped from deep in his throat. "Unnnggghhhhh...." "That's it jock-boy. Feels good doesn't it. Big blond muscleboy all wrapped up in a nice tight package..." said Baxter in a low voice. "Uummpphh..." Tom flexed his biceps and then the muscles in his thighs. "Yeah, flex for me Jenkins. Let's see all that work you've put into your hot body." "Ohhhh, damn coach, I do look so fuckin' good in my old uniform. You're really gettin' me all worked up here!" Baxter reached down and softly pet Tom's stiff rod under his football pants. He turned Tom to the right so they were both facing the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room. From behind, Coach hooked his left arm in front of Tom's face and told him to lick it. Between the sexiness of his uniform, his coach rubbing his hard cock and the site of the coach's muscular hairy arm just an inch away from his lips and nose, Tom found himself trapped in a fog of sexual excitement. He groaned, stuck out his tongue and began licking. Coach Baxter groaned too and ground his hips into Tom's butt. He stuck out his tongue and licked the back of Tom's neck. "Ah" (lick), "Coach" (lick), "your gonna" (lick), "make me" (lick), "sh... shoot my load..." (lick). Baxter pulled back and removed his hand from Tom's crotch. He stepped around Tom to face him and then lifted his left arm and with his right hand directed Tom's face towards his musky armpit. Tom's eyes opened wide as he realized he was about to sniff out his coach's pit. He could see the tufts of black pit hair crawling up beyond the short sleeve of Baxter's t-shirt. Soon he was taking in the coach's manly scent. "Ohhhh man coach, you're gettin' me soooo hard." "Told ya Jenkins, I know you. You think you're some stud working construction and chasing girls around town. I know what you need." Tom spent a few minutes sniffing his coach's pit. His own strong arms hung limp and useless at his sides. Baxter pulled Tom's face out of his armpit and directed him out of the office and towards the sports field. "Right Jenkins. Here's the deal. I need to see if you still remember your training. I want to see those muscles at work. I wanna see that you know instinctively how to follow your coach's orders." Tom grinned and thought to himself: "so this is what he's gonna make me do. Ha! Easy! I'll show him." Coach had Tom start out with a little stretching. This turned out to be just a tiny bit trickier than Tom had expected because of the tightness of his uniform. Nonetheless, he persisted, loosening up his muscles, flexing a bit, and feeling the snug constriction of his clothing. Baxter just smiled as the various short stretching exercises that Tom performed made him constantly aware of how tightly packed he was in his old football gear. Baxter blew his whistle. "Right Jenkins, give me 50 push-ups... now!" Tom dropped to the grass and was finished in no time, although he had started to work up a sweat out in the warm humid air. "Good Tommy-boy. Crunch-time. Give me 30 curl-ups and 20 oblique trunk rotations... now!" "Whew...okay," Tom muttered as he lay down on the grass and got into position. Tom was grunting loudly as he finished working his obliques, but Baxter was impressed to see how quickly Tom continued to accomplish these tasks. He also liked the sweat stains appearing at the waistband and crotch of Tom's pants. Tom was starting to feel damp all over and was getting slightly turned on by the smell of his own sweat. His t-shirt was soaked and the perspiration was starting to show on his jersey too. "Time to work those legs a bit Tommy-boy. Get in the middle of the field. When I say "go", you run to the goalpost and give me five alternating lunges. Then you run back to center-field and give me five push-ups. Then you start all over again, but on the next run I want ten lunges and ten push-ups. Got it?" Tom swallowed. "Coach! Damn! You'll wear me out!" "You sayin' you can't handle it boy?" "Uh, no Coach. No way. I can do it. Geeze." "Good jockboy. That's what I wanna hear. Now get out in the field." "Yes, Coach!" Tom shouted. Tom got into sprinting position. Baxter raised his whistle and... blew. Tom went through his paces like the well-trained musclehead he was - 100 percent determination, his entire mind focused on this single activity. The whole performance only lasted about 15 minutes before Baxter blew his whistle, indicating that Tom could stop. Baxter mused, "That should have him warmed up... warmed up, sweaty, and not thinking about too much but his body... heh heh yeah. Ready for round two." He shouted in Tom's direction, "Good muscleboy... real good. Now get over here, we're going back inside." Tom jogged over, nearly out of breath but smiling from ear to ear. "Told ya (huff) I could do it (huff)... coach." "Good job sport... real nice. We'll call that your cardio routine for today. Now, let's hit the gym." "Uh, the gym.... well, okay. Ya still haven't told me what this is about coach. "I'll fill you in inside. Come on. You know where the weights are. Move it." Baxter followed Tom back inside to the gymnasium's work-out room, admiring the firm pair of buttocks filling out the football pants. As Tom stepped inside the old gym his nostrils quickly took in the familiar scent of the windowless room. For years the jocks of Pine Valley High had been working out here. The smell and the generally worn-down quality of the quipment made that obvious. It was also here that Coach Baxter kept his awards, trophies, and photos of guys from the high school football team - past and present. Tom took it all in, his mind briefly drifting back to seven years ago. "So, uh, what're we doin' Coach?" he asked. "Why don't we start with some squats, then a little bench-pressing and some work with the dumbells. I'll do everything right alongside you." Tom started to lift a heavy-weighted barbell off its supports, when he stopped to ask if he should maybe change clothes since working out in his tight old football gear was going to be a little awkward. "Nah, stay as you are Jenkins. If ya bust a few seams, so what? It's your old gear. It might look even better with a few tears in it. Hang on a minute." Baxter trotted out of the room. When he returned, he was carrying an old gray canvas backpack. He dug around for a few minutes, then found what he was looking for. "Okay, bend over." "What? Whatta ya mean, bend over, Coach?" "Whatta ya mean, what do I mean? Are ya stupid? Oh yeah, that's right... I forgot how dumb you are." "Aw geeze, Coach." "Yeah, like you don't know it. Go on, say it. Jenkins... SAY IT!" "Alright already. Damn, Coach. I'm dumb. There, ya happy? I'm real real dumb, Coach." Tom cracked a smile when he saw the grin on Coach Baxter's face. He didn't know why, but he always liked seeing Baxter smile. "Good job, boy. Now, bend over, touch your toes and keep repeating how dumb you are." Baxter watched Tom slowly bend over in his tight football pants, reaching out with his big arms to touch his toes as he kept repeating "I'm stupid, Coach". As Tom thought about what he was saying, he couldn't help from breathing in the sweaty smell of his own body. He realized that in his bent-over position, his nose was closest to his crotch. The strongest smell he was inhaling was that of his jock - soaked with Baxter's ball juice. The thought made him a bit dizzy or maybe that was because he was bent over. Tom wasn't sure. While the blond stud was bent over breathily whispering his new mantra, Baxter ran his left hand over the firm mounds of the A-grade butt. Gently, he caressed the solid curvature before tracing his left index finger between the two mounds so tightly packaged in the well-worn nylon football pants. When he found the spot he was looking for, he flicked open the pocketknife in his right hand and carefully began cutting a neat line down the center. Tom wasn't sure what Coach was up to, but he made damn sure to stay bent over. "How long do I have to keep sayin' I'm dumb coach?"

Baxter briefly stopped what he was doing and replied, "Until I tell you otherwise. See Jenkins, if you were smart, you'd know when you could stop, but since you don't know, it must prove that you really are a big dumb jock, huh buddy?"

"Oh, I, uh, hadn't thought of that. Dammit! Uh, I, well, yeah, okay... Man, Rick is always yellin' at me for bein' an idiot and now my own Coach too..."

"I wasn't yellin' at ya, Jenkins... just proving a point, that's all... usin' reasoning, that's all. You see what I mean?"

"Yeah, Coach, reasoning, sure, I got ya, I mean, HA, I guess you got me, huh! I wasn't thinkin' again. That's what you meant, right?"

"Spot on, buddy!"

"Reasoning... shit. All right, what can I say coach? I thought maybe I'd gotten a bit smarter since high school, but maybe not. Damn, all my buddies used to call me dumb Tom. Remember that, coach?"

Baxter looked down at Tom's upside down face. "Yeah, I remember. It was kind of your nickname wasn't it? Didn't one of your friends have it silk-screened on one of your t-shirts?"

"Man, Coach, you got a good memory! That asshole Brad Mattherson made that shirt for me. It didn't say dumb Tom, though, just 'Dumb Jock'."

The word 'asshole' brought Baxter's attention back to the work at hand and he resumed cutting a straight line in Tom's football pants, slowly exposing a little bit of the hard-muscled, blond-furred butt underneath. "That's right. And you wore it! You wore it a lot, if I remember."

"Yeah, ungh," grunted Tom from staying bent over so long, "I guess I thought it was kinda funny."

As Baxter finished his job and put the knife away he said, "Uh huh, it was more than funny studboy. You liked it. I think you liked being a big, dumb, muscleboy jock. It turned you on didn't it? Made you feel all kinda helpless and hot - made you itch to flex your muscles and show off... and getting all that attention, havin' everybody praise your muscles and tell you that you were the hottest dumbest jock in the school, that turned you on big-time, didn't it. Bet it got your big muscleboy dick super stiff in your jeans, didn't it ya big dumb jock. Yeah, wearing that shirt got you hard, just like your getting' now from thinkin' about it, huh?"

"Ah fuck, these old pants are kinda tight, Coach."

"I bet they are. And who wears football pants that are too tight?"

"Uh, well, someone who's stupid, obviously."

"But aren't you wearing pants that are too tight?"

"Shit! I am!"

"And did anyone physically force you to wear those pants?"

"Well, no... jeeze Coach, I see what you mean! Fuck me, I'm stupid!"

"HAH! Just what I was thinking, Jenkins. Now, tell me what you are."

"Fuck... I'm a dumb jock, coach."

"Good. Keep repeating it..."

As Tom resumed reminding himself that he was a dumb jock, Coach Baxter went back to his backpack and pulled out a flesh-colored dildo. Tom's mouth dropped open as he looked between his legs and watched his coach drizzled lube on the life-like butt toy. When Baxter headed over, Tom pleaded. "Coach! Come'on... you can't be serious, man. I'm real sensitive down there, Coach. You stuff me with that thing and, and, geez, I don't know, I'll be squirmin' and sweatin' like mad."

"That's the idea," Baxter said as he patted the blond stud's firm butt. Tom whimpered as his coach teased his butt cheeks with feathery touches... slap!"

"Ouch!" Tom leapt at the mild swat.

"Stay still," said Baxter.

Tom watched from between the flexing muscles of his big thighs as his former high-school football coach, his big hero, rubbed the flexible synthetic penis up and down his deep butt crack and then slowly, slowly screwed it into the hot, tight, gripping manhole.

"Ummmpphhh... uuunnnghh... ooohhhhh maaan, you're stuffin' me Coach, stuffin' my hot ass with that damned thing. Oh fuck..."

When Baxter had the dildo all the way in to the base, Tom grunted and flexed his glutes. His eyebrows raised as he felt the tip rubbing on his joy button. Baxter looked at him and laughed.

"Did I give you permission to stop telling me what you are?"

"No, sir. Sorry, Coach, but... OHHHHHH man my butt feels full, Coach. Damn."

"A nice big rubber didlo Jenkins, which ought to make your workouts lots of fun! Ha!"

As Tom stood up, he felt the dildo shift. "Fuuuuck, my ass, my jock ass... shit Coach, I'm not used to havin' stuff shoved up there... get that fucker out."

Tom reached behind to get a grip on the end of the erotic buttplug. Baxter slapped his hand away. "No way, Jenkins. You're gonna leave that right where it is. You hear me studboy? That thing stays in while you workout. And I don't want to hear a peep out of you or I am gonna triple the number of reps you gotta do - and that is just for beginners. You know what will happen if you don't do as you are told."

"Aw fuck... the tape?"

"The tape."

"Damn Coach. I am one fucked jock..."

"Wrong answer shit-for-brains."

"FUCK! Uh, oh yeah, I'm a dumb jock..."

"Good."

"... a dumb jock with a dildo up his ass."

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" laughed Baxter. "Squats! On the double!"

Jenkins went over to the rack and moved a heavy barbell to the floor. He squatted uneasily in his tight football pants, his every move causing the dildo up his butt to send tingling pleasure up his spine. He bent his knees, picked the barbell up from behind and began his first repetition of hack squats. As he started counting off, Coach Baxter stopped him. "Jenkins, I don't want to hear counting. Heh heh... as you squat down I wanna hear you say: 'A dumb jock...' and on the rise up say: 'needs a stuffed butt'.

Tom's eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hung open, but he turned his attention back to his squats. Baxter smiled as he listened to the blond muscle-stud huff and puff as he spat out 'A dumb jock... needs a stuffed butt... A dumb jock... needs a stuffed butt... A dumb jock...

Tom's attitude changed as he watched his former high school coach join him doing hack squats and then front squats not four feet in front of him. Whatever Baxter asked of his athletes he would also do himself. As Baxter had hoped, Tom saw the big smile on his former Coach's face and felt his frustration simmer down. As Baxter had planned, Tom would also have no choice but to look at his coach, to look at his big muscles bursting from his gym clothes as they faced each other lifting weights. As Tom looked at Coach Baster in his Pine Valley Phy. Ed. t-shirt and sweat pants, squatting down and pushing up, he couldn't help but feel the pernicious toy rubbing sensuously against the sides of his manhole, poking and stabbing gently at his sensitive prostate. As he looked at his coach's muscles flexing, the firm pecs, the big hairy arms with bulging biceps, the square-jawed face, his hot jock ass tingled with excitement. The dildo sent waves of pleasure coursing through his body that became mingled and confused with the sight of Coach Baxter's muscles. Tom breathed in deeply, smelling the increasing muskiness of the small room as he and coach worked out.

"Enough," Baxter huffed. "I'll spot you on the bench."

Tom put the heavy barbell back on the rack and walked over to the next piece of equipment. His sweat made him even more aware of how his tight uniform constricted and squeezed his big muscles. As he lay down on the bench, he squirmed with the added pressure on the dildo. While Tom adjusted himself, Baxter watched and peeled off the sweatpants he was wearing. Now down to his t-shirt, gym shorts, socks, and sneakers, he positioned himself above Tom's head, his arms at the ready should Tom need help returning the heavy barbell back up to the rack. As Tom lowered the bar and then pushed it back up, he noticed that his head was flanked on either side by Baxter's hairy thighs. And then he watched as Baxter squatted a bit, so that the crotch of his shorts hovered just above Tom's face.

Tom put the weights back on the bar. "Uh Coach, could ya maybe stand a little further up? Otherwise, I'm gonna be takin' real deep breaths of, your, uh, basket... Coach..."

Baxter looked down at Tom, all packed into his football uniform, his face hidden beneath his coach's shorts. He reached down and gently rubbed Tom's semi-hard cock. Using just his forefinger, he traced delicate teasing circles around and around the plump head of Tom's dick. Tom grunted. Coach chuckled. "You really must be dumb, because I said no complainin', remember." Tom grunted again. "Now, Jenkins, you just breath in real nicely. Picture yourself laid out on this bench in your hot football uniform... your head nestled between your coach's big hairy legs. Tense the muscles in your arms, flex 'em as you get ready to lift. Think about your hard body as you sniff your coach's crotch and feel your cock get hard. Get your coach's scent good and deep in your lungs and get your cock hard as wood. Just keep thinkin' about your big muscles. I know that aways firms you up. Got it stud?"

Tom could hardly think as Coach worked his stiffening cock. He inhaled the manly scents coming from between Baxter's legs and groaned. Baxter watched Tom flex the muscles in his arms, holding them parallel to his body laid out on the bench. He could see the muscles in Tom's thighs twitch underneath the tight nylon pants as the blond stud responded automatically to having his cockhead teased and his butt diddled.

"Ohhhhhh... damn Coach you're getting' me worked up. Man, I was one of the best players on the team, wasn't I Coach? And now look at me - with my head between my coach's big hairy legs."

Baxter smiled and stood up straight. "Heck, yeah, Jenkins. You were the team stud, no doubt about that, but now your football days are over and your muscle-slave days are about to begin - and that's how it should be Jenkins. Ha ha ha. Okay, time for some lifting. Get your hands on the barbell."

Tom stopped flexing his muscles and gripped the barbell. He needed Baxter's help since he couldn't actually see beyond the coach's shorts. Baxter helped him lift the weights off the rack. Tom slowly lowered the bar to his chest, paused for a second then pushed up.

"Great form stud. Just take it nice and slow. That's a lot of weight, but you can rock this set. Down... pause... and up... Excellent."

Tom lapped up the encouragment. He loved showing his former coach what he could do. "Not...umpff... bad... huh coach?" "Nice Jenkins. Now lets see ya do two sets of 10 at 150 pounds of weight." "Easy Coach - 10 reps ya say?" "Yeah. And while you do them, repeat these words: "working out..." Tom lifted the weight off the bar and began lowering it to his chest as he filled his lungs with the smell of Baxter's shorts. "Okay... working out..." Baxter grinned and whispered... "gives me a boner." "... gives me a boner." Tom set the barbell on the rack and laughed, "yeah, Coach, thanks to you, ha ha..." Baxter lowered his voice. "Did I say you could stop? Keep going! That rep didn't count. And this time, I WANT TO HEAR YOU!" "Yes, Coach, shit, sorry... umph... working out... phhheewwww... gives me a boner, ungh... working out... gives me a boner..." When Tom finished the second set, Baxter asked him, "So, Jenkins, what have you learned?" "Coach, I've learned that working out gives me a boner! But Coach, uh, I already knew that. Liftin' weights always did make me hard as a fuckin' rock." "That's what I like to hear, Tommy-boy. From now on, when you're in here workin' out, I wanna see your muscles flexing and your shorts firmly tented. Got it?" "Yeah, Coach. Tent city. Not gonna be a problem." "Good boy. Okay, see those two benches over there. You take one and I'll take the other. Let's do some forearm curls and really work the muscles to exhaustion." "Coach, aren't you gonna do any bench presses? You always work out with the guys." "Yeah, well, okay. I'll pump out a couple'a quick sets." "Cool, I'll spot ya Coach." Baxter reclined on the bench and reached for the weighted-up barbell. Once Tom saw Baxter's hands had a firm grip, he stepped forward. "Okay Coach, time for you to sample your best football jocks sweaty crotch, ha ha!" Baxter let go of the barbell and started to sit up, but Tom gently pushed down on his chest. "No way, Coach. You just relax and breath in all that funky odor between my legs. After all, it's only fair. You did the same to me, so now it's your turn, Coachy-boy." "What the... what did you call me boy? Ohhhh damn, don't lower your crotch on my face... ohhhhhmmmmfff." Baxter's words were temporarily muffled as Tom aimed the tip of the bulge in his football pants just inside Baxter's mouth. "Oh yeah, Coach. You got my dumb jock dick all hard and strainin' in my football pants and now the tip is right there between your lips. Why don't ya give it a little lick, right through my pants... yeah that's it. Now grab the barbell... yeah, you're doin' great Coach." Baxter clapped his fingers tightly around the barbell and flexed the muscles in his arms as he prepared to lift the weight off the rack. While Tom kept the tip of his nylon-covered pole just inside Baxter's lips, he gently ran his hands up and down the muscular arms gripping the barbell. "Damn, Coach you got nice arms. Real muscular, I mean, jeeze, these forearms and these biceps - and triceps - so hot and tan and, man, so hairy... what a stud... you like that Coach when I feather your big hairy arms and trace my fingers on all that muscle? Ohhhh yeah, I can tell you do, Coach, the way your big tongue is worshippin' the crotch of my football pants. Hey, looks like something's strainin' in your own shorts too, Coachy. Yeah, you da man, Coach... gettin' yourself all worked up and breathin' in my hot jock smells..." "Nnnggmmpphhhhhh...mmmmooohhhhhh..." sighed Baxter as he licked and sniffed and surrendered to the tightening of his gym shorts as his big coach cock got stiffer and stiffer. Tom was totally turned on by the sight of his musclebound coach laid out on the workout bench. "Okay, Coachy-boy, ya gotta lift these weights. Remember, I want two sets from ya." Baxter grunted as Tom lifted the tip of his cotton-encased cock away from the warm lapping tonge of his high-school hero. Baxter was in a daze as he powered through his reps. When he set the bar back onto the rack, Tom stood up straight and looked down. With his forefinger, he stroked just under Baxter's chin, and then patted his cheek. "Gee Coach, that sure is a funny expression on your face - real dumb-lookin'." Tom chuckled. For a brief moment, Baxter felt kind of funny. His balls tingled as he thought about his plans backfiring and his jock student taking control of him. Baxter mumbled, almost oblivious to anyone else being in the room, "Oh man, yeah, big dumb coach falls into his own trap... fuck." Maybe he would be the one to end up in a stupid shirt, Baxter could see the words 'Dumb Musclehead Coach' stretched across his own tight t-shirt. He groaned. His cock pulsed and he felt himself dripping his coach cream into his gym shorts. Instinctively, his hand reached down and felt the sticky wetness. Baxter grunted again, shook his head and frowned. "FOREARM CURLS, JENKINS. NOW!" he shouted. Tom's shoulders relaxed. "Alright, alright, I'm goin'." He walked over to the pair of benches Baxter had pointed to and sat down hard without thinking. "Umph! Shit, I forgot about that thing up my butt..." Baxter sat across from him and picked up a 25-pound dumbbell in his right hand. He supported his forearm on his right leg and looked at Tom. "Right, Jenkins. Get a move on. We'll do these together." Tom mirrored Baxter's position as they sat facing each other, slowly, methodically, curling their hand backwards, then forwards, maintaining constant tension as each flexed the muscles of his forearm. "Jenkins! Don't just sit there silently. With each repetition I wanna hear you say 'Boners are good 'cause the stiffer I get, the dumber I get.' Got it champ?" Tom looked wide-eyed. "Ah man. If I gotta say that, then so do you." "I don't gotta say nothin' Jenkins," replied Baxter. "Why not?" Tom asked. "Seems fair to me." Baxter grinned. "I've got one word for you dumbass: The Tape." "Hey Coach, that's two words." Tom said chuckling at his own cleverness. Baxter gave him a stern glance. "Shit... Boners are good, coach..." Tom Jenkins and John Baxter kept their eyes focused on each other as they pumped the muscles in their forearms - first the right, then the left. Tom was sweating in his tight football gear as he pumped the muscles in his arms and repeated "... the stiffer I get, the dumber I get..." His eyes shuttled back and forth from Baxter's big flexing forearm to his own and then to his desperately hard dick. "Looks like you're leaking Jenkins," said Baxter with a smirk. "Nah, that's just where your big wet tonge licked my pants, Coach. What's your explanation?" "Huh?" Tom gave a mischievous glance towards Baxter's bulging package. The coach looked down at his own stiff rod and saw the wet spot at the front of his shorts getting larger. "Fuck! Switch arms!"

Tom exhaled. His forearms were getting sore. He looked back at his straining crotch and tried to keep from rubbing it with his free hand. "Man, look at us Coach - a coupl'a dumb boner boys doin' the only thing they know how to do - working their big muscles."

Coach Baxter grunted.

"I think you're right Coach. The stiffer we get, the dumber we get, huh?"

Baxter grunted again. "Ungh, yeah, phew, stiff, ungh, and dumb... ungh... stiff and dumb..." Tom wasn't bright, but watching Baxter work his arms as he mindlessly repeated 'stiff and dumb' was sending Tom into overload - and planting an idea or two in his mind.

"Do ya think we're gonna shoot our loads, Coach? Without even touching ourselves? Guess, it'd be kinda like bonding, huh? A dumb jock and his dumb coach..."

"Oh fuuuuukkk," Baxter growled as a dollop of his cream spurted out into his jockstrap.

"Nice one, Coachy!"

"Grumfff - enough... Jenkins, haul yourself over to the chin-up bar. You're doing 100 pull-ups - now!"

"Fuck," grumbled Tom. He was liking this game, but he thought it would be more fun if he could best his big coach. Everytime he seemed to get close, Baxter changed the plan. As the coach stripped off his damp shorts and jock and stepped back into his sweatpants, Tom headed over to his next workout station.

The chin-up bar was on the far side of the room, about 10 feet from the wall where Coach Baxter hung his collection of photographs of all the jocks who had been on the school football team over the years. Tom positioned himself, facing the pictures. He hadn't really paid that much attention to them before, but now that he looked he saw that amongst all the team photos were lots of shots from the lockerroom with all his old buddies, shirts off, horsing around. Suddenly, Baxter was behind him, grabbing hold of his wrists. Click... click.

"Handscuffs, Coach?"

Tom watched as his arms were then brought around in front of him. "Oh, two pairs of cuffs. What're we..."

Tom didn't finish his sentence. He was too busy watching Baxter attach the dangling cuff from each wrist onto the horizontal bar above his head.

"Oh ho ho, chainin' me up, huh coach? Did Rick tell ya he did that to me. Gotta admit, it kinda turned me on. Guess I'm gonna be doin' some forced pull-ups here, huh?"

Baxter laughed. "Rick chained ya up did he? Didn't know that. I'm doin' it 'cause I want to watch you struggle helplessly while I tell ya what's in store for you."

Tom grinned. This was one of his favorite games. His mind flashed back to the fun he had had teasing that pea-brained cop - man, did that bring the juice in his balls to a rapid boil! He tugged gently on the two pairs of metal handscuffs locking his arms up to the chin-up bar over his head. So far, this reunion with Coach Baxter was actually turning out to be pretty fun. This was his old coach after all. He'd probably be set free before midnight and sent home with that damn tape. "Man, I am destroying that first thing tomorrow," Tom thought to himself. His thoughts suddenly stopped when he felt Baxter slowly running his hands up and down his arms. Baxter squeezed and caressed the muscles. Then his fingers softly scrabbled and tickled.

"Hey... that tickles. Come'on Coach, not that... heh... hee hee hee... ha hah ha ha ha!"

Baxter walked around in front of Tom and softly moaned, "Man I love your big arms... yeah, great meaty muscles in your upper arms and good thick forearms... all this nice thick dark blond hair too... ohhh yeahhhh." Baxter's fingers reached under the straining short sleeves of Tom's red football jersey and teased out tufts of pit hair, which he lightly tugged and brushed sending tingles down Tom's spine.

In a haltering whisper, Tom croaked out, "Ya like my pits there Coach? Yeah, I've got great arms, as big as yours." He flexed the muscles in his arms against the upward pull of the cuffs holding his wrists above his head and watched Baxter's intoxication. Coach then stretched his own arms out in front of himself and flexed the muscles. He looked at his big tanned arms with their thick coating of dark hair. Then he rubbed his hands up and down his own arms, flexing his muscles and putting on a show for Tom. Next, Coach Baxter brought his strong hands up to his own chest and caressed his pecs through his tight t-shirt. He lingered over his now very firm nipples and then slowly slid his hands down his tight abs. Gently, his left hand tugged the hem of the tight t-shirt upwards, exposing the thick neatly trimmed hair on his six-pack. As his right hand glided across the abdominal ridges and then up and down, Baxter noticed the rising helplessness in Tom's face and the stiffening of his jock cock. Baxter reached out and ran his hands across Tom's chest through his football jersey, tracing the deep ridge under Tom's mounded pecs. He let the back of his right hand descend down Tom's abs and then both hands lightly ran up and down the sides of Tom's torso up to his armpits. Tom was softly panting. Baxter smiled and raised his own arms, locking his fingers behind his neck and exposing the dampness in the pits of his own t-shirt. He leaned his head towards his right pit and sniffed; then he did the same to his left. He brought his hands down and stepped closer to Tom. As he possessively ran his fingers over Tom's upraised biceps, Baxter leaned in and sniffed around in Tom's pits. A slight moan excaped Tom's lips before Baxter looked up at him and grinned. He then turned around, his back to Tom, and did a double biceps pose. Slowly lowering his arms from the pose, he reached behind and ran his palms down his firm rounded butt. He used the back of his hands on the upward caress and then lightly teased himself with the tips of his fingers, showcasing the outline and curvature of his muscular globes as if they were being filmed for sale by a television shopping network. Baxter looked back at Tom and noticed that the buff dirty-blond-haired muscleboy was looking more and more drained of individual will. Baxter surmised that Tom's hard cock and full balls were stymieing his ability to think - limited though that was at the best of times. That was just what Baxter wanted. Now, keeping his back to Tom, he bent over. The thick fabric of his sweatpants clung tightly to his ass and thighs. Baxter began rolling the bottom of his sweatpants up his legs to the top of his calves. He turned his head around and looked at Tom. With his eyes he gestured towards the hairy musculature of his lower legs. He flexed his calves slightly and then turned around.

Tom couldn't believe the sight in front of him. He'd always thought Coach Baxter was one of the sexiest guys he'd ever seen, but he had never before had so much opportunity to make such a complete study of the testosterone-loaded hunk.

"Yeah Jock-o, you're gonna be a slave to my hot coach muscles in no time," Baxter said with a slight chuckle. "Now I think it is time we talked about how things are going to be."

Tom shook his head trying to clear his thoughts.

"Listen up... I know you, dickbrain," said Baxter. Remember high school? Not very long ago. There you were, Tom Jenkins, the big stud. Not exactly the BMOC, that's for somebody well-rounded, a scholar and an athlete. You didn't fit into that category. No sireee. You were way to dimwitted for that. No, all you thought about were sports and muscles - the sports you played in and the muscles you spent every day at the gym perfectin'. You think I never noticed you admiring yourself? Huh? Sheesh. The first one out in the warm weather tryin' to get a head-start on your summer tan. Those tight jeans you wore and those tees and tanks that you always seemed to have bought on the small side... Nothin' wrong with that. Not a thing. I buy all my clothes too small, well all my gym clothes, don't really own much else 'cept a blazer and some khakis for formal occasions like if our team wins the finals or somethin'. But ya see Tom, it was your tight clothes and you always lookin' at your own reflection that made me wonder about you. By the time you graduated, I was pretty damn sure. Pretty dam sure that you were a stud like me. A man who appreciates his muscles and who appreciates other muscly guys like himself. I'm right aren't I? Yeaaahhh... you like the feel of all those muscles, the way they make you look so big and hansome and masculine. And you like 'em all tightly packaged - the feel of your meaty thighs all wrapped in your body-hugging jeans or burstin' out of a pair of gym shorts, yeah the kind that barely covers your ass. Then of course there's your big macho hairy torso, practially shrink-wrapped in a dirty old cotton tee, your biceps fit to bust the sleeves. Yeah, I always thought it was funny the way in senior year you got into the habit of wearing the same t-shirt all week long, like you only had one. You made sure that long before Friday you were gonna be constantly packed into your own sweaty manly jock-boy body odor. You got off on that didn't ya? Yeah, I bet it made you stiff... stiffer than any of those girls you kept tryin' to get a date with. See, that's where I began to understand ya. Always chasin' girls, struttin' in front of 'em, trying to get their attention, and succeeding... until they got close to you and got a whiff of your man-scent. Then they wrote you off as a just a big dumb jock. And that became your reputation didn't it. That's why Mattherson had that t-shirt made for you. And like I said, I noticed that you wore that thing a lot. That shirt got you so hot and bothered you couldn't think straight if you'd had to. That's when I knew you didn't really care about the girls. They weren't your target audience... it was some of the other guys on the team - the other muscleboys, like yourself. That's who you were really interested in. Hangin' with the guys, getting' their attention - the way they'd pat you on the butt and squeeze your biceps and now and then tweak your stiff man-tits or wriggle fingers in your armpits 'till you collapsed on your knees trying to hide your boner as you got turned on by realizing what a big dumb muscleboy jock you are. Sometime around then I knew you needed to be put under the management of another guy, someone who is a stud just like you, who knows what buttons to push to maximize your submission so that your permanent transformation into a muscleboy slave is such humiliatingly sweet torture that it keeps your balls full and your cock stiff 24/7. Well, "Dumb Jock" guess what? I'm the guy that's gonna do it."

Tom stared open-mouthed, nostrils flaring, and cock pulsing. Absentmindedly, he tugged on the cuffs.

"So, here's the plan, Tom: As of now, you are done working construction. On Monday morning, you are gonna go down to the site or wherever it is that you find your boss, and you are going to tell him that you quit because you are starting a new job, effective immediately."

"Huh?" Tom grunted.

"I had to pull a lot of strings for this one Jenkins, but I managed to get you a job at Pine Valley High as my assistant coach. Whaddya think of that? Pretty good, huh?"

Tom was surprised... and impressed. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this sounded great. "Wow. Assistant Coach! That is fuckin' cool. How'd you swing that?"

"Yeah, it wasn't easy. Everyone remembered you from when you were a good player on the team and all that, but what really sealed the deal, along with me never havin' asked for much before, is that I told 'em you'd work for a pretty small salary."

"Uh, what do ya mean "small" Coach?"

"$12,000 dollars a year."

"WHAT?" yelled Tom, jerking in his cuffs. "Twelve grand! That's fuckin' nothing. No way. You gotta get more than that or you can forget it. Sorry, Coach, but I can make more in my temporary construction contracts. So, if you can't do better than that, I'm afraid it's no deal. I mean jeesh, by the time they take out social security and medical benefits that's just plain not enough to live on."

"It's true, the school janitor makes more than that, quite a bit more actually. You would definitely be the lowest paid member of staff... by a long shot, heh heh," chuckled Baxter.

"Man, lower than the fuckin' janitor... no wonder the school leapt at the opportunity. Only a dumbass would take that job, and they think they are gonna get me, a guy who was one of the best players on the team? A total sports stud? Huh... they're kiddin' themselves."

"Nuh unh. You're the one kiddin' himself, stud. If you don't take this job, the dozen copies I've made of that cassette tape of you talkin' about what you wanna do with your old buddies from high school will be makin' the rounds... starting with your boss and anyone you hang with at work. Of course, copies would go out to all your buds too. You, my handsome young friend, would be exposed."

Tom started to thrash in his bondage. "Fucker! Shit! You can't do this!" Baxter leapt out of the way as Tom started kicking. Quickly, he ran over to his workbench on the other side of the basement and returned with a thick roll of sturdy gauze athletic tape. Tom was still kicking like mad and it wasn't easy to maintain a grip on his legs. While he jerked and flailed, Baxter managed to hold onto his right leg long enough to wrap the tape around his ankle. It took a few minutes since he had to keep leaping to the side to avoid Tom's swinging left leg. But, by pulling Tom's right leg all the way behind, Baxter was able to get some advantage. On Tom's second back kick, Baxter grabbed his left ankle and quickly pulled the sturdy muslin tape over from the right ankle, now wrapping them both together. After that it was a matter of minutes until Tom's ankles were tightly bound. Tom's physical exertion and now his struggles with his bound ankles had tired him out a bit, which gave Baxter the chance to actually cut the long strip of tape binding Tom's lower legs from the thick roll. Although the blond jock was now considerably restrained, hadn't stopped the cursing. Baxter retrieved the gym shorts he'd juiced in. Standing behind Tom, he reached around and quickly shoved them in the struggling, cursing stud's mouth. The coach then cut off another longish strip of the athletic tape. While Tom was looking back and forth from the cuffs around his wrists and the tape around his ankles, Baxter took hold of both ends of the strip of tape, looped his arms over Tom's head and pressed the tape tightly to the surprised jock's mouth. Baxter pulled the cloth strip tightly and knotted it at the back of Tom's head, then pulled both ends around in front again, tied a knot at the front of Tom's mouth, then pulled the remaining ends back once more, tying them to the first knot. This really frustrated Tom as he thought it was beginning to look like he wouldn't be able to get those gym shorts out of his mouth until Coach was good and ready for them to come out.

"MMMMPPHHFF! Mmmmnnnngg! Mmphuuuukkkrrrr!"

Coach Baxter laughed and wiped the sweat from his own brow. He walked around to face Tom. "That's hot!" he said with a huge grin on his face.

Tom looked straight down at the coach's crotch and saw that his sweatpants were seriously tented. "Uummmpph..." he grunted as he wrestled again with the cuffs above his head.

"Now, where were we... oh yeah, only a dumbass would take that job... I think that's what you said. I've got to hand it to you, boy. You hit the nail on the head with that one. And you're gonna be the dumbass. It gets better, stud. The school board wanted to pay you more. I'm the one who insisted you'd do it for such a low salary. I told the principal that you'd be great with the guys out on the field, helpin' 'em with their moves, puttin' 'em through their exercises and all that, but that you were too dumb to do too much else. I told him that all you lived for was sports and workin' out and that 12 grand was all you were worth and that you'd be real happy with that provided you could use the school gym. And Principal Rogers, you know what he said? He went and pulled your old grade sheets from some file. He looked 'em over and smiled and said, 'Hmph, your correct Baxter, not too good. Looks like what we've got ourselves here is a dumb jock.' And I said, 'Yes sir. In fact, sir, that used to be his nickname. That's what all they guys called him. I'm sure that's what he'd want you to call him too - makes him feel real good and proud when people recognize that he's a dumb jock, 'cause that is exatly what he is.' Well, you know Rogers. He cocked an eyebrow and grunted, but I detected a smile of satisfaction when we shook on the deal.

Tom was moaning behind the shorts in his mouth and the gauze tape sealing his lips. His muscles were flexing and coach noticed he was grinding his buttocks, pumping that dildo and working himself into a steamy sexual froth.

Baxter laughed and said, "Muscleboy, you are coming along nicely and this is only the beginning." He started to unfasten the front of Tom's pants, pulling at the laces as the tightly-stretched fabric pulled away until the moist sticky jock pouch pushed through the opening. Tom's dick was well on its way to full hardness. Baxter reached out with his fingers and rubbed the plump head of Tom's cock through the gooey cotton mesh pouch.

"Would ya look at that, stud. You're gettin' real nice and stiff there. Let me help ya along. I've ordered your new professional uniform. You'll be wearin' the same as me - white tee-shirt and navy sweatpants or gym shorts, just like I'm wearin' right now. Only, see how on my shirt I have 'Pine Valley Phys Ed' and above that the name of our team in big blue letters? Well, I told the uniform supplier to make yours a little different. You'll have 'Pine Valley Phys Ed,' just like me in small letters. But above it, in sky blue letters will be the words 'DUMB JOCK' - all caps, of course.

"Umfff... moffuuukkkmm..." grunted Tom.

Coach laughed and then laughed again as he felt Tom's dick reach total bonerization. "Heh heh, that got you goin' didn't it. Yeah, every day, the whole school is gonna see you like that... the guys on the team... the smart one's will laugh at ya; the dumb ones, they'll wanna bond with ya. And that's just what I want, I want ya to bond with the muscleheads. You will arrange after school sessions where you all workout together in the gym - everyday. That way, there will be no mistaking who does the serious training of Pine Valley's athletes, namely me, and at the same time your reputation as a pea-brain muscleboy will be further confirmed when everybody sees you 'choosing' to spend all your spare time bonding with the dumbest biggest guys in our sports programs. Ha ha ha ha!"

"Naturally, you'll be helpin' with the coachin' out on the field and of course, there's the phys. ed. classes that all the students have gotta take, but when you're not helpin' with those things, your job is to keep the gymnasium and the men's locker room clean. You're also... the towel boy. That way everyone is clear on the pecking order. The guys might have to obey you on the field, but after practice they're gonna know that you are really just my dumb muscle jock."

"UUUMMMPPPHHHHKKK...nnnnggghhh..." grunted Tom as his dick squirted a thick dollop of his jock juice right through the mesh of the jockstrap pouch into Baxter's hand. Baxter gently rubbed his hands together to coat his palms and then slowly massaged the cum into Tom's helplessly flexing biceps. "Nnnnnngggg..."

"I think you'll find that 12 grand is more than enough for you to live on. I'll charge you basic room and board - yeah, you're gonna be living at my place. I've got a single mattress on an old iron frame for you... right at the foot of my big king-size bed. I figure that should work best as I'll want you to lick my feet before you go to bed at night. You'll have some other basic chores like doin' all the yard work and cleaning the house. Let's see, what else? You'll have to get some crappy old car and make your auto insurance payments on it, but I think that's it. All-in-all, you ought to have about a hundred dollars a month to spend any way you like. That's a whole twenty-five dollars a week! Ha ha ha ha ha..."

Baxter had now pulled Tom's dick free from the jockstrap and was gently fingering it.

"Man-o-mighty Jenkins you've got a nice big dick. I haven't seen it since high school, but it is just as nice as I remember it. Makes me think of those "Ball Park" franks - you know, the ones that plump when you cook'em? Because, man, you are cooked and there is no denying that your big frankfurter is plumping up... yeah, that's a big juicy piece of meat, boy.

"Mmmmoooofffkkkkkk..."

Baxter was sweating as he stared at Tom's equipment. He got down on his knees and to Tom's surprise, his coach stuck out his tongue and licked the big pulsing head. Tom gasped and felt tingles up and down his spine as coach's big tongue basted his knob with coach spit. The licking turned into all-out sucking as Baxter feasted on the meat he had dreamed about since he first laid eyes on Tom. He gripped Tom's thigh with his left hand as he chowed down eliciting moans from the bound beefy young man. Baxter's right hand was busy rubbing his own massively hard dick through his sweatpants.

Tom moaned submissively behind his gag, "Mmmmmmoooooonnnnngggg."

Baxter mumbled with his mouth full, but then suddenly leapt up. In a frenzy he tugged at the knots in the athletic tape around Tom's head. He yanked the saliva-sodden shorts from the blond jock's mouth. Before Tom could say a word, his lips were sealed with the coach's own and seconds later, the coach's big tongue, which had so recently laved Tom's sticky dick, thrust forward, laying claim to the muscular jock's mouth, literally driving home Tom's new position as his coach's musclebound bottom boy.

Just as quickly, Baxter withdrew. He looked at the dazed expression on Tom's face. Tom shook his head and instinctively flexed his biceps. Baxter dropped to his knees and vacuumed Tom's throbbing cock back into his mouth. Tom took a deep breath and looked down. "Oh man, Coach! Ya... ya got me all packed into my old uniform, my big muscly arms cuffed over my head and my legs tied together and now you're... ohhhhh...uunngg... you're s... s... suckin' me off. Aw jeez, my big handsome coach, Buff Baxter, slatherin' his tongue all over my hot jock cock. And rubbin' his own too. Fuck coach, you're one helluva cocksucker."

Coach Baxter was a cocksucker, but he didn't like being called that. As far as he was concerned, sucking cock was part of hot steamy sex between real men, one of whom might be a cocksucker, but no way was that him. Reluctantly, he pulled off Tom and stood up. "We'll see who the cocksucker is, jock."

Baxter stepped behind Tom and gripped the former high-school football player's pants at the waist. He yanked down, struggling to get the tight clothing over Tom's sweaty bubble butt. When he succeeded, he played with the dildo making Tom pant and squirm. Then he slowly pulled it out and devoted both hands to caressing Tom's hard rounded buttocks. The desire to lick and lick and lick was getting too strong. Baxter needed to maintain control. Quickly, he pulled a small tube of lubricant out of his sweatpants pocket and coated his raging boner with it.

"The didlo's out muscle-stud and now you are gonna get porked by the real thing. Your hot ass is gonna belong to me. You're gonna know I own ya."

"Huh? No, Coach! Don't fuck me. Don't make me your musclehead butt-boy. How will I face the guys at practice on Monday?"

Baxter noted to himself how Tom had already accepted the plans for his future.

You're gonna ride their asses hard, pushing them as far as they can go. We're gonna have a winning team. But you can bet that the guys are gonna be pissed off with you for being such a hard ass. By the end of the season, they are gonna want retribution. And if they win in the finals, I'm gonna let 'em have it. We're gonna tie you down to a bench in the lockerroom and any team-member that wants to, is gonna have a free pass to your ass. You may shout tough orders on the field, but the guys are gonna know that if they do what you say, come the end of the season, you are gonna be their big muscular butt-slave.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck... jock butt slave to my own team! Fuck that's humiliating..." moaned Tom as he writhed in his bondage.

Coach Baxter laughed and then whispered in Tom's ear, "Don't you worry, dimwit. By that time, you will have had so much practice that your hot bubble butt will perform tricks that those young studs could never imagine in their wildest dreams. And with all the work you are gonna be putting in with some of the athletes in the gym, I predict that every year or so Pine Valley High will quietly graduate a small crop of of dumb gay musclejocks - destined for lives of helpless horniness and servitude, just like the one you are going to lead from now on."

"Oh man, this time I'm really screwed, aren't I Coach?"

"You said it. Now flex those nice biceps for me while I start your butt-training."

While Tom flexed, making himself hornier by the second, Baxter slowly and gently ground his big coach meat into his new slave.

"Dammit that feels... awwww fuck... you're really grindin' in g-good, Coach. Ohhhhhhhh that fucking cassette tape... shit..."

Coach Baxter groaned as Tom's tight butt clenched his big thick cock. "Don't you worry Jenkins. Today, we're gonna take it nice and slow.,, unngghh! We've got all afternoon here in the gym and I'm gonna tease that big body of your so much you won't know up from down. I'll get ya trained up real nice and when we're done today, you are gonna be one horny fucker. Tomorrow, when some of my buddies come over tomorrow for a fun game of Sunday afternoon poker, things are gonna move pretty quickly. You see, you'll be under the table in a pair of dirty old sneakers, your jockstrap, all nice and wet with my juice of course, and you new "Dumb Jock" t-shirt. Your hands'll be tied behind your back. Your job will be to lick everyone's hairy legs. At the end of the game, everyone gets to decide whether you did a good job. If you didn't, then you have to suck their cocks. So you are gonna have lots of incentive to use that wet tongue of yours. Of course, the winner of the game, well, he gets to fuck you.

"Awwwwwwwwww noooohhhhh...," sighed Tom as he succumbed to the pernicious pleasures of his stuffed butt.

As Baxter slowly pumped in and out, he ran his thick tongue along the back of Tom's neck, his spit lacquering all the dense short hairs. His left hand took possession of the hunky young man's tight abs, grabing andcaressing, while the fingers of his right hand tickled and teased the agonizingly hard cock sticking out from the lowered football pants. Tom gasped and whimpered. He looked from side to side at his cuffed wrists and the muscles flexing in his arms. "Oh Coach, I, I'm... ooohhhh... I... can't... think... ooohhhhmmmmffffff." Tom found himself sucking on his coach's fingers as Baxter slid two of them in and out of his captive jock's mouth.

"Yeah, musclejock, you're sucking your coach's fingers, getting porked by his big coach dick and your big juicy jock cock is being used to turn you into coachy's dumb muscle-slave... and you're helpless, totally fucking helpless, to do anything about it. Ohhhhh yeeaaahhh my hunky, blond, pea-brained, stud."

"Co... COACH! UNNNGGHHHHHH!!!!" Whooosh whoosh whoosh - splat splat splat. Through blurry eyes Tom saw his boiling cream blast from his dick and splatter on the photographs hanging on the wall in front of him. "Brad... Carl... Jed... aaawwwww..."

"Yeah stud, the faces of your buddies... all covered in your spunk... OHHH!" No sooner had Baxter planted that thought in Tom's brain then he himself began uncontrollably firing his heavy load into the dazed jock's manhole. "Ah, yeah... just the beginning... Man that's good!"

Coach Jonathan Baxter delivered on his promises. When Tom wasn't helping coach the team or cleaning the gym or spending extra time with the dumbest jocks in the gym, gradually turning them into horned up muscleheads with dick on the brain, he was working out himself and doing all the household chores. Baxter kept him in a cock-cage. Tom was constantly stimulated and always hard, but only allowed release on Saturdays when the coach would spend most of the afternoon edging Tom until he couldn't think straight and then milk him repeatedly all evening. Every ounce of Tom's ball juice was saved in a jar. Each weekday morning, before Tom and Baxter got in the car to go to work, Coach would open the jar and pour a generous amount into the palms of his hands. Tom would be ordered to lift up his 'Dumb Jock' Phys Ed t-shirt and Baxter would massage the built stud's own ball sap onto his hairy pecs. More would be rubbed into his hairy armpits in place of deodorant. Finally, while Tom flexed his biceps, his arms would be carefully shellacked with the slimy stuff. In spite of Tom's protests, this always made him insanely horny. He would be sticky all day, and as he sweated, he would give off an unmistakable odor. The smell of rampant sex that hung around Tom only further encouraged teachers and students to see him as a dumb musclejock controlled by the demands of his own dick. The fact that this situation seemed inescapable, expecially with all the photos Baxter now had, only stiffened Tom's rod. He was sure that if he just had some time, he could figure out a plan to turn things around, but Coach always seemed to know just what buttons to push to send all the blood rushing from Tom's brain to his dick. Even thinking about the trap he was in got him boned and unfortunately, once his cock was hard, his brain just shut down. The only thing he could do was flex his muscles for anyone who asked. Tom Jenkins, dumb musclejock, finally had a career.