Source: Forum (DeskFish)
Here's the first part of a story I wrote recently. Sending it in spurts (as it were).
The Briar College wrestling team had made its shittiest showing at the spring conference meet in the five years Coach Marshall had been there: six wrestlers had been entered in the meet and all six had lost in the first round of wrestling. The coach was pissed as hell and scheduled a practice for 11PM that Sunday night at the gym after their van got back from the meet. The guys were so depressed that, when the team van arrived back at the university, their heads were hanging practically on the pavement, and the coach decided to let them do a little drinking to relax and loosen up before the late-night practice. Frank and Ed, the two biggest guys, clambered out of the van and came back with all the beer their arms could hold, and they drove over to the gym.
The place was empty by that time, except for the guard at the door who knew them all, and consoled them as they tromped in and past him into the wrestling room, duffle bags bulging with equipment and beer. They plopped down on a mat and started opening the beers when the coach joined them.
Marshall was 36, and could have still beaten any of the 20- year olds on the team. They were younger, but he had been a national collegiate champion. He had matured very nicely, was a solid and successful coach and faculty member, but had one weakness: clothes. You didn't see too many wrestling coaches looking like Pat Riley at a meet, but that's who he emulated. Hot, sweaty arenas, locker rooms with smelly jockstraps lying around: it didn't make any difference. There was the Coach Marshall in a three- piece suit, a solid color shirt, and a coordinated necktie. Not a wrinkle anywhere, including his still-boyish face. But he could be a terror when his wrestlers fucked up because of mental mistakes or laziness. And that's what had happened at the conference meet.
But by the time he sat down with them on the mat (still not wrinkling the tan suit he had been wearing that day) he had calmed down and started to try to convince them that they weren't the pieces of shit he had claimed they were, but could do better the next time. He hadn't changed his mind about giving them a real hard workout that night, though. But for a while, he wanted them to know how much he liked them, and tried to be their friend, joining in the downing of copious amounts of brew. Brad, the middleweight said, they should have brought some potato chips too; they could've been coneheads.
This started some good-natured insults flying across the mat. Ken, a little lighter than Brad, suggested Brad had the mentality of a conehead. Frank claimed Ed's hard cock look like a conehead. That led to some rough-housing and cock- and ass-grabbing. One of the wrestlers poured half a bottle of beer over another guy's head. It trickled down the front of his red team singlet to his crotch, and everyone shouted: "Look! The cocksucker pissed his pants!" Lots of laughter, more rough-housing. The coach was happy to see the guys were in a better mood. Since 11 o'clock was approaching and the guys seemed to have regained their spirits and energy, the coach stood up, clapped his hands so the sound reverberated through the mostly empty room, and told the wrestlers to clean all the shit off the mats and get ready for the practice. Jim and Carl, the two lightest guys on the team, started to complain, but simultaneous dirty looks from the other guys stopped them with their mouths half open. So, everything got cleaned up, mopped down, and they seemed to be ready for practice. No one had gotten too blitzed by the beer, and when the coach asked if they were ready to kick ass for the next hour, they all shouted "Yes, sir!"
The coach stood at the corner of the mat with a beer still in his hand and more nearby, while the guys paired up according to weight, as they usually did. The partners knew each other inside out. They knew everything about each other's bodies from such close contact day after day, and one thing the team had going for it was that they really liked each other and liked to have fun together. The coach knew, when one guy lay exhausted with his head on another guys crotch, that it didn't land there by accident, and he knew there was a lot of fooling around going on in the showers, but he didn't disapprove; after all, it seemed to keep team morale up and keep the guys concentrating on school and wrestling rather than worrying about whether they had gotten some girl pregnant.
The coach decided to start them off with 15 minutes of drills spinning first one way, then the other, first one guy on the other guy's back, then reversing positions. This was boring as hell, but would sweat out some of the beer and get them warmed up again. "Spin, spin, spin!" These were familiar shouts coming from the corner of the mat. And the coach got to watch those eight asses packed into the singlets go round and round faster and faster. He couldn't deny this was a pleasant sight. He had fooled around with a couple of the guys on his high school and college teams too when the pressure of school, the team and horniness was too much to resist. As coach, though, he felt he had to keep a safe distance from these boys who idolized him.
After about 10 minutes of drill, Ken and Brad stopped and kneeled down on the mat. The coach noticed in a split- second and bellowed: "What the fuck did you stop for, you assholes? Did you hear me say "stop"? Brad gasped between gulps of air: "Coach, we gotta stop. We both gotta piss from all that beer. We'll be right back." (to be continued)
Part 2
"Like hell you will! Start spinning again...now!"
"Coach, we can't. We'll explode in a minute if we move anywhere except toward a urinal. Let us go. Listen, you let us drink that beer. It isn't our fault we gotta go now."
"I fuckin' asked you if you were ready when we started the practice and you all said you were. Now you wanna break off practice to go piss. Great, like 3rd graders."
"Coach, we really don't have time to negotiate."
"OK, go piss your brains out, but get back here pronto and start spinning." The coach took another mouthful of beer and ran a comb through his hair since he had sensed a few were out of place after the tirade. "What babies. Can't hold a little beer for ten minutes."
Brad and Ken were hightailing it to the men's toilet holding their crotches when Ken said, "Fuck this. We do look like 3rd graders.", and let go of his crotch.
Brad replied: "Well, we don't have any fuckin' choice. The john is half-way across the fuckin' gym. If I don't squeeze my cock 'til we get there, I'm gonna do it in my singlet and jock."
"So, what's the big deal? Didn't you ever just let it go sometime just to see what it feels like?"
"Not since I was a kid. Did you?"
"Yeah, a few times."
"You're queer."
"Uh, tell me about it. How many times did you get a hard- on while we were practicing last week, cocksucker."
"OK, OK. So, what's it like?"
"It's real hot -- I mean the piss is really warm, almost hot, and it's a real turn-on too."
"Well, we don't have to worry about it. Here's the john."
Brad pushed open the door and scampered over toward the urinal but Ken got in his path.
Brad shouted: "Get the fuck outta the way or I'm gonna end up pissing in my singlet after all and the coach is gonna have a fit!"
"No you're not. You're gonna piss in my singlet and I'm gonna do yours."
"You're nuts! Then we'll both get kicked off the team."
"Never happen. We're the best he's got at the lower weights. C'mon. Do it!"
Ken reached over to Brad's crotch pulled out his friend's cock from behind the singlet and his jockstrap and said, "Go for it. C'mon spray it all over me. I wanna feel that hot piss."
"No, I can't"
"C'mon, man, thirty seconds ago you were gonna wet your pants. Wet mine!"
"OK, I guess. You really don't mind?"
"Do it, motherfucker!"
With that, Brad relaxed, and a yellow geyser erupted from his cockhead. It hit Ken first on the stomach and flowed down behind his low-cut singlet to his pubic hair and cock. An irregularly shaped stain started to grow around the outline of his cock. Once Ken figured out the angle the piss was squirting at, he directed it exactly where he wanted it, first up on his chest, where the hair got soaked. Then he pulled Brad closer and to the side a little so he could aim the gushing penis in through the side of his singlet right on to his cock and balls. The whole crotch area was soaked and piss started dripping faster and faster on to the bathroom floor.
"Oh, shit! Now we're making a mess."
"Shut up and keep pissing."
Brad did. He was far from being done. Meanwhile Ken really was about to explode. Since he was already dripping wet from Brad's piss, he didn't just want to add more to the puddle at his feet. So he pulled out his own wet cock, now half-erect, both from the hot action he was getting and from the fact it was about to explode and shouted, "Get ready, fucker! Here it comes" He started his flow down Brad's left leg and then switched over to the right. The piss cascaded down and turned Brad's white socks yellow and seeped into his shoes. Then Ken told him to take his cock in his hand and shoot the warm piss wherever he wanted to feel it. Since Ken had moaned most when Brad had pissed on his crotch, that's where he directed the spray. Soon he was drenched just like his partner all around the crotch area and he began to feel the warm liquid flow around his balls. This was a real turn-on for him. He was about out of piss himself, anyway, and the erection he was getting stanched the flow. But Ken had just started and seemed to have gallons available. While still pissing, he grabbed Brad in a bear hug and they both felt his piss squirt up between them. Ken was able to shut off the flow for a second and then shoot it out with more force so that the piss hit them both all over the upper part of their bodies up to their chins.
When they were both done, they were soaked from neck to feet and standing in a yellow puddle. The john smelled like piss and beer, and, like, oh yeah, the anchovies on the pizza they had had on the way back from the meet.
Ken said, "Wow! that was a real turn-on, partner." Oh, man, look at this hard-on I've got. I gotta jack off. And we'd better dry off and get new jocks and singlets from our lockers"
"Me too, but we don't have time for that shit. Marshall'll have us drawn and quartered if we don't get back there. He's probably sending someone to look for us now."
"Well, what the fuck will we tell him?"
""It was your idea, conehead, you figure it out."
"I got it. We'll just say that he kept us at the mat so long we couldn't make it to the john on time."
"We'll be lucky if he swallows that."
Part 3
So, dripping wet, they ran back to the wrestling room where they were met by the coach's booming "What the fuck were you doing, taking a bath in it?" When Marshall looked at the two wrestlers he realized he wasn't far wrong. They gave him their lame excuse, the other guys whistled and laughed, and Ken and Brad expected the worst. The coach let loose with a few expletives and questioned their mothers' ability to toilet-train them, but it could've been much worse. Actually, they were really happy. They got to relieve their bladders of all that piss and they had shared it with each other. As a matter of fact, they were still sharing it with each other since they were going to continue to practice in their wet clothes.
Still, the coach wasn't too thrilled with the whole episode. "OK, you assholes. That was the last interruption of this fuckin' practice. Next thing you know, you guys'll be asking for piss breaks in the middle of an actual match. From now on, until midnight, no one leaves the mat area. You got that?"
The wrestlers all nodded silently. Brad and Ken still had their five minutes of spinning to finish, but other guys had started working on specific moves. Ed and Frank were in the referee's position with Frank on top working on timing and getting a quick jump when the ref's whistle blew. They had both been too slow at the meet. It was about fifteen minutes after Brad and Ken had come back that Frank realized he had drunk a lot of beer too, actually much more than the smaller guys. There was that unmistakable feeling that gets rapidly worse after you've drunk something like beer or coffee. He tried to concentrate on the whistle but couldn't and Ed was escaping easily. The coach started ragging on him. "What's going on, Frank? Past your bedtime? Gone to sleep already?"
"Uh, no, coach, I really gotta piss too. I'm not gonna be able to hold it until midnight."
Marshall exploded, "I don't believe this. This is incredible. No wonder we lost all six matches. I've got a bunch of kindergarteners masquerading as college hunks. You're gonna fuckin' keep wrestling until midnight and I don't care if you piss in your ear!"
"Aw, but coach." The whistle blew even more piercingly than usual and Frank knew that was the end of the discussion. He tried to keep his mind off of what was going on between his legs but there was no getting around it. He was going to have to piss and if he couldn't leave the mat, it was going to happen while he and Ed were on the mat. While Frank was trying to keep Ed from escaping from his hold, he told him, "I can't hold this much longer. I'm gonna have to go right here. I'll try not to get too much on you, man. I'm really sorry."
Ed said, "Holy shit. You're gonna piss right here? Well, I guess it isn't gonna kill us. We can take a shower at midnight, remember. And, like they say, everybody's gotta go sometime."
This made both of them laugh a little, and Frank realized that wasn't the prescription for holding it in a little longer. His cock was pressed against the right side of Ed's ass as they struggled for dominance and he felt the first drops come out of his dick. He tried to hold it in and actually succeeded for a little while. But that only made the spurt more forceful when he had to let go completely a few seconds later. Urine poured out of him, dripping down his hairy leg to the mat.
"Hey, what the...?" Ed blurted out, as his ass cheek started to get warm and damp, not realizing that what they had just been talking about had come to pass.
Frank shushed him and whispered that they'd better keep their bodies close together. That way, the coach might not see what was happening right before his eyes. Frank's piss coated the lower part of his own torso, and all of Ed's ass, turning the front of one and the back of the other singlet a burgundy red. You could hardly miss the difference between the one half and the other if they separated. And there was more bad news.
Ed said,"All this talk of having to piss and feeling yours trickle down my rear end and onto my balls is making me have to go too. I had just as much fucking beer as you."
"Oh no, you can't. Not here. Marshall's bound to see it if you start going now. You'll just make a big puddle under you on the mat after you soak through your jock and singlet."
"I can't help it man, I'm sorry. It's gonna come out in a couple of seconds, no matter what I do. Maybe he won't do anything to us. Looks like Brad and Ken got away with pissing on each other with not much more than a noisy reprimand. Oh, shit! Here it comes!"
As luck would have it, Marshall wasn't shouting orders or blowing the whistle at that moment, and for a second Frank could hear the hiss of the warm, yellow liquid spewing forth from Ed's cock just as Frank's had pretty much drained itself. It gushed all over Ed's cock, went right through the porous jockstrap and filled up the space around his cock and balls in the singlet, from where it spilled out in front of his crotch in a steady flow, producing a widening puddle on the mat. Ed let out a little grunt which caught everyone's attention, so Frank pushed him down into the puddle. Well, now at least the front of Ed's singlet matched the back. (to be continued)
Part 4
"Oh, God!" blurted Frank, as Marshall started walking toward them , each step a little faster than the previous one.
"What the fuck now? Stand up!" They didn't move, Ed still face down on the wet mat, Frank pressing his now hardening cock up against Ed's ass. "Stand the fuck up." And he pulled the 200-pound Frank off of Ed. There stood Frank, piss dripping off the seam of the right leg opening of his singlet, his pecs and tits glistening under the lights, and his now completely hard wet dick pushing free against the restraint of his drenched jockstrap and singlet. Ed got up and piss dripped off his chin and the dirty blond hair on his chest while he stood sheepishly in front of the coach.
"Are you boys quite done?"
"Not exactly," Ed replied honestly, as a little more of the yellow fluid dribbled out of his cock and appeared at the front of his crotch where it was clear he was getting aroused too.
None of the guys could restrain a giggle. Even the coach cracked a smile. It was a pretty funny scene. An elegant man in a tailored tan three-piece suit, gesticulating with an almost empty bottle of beer, scolding two hunks each weighing over 200 pounds who had just completely wet themselves while engaging in a sports practice session.
Although he wanted to give them hell, the coach couldn't help slapping them on the back: "OK, you fuckers, back to work, back to work. And see if you can keep those boners down!" Actually, as he downed the last of that bottle of beer, Marshall was beginning to think that midnight couldn't come soon enough. He was starting to feel like it was time to visit the toilet himself. Oh, what the hell was he worrying about? He was the coach. He made the rules. He could go whenever he had to. So he opened another beer.
Ed and Frank got back on the mat and laughed. Practice was certainly easier now and they responded to the whistle like track stars off the starting blocks. In between moves, Ed said to Frank, "Hey, man, ya know, I had seen your hard dick in the shower when we all jacked off together, but it was really hot when I felt it on my ass and that warm piss came out all over me. Uh, someday could you..."
Frank knew what he meant. "Sure. Long as you do the same to me. Some guys get to be blood brothers; we can be piss brothers." They both returned to practice with renewed vigor. And if you had seen their practice sessions regularly, maybe you would have noticed that on this occasion each guy's face ended up in the other's wet crotch more often than necessary.
A few minutes later, the coach announced, "Just keep going, guys. You've only got about 15 minutes left. I'm going to the john. I had more beers than you.
The four wrestlers who had pissed and been pissed on shouted simultaneously, "No fuckin' way, Coach."
"Whaddaya mean, no fuckin' way? I'm the fuckin' coach and I make the rules."
"That's right, Coach. And you said, 'No one leaves the mat area until midnight.' You're a someone. So you can't leave either."
"Very clever. OK. You're on. I can beat every one of you pussies on the mat, and I can hold my piss longer than any of you assholes too. Resume practice. Go!" But he really wished he could adjust the clock ahead about ten minutes.
Through all this, the lightest guys, Jim and Carl, had been holding their own (in the practice, that is). They were doing a great job and had gotten no complaints from the coach. For whatever reason, although they certainly would have liked to visit the john, continuing to practice was no big problem. Maybe, along with their rock-hard, smooth physiques came self-control. Jim had blond hair the color of straw, and the cuffs matched the collar, as they say; it was just as light in color in his pubic area as on his head. He only weighed 116 pounds, but was a wrestler you normally didn't want to tangle with. He'd been coming back from the flu, though, and just didn't have it at the meet that day.
Carl doesn't sound like a name for an Asian-American, but he was. His father had convinced his mother to name him after Carl Bernstein, the journalist, of all people, whom he had admired during the Watergate episode, just before Carl had been born. Carl was a little taller than Jim and had just as little fat on him, though he weighed about eight pounds more. His hair was jet black. Though his chest and arms were almost hairless, there was plenty of black hair on his legs and ass and a wiry tangle in the bush that crowned his uncut cock. Jim had run his fingers through that bush a hundred times before grabbing the warm slippery cock that stood next to it. Carl and Jim had masturbated together, not only with the team in the shower but also in private in the dorm. They didn't know if they were gay, but they certainly loved each other and enjoyed jacking each other off. The coach had noticed hard-ons through their singlets several times in practice, but since it never occurred during a meet when the public could see it, he didn't really care.
Anyway, both Carl and Jim had lost their matches on this day because of faulty pinning moves. So, while all the watersports were going on elsewhere for the first forty-five minutes of the practice, they had been assiduously trying to improve their pinning techniques. However, now and then, one of them would end up lying almost right on top of the other. In that case, it's easy for the wrestler on the bottom to use his torso and legs to lift up the wrestler on the top and throw him off. Occasionally, Jim's or Carl's hand would slip off a leg, but they didn't mind: it usually ended up on the other guy's crotch and that wasn't half bad from their viewpoint. But most of the time they did what they were supposed to do and executed the moves better and better as the practice went on.
Carl started to feel like he was working hard to hold in his piss, though, and an idea started to insinuate itself into his consciousness. He had never given himself, much less anyone else a golden shower, but he figured if he was going to try it with anyone, it would be with his best friend.
Jim. As the need to piss became greater, he decided it really was a very reasonable idea. He wanted to try it, his best friend was there, four other guys were already soaked in piss, as was the mat, and the coach didn't seem to care. As a matter of fact, Marshall seemed less involved in coaching and more involved in crossing and uncrossing his legs as time went on.
So as Carl pinned Jim on his back, he whispered to his buddy, "Hey, Jim, everyone's been pissing since this practice began. I could probably hold mine in until 12, but actually, I'd like to spray you from your head to your toe, and I can't think of a better time to do it than now. How about it?"
"Hey, sounds like fun, but why don't we just do it in the shower back in the dorm sometime. I don't wanna get into trouble tonight. Coach Marshall's gone easy on us."
"In the shower, we don't have any clothes on. And I wouldn't worry about the coach at this point. He's got enough troubles of his own. Besides, all the other guys are wet. We might as well join the fun."
"OK, what are you gonna do?"
"You stay lying on your back. I'm going to stand up, pull out my dick, pull the head out of the foreskin and rub it a few times and just let it go all over you. When you see me coming towards your head, you'd better keep you eyes closed. Sorry I didn't think to bring goggles. Are you ready?"
(final part to come)