"Doc" The Athletic Trainer

"Doc" The Athletic Trainer

"Doc, I tweaked my hamstring in the field today."

Joey limps over to the massage table, grimacing. He is the starting shortstop on the varsity baseball team here at Boston College. At about 5' 9", he's about my own height and probably the smallest guy on the team, but he is a brilliant defender. Not a lot of the guys who go the college route get drafted by professional teams, but I think Joey will. He's twenty-one and we're nearing the end of his junior year.

Having studied Massage Therapy in college, I was hired as the team's Athletic Trainer just this year. All of the guys call me "Doc". I get a kick out of it, especially because I'm barely a year or two older than most of them; I only graduated a year ago myself. But I have a degree and a license. I completed a six hundred hour program of hands-on classroom work. I also studied anatomy, physiology, theory and the practice of massage therapy and ethics. I have no idea if the guys on the team realize any of this, but it was a lot of work. I know that "Doc" is just a nickname bestowed upon me, but I like it. Which is good because even the coach calls me Doc. Truly, I don't think any of them know my real name.

My job is important. I help reduce pain and speed up the healing process for many minor injuries. In some cases, I can stave off a problem from turning into something bigger. My massages promote recovery and reduce the opportunity for muscle injury. And all of the guys spend time on my table in rotation because even without an injury, I help with the routine stress from competing and training. I improve the athlete's overall performance by monitoring their muscle tone and improving their blood pressure and heartrate. I do important work. And the guys realize it. That's why they like me. They call me "Doc" and they make me feel like part of the team.

With all of the one-on-one time that each player gets on my table, and with me being so young and just out of school myself, the guys can relate to me and they talk to me while I apply my therapy. I know them personally and they all text me to schedule additional sessions as injuries arise. It is not my place to challenge what any one guy says he needs. Coach made that clear when he hired me. I guess it's important on the mental side. If a guy thinks he needs attention on his throwing shoulder, then I give him what he asks for, even if I think his shoulder is fine. There's no harm physically and his mental health is protected.

Joey is fresh from the showers, his light brown hair still wet, and wearing nothing but a towel cinched only by his fist. He opens his towel before flopping face-down on the table and burrowing his face into the face port. He does this so quickly that he has no time to see me blush at the flash he gave me of his naked man parts. I shake off the tingle as beads of sweat form on my forehead.

"This is from that diving stop in the seventh inning, isn't it?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"But you got your man."

Joey mumbles something that sounds a little like He's about to get me, but I don't quite catch it. "What was that?"

"Oh, um. I just said, nothing gets by me."

"Right. That line drive was ticketed for left-center field."

"I felt a little something at the time, and it's been tightening up since then."

"Let's see if we can do something about it." I push the towel up, exposing his thigh from the top to the knee. "It was a beautiful play. We need you out there on the field, not on the bench for two weeks with a pulled hamstring."

"You're the man, Doc. Work your magic."

A sports massage is more targeted than a regular massage or a deep tissue massage. It focuses on the areas of the body that are most stressed during physical activities. That's where my extensive training comes in. And baseball is different from other sports in unusual ways. I always wondered as a kid why baseball players get injured as often or even more often than football or basketball players. The answer is that more so in baseball than in any other sport, there are instant reactions. The body goes from a still rest to surging motion in the blink of an eye. Sudden movements, torque, etc... Things like hamstrings are more likely to pay the price in baseball than in other sports.

As I go to work on Joey's thigh, he softly moans. It happens all the time and I've told the guys not to worry about it. It's a natural reaction to the physical sensation. I do not take it personally. After a while, I give the thigh a break and walk to the head of the table where I do some regular work on his shoulders, arms and back. I guess his eyes are open in the face port because he says to me, "Those kicks are sic."

He can't see my face, but the compliment makes me blush again. I am a little bit of a sneakerhead. I could wear a different pair every day for two months. I am currently wearing my newest pair of DC high-tops, black, grey and white. They are pretty "sic". I clear my throat and manage to squeak out a, "Thanks."

Joey says, "You're about my size. I'd ask to borrow them sometime, but my girlfriend just broke up with me so I'd have nowhere to wear them."

I would loan them to him without zero hesitation. The mental image of Joey's feet in my shoes is suddenly giving me a bit of a hardon. The thought and the feeling both take me by surprise. And who is the girlfriend who broke up with Joey, the star of the team? Is she crazy? Whoever she is, she should be bending over backwards to keep this man happy.

Again, where are these thoughts coming from?

I move back down for another go at the strained, but not pulled, hamstring. Joey confirms that it's already feeling a little better as I do my work. He instructs me that he's sore a little higher up the thigh too. I find this suspicious as there is no thigh higher than where I've been massaging. I remember anatomy class well and he's asking me to massage his ass. Glute massages are a real thing. I don't mind doing them, it's just that there's no way that Joey's glutes got injured during that play. But when the team hired me, the manager told me to do whatever the guys needed. I said I would.

So, I don't challenge or question Joey. I do as he asks. I remove the towel and begin massaging his glutes. As I do, my eyes travel the length of the naked man on my table. There is a thing called baseball shape. It's the perception that baseball players do not need to be in the same athletic shape as athletes in other sports - like football or basketball. Joey defies the stereotype. He is in shape to play any sport he desires. Fortunately, baseball is his love and he's on my table. Getting a butt massage. From me.

The whole length of his body is taught tanned skin over the contours of his muscles. Not the exaggerated muscles of a bodybuilder, but those of a well-toned physical specimen. My erection strengthens. Since I am wearing sweatpants, it is not particularly discrete.

It's time to work on Joey's throwing shoulder, so he needs to turn over and lie on his back. I pick up the towel and hold it up so he can flip over, unencumbered and I make a point of looking away. I can tell that Joey sees me "not looking" and he giggles. I've seen him before and I'll see him again, but still, I try to remain professional.

Joey elbows me gently in the stomach, "It's okay, Doc. We have doctor-patient confidentiality. I trust you. Besides, you've seen it before and you'll see it again."

He raises an eyebrow and elbows me again. "You're in pretty good shape yourself there, Doc."

Two more nudges and I have to step out of his reach because it's a sensitive spot and it tickles. Plus, I'm blushing more now than before. I'm not sure if it's worse to be caught "looking" or to be caught intentionally "not looking". I drop the towel across his body and turn back to him.

I gasp, "Oh, my God!"

He laughs.

The towel is tented by the tallest erection I have ever seen in my life! It actually scared me a little bit. I am dying to take the towel away and get a good look. I have only ever seen him in a flaccid state before, and while he has nothing to be ashamed of soft, he is without a doubt a "grower". I think I could grip him with two hands, ironically, like a baseball bat.

He says, "Sorry dude. You told us before that it's a normal reaction to physical stimulation."

I told all of the guys that on their first turn on my table. I told them all preemptively as a "just in case". The thing is that a sports massage is not a gentle, tickling kind of experience. It is therapeutic and very NOT sensual. Most of the time. I haven't been on the job long, but right now is the first time it's come up. Literally.

"That's right," I reassure the healthy twenty-one year old young man on my massage table with a towel tented over his nine-inch nail.

I reach for the massage oil and I accidentally graze against Joey's head. Not with my hand or my elbow, or my hip... No. I grazed him with my own erection. Shit! Maybe he didn't notice. He's still smiling, but that might just be from before. He must think I bumped him with something boney. But not that bone. Fuck. My face has never been so red.

I squeeze some oil and begin to massage his shoulder. As I work, I can't help but notice that his erection does not subside in the least. Neither does mine. Eventually, my hands begin to roam, as if they have a mind of their own. I'm suddenly rubbing oil into his pecs, his ribs, and his beautiful eight-pack abs that frame a concave shallow innie belly button. Touches around his lower abdomen make him quiver and giggle and I should stop, but I don't.

He bites his lip then says, "Doc, I need some work lower."

My fingers slip under the towel and follow the treasure trail of short light brown hairs that lead south from his navel. But I stop short and trail back up.

Joey makes eye contact and says, "Doc, please?"

The towel moves by itself as his dick twitches beneath.

I ask, "What's your injury?"

He giggles again, "It's preemptive therapy. I don't have a girlfriend anymore. I need a release. I will play better tomorrow if you take care of this need today."

Joey is not only a remarkable physical specimen, but he is also ridiculously good looking. The thought of "taking care of his need" makes my dick surge. But that is a line I should not cross. Even if the star player himself is asking me to.

Then his hand reaches out and he takes ahold of my own handlebar through my sweats. As his fingers grip my shaft he grins, "Look, Doc. I'm not even gonna remind you that Coach says you have to do whatever we want."

He actually said I have to do whatever the guys need, not whatever they want...but I guess that's just splitting hairs.

Still holding my erect cock through the fabric of my sweats, he squeezes gently and I grasp the edge of the table for dear life.

He continues, "I need it and you obviously seem to want it. I'll hit a homer in tomorrow's game if you could just lend me a hand today."

The tower under the towel twitches and I think I'll need to lend him both hands. I slide my hand across his belly and down toward the towel again. My fingers dance under the towel and bump into a tree trunk growing out of a fuzzy bush. A well-manicured bush. He's right. I'm dying to do this. I'm also dying to watch myself do this.

Like a magician, I rip away the towel with a flourish. Joey's penis is spectacular. It is rock-hard, pulsating with his heartbeat and glistening in precum. Satisfied that I am indeed about to honor his request, he releases his hold on my own tentpole allowing me to concentrate on him. I oil my hands and I begin to gently stroke his scrotum. The sack immediately tightens, Joey loses his breath and his cock jerks toward his stomach before springing back and once again pointing at the ceiling. I lightly drag fingernails up and down the shriveled skin and Joey purrs in delight. I tease and tickle his perineum and his body quakes in agreement.

I really am not trained in this. Lingam Massage was not a required college course. Should I just treat it like any other appendage? A thigh with a hamstring strain? A foot with plantar fasciitis? I need to just go for it. It's like I'm playing Clue. It was Professor Plum in the training room with the lead pipe. Maybe the candlestick? I grab it and Joey reacts like he's been electrocuted. No, not the candlestick. Definitely the lead pipe. It radiates a heat. It look so different from my own; it has ridges and contours that are unfamiliar to me. He is neatly cut and his mushroom cap is like a sculpture.

I give him a few up and down strokes and he actually whimpers. If I have to do this, I might as well take some time and enjoy it. I still think he's a good nine inches. I introduce my other hand and I run my thumbs side by side from the underside at the base and up his length. When I make it up to the sensitive spot under the glans, he says, "Doc! You have magic fingers!"

I run my thumbs down, then back up again. His precum is mixing in with the massage oil. I give him a squeeze before switching tack. I cup my hands together and envelop him like a pig in a blanket. I slide my hands up and down and apply dragging pressure with my eight fingertips as I go. I'm not sure if Joey is in heaven or in hell, but this is definitely having an effect. I think he's fighting to stay in the game.

I slow things down again. Using my thumb, I play with his slit and make circles around the mushroom cap. Just as this starts to drive him crazy, I lower the circles to his steel rod and he thanks me by blowing out his breath in relief. Then, I grasp his shaft and twist as I slide my hand up his pole.

He whimpers, but it's a whimper of ecstasy.

My second hand joins in on the fun. Now I am twisting in opposing directions - he is long enough that I can do this with length to spare - and his eyes roll back into his head. I have given thousands of massages over the last four years, but I have never touched a penis that wasn't my own before right now. I think I might have some skills though based solely on how Joey seems like he's about to lose his mind. And his load.

I give him a few more strokes up and down then I change things up again. It's time to see just how long he can survive my attack. I cup the topside of his shaft in my left hand while I aggressively rub him up on the underside with my right. I notice his toes spread apart and he bites down on his hand. I rub in circular motions and glide up and down his significant length. At the top, I rub my palm back and forth across his head. He lets out a small scream as I polish him for a full minute, then I give him a break and go back down his shaft with a deep tissue massage. I put that program on repeat.

After two more minutes he says, "Doc? Keep doing that and you're gonna make me cum."

I say nothing. I just smile and keep on going. The relentless combination of the shaft massage and the head polishing is more than he can handle. I didn't need his verbal warning; I could already tell he was getting close. As my hands keep on doing what they're doing, I make a point to appreciate the moment. Here lies the star of the baseball team (and one of the cutest guys in the entirety of the student body). He is completely naked and at my mercy. On the field, he is a combination of a prowling animal, grace and art in motion. He is a defensive phenom. A five-tool player. Adored by all. And at this moment in time, completely at my mercy. I am making this supreme athlete gasp and shake and rattle and thrash because the time has come. There is no turning back.

I lower both hands to that pulsing shaft and pump. His first shot lands on his sternum, warm, pearly white and stringy. He shoots six more times, each traveling a shorter distance than the last. The final ejection pools in his concave navel. His face is crimson red, sweat beads on his forehead and he fights to catch his breath. But it is a fight because I have not released him.

I change from pumps back to a massage, but every few seconds, my palm rubs against his head. This makes his arms and legs flail uncontrollably. I am having more fun than should be allowed at anyone's work. His post-orgasm sensitivity has become my entertainment. But he is not restrained in any way so he is not exactly powerless to stop me, so I ease off the head and go back to a kind and gentle massage. He moans in delight for the next fifteen minutes until his spent, drained cock finally tires and deflates.

I wet a towel and do my best to clean the spunk off of our team's star player. When he has the strength, he sits up on the table and he has the biggest grin on his face. "Doc, you really came through for me."

I am about to say it was my pleasure, but based on his physical response, that would be inaccurate.

Joey's eyes slowly travel down my body and land where my bulge has clearly not dissipated. Those eyes roll back up to mine and he smiles.

He hops off the table and pats it with his hand, "Doc, please have a seat."

It feels more like a command than a request, so I sit. He pushes me on my back with a hand on my chest. My knees are bent and my feet dangle off the end of the table. Joey pushes my shirt up to my armpits. He has an eight-pack. I have a zero pack. But, I am thin and smooth. Joey grins, "Nice!"

He swipes a finger across my lower belly, above my waistband and I quiver and giggle, "Hey!"

He giggles back, "Sorry. I couldn't resist."

His hands grip at my waist band and I sit back up. "Um, what's happening?"

"It's your turn."

I start to get off the table, "No. That's not... No."

His hand is back on my chest, stopping me. "That's not your call to make. I heard coach tell you that your job is to do whatever the guys want."

"But he didn't mean--"

"This is what I want. I want to give you some relief."

I am still achingly hard down there. And it's not like I don't want him to do whatever he has in mind. He pushes me back down again and I acquiesce. Joey is at least three times stronger than me, so why bother fighting.

He grapples at my waistband and my sweatpants and underwear are both suddenly around my ankles. My erection stands free, breathing the cool air of the room. Joey's grin widens. Why? Why is he smiling? My six inches pale in comparison to his nine. Is he smiling because he thinks it's funny? My face flushes.

He grips my inferior (but rock-hard) manhood and my whole body racks from the alarming sensation. He giggles again. "Doc, I do not have magic massage hands like you--"

I cut him off and try to sit up again, "It's okay. I know I'm smaller--"

He cuts me off right back and pushes me down yet again. "Good! I'm glad. First of all, it's perfect on your frame. Second of all, if you were any bigger, I wouldn't be able to do this."

Suddenly, I'm in his mouth. All of me. His lips surround my base. I am feeling shock and ecstasy all at once. Everything is warm, wet and wild. His hands grip my hips as his mouth grips my cock. Suction intensifies and his tongue begins a slithering rub up and down the underside of my length. My mouth gapes open and I have to force myself to breathe.

I've been aroused and erect for an hour at this point. The way he's going at me, I have a minute tops before I blow my load. Just then, he changes tack. He slides slowly up and then back down again while twisting his head to left and to the right. His moves are slow, deliberate and all too much. He maintains the suction as his mouth journeys up and down and side to side.

My instinct is to entangle my fingers in his hair and guide him, but he needs no guidance. This couldn't be better. Instead, I hold on to the sides of the table and prepare for the launch sequence. This pattern of repetition can only be described as relentless rapture. My climax is imminent. I have crossed the point of no return. He continues his routine as I explode ropes of hot cum down his throat. My body shakes, the table shakes, the whole room shakes...