Mr. Meyer Makes a Man Out of Me

Plus, he was surprisingly physical. My midwestern upbringing meant that people--especially men--just didn't touch each other. Ever. But here he was, hands all over me as he moved me into position, changed my stance, or braced me when I needed it. Clapping my back when I nailed a routine. Touching me. Freely.

But it wasn't just about becoming strong. He took seriously his role of mentoring me into the world of men. Showing me, along the way, all kinds of things that my overprotective, vaguely neurotic mom never wanted me to know. Showing me how to spit. Getting me to feel comfortable adjusting myself when necessary. Teaching me how to snap back and bust another guy's chops. And also, how to embrace life, with a jock-like confidence. His philosophy was "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take," and that ethos slowly worked its way into my thinking. No longer being afraid to go for it.

And that was the true transformation going on. He was leading me to being tough, physically and emotionally. To feel comfortable in the new body I was creating.

And slowly, over time, things started to change. I started filling out more. Even I could start to see the contours of my muscles slowly spring to life. Looking less like a boy, and more like a man.

Mr. Meyer's body remained my ultimate goal. When I stared in the mirror, his was the body I wanted for myself. Just the... shape of it. The mass of it. The obvious power of his muscles. And a dusting of manly hair of my own.

Curiously, that chance encounter of seeing him naked on our first day together remained seared into my mind. And... that wasn't the only time I saw him like that. He was remarkably casual about getting undressed. Sometimes, he and another coach would be casually bantering back in forth in the office, and one or the other of them would be stark naked. Hidden off to the side so they couldn't see me, I silently gawked at them. I couldn't get over it. It was so... foreign to me, especially since my mom usually acted like a guy with his shirt off was obscene. I was... amazed? thrilled? that he was so free with his body. Envious of his confidence.

The raw power of his body was reinforced a few weeks later. Later in the fall, we got a late blast of summer weather. As the heat got to us, we stripped off our T-shits, and it was all I could do not to oogle him as he pushed me through my drills. Watching his muscles, now sheened with sweat, in action. The sight... got to me. Stayed with me. Tripped along the edges of my mind... my memory.

Something else happened that day. After I finished my drills, he sent me running to grab our discarded shirts. As I was running back, I... I don't know what I was thinking, but I... well, I brought his to my nose and... smelled it.

I... it was like... I mean... it just....

Wow.

His scent... filled me. I mean, I was aware that he had a... well, a day-in, day-out scent to him. But this was different. A sharper scent. A scent of sweat, and action, and... man.... It was amazing. Throwing me off. Hitting me in ways I... didn't... understand.

It stayed with me.

I think it was around then that... strange thoughts started to come into my mind. I mean, as a red-blooded American teenage boy, I thought plenty about sex. I had started the usual... dance... of trying to get the attention of cute girls in my class. Along with my few buddies from the neighborhood, I had of course snuck peeks at girlie magazines whenever we could get away with it. And, naturally, that Holy Grail of teenage life--sneaking views of dirty videos that my buddies' dads had thought they had hidden away.

It also should go without saying that I had a very healthy acquaintance with jerking off--and had even snuck a bottle of lotion under my bed so I could enjoy myself at leisure. I trained myself to be deathly quiet to avoid arousing the wrath of my mom.

So yes, I was acquainted with sex, at least from the perspective of a repressed, 18-year-old virgin.

But as the weeks drifted by, my thoughts on the subject became... disjointed. Less clear. My daydreams were less about abstract, big-titty women I had seen, but of... I dunno... physical pleasure of a... different sort. One that I couldn't even put my finger on, and that never quite came into focus.

Besides, it didn't seem as important. What I was really into was hanging out with Mr. Meyer. Those sessions became the bread and butter of my life. Making me feel confident. Making me feel alive. And somehow, Mr. Meyer became one of, if not the most important person in my life. His opinions started mattering more to me than my buds. I mean, they were just a bunch of kids, while Mr. Meyer was a freaking God.

It wasn't just the drills, I loved just... doing things with him. Making him proud of me. Making him... pay attention to me. Thinking how good it felt to have his hands on me as he shifted my position, or set my legs or....

It was... strange....

Things became really strange one day when he was working on some drills to build flexibility. He was pushing, I was pushing, and... something happened as our balance got out of whack, and he ended up hands-on, flat-out pushing my butt to stabilize me.

It was only an awkward, passing second, and we reset to get it right.

But that...

...it felt...

...man...

Wow.

There was something about that moment that hit my body in a way I didn't understand. I could feel a... burning... on my cheeks. A... tingling... in my gut. And almost like an... after glow... of his hands. I realized my pulse was up. And not from the workout.

Oh crap. I was bewildered. Confused. And I pulled back. It was weird. I looked at Mr. Meyer. Oh God. What did he think? What was I even doing? God, I was such a spaz!

But his look was... curious. Maybe the most curious thing about the whole situation.

I went home. There was plenty of time before my mom got back from work, so I usually enjoyed a bit of uninterrupted "me time." I slid into my bedroom. I was all set to rub one out. Maybe with a contraband dirty magazine that I had stashed under my bed.

Yeah. That's what I needed. Clearing my mind by shooting a big load.

I grabbed some lube and slid it around my rapidly-swelling dick. Hoping the rush would burn through the confusion and set me to right. My slick hand worked my meat. Feeling good. It only took a second for my dick to rear up, ready for battle. I was long; seven inches or so when I measured last. Curved slightly back towards my belly, with a good-shaped mushroom head. A good dick for jacking off, giving me lots of surface to work.

I got down to business. I loved the tight feeling as I twisted my hand slooowly around myself. Loving the torque. Loving the pressure. Rubbing my thumb around the tip, teasing my piss slit. Oooooh yeaaaaaah. With my left I started working my nipples. That always got me going. Pulling. Tweaking. I had just a brush of hair around them--they were not nearly hairy as Mr. Meyer's. His were big and fat too, filling out those might pecs of his....

Aw crap, why was I thinking about... him? Like, a guy? No! I was trying to get myself off! I pulled out my well-used magazine, and opened it to my favorite page. A page of her fingering her twat. God, I wish my hand was there. Without thought, my left hand slid down to my balls, kneading them roughly as I pulled my dick. Loving the feeling of my bush as tickled my fingers. Pushing up on that magic spot behind my balls. Yeeeaahhh. Feeling gooood as my lotion-slicked fingers started working my dick. Harder.

I was enjoying myself immensely, and enjoying the clarity that came from pleasuring myself, all other thoughts gone.

I closed my eyes. Somewhere, unbidden, disjointed visions danced around my mind, in time with my right hand's motion. Hands. Yeah, they were hands. Hands on me. Hands rubbing me. Rubbing me like I rubbed my dick. Hands. Nice. Smooth. No, not smooth... rough hands. Hands with a dusting of hair. Under my balls. Hands. Hands reaching...

...reaching around my butt...

Hands.

Big, rough, hairy hands.

Hands like his.

Mr. Meyer's hands.

Mr. Meyer's hands on my butt.

Hands. Butt.

Oh God.

OH GOD. I realized my left hand was working my butt. God, that was so... wrong. My ass was... you know, like... dirty. You couldn't--shouldn't!--play with it. That was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. No matter how good it felt. Working. Hands. No, that was wrong! Hands. Rough hands. Forbidden. But setting off something....

Oh God. Oh God.

OH GOD.

All I could see was Mr. Meyer working my butt. His rough, meaty hands behind me. OH GOD. My right hand furiously pounding my dick. His hands. My middle finger of my left hand lightly brushing into my crack. OH GOD. Furiously pounding my dick. OH GOD. My Meyer's hand. Feeling me. Feeling me. Me raising my hips for him. His...

His dick.

I looked at my dick. Harder than I had ever been in my life. My cockhead slick not just from lotion, but... from... seeping... precum. I saw it. Saw my dick.

And then I saw Mr. Meyer's.

OH GOD.

OH GOD. OH GOD OHGODGODGODGOD

And just like that, every other thought I had ever had in my life went out the window. In my mind's eye, I could see was Mr. Meyer's huge, angry cock. Hairy as hell. Furious. Seeing him pull his pud as violently as I was pulling mine. Our cocks. Becoming one. Huge. Man cocks. HUGE.

MNNNNGGHAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Without realizing it, I shot off. Bigger than I had ever shot before. A screaming cannon-blast of spunk that blasted all over my face. OH GOD.

Oh God.

What was that? What was going on? Did this mean I was.... You know....

[...]

[...]

...God, I couldn't even bring myself to say the word.

No! No way. Those people were... those people. I wasn't... you know. I was just... I mean, this only meant that...

Oh. God.

Please.

* * *

In the days that followed, I was too freaked out to dare beat off again.

Worse, our training sessions started to feel... strained. At least for me. I had finally started feeling confident in my own skin, but with this... new development, I was thoroughly spooked. And I'm sure Mr. Meyer could sense it; he wasn't his bold, larger-than-life self, either. Which made me spiral even further... did I just royally screw up the best thing I had going on in my life?

And that thought penetrated deeply. This was the best thing I had going on. I realized just how... ferociously I looked forward to time with Mr. Meyer. Drinking in his strength. Feasting on his masculinity. Eating up his....

Eating...

His...

God help me. I had visions now of... my face... my mouth... against him. Against his... the taste of his...

It was torture.

The scenes came to me fast and furious, and suddenly I was throwing wood like all the time. Like when I had just hit puberty. What gives?!? I wasn't a kid anymore. How could I....

My resolve to hold back from beating off faded with the onslaught of testosterone constantly flooding my body. My jerking sessions becoming savage. The stupid cum-sock I kept under the bed to mop up after I shot my load was soon crusty and hard enough to crack concrete blocks.

Weeks passed, and the cycle ground on relentlessly. And the times I spent with Mr. Meyer were making it worse and worse. Maybe it was my ongoing neurosis, but I was sure he was still being more aloof. He wasn't as hands-on as he was before. But that just meant that every time he did touch me was like an electric jolt. I deliberately burned every casual brush with him into my mind as fuel for my masturbatory fantasies later.

This one session together was particularly bad. He had patted my ass for nailing a routine perfectly. It was nothing--just the common, stupid, "homoeroticism-masking-as-straight-guy-rough-housing" kind of maneuver all jocks do. But it set me off. I could barely hide it. I was terrified that he might see. That he might somehow guess. So I made up some crap about having forgotten something big at home, ended our session early, and all but ran off without even going back to the locker room to change.

After a minute, I pulled myself short.

Real smart, Troy. Real smart. There was no way I was going to make it home in nothing but my workout gear, especially with the cold weather at this time of year. I swallowed hard and humiliatingly made my way back to the locker room. I quick changed as fast as I could, desperate both to get away and get back home to rub one out... but as I was leaving, I realized something.

The door to the gym teachers' office was ajar.

Holy crap.

I wasn't surprised, as Mr. Meyer was the only one there and he probably thought I was nearly home by now. No need to be fastidious in making sure the door actually latched. So I cautiously slipped in.

Not sure why. Not sure what I hoped to achieve.

Again, the main part of the office was a shared administrative space, but behind there was a mini-locker room, just for the teachers/coaches. With showers. As I crept forward, I could hear water running.

Mr. Meyer was showering.

Oh God.

My stomach was turning summersaults. My hands shaking. I think I was starting to hyperventilate.

I crept in and cautiously looked around the corner. The shower was definitely going, and by the irregular splashes and sounds I could tell he was in there, washing himself off. There was a small row of lockers, with a bench in front of it. I could see his gym bag, and his clothes nonchalantly laid out. I slooowly peeked toward the showers. From that angle he was well hidden by a partition. Safe for the moment.

But then the gym bag grabbed my attention.

Something... on the gym bag.

There. Right on top. The last thing he removed when he undressed.

Mr. Meyer's used jock.

Oh God. OhGodOhGodOHGODOHGOD.

No! This couldn't be happening! This was too much! Too much!!! OH GOD.

Without hesitation, I grabbed it. Touching it. Feeling it. And then, God help me...

...I ground it into my face and inhaled as deeply as I possibly could.

Ohhhh...

Myyyyyyyyyy...

GOOOOOOOOOOD!

His musk exploded any rational thought I could have ever had. Far stronger than his sweaty shirt from last summer. Far more potent. It floored me. Every neuron in my brain started going off like a pinball machine.

His scent was rich, sharp... aggressively masculine. Raw. I huffed it, again and again, making myself dizzy. All my dreams about manhood were there, alive in that earthy, dank, man-stink. I instinctively shoved my hand down the front of my pants to grab my throbbing dick. Every part of me feeling... alive. Feeling...

CRAP!

Breaking out of my mental frenzy, I realized the water had turned off. How long ago??!? OH GOD. There was NO TIME. I had to....

And just like that, my world ended. Plummeting from the highest high of my life to the lowest low I could imagine...

...Mr. Meyer came around the corner, drying himself off.

And he saw me.

I was too terrified to scream, let alone move.

"Troy?" he asked, startled. "What are...? What...? What... are... you... doing?"

I couldn't answer. There was no possible answer for why I was standing there with his jock in my face and my hand in my shorts. That... pretty much spoke for itself.

There was a sing-song cadence to his words. "You're... in... my... stuff...." His voice had a timbre I had never heard. It drained away to nothing. The same way all my blood had drained from my face.

He stood there. Naked. Water sluicing off him. I dreamed about this for so long. And now it all felt so... empty. Ruined.

He was now looking down. I couldn't read him. Not at all. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur. "You... like that. Don't you? Really like that."

"I... don't... think...." Not my most eloquent moment.

Then, he... surprised me. He... laughed. Not a big laugh, just a a low rumble. An ironic chuckle, as he slightly shook his head. He threw the towel around his shoulders and pressed on. "Unbelievable. Troy, tell me straight. You like that, don't you?"

My initial shock had well and truly given over to raw panic. "I don't know... what you mean...?" My voice all but cracking.

"Oh, I think you do," he said. And to my fascinated horror, his voice started to sound sounding like a hungry lion on the prowl. "Here all this time I thought it was just me. That I was the sick perv. Afraid. But I think we're in this together." He approached me. I tried to back away but my muscles had entirely deserted me. I was hoping to God I wasn't wetting myself.

He took the jock from my helpless fingers, and raised it to his own nose. He inhaled. "Mmm. Man-scent. Yeah. Fuck yeah."

I about jumped. That word. Hearing him say that word. A word my mom would have strung me up for using.

"That's a good smell," he said in a thick, heavy voice. "The smell of men, in all their sweaty glory. The smell of dick and balls. Raw. The smell of sex."

I swallowed hard. Desperately trying to make sense of him. To sense if I was in some sort of trap. What was going on??

"Troy, let me tell you something. Every coach realizes a few men on his team have more than the usual attachment to them, as a coach. Sometimes it's a daddy-son relationship, sometimes it's a straight forward liking for authority figures. I see it all the time. In fact, this happens with such regularity, I realized it was a natural relationship common to all men on team sports. Entirely natural. So don't be scared. You, son, are part of a wide-ranging, long-running fraternity."

"Uhhh, no.... I mean, I'm not.... I don't feel...."

"Don't worry, Troy... I feel it, too. We're alike."

"WHAA-?? No! I... I... I can't! I don't think of myself like that! I'm not...."

"It doesn't matter what thought of yourself. It doesn't matter what you think at all. You know you feel it inside you."

At that moment, I was in full fight-or-flight mode. More terrified than I had ever been in my life. What did he mean??

I found out soon enough. He reached down and gripped my crotch in his huge, meaty hand.

I gasped.

There was no way he didn't feel how rock-hard I was. Even through my jeans.

Wait... think about it, Troy. Oh God... I was... rock-hard. I was. Hard.

Oh God! He knows! He was gonna kill me! He was gonna....

Wait....

His hand never left my crotch. He was... feeling... me.

Feeling me.

Our eyes locked.

"You've been thinking about me this whole time, haven't you. Day dreaming through the day, and sweating through the night. Thinking about things you shouldn't be. Thinking about... men. With a hunger eating you alive. I've been there, Troy. I know the drill. Lots of guys do. So. Here we are. We're both men... grown up men. We understand each other. We can be honest with each other. Will you be honest with yourself?"

I looked at him. Saw... things... in his eyes. Things I'd been feeling. Things I'd been hiding.

No, I wasn't... I shouldn't....

What the hell should I do????

He had fallen silent. Just watching me. Waiting.

Screw it. I remembered Mr. Meyer's life lesson. You miss 100% of the shots you don't take, right?

So.

I looked him dead in the eye. Man to man. I took a breath and breathed it out. I found my voice--a growl that to match his own. "You don't know how many loads I've blasted thinking about you."

A sinner's smile spread across his face. "I can imagine." His voice was golden-smooth. Undeniable. He shifted his hand, and drove it down my shorts to grab me, skin-to-skin. "Yeah. I can tell."

I gasped. My knees all but buckled. If I hadn't been backed up against the lockers, I would have certainly collapsed in a pile of hormone-laced goo.

No one had ever grabbed my dick before. Never happened. Certainly not during any of those abortive attempts I had to get something going with the girls in my class. His hand started to roughly work me over. He had my Un. Divided. Attention. Looking into his eyes. Seeing... something. Something that not that long ago would have terrified me.