Fausto already knew what an exhibitionist Gene could be, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when the quarterback stripped right down to his grimy jockstrap and socks, and stretched himself out on the pressing bench, all but nude. Fausto had to admit it, though—Gene had something worth showing off. He was in terrific shape, and, although he must've been tired after practice, he didn’t show it as he energetically pressed a barbell loaded with a couple of hundred pounds of iron plates. Gene’s face turned first red, then dark purple, from the effort as he moved his well-muscled arms like a pair of pistons, lowering the bar to his pecs, then lifting it at arms' length again, while David and Fausto hovered over him protectively, ready to grab the weight should Gene lose control of it.
When Gene was done, David coaxed Fausto into doing a few sets of presses, with a lighter weight. Fausto’s arm and shoulder muscles screamed with pain, but he completed the sets. He wasn’t about to let Gene show him up, especially not in front of David. It felt weird to be lying there on the bench, which was already slippery-wet with Gene’s sweat, with Gene standing next to him, virtually naked.
“Okay, that’s more than enough for one day,” David told the two husky athletes. “Good work, men. Now hit the showers.” He startled Fausto by actually giving Gene a slap—a hard one, too!—on Gene’s bare rump, just below the elastic waistband of his jockstrap. But Gene seemed to take it in his stride. He only laughed as, unself-consciously near-naked, he padded back to the now-deserted locker room.
All of the other guys on the team had left by the time Gene and Fausto stumbled into the large, tiled shower area together.
“I do like to work out, just a little, after practice,” Gene declared. “It seems to loosen my muscles up, so I don’t feel so fucking sore the next day.”
Fausto only grunted by way of reply. He and Gene weren’t exactly intimate. Usually, the other guy simply ignored him, when they weren’t actually playing ball together.
“And I like David. He’s cool,” Gene went on. “Don’t you think so?”
“Sure,” Fausto mumbled.
“David was telling me just the other day—‘That’s some build that Mardones-Gil kid’s got. The two of you ought to start pumping iron together, regularly.’ He meant that you and I ought to become training partners.”
Startled, Fausto turned his naked body under the shower spray and glanced quizzically at the other naked guy, who was soaking himself in lukewarm water under the next nozzle. “Really? I mean—is that really what Mr. Carlyle said?” The two of them were alone in the shower room, and Fausto was glad of it, because he could already feel his face flushing a deep red under his tan.
“You sound surprised.”
“I just didn’t think Mr. Carlyle took any particular notice of me—that’s all.”
“Well, he has,” Gene insisted. “He notices everything.”
As they spoke, Fausto had to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes off Gene’s body. There was something about the other guy that appealed to him, yet frightened him at the same time. Maybe it was the almost languid, half-asleep expression in Gene’s blue eyes, and the way they kept darting over Fausto’s own body, even though Gene knew Fausto was aware of it.
Fausto knew he wasn’t as well proportioned as Gene, but he was reasonably proud of his own body. He’d worked hard at sports and gymnastics all through high school to get himself into good condition, and he’d never been embarrassed about being naked in front of the other guys in the locker room. Nonetheless, there was something disturbingly different—more intense—about the way Gene was looking at him. It made Fausto feel that his own admiration for his fellow athlete’s physique was somehow indecent.
Gene’s parents were the liberal type, who’d allowed their son to get himself tattooed. Gene had a tribal design band around his right arm, just above the swell of his biceps. When he found his eyes straying, Fausto tried to concentrate on the other boy’s body decoration, with its vaguely Celtic arrangement of tightly interlocked whorls.
But he caught himself looking down at Gene’s crotch, and to cool himself off, he held his head under the spray of water from his shower nozzle, letting the downpour soak his hair. Blinded by the spray, which was hitting him full in the face, he jumped in surprise when he felt Gene’s warm, wet hand touch his lower belly!
Gene had moved much closer to him, and now his sultry eyes were burning into Fausto’s. “You’ve got a little extra fat there, the same as me,” he teased. “David’s got me doing crunches to tighten up my gut,” he added, his hand sliding slowly lower, the flat of his palm resting against Fausto’s stomach. His voice sounded casual, but his eyes continued to stare into Fausto’s, as though Gene were asking a question with them and was waiting for the answer he hoped to hear.
Despite the tingle of uneasiness he felt from the pressure of the other young man’s palm on his belly—so close to his crotch—Fausto could also feel a different kind of response beginning to pulse through his soft cock and his relaxed, low-dangling balls. Having Gene so close to him, both of them naked, with Gene touching him so intimately—Fausto had to admit that it excited him.
“Maybe that’s a good idea David has,” Fausto heard himself babbling in his confusion. “About the two of us working out together, I mean. I know you can press more than I can, but we’re about the same height and weight and overall build—hey!” he broke off hoarsely.
“What’s the matter?” Gene asked, with an insolent, knowing grin.
“Let go of me!” Fausto grunted. He felt his cheeks burning with a fiery red blush again as he pushed at the other guy’s hand to make him release his cock.
“I just wanted to see if we’re the same down there, too,” Gene laughed. His hot eyes moved slowly and appreciatively down Fausto’s wet body. “Jesus,” he muttered, as his tongue ran quickly around the outside of his mouth. “You look like you’ve got a problem, buddy! A big problem!”
Fausto felt dizzy with excitement. There was no denying the surge of raw sexual response that had shot through him when Gene had so unexpectedly grabbed his dick! The proof of his arousal was pointing almost straight up from between his legs! Instantly, he’d sprung a full, aching hard-on!
“Yeah?” he retorted, defensively. “Well, so what? So do you!”
It was true. Gene’s prick was developing an awesome thickness and rigidity, as it arced up and away from his groin.
“I know,” the quarterback said, softly and insinuatingly. “And it’s all your fault!”
Thoroughly confused now, Fausto decided to make a joke of the entire episode. “Don’t start acting like some kind of a fucking pervert, man,” he laughed nervously, as he turned off the shower and grabbed his towel.
“Just a little harmless grab-assing in the showers,” Gene drawled. “Hell, that’s practically a college football team tradition—and that’s not all that goes on in here, either. Lots of guys do it right here in the locker room.”
“Do what?” Fausto asked, automatically.
“You know. Take turns going down on their knees and sucking each other off.”
“¡Estás tripeando! You’re bullshitting me.”
“You think I’m kidding?”
“I know you’re kidding,” Fausto retorted. “What, right here in the showers and the locker room?”
“Yeah, right here.”
“And you’ve seen them do it, I suppose.”
“Sure. And maybe I’ve done more than just watch.”
“Aw, now I know you’re just bullshitting me, Boudreau!”
The other athlete was studying him curiously, as though Fausto’s skepticism had taken him by surprise, and he found it implausible, for some reason.
“You seem a little uptight about the whole idea, Mardones-Gil. Why? A lot of guys aren’t.”
Fausto dried himself quickly, praying that his erection would soon start going down. “I’m not ‘a lot of guys,’” he muttered. “Am I?”
He had spoken so bitterly that his tone of
voice took him by surprise, as well as Gene. But it was true. Fausto’s family was not only Hispanic, they were poor, from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, and as a result he was still somewhat of an outsider at school. He was cynical enough to suspect that, if he wasn’t so good at football, none of his classmates would take any particular interest in him.
By contrast, some people wondered why Gene’s parents had him enrolled in this small local college, when they could easily have afforded to send him away to some more prestigious school.
There was a moment of tense silence.
Fausto was relieved when Gene changed the subject. “How about it? What David suggested, I mean. You want to try working out together, or not?”
Fausto shrugged. “Sure? Why not?” He almost added, As long as you keep your hands to yourself! But for some reason he didn’t make that stipulation. He was drying himself off as rapidly as he could. He still felt agitated. His heart was pounding away furiously inside his chest, and his cock was still half-erect. To disguise his hard-on, he wrapped his damp towel around his waist. It wasn’t, he realized with dismay, a very efficient disguise. His erection was still blatantly obvious through the moist terrycloth.
Gene was still lingering under the shower nozzle, lazily rinsing himself off. “Give me your phone number, and I’ll give you a call and we can set up some kind of a workout schedule.”
“Sure.” Fausto was breathing hard and trembling as he went to his locker to get dressed.
He had never experienced a situation quite like this one in his life. When he was younger, of course, he’d developed harmless “crushes” in older guys, role models like David Carlyle—guys whom he’d admired and wanted to be like when he got older. And today wasn’t exactly the first time he’d ever horsed around in the showers with some of his buddies. Hell, Gene was right—almost all of the guys on the team took a grab at each other’s cocks or asses once in a while, and made crude homophobic jokes, just to get a rise out of the other guy. But there had never been anything quite like the intensity of the scene with Gene just now.
For one thing, they weren’t buddies. They hardly knew each other. It seemed like a breach of decorum for Gene to be grabbing Fausto’s dick, as though they were the kind of old, close friends who could get away with that sort of shit. Gene wanted more from Fausto than just a weightlifting partner—Fausto was certain he did! And, even more upsetting, Fausto knew he was curious and open to suggestions! He shuddered with a mixture of excitement and self-disgust as he unwrapped his towel from around his waist and confirmed that his cock was still more than half-hard.
He got dressed fast, but before he left the locker room, he remembered to write his name and phone number on a piece of paper torn from his notebook. Gene’s gym bag was sitting on the bench in front of his locker. Fausto deposited the folded piece of paper on top of the bag. Fausto heard Gene turning the shower off, and he left quickly in order to avoid another confrontation.
Fausto tried his best to put the incident in the locker room out of his mind for the rest of the evening, and by the time he was ready for bed, he’d almost succeeded. In the summer months, he always slept in the nude, and as he got undressed in his bedroom, with the light still on, his hand accidentally grazed his cock and a sharp pang of response jolted through his guts. It was almost as intense as the feeling he’d had in the shower, when Gene’s hand had first touched him, with that light, casual, yet insistent pressure of his bare palm against Fausto’s stomach.
The memory of that moment was all Fausto needed to get himself started. Once his dick began to rise and to swell, there was simply no stopping it! The head coach always insisted that if his players kept their minds off sex and devoted all of their energy to their game, they wouldn’t mind being celibate. That was so much bullshit, as far as Fausto was concerned. And he had a feeling that the handsome assistant coach, David Carlyle, had more realistic ideas about lust. Too bad Carlyle wasn’t the one who was in charge!
As tired as Fausto was tonight, he wasn’t too tired to masturbate. He watched in growing excitement and anticipation as his prickshaft swelled inexorably toward complete erection without even being touched again, arcing up slowly but steadily from where it had rested in its flaccid state against his balls, until it pointed straight up from the thicket of dark brown hair between his thighs.
Fausto groaned with pleasure as he turned out the light and crawled naked under the bedclothes. His hand moved slowly down his torso and made a fist around his cock.
Usually, when he jerked off, he didn’t think about anything except getting it over with as quickly as possible so that he could fall asleep, relaxed and satisfied. But tonight, as his hand began to pump on his swollen cock, there were disturbingly specific thoughts flashing through his mind, and all of them had to do with that arrogant young stud, Gene Boudreau. The revelation that the local golden boy, Gene, was apparently gay had sent Fausto’s imagination into overdrive.
He couldn’t get his mind off the image of Gene lying on the pressing bench under him, naked except for his grimy, sweat-soaked jockstrap and socks, his fair skin flushed red from his exertions, fresh perspiration oozing out of his every pore, as he hefted the heavy barbell up and down under Fausto’s watchful eyes. Gene’s arm muscles had bulged under the strain, until his tattoo looked like a tourniquet cutting into his flesh between his shoulder and his biceps.
Fausto’s fist squeezed the shaft of his dick more roughly, and he began to masturbate in the same rhythm in which Gene’s powerful arms had raised and lowered the weight. His balls swelled up and tightened, his breath caught in his throat, and his prick pulsed more urgently within his firm, caressing grip.
Lots of guys do it right here in the locker room, he imagined he heard Gene saying. But what, exactly, did they do?
He was almost finished, his prick almost ready to spurt out its potent young fluid, his legs already tensing and the sperm pressure welling up stronger and stronger inside his cockshaft as he beat it—when his cell phone, which happened to be lying on the nightstand beside his bed, rang softly. Groaning, Fausto thought about ignoring it, and carrying the hand job he was giving himself through to its inevitable conclusion. But then, cursing under his breath in Spanish, he pulled his hand away from his dick and sat up, snatching the phone and holding it to his ear on the pillow under his head.
“Yeah?” he gasped out breathlessly. “Who’s there?”
There was a low chuckle on the other end of the connection. “It’s me—Gene. Did I interrupt anything?”
“No,” Fausto lied. “I–I was half-asleep, that’s all.”
“We don’t have practice tomorrow,” Gene reminded him. “Do you want to pump some iron with me tomorrow afternoon? Maybe around two o’clock?”
“Sure, Gene. Where?”
“At school. Listen—don’t tell any of the other guys on the team about this, but David let me have an extra key to the gym building, so I can use the weight room any time I want to. David could get into trouble if anybody found out, I suppose. It’ll be good because we’ll have the whole place to ourselves, no interruptions.”
“Okay.” Fausto’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “Why don’t I meet you there at two, then?”
“Fantastic.” Gene hesitated. “Sleep tight,” he said, softly and casually, but with an unmistakable innuendo.
Fausto snickered. “Yeah, you too, man! If you can get that mind of yours off sex long enough to sleep at all!”
He hung up quickly. He was groaning and writhing on the bed as he seized his aching prick again, even more urgently this time, and began to beat it with desperate passion. Hearing Gene’s voice, knowing that he’d be seeing the other boy the next day, was inexplicably arousing. Fausto could feel the hot cum surging up through his cockshaft as his fingers stroked it frantically.
He replayed the brief phone conversation in his head, and for some reason the fairly innocent exchanges got his imagination going, hotter and dirtier than the most explicit phone sex co
uld have. He knew, of course, that Gene was David’s favorite of all the players on the team—which was only natural. Gene was the hotshot quarterback, after all. Still, there seemed to be something slightly sinister in the revelation that David had given Gene a key to the school’s weight room. Did the two of them, Gene and David, ever use the space together—just the two of them, with no one else around? No interruptions, Gene had said. No one to see what might be going on. No one to make moral judgments.
Fausto was jealous—whether of Gene, or of David, he wasn’t at all sure. But he was going to see Gene tomorrow. That was something to look forward to. He was going to be able to watch Gene’s hard muscles bulge and flex again…!
Suddenly, with a gasp, he felt the first thick, wet wad of his jism escape from the tip of his prick and smack against his chest, dripping sluggishly down the swell of his pectoral muscle as further spurts of his pent-up, liquid lust gushed out of his hot young tool and soiled his torso.
Letting his head sink back into the soft pillow, he ran his hand in a lazy, ineffectual swipe up from his belly to his pecs, to wipe up as much of the jism as it could find. Then, relaxed, he slept.
Chapter Four:
A Coaching Session
Gene took his time finishing his own shower, because he wanted to make sure that Fausto had gotten dressed and had left the gym. Finally, Gene was alone in the locker room. Rather perversely, now that there was nobody to look at him, he yielded to modesty and wrapped his towel tightly around his waist. Then, smiling secretively to himself, he wandered off in search of David.
He found the blond assistant coach where he’d expected to—in the small office that David also used as a massage room and first aid station. David was seated behind his desk in a swivel chair, with his feet in their expensive training shoes propped up on the desk blotter, and he was glancing through some students’ exam papers with a visible lack of enthusiasm when Gene pushed the door open and walked in, without knocking.
The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove) Page 5