Tag Archives: gay locker room

First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: The Heftiest Football Players

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: The Heftiest Football Players, a new story of masseur action by Happiest Ending!

Charlie giggled when he saw that bulge twitch beneath the towel. He kept it quiet though, so Hoss didn’t hear. Charlie tried to remain professional at work.

It wasn’t always easy. That cock tantalizingly throbbed under the towel. Charlie knew there was nothing else under there, no underwear or anything. He had seen Hoss strip it off behind the privacy curtain that was set up in this room. He was pretty confident that Hoss had a huge cock — with a name like Hoss, how could he not? Charlie really wanted to see it. He could already imagine its salty muskiness in his mouth.

“Okay, I’ve got to do your thighs now,” Charlie said. He moved up from Hoss’ ankles to his thighs, pushing the towel up when he did. He felt a few kinky pubic hairs at the uppermost portion, but he didn’t get a touch of Hoss’ cock or balls.

Hoss murmured to himself and shifted his weight. That made the towel ride up, then fall off him entirely.

His eyes opened wide. Hoss hadn’t wanted the gay man to see his cock. He knew that was stupid. He never used to be worried about that. It never bothered him back in college. They used to change in front of the gymnastics team all the time (“they” always meant Hoss’ former college teammates in his mind).

It was like the keys-thing, Hoss thought. He never took his keys out of his pants pocket growing up, and in college. He thought it was idiotic to do so. His friends were always doing that and losing their keys or forgetting them. They claimed it was uncomfortable to have heavy keys in their pocket, but Hoss thought that was idiotic namby-pamby nonsense.

And then he turned twenty-five, and all of sudden those keys (which hadn’t gotten any bigger or heavier) were too heavy. They were uncomfortable. Hoss now took his keys out of his pocket as soon as he came home, and as often as possible elsewhere. He had only forgotten them once, so he thought he was still doing pretty good.

Just like the keys, everyone thought it was weird that the football players had stripped in front of the gymnasts — in reality it wasn’t their choice really, the gymnastics team practice ended at the same time as the football team — and tried to get them aroused as a big joke. Hoss thought it was stupid to be self-conscious about it, just like it was stupid to take your keys out of your pocket.

But somehow, that had all changed. Those keys weighed his pocket down considerably, and the idea of this flamboyantly gay masseur looking at his cock made him uncomfortable. He was twenty-five now. Was it normal for twenty-five year olds to do this? Was he a wuss now, was that why the keys bothered him?

Back in college, Hoss thought it was hilarious when the gay gymnastics guys had lusted for him. He’d shake his ass in front of their face, get them to beg to lick his asshole, then tell them no. Since Hoss never had that perfect quarterback body — he was a linebacker, full of heft and mass and power, not six-packed abs and muscles carved in marble — he liked it when the gay guys had a crush on him. Hoss could get plenty of girls since he was a football star, but he could tell they really wanted the quarterback Brian. It was nice when the gay gymnasts really wanted him instead.

But Hoss had always said no. Brian always made sure that Hoss had a girl who would suck him off — he believed very strongly that overfull balls led to poor performance on the field. So Hoss just liked to get his ego stroked by teasing the gays.

Is my dick hard?

Hoss hadn’t noticed himself get hard. He blushed intensely. He had never been hard in front of a gay man before. Charlie kept massaging his thigh as though he didn’t notice, but the towel had fallen off and Hoss’ cock stuck straight up from his crotch.

“You’re a big boy,” Charlie said with a wry grin.

Hoss blushed. He hated that, he had a big round face that blushed a lot. Girls thought it was cute, but cute like their little brother was cute (“little” but more than three hundred and fifty pounds of hulking linebacker meat). That wasn’t the kind of cute that Hoss wanted.

I shouldn’t have thought about girls. Hoss couldn’t stop picturing his most recent girlfriend. How long ago was that? A year? Has it really been a year?

It was a lot more difficult to get girls now. It was embarrassingly difficult. He knew that Brian used to tell cheerleaders to get with him. Brian always minimized it though, or maybe the cheerleaders were sluttier than Hoss had thought — Hoss thought that Brian had merely given him a chance, told the girls to come talk to him, to let Hoss try to hook up. Some of them did say no, it wasn’t like they were forced.

But somehow, as soon as Hoss left college with a useless degree in Communications, and Brian was no longer a part of his life, the girls dried up. College girls thought it was cute to hook up with a massive beast nearly seven feet tall. Post-college girls thought it was hot to hook up with bankers and businessmen and computer geeks.

Stop thinking about girls or that erection will never go away.

“Are you okay, Hoss?” Charlie asked. His voice was soft and lilting, almost feminine. His hand was very near Hoss’ cock.

“Yes.” Hoss’ voice was deep, bone-rattlingly baritone. He thought he sounded weak though, like it was obvious he was so horny he could burst.

“Are you single?”

Hoss’ voice broke. “Yeah.” He winced and blushed; he thought he sounded like a loser.

“No girlfriend, that’s too bad,” Charlie said. His hands moved up even higher, and his wrist touched Hoss’ thick cockshaft.

Hoss grunted. “Yeah.”

“You’re a real big boy, I bet you need a woman’s touch, don’t you?”

Hoss nodded. His eyes were closed. “Yeah.” His voice was breathless and hoarse.

Latino Alpha Jocks

Here’s a new story called Latino Alpha Jocks, a hardcore tale of Hispanic locker room action!

James picked up Oscar to bring him into the office. He didn’t normally do that for his clients, but it had become clear that Oscar needed some assistance. James had already given his financial spiel to the rest of the team, but Oscar hadn’t been available at the time. It was a league requirement that all new players had to sit consult with a financial planner like James, who was dedicated to his job. He genuinely wanted these athletes to be successful in their investments.

Oscar wasn’t making it easy, however. Oscar was a professional soccer player for the Los Angeles Strikers, and he was a big enough star that he got paid big bucks. But this had all begun rather suddenly for Oscar, and James had found it difficult to connect with him. Oscar was a notorious bad boy, already being called the “bad boy” of the team — he was a tattooed cholo who looked perpetually hostile,

“Did you look into those securities?” James asked as he pulled into the Strikers’ stadium parking lot.

Oscar grunted indeterminately. He got out of the car, grabbed his workout bag and headed in, low-slung khakis dragging behind his ass. James followed him.

“Oscar? Come on, man, you gotta do something with your money. Hey-“

“Okay,” was all he said. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, then disappeared into the locker room. James hesitated. As a gay man, he loved the idea of following him into a professional soccer team’s locker room before a practice; as a financial advisor, he wasn’t sure it would be appropriate.

“Howdy,” came a familiar voice. It was Coach Bolungu, a Cameroonian-British former player turned team coach for the Los Angeles Strikers. James had a good relationship with him and advised several of his players.

James quickly explained what was going on with Oscar, and Coach Bolungu nodded. He rolled his eyes as though not surprised that Oscar was being uncooperative. Then he opened the door and motioned for James to follow him into the locker room.

The air was humid from hot showers — a lot of the players showered both before and after practice — and the echoing of Spanish-inflected laughter echoed against the tile walls. James’ heart started pounding at the sight of a trio of lanky soccer players stark naked, walking to the showers with their towels thrown over their shoulders.

“Oscar!” Coach Bolungu bellowed.

Oscar poked his head around from the side of a bank of lockers, and he blanched at the sight of James’ smiling face. He screwed up his eyes at James and came forward. He was stark-naked, the hair on his chest stuck to his tattooed skin. He murmured something in Spanish as he stepped forward that made a few teammates nearby titter with laughter.

“Go to your meeting, Oscar!” Coach Bolungu said. “You have to listen to his presentation. It’s a rule.”

Oscar laughed. He put his hands on his hips. He spoke in rapid-fire Spanish, glaring at James, who blushed and looked away.

Coach Bolungu snapped back, “This is a league requirement, Oscar. If you do not invest your money, you will lose it all. I can’t let you play if you do not do this. It is not a matter for discussion.” He turned around and walked away.

Oscar peered at James very closely, as though inspecting him for flaws. James was suddenly acutely aware of his own sexuality. He wasn’t flamboyantly gay, but he didn’t take great efforts to hide it. He knew most of the players who had been around for awhile knew, but Oscar was brand-new to the team, so he probably wasn’t aware.

We did this already, Oscar. It’s not too bad.

Yeah, just do it. Not a gran cosa.

Do it! Quit gettin’ coach mad, or he gonna make us all run!

Don’t be a patada en los huevos!

The other players mostly chorused the same sentiment, in both English and Spanish. Oscar looked crestfallen, as though he had expected his teammates to be on his own — like he was a rebellious high schooler annoyed to learn his college classmates actually took school seriously.

“Uh, okay, Oscar… Mr. Hernandez,” James said, with some satisfaction that he was going to be able to do his job today after all. He didn’t know why some of these athletes resisted it so much; it really was in their best interest to manage their money effectively.  “Perhaps there is somewhere we could go? You… uh… You can put on some clothes. I can wait.”

Oscar scowled. He spoke, in thickly accented English, “Over there.” He pointed to an unused corner of the locker room. Then without putting any clothes on first, he headed in that direction. James followed, his eyes drawn inexorably to the man’s perky brown ass. His cholo tattoos extended to his waist but no farther, leaving a smooth, perfectly unblemished pair of asscheeks.

When they got to the unused corner of the locker room, James blushed. Oscar turned around quickly and saw him checking out his ass.

“You are queer, huh, gringo? I knew it…”

James nodded. He tried to clear his mind, to remind himself of what he came here to talk about — Oscar was losing money every day he failed to invest his salary. It really was important.

“I do not want to hear about money, gringo,” Oscar said. “I have plenty. But I will listen if I have to.”

“Uh, okay. This doesn’t have to be difficult,” James said. “It’s really very simple. I’m sure you’re familiar with a stock market, but let me explain some basic terminology so we can be sure we’re on the same page.” Once he got started, James felt better — he had never taught a naked man about financial responsibility, but if that’s what it took to reach Oscar, that’s what he would do.

Oscar sighed dramatically. He called out something in Spanish that James didn’t catch in time, but whatever it was, it made Oscar’s teammates burst into laughter. He got the impression Oscar complained about being horny since Oscar grabbed at his crotch when he spoke.

“Okay, when we talk about shares in a company,” James said. “That means you’ve purchased a small piece of the company. So if a business has a hundred shares available and you buy two, you own two percent of the company. If it has a million shares available, you own two millionths of the company.”

“Yo, I can’t listen to this shit,” Oscar said. “I’m too cachondo. Get to the part of this presentation where there’s strippers. Skip right to that.”

“Strippers?”

“Yeah, I’ll listen if a stripper explains this to me,” Oscar said with a cocky grin, as though he wanted to see if James would really arrange for a stripper to be his financial advisor. Then Oscar added, “A female! A female stripper, esse, don’t try to make look at a hombre.”

“Uh… Mr. Hernandez, I don’t have any strippers,” James said with a sigh.

“Then I don’t give a shit about any of this.” Oscar crossed his arms over his chest. His ropy muscles were tense, and his thick cock pulsated so close to James that he could feel its heat. Oscar frowned at him. He raised his eyebrows at James. “I’m not listening to a word until I get a blowjob, motherfucker. I’m a goddamn star!”

His heart pounding, James sunk to his knees. He didn’t really think Oscar would let him suck on that thick brown cock dangling between his legs, but James wanted to try — Oscar had specified a female stripper before, but he didn’t specify whom he wanted his blowjob from. If nothing else, James thought, this should lighten the mood.

Servicing a Basketball Team

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Servicing a Basketball Team, a new story in the Servicing Black Groups series of extreme str8core-worshiping gay erotica!  It’s also available for less than a dollar a story in the Complete Servicing Black Groups Series bundle!

 

“Okay, guys, I know this isn’t fun,” Stan said. “But it is important. You won’t be able to play basketball your whole lives, so the money you make now needs to work for you for a long time to come.”

The team sat in front of him in the locker room. Stan would have rather done this in a more formal environment, but Coach Willamette had said that if you take the players somewhere else, like Stan’s office, after the game, a lot of them will sneak away. You gotta git ‘em when they still in the locker room, Coach Willamette had said.

“Alright, before we talk about your options, let’s go over some terminology,” Stan said. “First off, risk. I’m sure you all use the word risk, but in finance it’s a very important concept. All investment is about balancing risk, and-“ Once he got into the flow, he could tune out any distractions; he had perfect tunnel vision for this presentation. After having given this exact spiel plenty of times, he had it more or less memorized.

But he was mid-monologue when he realized most of the team wasn’t paying attention. They were either on their phones or chatting with each other; one was distractedly rolling a joint.

“Hey, gentlemen, shut the fuck up!” Coach Willamette barked, his voice weary as though he shouldn’t have to say this. He jumped in front of Stan and barked at the players. They did shut up, but they glared at Coach Willamette, whose chestnut brown skin gleamed as he stared his team down. “This is an important presentation, and y’all gots to hear e’ry word of it.

A long pause followed. Stan wasn’t sure if this was normal, or if the players were seriously challenging Coach Willamette’s authority. Coach responded as though he expected them all to follow his commands without hesitation, and was offended when they looked at him like a crazy person for telling them what to do. There was a few rebellious snickers, and someone muttered, shut that ol’ nigga up.

“Get in the sauna!” Willamette said. “Now!”

The players groaned but stood. They clucked their tongues against their teeth as they sauntered away. More than a few glared at Coach Willamette as though they considered punching him, but decided not to go through with it.

Stan blushed and bristled. Was that it? Had he given up on the presentation and decided to just skip it? Did Coach Willamette think Stan was so useless as to make the presentation irrelevant? Stan was surprised how little of a chance he got — he basically hadn’t been able to grab their attention in the first thirty seconds, and Coach Willamette had just given right up? That didn’t seem fair.

Then Coach Willamette’s hefty hand clasped Stan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, hoss, they ain’t wanna pay attention to nobody. You can give your spiel in a sauna, right?”

“Uh… in a sauna?”

“They’ll be naked, you comfortable wit’ that? You ain’t gotta be naked too. I mean… you can’t really go in there in a suit, you gonna get heat stroke fo’ real. But you can go in their in yer drawers,” Willamette said, walking away.

Stan’s heart started pounding. He was an openly gay man — though he wasn’t sure Coach Willamette knew that — so he certainly didn’t mind hanging out in a sauna with a bunch of naked basketball players. But would they mind if he was in there? What if he got a hardon?

The boisterous chatting of the players made it easy for him to find the sauna, which was down the hall at the far end of the locker room. Stan patiently folded his clothes up and left them on the bench outside the sauna. He kept his boxer shorts and a t-shirt on, since he knew his body would look pitiful in comparison to the players’. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he was skinny and short.

Yo, Coach, where dat white man at? My balls is stickin’ to my thighs, nigga! I gots bitches begging me to cum over, man! Let’s hurry dis shit up!