Coach's Experiment II

I was quickly working my way up to a very angry state. This balding 40-something-year-old, heavyset white guy was going to give me a massage? A handjob even? No fucking way. I turned to leave, but I didn't. To this day, I don't understand that. For a week afterward, I kept telling myself the reason I stayed was to appease the coach. You don't piss off the coach if you want to stay on the team. Especially if your scholarship depends on it, and you're not nearly the best player. I was figuring, how bad could it be? I mean, even if this old fart gave me a real handjob, I'd live through it, right? Like getting my balls checked by the doctor. No big deal. So why was my heart beating so fast? The old flubbery fellow started talking, kind of digressing into a story about athletes who have been on the team before me. These are names I've heard before. Some became quite famous. For some reason, I told him I didn't care about fame. Oh, the fortune would be good, so I could take care of people in Africa, maybe Cameroon. Pretty soon, I was talking more than the massage guy. He had worked some sort of magic on me. I started to like old Jackson, and was enjoying the conversation. We must have gone on a good ten minutes, when he suddenly announced, "We only have forty minutes. Take off your kit." I guessed he meant my clothing. What could I do? I kept reminding myself it would just be like a physical exam. Just a professional sort of thing, right? I took off my T-shirt. I pulled off my shoes and socks. Then my pants, but I stalled out when it came to my underwear. "Time's a wastin'," he prompted. Still, I stalled. I was thinking about the door again. I was starting to get angry again. My mind went to 'anger management.' I've had a bit of trouble with my temper, but I've been pretty good about managing it these days. "It's not like I haven't seen a million guys' junk," Jackson added. Have you ever felt like you're in a situation where whatever you do is going to be wrong? Well, that was me, right then. So, under the circumstances, pulling off my briefs wouldn't be any worse than anything else. Off they came. Silently, the massage practitioner pointed to a sheet-covered massage table. I climbed on, face down. He put a tiny towel on my butt, and then went to work. He massaged my shoulders, my neck, my arms, my legs, even my hands, before working on my back. I have to say, his hands were warm. And the guy was surprisingly strong. More than that. His hands really felt quite nice. He removed the little towel, and was working his way lower and lower down my back, starting ever lower, with strokes up toward my shoulders. He was really leaning into it. It almost hurt, but felt great. Somewhere along about here, all my anger, embarrassment, whatever it was I was feeling disappeared. I was becoming blissed out. The strokes started lower, until they were at the base of my butt, and working up. As he kept returning to my lower butt, he was sort of spreading my ass cheeks apart. I felt a bit of coolness on my anus, as it was exposed to the air each time. Dude, I have to tell you, it felt nice. OK, I'll admit it, it actually felt sexual. I didn't notice that I had developed an erection until Jackson asked me to roll over. Suddenly, I realized the situation, and so of course I refused. He laughed, and told me in a more commanding tone to roll over. I've been taught to respect and obey my elders, so I did what he asked. I was already figuring that he must have seen erect penises before. He resumed massaging me - my arms again, my feet, my legs, my upper legs. His strokes went up near my groin as my penis, erect, laid against my stomach. Dude, I was having a good time! This was feeling very sexual, and with a funky old goof. How weird was that? It came to my attention that his fingertips had brushed against my scrotum a couple of times. In any other universe, I would have balked. I would have been embarrassed. I'd get mad, and maybe even clobber the guy. Before I completed that thought train, he had stopped the long strokes up my thighs, and had turned his whole attention to my scrotum. I scrunched up on the table for a second to see what he was doing. He was using the first two fingers and thumb of each hand to gently massage my balls within my sack. I didn't stop him. I wouldn't have stopped him if my life depended on it. He started pressing harder, and my balls were sort of slipping back and forth under his grasp like wet bars of soap. Jackson quietly informed me that I should let him know when it becomes too intense. It was starting to hurt just a bit, but I was afraid if I said anything, the treatment would end. So, I probably endured a bit more pain than I should have, but it wasn't really hurting. Hell, it wasn't hurting at all. This was becoming the time of my life. But then, after a minute, it was hurting, so I asked him to stop. He stopped. I was immediately disappointed. I could have taken more. It hadn't really hurt all that much. Damn! Then, with one fingertip, he just brushed against the underside of my dick. He touched what I later learned is called the 'frenulum.' My dick jumped an inch in the air. It felt weird, like an electric shock of some sort, but good. He did it several more times, each time separated by a few seconds. The next thing I know, a huge orgasmic feeling built up quickly, and I was shooting cum on my stomach. "Nice," Jackson said. Then he went on to say, "Most guys need at least a little stroking to ejaculate." He told me I had several minutes to compose myself, then I should get dressed and leave. He thanked me. I mean, I should have thanked him. Actually, I did, but he left me feeling very good about our session, like as if I had done him a favor. A few days later after practice, the coach pulled me into his office and said, "The massage practitioner says you need some special treatments for a slight premature ejaculation problem." He said it with a straight face, not at all embarrased to say that. I, on the other hand, wanted to sink through the floor. But, he handed me a two-day-a-week massage schedule, and told me attendance was required. At the first appointment, in which which I was actually looking forward to seeing Jackson again, I was shocked when I entered the little room, and was greeted not by Jackson, but an early-thirties, thin, tall, big-breasted, totally hot, blond chick who introduced herself as Shelly, the other massage practitioner. Do you want me to tell you about that?