FANBOY

It was a Sunday morning in March, and I was back on the apps, even though I had sworn I wasn't going to be.  Still, February had been spent getting back to the gym, getting my health back solidly in order after an entire January of Covid,  putting Jimmy in the past where he belongs, and hooking up with  Derek and Sharon on Valentine's Day.  FYI, for the interested readers, Derek has texted me a few times, trying to hook up, just the two of us, but I've got my own moral compass.  You won't find me being anybody's secret bit on the side.  Unless it's Ronaldo.  No, no. David Beckham.  Wait, no. Kelly Oubre, Jr.   No, I've got it!  I would totally be Jimmy Garoppolo's secret bit on the side, but that's it.  To borrow from Saltburn, I'd lick the bathtub drain that Garoppolo has bathed in. So humbling to know that. And kinda gross.

My reality is here, where I am most Sundays, kicking back on my sofa, seeing what new faces might be on the apps. 

And boom.  A local guy pinged me after about a minute. His name was Stan and he was 35, not athletic but recently started working out and was committed to working on his body.  I always find that so inspiring.  It's never too late to do work on the gift that God gave you.

Stan was 5'11" and on the slender side -- probably about 155-160. He had a perfect stubble and dark eyes that were easy get lost in.  He loves worshiping muscle athletes and dads, so, of course, that's my wheelhouse and A-game. We flirted some and I liked his pics. I sometimes absolutely love being worshiped by someone who is not an athlete.  Their desire is sometimes uncontrollably strong, and that plays out in dozens of dad/son ways really well.

My gig as an athletic-themed erotic blogger is listed on my profile, so Stan-the-man asked about it right away. I  pointed him to my stories on www.thelockerroomjock.com/blogs/jock-blog, and he sort of disappeared on me. An hour later, he reached back, saying he had read everything on The Jock Blog and needed to tell me, right away, that it was the hottest shit he had ever read.  That was an hour after we had originally said hello on the app. In less than another hour, he was kneeling in front of me as I sat on my sofa in my sky blue Jockmail Bulge-Shower Brief. Imagine, Dear Reader, that he's right here, blowing me, but you're also in the room, also. Watching. You know you want to.  It's why I'm writing it, and, honestly, it's why you are here. ; )

Look at him go, will you? Well, I suppose he's not technically blowing me yet.  He's licking and sucking my throbbing jock dick through this sweet Jockmail Bulge-Shower Brief. My God! His fucking tongue feels so good!

My arms are stretching across the back of the sofa. I give you a wink and I'm just chatting with you as Stanboy does his business . . . 

When I'm hooking up with somebody for the first time, I generally like to wear some layers for the dude to have to peel off:  sweats, a hoodie, a tight tee, some socks, a jock or sexy pair of undies.  As this was the first time I'd worn this awesome sky blue bulge-shower brief, I wanted to see ole Stan's reaction to it, the moment he arrived.

He's doing such a great job, isn't he, ole Stanny Boy??  Just licking and sucking away, like such a good boy! . . . 

Anyway, I was waiting for him, just sitting there on my black, leather L-sectional, wearing nothing but the brief.  The thing that rocks about this particular brief is that it does exactly what it claims to do. It's a bulge shower.  It lifts and brings together your most exquisite family jewels --  especially if you stuff everything in and arrange it just so.  Then you're basically tenting and "showing" in just about every pair of pants you probably own. Now, if you're already an endowed dude like Coach, your big dick and balls become a hefty site to behold in these.  I honestly enjoy stuffing my junk into this particular pouch.  It's like coming home. The feeling is relaxing and awesome. And with Easter coming up, I might even get them in some of these other pastel colors, as well. They come in sky blue, pink, army green, and purple.  

 Such comfortable and colorful places to hide your eggs.

Watch as I sort of take him by the hair now (he loves that), and I give him about ten quick little slaps -- nothing hurtful, just attention-getting. Then, holding his hair, I get him licking from my scrotum, dragging that tongue up and over my balls, all the way up the shaft to the head itself, over and over.  Fffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck that feels good!  But let me go on . . .

When he arrived and had parked, he texted me to say he was here.  I reminded him of our agreement, that he was to do all he was told--tongue bathe me as instructed, shower me with praise, and worship me until I cum.  He wrote back, FUCK YES!  I told him to come in, then -- not to knock, not to ring the bell, but to just walk the fuck in.

The door was unlocked, and I was the first thing he saw, sitting in these briefs, across the room, my thighs spread wide, my arms stretched across the back of the sofa -- basically the same position you're looking at me in right now, Dear Reader, except he wasn't blowing me yet. 

His expression as he opened the door was priceless, a bit deer caught in headlights, if the deer was human, 5'11," dark haired, lanky, with really long legs. 

"Come in!" I said, scratching my junk.  "Please take your shoes off?  The cleaning lady was here yesterday, and she's always after me to keep the floor clean."

He hung up his leather jacket and was wearing a cashmere sweater, a pair of jeans, and preppy loafers. He started taking off his shoes, and I started rubbing my crotch.  His body was so beautiful, in a very natural kind of way.  I loved watching him balance on each foot, as he worked his way out of his jeans, then he peeled off his socks, revealing his really attractive feet. 

His underwear were nothing special, a pair of faded white briefs, so I told him there was something on the table for him. He should put them on.  Now fully naked, he walked across the room to the table, his cock bouncing as he walked. I don't know why it is, but all these nerdy types seem to have massive dicks.  He arrived at the table and smiled.  "Are these for me?" he asked.

Now I was smiling. "They are! Put them on, please." 

I had left him the same Jockbrief Bulge-Shower Brief that I'm wearing, except in purple.  And so he stepped into them.  It was probably shyness that caused him to turn away, so I wouldn't see his dick as he got into them, but that was okay.  I got to see his butt.  His cheeks were dazzling white, like two inverted lacrosse stick heads.  (Sort of like teardrops, for those among you who are, sadly, not lacrosse players). And I watched his cheeks rise and stretch as he stepped into the briefs. 

Fuck me, Jesus, but he's so hot.

He turned and walked toward me.  The thing I love about hooking up with a nerdy type is that it makes me feel so fucking alive, knowing I'm his fantasy and all he wants in the world, for a moment, is to suck me.  I mean it. It always feels amazing, getting my dick sucked. I don't know why, but I like it more than fucking sometimes. It makes me feel like a king. A king getting his dick sucked.  

I mean, when somebody wants to suck you, who wants to put his mouth on your dick, on purpose, and in wicked hot and aggressive kinds of ways, tugging and spitting on it, side-licking it and diving on it, why the fuck shouldn't you let him? Especially when there's something about him that you're really drawn to.  

A lot of times sucking is just a part of foreplay.  It's an awesome place to visit, a  quick layover on the way to Bangfest. But when it's the one thing you both want, your roles are pretty clear:

Suck and be sucked.

It was the first time I'd let "a fan" on me, and Stan did not disappoint. Do you know what that kinky bastard wanted, though?  He wanted me to read some of my stories to him while he sucked and worshiped me.  The request was kinky AF.

And I was all in.

And what do you think, Dear Reader? Think I should let him take my briefs off now?   I love the way you're nodding . . . 

I had pulled up some paragraphs from an early story, some words that might be thought of as some of my "greatest hits," and that's why my laptop is open beside me right now. So I can read to this good boy.   And so I do, in a voice that's low, slow, and as  "intimate coach' as I can get . . . 

 "I make him earn getting to pull my sweats down. He does this by fellating me through them. Such a pleasant word, fellating. Sounds so full of grace. His mouth is certainly full, and there is an athletic grace to his every move." 

Oh, my God, he goes diving hard on my dick at hearing that, over and over.  He circles his head, sucking and tugging on my cock with his mouth, as it circles with him. I let out a low groan. Or, rather, he sucks a low, primal, animal sound out of me. It is as if he has sucked it from the back of my throard, down through my chest and abs, right through my groin and into his mouth. I try to read again . . . 

"I love making him do this. It works him up and awakens the animal within."  He's trying to get me down his throat now. I can't fucking believe this!

"Ahhhh! God damn that feels so good!" I say, looking at you, and struggle to read on . . . 

"When that animal starts to growl, I finally give in."  I look at you again.

"Oh, shit! What are you fucking doing to me??" . . . 

"I let him pull my sweats down. As they slip past my plump but 61-year-old jock dad butt cheeks, he lets out an “Ah!” when he sees the surprise: the classic whiteness of   The Original Jockstrap,  inches from his swimmer jock face."

We are actually in a competition now. Will I finish getting my words out first,  or will he get my load out of me first? . . . 

"A magic chord should really be heard right now, but I’ll use some words instead. For the musicians out there, imagine his “ah” as being a mezzo-piano F above middle C: flutey, girly, and 2.74 seconds long."

I stand and fucking let this hot sonofabitch have it.  I'm so glad this ottoman is nearby because I love hiking my size 12 foot up on a different level when I'm fucking mouth, pussy, or butt. 

But Dear Reader, I need your complete attention now. I look you right in the eye. That's right. Look at me, my reader. Oh, that's very good. Look at me and don't take your eyes off me.  Every word I now speak to him is actually being said for you. So fucking enjoy it, okay?   . . . 

"Oh, there you go, babe! God, you're so good on my dick!  Mmmmmm. Where'd you learn to suck like that? Oh, fuck yeah! Suck the top of that dong like it's creamy ice cream!" 

I like, Dear Reader, that you're doing exactly as you're told -- looking me straight in the eye.  We know who I'm talkin to now. Could you hand me that baseball bat right there? I just want to kinda lean on it as I open my thighs a little wider for this hot, nerdy, Stan dude . . . Oh, thank you.  It's a really nice bat, isn't it?  I look at you, not even touching him as he sucks . . . 

"Oh, yes, you little bitch!  You love my fuckin dick, don't you, babe?  Look at you fuckin eat that thing!  I could tell you to stop right now, but I know you wouldn't.  You'd just keep on going, wouldn't you?  Selfish, selfish, selfish. That's what you are.  Wanting this big fucker all to yourself!"

That moan you let out, my Reader, drives me batshit crazy, and I now have to drop the bat and take his head in both hands.  But this is not really about him now, is it?  It's about you and me.  You know who my words are for . . . 

"Okay, babe. Hold on, cause we're going there," I say, thrusting my cock into his mouth, over and over.  "Ohhhhhh yess!  That's a good boy!" I say.  It's hard to discern between your mouth and a pussy at this point, as I close my eyes for a moment.  I squeeze them shut and give him consistent thrusts to the back of his throat.  When he gags, I smile and open my eyes, looking straight at you.

"Yo, you little bitch!  Don't gag!" I say.  Then I cup his head with my left hand and line my cock up with the back of his mouth with the other.  Step closer to me, Dear Reader?  Put your hands on his head for me?  I'm just gonna stand here, my foot hiked up on this ottoman, and I think you know what to do.  That's right, Dear Reader.  You know.  That's a good boy.  Think of him as a fleshlight for me.  

Ohhhhh fuuuuuuckkkkk!  I love the way you're looking at me!  I know you're wanting to do this for me.  Make me cum, Dear Reader.  Make me cum.  Ahhhhhhhh! That's right!  That's the way!  Fuckin push him on me!  There you go!  Look at you!  Look at the way you're using him! Ohhhhhh, God!! You're really pushing him now.  Okay, you may need to back off now. No, really!  If you keep going like that, I'm definitely gonna blow my load.  Oh, you WANT that, do you??  Ohhhhhh, dear Reader! . . . 

I stand up now, here in my office as I'm writing this, and neither of you is really here, and yet you BOTH are really here -- him, because this really happened -- I recently read one of my stories to an awesome and worshipful Stan/fan, and it's really happening because of you, because you're reading this.  

I glance around my office at my trophies and medals and plaques, and all the pictures of my teams through the years.  I am pounding my dick so hard now, Dear Reader, you fuckin hot little bitch who can't resist coming here to read my fucking words.  

I am standing so strong now, pounding my fucking dick, full and aggressive strokes, an athlete in the final moments of the game.  I am sprinting hard to the finish yet also want you to see it in slow motion as I get there, because I'm holding back "that much" with total control, ready to let go at any moment. I grip the screen with my free hand and squeeze HARD on meat with the other, cranking hard.

I need you to know something, My Stud Reader, as my big fucking meat is now aiming at the screen.  It's not Stan's face I'm now imagining.  Oh, no. He has those awesome chocolate eyes and everything, but his is not the face I see.

It's you, my friend, reading me.

And so I let go, blasting rope after rope onto your sweet face, trying to avoid your eyes, because you'll need those to read more of my stories.  

Rope after rope, dear friend . . . 

A tribute load for you.

Seven steamy ropes, in total.

Well, seven and change.  

I step away from the screen, my hand, sticky, and the smell of my steamy spunk in the air. It landed almost as thick as toothpaste, but now its heaviness begins to trickle down the screen.  

I smile. I do wish you were here with me, right now, Dear Reader.  I'd wink at you, make you kneel, and have you lick my babies right off the screen, where some of my words, even now can't be seen.  

I reach down down and pick up the purple Jockmail Bulge-shower, which is the one I was actually wearing while I was writing this for you.  I really have to order those other colors for Easter.  I take them and wipe my cum off the screen.  Wow, so messy.  I really could have used some help from your tongue.  

I walk to the shower.  It's a sauntering kind of walk, a sort of cocky walk.  I think, at first, that I need to toss these cum-soaked briefs in the laundry.  But I smile and set them on the counter instead.  

I think Coach Rick is going out tonight.  And if some hot athlete (or maybe a hot, divorced mom) finds themselves making out with me at the bar, I'm gonna slip these briefs into their coat pocket when they're not looking.  

My handiwork, and yours, continuing in the world . . . 

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Coach Rick wants to thank Stan, especially, for his inspiration, but all Coach Rick fans out there, who are probably touching their screens right now.