A gay sex stories: Geoff and Chet Ch. 15 Chapter 15 RCC Team Trials—and After
Author’s note: All characters are over 18. All persons, places and events are fictional. Comments are always welcome. Copyright, 2023, All rights reserved. (Chet’s POV, the story now moves to Chet’s POV as it goes forward. This chapter follows 14 chronologically.)
Cycle team trials were scheduled for 1 pm at the Rice Stadium. I joined the team members a little before noon, mainly because this was all new to us. We arrived dressed to cycle and with our bikes. We didn’t know the rules; hadn’t seen any official notices; and, really had no clue how all of this was to go down. It all seemed very informal—and perhaps just window dressing or a deliberate foundation for subsequent litigation.
The stadium was pretty empty when we arrived. Classes didn’t begin for a few days and not many students had arrived on campus—except athletes and “frosh” for Frosh Week Orientation. (I really disliked that word, but the linguistic police had struck again—”freshman” was officially banned from college communications. After all, just over half the class was now female.) There were only a few dozen in the seats. We spotted the coaches and the University “observers” and made our way to the far side of the stadium. Our coaches had brought coolers with protein booster drinks and water, set up under our typical meet-day canopies of striped black and gold.
The track was now used for field and track, soccer, lacrosse and intramural football—not cycling and therefore of course, it was a synthetic material with a rough cinder-like surface, not paved and potentially dangerous to a racing cycle’s slicks. The full track was just over 440 meters, about a quarter of a mile surrounding a large Astro-turf green. At one time the stadium had hosted the Rice Owls, serious contenders in intercollegiate football, but the team now practiced and played in a larger domed stadium nearby. This was Texas, after all, where regional high schools have 25,000 seat stadiums! Cycling was going to be a challenge because of the loose “cinders” (not really cinders for years—but synthetic grit) and the tight oval. None of the team members were contenders in stadium cycling—and Rice did not seriously participate in that sport, taking part in only a few spring meets to keep conditioning up. We were long distance road racers. So we wondered why trials would be held in such a location which did not duplicate competition conditions. It immediately occurred to me that if the trials did not go as the coaches hoped, there would be protests about the unrealistic conditions set for the trials.
All of the club members from the previous year were dressed in the school “colors”—black and gold “bumblebee” jerseys and compression shorts. All had matching helmets. A few even wore the striped long sox. There were a half dozen “others” dressed in various cycling gear. Three were women; two were Afro men; the sixth was a flamboyantly dressed tall “queen”—at least I think “he” was a queen. (Last year’s team—totaling 12 including alternates–already had one Latino, a junior, and an Afro-American, another junior, both currently alternates, and both outstanding athletes.)
The coaches and observers asked all of us to gather in one small section. They then proceeded to explain the procedures that would be used. Each cyclist would participate in three “heats.” Two were solos—the cyclist would be alone on the track. The distance would be 5 miles (about 20 circuits). The best time of the two solo heats would become Score A measured in kph for that cyclist. Then, we would be grouped in sets of three for the final heat with simultaneous starts: 40 circuits, about 10 miles. No touching of cycles or riders permitted although lane maintenance was not required after 100 meters. This would be Score B, again in kph, for each cyclist. Final score would be 2A+B with that sum divided by 3. This was totally unprecedented in conference contention and entirely artificial. It must have been designed by a math nerd who had never ridden a bike—let alone witnesses a meet. There were 18 contenders in all—8 were from last year’s club team “regulars,”, 3 were alternates from last year, 1 (the sophomore) had “graduated” from JV to varsity by performance at the end of the previous season; 6 others were unknowns. The names were all placed in a bowl. The order of individual racers was by lottery and the teams of three were similarly picked by lottery. There would be 18 individual races, then 6 sets of three races, then 18 more individual trials. All times would be kept by University observers—drawn from the track and field referees. In other words, RCC’s coaches were completely cut out of the trial. They were just observers.
We have the names and background on those here who were associated with the club last year. Otherwise, I will need to have your statement of interest and medical qualification forms. The six walked forward and handed a two single sheets each to the official.
“Are there any questions?”
“How large will the team be?” “By conference rules, we can have only 12—with 4 being alternates.” “If someone is permanently disabled (that is for the rest of the season) or injured for at least six weeks, he/she can be replaced. So we also keep a list of sub-alternates who can practice with the team, but cannot attend meets.”
As the names were drawn, there was a bit of commotion and several dozen colorfully dressed students, carrying a large rainbow banner, entered and occupied the stands behind the cyclists. The noise level rose accordingly. I could tell that Coach Nelson was becoming irritated. His face color deepened. But, he kept his emotions pent up. It was going to be a spectacle, and it is doubtful that the races and results would be as clean as the university might have hoped. It almost seemed that the school was deliberately snubbing the coaching staff and perhaps even sabotaging the trials. I wondered why. Essentially, university officials would decide who would be on the team–to be coached by the staff.
The races began at precisely 1 p.m. At first the going was slow. Each individual race took about 10 minutes—including set up and transition. Someone hadn’t done the math. (36 individual races would take 6 hours at that pace and the group races would take another 2-3 hours). We were going to be here well into the night—and this stadium was not well-lit. Someone pointed this out to the officials. At first they were going to schedule another day, but then someone suggested that a night of rest might skew the results for those who didn’t do their third race until the next day. Staggered starts could be used accelerate the process. Within a few minutes this was worked out. Assuming relatively equal riders, a circuit would take 30 seconds plus or minus, so it would be safe to start racers every 15 seconds. This would cut the total time by hours. And so we began again.
After the first set of Score A races, the ranking went up. All of the prior team members and two alternates were in the top 12; one woman and one African American also placed in this select group. Both of the other two team alternates placed 13 and 14 on the ranking. Only one rider had fallen—the queen, of course, and was disqualified to the loud protests of his (her?) crowd of supporters.
At first the club members were upset that the lottery had spread them over the six contending groups, but things settled down when it was realized that individual times, not group times, would constitute Score B so there was no real handicap to being with unknown riders—although of course it did not reflect the strategy of team cycling at all.
Finally, as it neared 6 p.m., the trials concluded and the scores were posted. My score was considerably higher than any other. All 7 members of the club (including the rising sophomore) came next. Then two club alternates and finally one of the female riders and one of the African American riders placed next. We had a new club and team—with two new alternates. I deliberately went up to both the female—a junior from Florida who had transferred in from UCF and the African American, a Rice senior and four year varsity cross-country runner. I introduced myself and welcomed them to the team. You are welcome to use the workout room at any time 5 a.m. to 11 p.m. There is only one locker room and a “gang” shower, so we’ll have to see how that works out, but we’ll make it happen. Everyone is required to commit at least 2 hours per day to riding or working out—but we use an honor system for much of it. Our first team ride is Thursday in Memorial Park at 2:30. The van will leave the clubhouse at 2 if you need transportation. Perhaps we could meet for lunch that day so I can bring you up to speed.
“Yes, Of course. Thanks…”
“Chet”
“I’m Janet.”
“I’m Reg.”
Then, I went to the two alternates who were no longer on the team to express my concerns. “We could complain, I guess. The whole idea was dropped on us only yesterday and these conditions don’t duplicate our race conditions. But, I don’t see any reason to object at this point.”
“Thanks for being good sports. You are obviously both sub-alternates and welcome to continue practicing with us.”
Needless to say, Coach Nelson didn’t exhibit a similar level of sportsmanship. But I wasn’t going to deal with him at this point. I was anxious to get out and home.
I rode home and placed the bike in the garage, noting that the pickup was there—then remembered Geoff had said he would walk. I went upstairs, showered and began a simple dinner of salmon, green beans, and dirty rice—one of the few recipes that I learned from my time in Savannah. Geoff arrived a half hour later and opened a bottle of white wine. He poured two glasses and we went to relax on the sofa.
“I presume you’re still on the team.”
“Yeah, but the whole process was a mess and we lost two of last year’s club members. We now have a woman on the team and another guy who is also doing cross country. I’m not sure how he is going to handle that however since it is likely our meets will conflict. We’ll have to see.”
“A woman? How is the club set up—do you have separate changing and showering areas?”
“No, but that is going to be Rice’s problem.”
“Well I know now that no one was joking about how busy I would be. Essentially, I have classes, labs and demos from about 7 each morning until 5:30 except Thursdays when we finish at 2:30. Every other Saturday morning from 7 to 1. How about you?”
My schedule is going to be a piece of cake compared to yours. I made one change in the schedule—dropping a mock trading class for one in analytics—so that I will be eligible to take the Certified Financial Analyst exams at the end of the semester. I’m committed 9 or 10 to noon Monday to Friday and Thursday afternoons from 2 to 5. Of course, I will have weekly meetings with my thesis advisor.”
“Then we have club practices and work outs. We’ll ride together Mondays and Wednesdays in the afternoon. Most weeks we’ll leave Friday afternoon to travel for a Saturday meet—getting home late on Saturday. I’ll be able to work out here most days and only need one more day of riding per week—all at my convenience.”
“So it’s pretty much as we guessed. ‘Never on Sunday’ was never my favorite movie—or idea. I think it’s going to become my favorite day of the week. But otherwise, it looks like before or after dinner will be our prime times for ‘relaxation’.”
Geoff kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa, resting his head in my lap. I reached my legs out to the cocktail table, put down my glass and began to weave my fingers through his dark wavy hair. He turned his head, used his teeth to pull down my zipper and pulled my rising erection into his mouth. “Happy hour. Time for hors d’oeuvres.” He murmured as he sucked and I continued to tease his hair. Then, I reached down and slipped a hand under his waistband, finding a rigid head trapped there. Soon, we removed our pants and rearranged ourselves, stretching side by side tightly on the leather cushions. We kissed and continued to stroke each other languidly as we watched the sun set over a busy Houston skyline.
“I can handle anything they throw at me Chet, so long as we can relax like this in each others arms at the end of the day.”
“I am completely with you, Angel. We can have dinner whenever—it’ll only take a few minutes to finish off the sauce. Your classes begin tomorrow, but mine don’t start until next Monday so all I’ve got are the gym and some riding practice. Is there anything I can do for us tomorrow? I do have to be here to receive the wardrobe—and they won’t give me a specific time—just afternoon.”
“Not much for you to do—except make yourself beautiful and ready for me. You can play housewife for a few days.”
“That’s not what I had in mind, and I’m not sure I want to try.”
“Let’s eat. You did promise me a special tonight. And I want to collect. I was a champion today.”
“Aha. I do have an idea. But its going to be a surprise.” And so we both rose to finalize dinner. After we had eaten and cleaned up, Geoff left to “find some things—not sure where I packed them.”
A few minutes later when I was browsing through one of my textbooks, he returned to the living room, and secured a blindfold over my eyes. “You aren’t permitted to touch the blinders until I say so.” Then I heard him move in front of me. He pulled off my boxers. I felt a hand on my penis. He lifted it and slipped a lubed silicon double expansion ring over me and pushed it to the root also enclosing my balls. When I hardened, it would be tight. I next I felt a thin light chain and heard a click—he had attached it to the ring. “OK, pup, from now on I’ll be leading you with this leash. Stand up. You can call me Sir or Master.”
He marched, no pulled me, into his room and then pushed me back onto the mattress. He had placed all of the throw pillows on top and I was cocooned within them. He remained silent and of course I was blind. Within seconds I guessed where this was going. He took one wrist at a time, secured a cuff and tied each to opposite sides of the headboard stretching my arms away from my chest. He then attached ankle cuffs and using what sounded like pulleys (Where did he get pulleys? Were there hooks behind the headboard? I thought he said he had not lived here before.) He began to raise my legs from the bed and placed a large bolster under the small of my back and an even larger one under my ass as I rolled up toward the headboard. My wrists and ankles were thus outstretched and bound close together; I was doubled in half, spread and fastened above my head; and poised just above the mattress, almost in mid-air. My tension and arousal soared. I was now completely at his mercy—and earlier this morning I was the one who had edged him almost to catatonia. Did he remember? Was I going to get my comeuppance?
“I’m photographing this—just for us in our old age. You look like one of those Russian dancers who has leapt into the air and been frozen in space by a wizard—but you, my dear, are quite naked, totally open, and mine. Your ass hole is already winking at Geoffy like a rent boy whore.”
“Whatever you say sir. I’m ready.”
Geoff then began to fondle and lick my ass, teasing my crevice and anus with light touches. Then he spanked me hard several times. I felt the lube, smelled the mint, and my hole began to cool. Then it was his penetrating tongue—and then his long talented fingers which found my prostate without difficulty. I would be writhing if I could have moved.
“Now for the surprise.”
“You mean this was not the surprise!”
“No just normal dom-sub training. And don’t forget the Sir,” as he swatted my ass cheeks again. He was playing with fire and knew it. I felt an object at my anal opening—perhaps a butt plug or a dildo. It wasn’t overly large; it was egg-shaped, narrowing at the base with a large flange at the bottom. It slipped in and settled comfortably with the head just skimming my prostate—like a small big-headed, semi-soft penis—much smaller than Geoff’s. I heard Geoff walk away from the bed. Was he going to let me marinate in this level of arousal? Then he picked up something from the dresser. Suddenly, I felt the plug expand a little and then a slight vibration. At first I thought it was my imagination, but it got bigger and stronger—the butt plug ballooned– it was an inflatable vibrator with a remote. And guess who had the remote? Then it began to move in an orbital motion while it vibrated. With each orbit, it tapped the prostate. Oh, God. I had seen something like this advertised a few weeks ago. My erotic tension skyrocketed. I could just imagine it doing its robotic thing in my asshole. The pressure, size and vibration frequency all seemed to heighten, but it was just my imagination. How much talent did this little toy possess? And how diabolical was my “Angel” after all? Even bound, I squirmed and moaned. How much more could I take? Geoff approached silently and suddenly I felt the large cushion under me pull away. I was hanging, tensing my legs and my arms. My cock swelled. Then, without a human touch, I contracted and exploded over and over again, covering my chest with huge amounts of love juice.
Then it all stopped. Geoff must have used the remote to silence the demon. He leaned between my legs and cleaned my chest with his tongue. And then finally he drew the plug out and released my legs. I stretched out and captured him around the waist. “Now it’s my turn,” he whispered as he began to pump his enormous pole into my well-lubed and stretched sheath. Within a short time, he had me at the zenith of pleasure again. He pulled out and used the chain to bind our cocks together. And as he completed the bondage, we both erupted simultaneously—each of our repeated contractions squeezing the other and stimulating the other to cum again.
After a few minutes, he released my wrists and unchained our cocks, removing the blindfold and the ring. “That my dear Chet was a taste of dom. Now what do you think?”
I smiled, wrapped my legs around his hips and my arms around his chest and squeezed hard. After about a minute, he started gasping for breath. I was literally scissoring his ability to breathe. “And that my dear Sir is my killer wrestling hold—the next time you decide to put on your dom side, remember the consequences.”
He got really serious. And I burst out laughing, pulling him down for a soul searching kiss.
“And whatever I decide to do tomorrow, never call me your housewife again.”