The women’s coach had a key. Fat chance peddling that theory. Besides, it wasn’t Matt’s style to throw people under the bus. That was Roger’s thing.
“Well, Mustang,” Coach said to Matt, “you’re the guy with the key. Do you have anything to tell us?”
“I—” Matt stammered.
“It’s me.” Idabel stepped forward. “I did it. Mustang and I went out for pizza Saturday night. He left his keyring on the table when he went to take a leak. I took the key and then brought my girl here.”
Matt shook his head. Idabel didn’t have a “girl.” He’d nursed a crush for weeks, then watched the girl flirt with another dude at some bowling party. End of story.
“He’s lying, Coach!” Matt said. “I did it! I’m guilty!” He had no clue how he would deal with the accomplice issue. The only thing of which he was certain was that he would not let Idabel pay for his reckless romp with Todd. Correction: romps–plural. Matt had cum twice.
“I call ‘B.S,'” Roger said. He stooped down and scooped up the thong underwear. Held them up for all to see. “These are smalls. 28-30-inch waist. You’re what, Idabel? 36-inch waist?”
Idabel shrugged sheepishly. A sort of anything-for-love shrug.
Matt stared at Idabel. Why was he doing this? Did he really think he could just confess, ride out a two-game suspension, and go on with life? He’d have to name his “girl.”
Roger whirled towards Matt. “These look more your size, pretty boy. You’re a 32-inch waist, am I right?”
Matt was sick of Roger. Wished he’d smashed his face the first time he said “fag.” Disgusted that Roger was polluting Todd’s thong with his tiny hands.
Matt shoved him backwards, causing him to drop the thong. “For someone who claims not to wear man panties, you sure seem to know a lot about them! Are they yours, Roger? I mean they do have a small pouch, and, let’s face it, you don’t exactly have a big package.”
Roger’s eyes blazed pure hate. He balled his fists, squared his shoulders in preparation for a charge.
Matt braced for impact. This was not his first brawl. These things were common enough in locker rooms. Settling scores. Establishing pecking orders.
Matt knew there would be less than thirty seconds of real fighting before the other players rushed in and separated them. Half a minute. Enough time for Matt to execute a one-handed headlock followed by 3-4 quick upper cuts to Roger’s face. The next time that fucker said “fag” he’d be lisping it through swollen lips.
***
A few hours later, Matt sat in his dorm room. His right hand ached. Its knuckles were bruised and bloody. That was the least of his problems. When he’d tried sitting across from Idabel at dinner, his friend had mumbled that he wasn’t hungry after all. Went and scraped his food into the trash, ambled away. That was when Matt realized he had seriously fucked up. Idabel was not someone whose mother had ever had to tell him to clean his plate.
Welcome to life in the miserable AMP.
Who could have guessed that a pair of thong underwear could wreak such havoc? A stray meteor had killed the dinosaurs, reset the geological clock, and ushered in the mammals. Man panties were the meteor here. Matt was the dinosaur. An Extinction Level Event (ELE) as far as Matt was concerned.
Earlier that morning—in the blessed BMP—Matt had awakened with morning wood. Not unusual. What was unusual was that this one was twitchy, jonesing for a fix. Not appeased by promises to get it some ass later.
It was an irrational, insistent boner screaming to be stroked. Churning Matt’s stomach with a gnawing queasiness. Jangling his nerves with a clawing ache akin to caffeine withdrawal. Unlike other addictions that craved the injection/ingestion of a substance (heroin, tobacco, alcohol), this one required expulsion: the cock puking out its contents like ipecac syrup. Only then, post purging, would the dope sickness subside.
Luckily, Matt knew how to treat these symptoms.
He grabbed a towel and some lube. Sank onto the daybed. (Matt’s dorm room was the standard roommate configuration: two twin beds stacked in an “L”-shape. Since Matt had the room to himself, he had converted the lower one into a crude daybed.)
He leaned back and fished his cock out of his boxer briefs. His right hand clamped onto the familiar shaft. Curled around it by muscle memory. This would be quick work.
He caught a whiff of his own funk wafting from his exposed balls. It was a faint whisper of scent, lulling him hypnotically, like the smell of fresh brewed coffee drifting up from a downstairs kitchen. He stroked his balls with his left hand, combing the pubes with his nails, stirring the scent like a pig rooting out truffles.
He held his fingers up to his nose. Took a hit. It was musky, infused with testosterone, sweat, and piss—all male, even if it was himself.
Stripped off his boxer briefs and held them over his nose. Inhaled long drags while lightly stroking his cock.
Sure did.
Found the pouch of his briefs and sucked it into his mouth. Teased the flavor onto his tongue. His mind drifted in a mild euphoric haze. His hand grazed along his shaft, milking pre-cum from the tip, kneading it into his cock.
Images flooded his mind. Memories of his Locker Room Rendezvous with William. Skinny, big-headed William. On a bench in the locker room. Straining against the dildo stuffing his ass.
Matt spat out the damp boxer briefs. Pulled his feet onto the bed. Bent his long legs. Spread his knees. Raised his ass an inch. Arched his back.
William had been thusly posed on one end of the locker room bench while he rode the Matt-sized dildo. Matt, on the other end of the bench, had stroked himself to orgasm, talking softly to William the whole time as though it were his cock gliding in and out of William’s hole. Reminding William that in this fantasy the rest of the team was in the room, watching them. That Caleb stood nearby, stroking his Kraken, awaiting his turn.
Matt had retrieved a Kraken-sized dildo from his gym bag, smeared his own still-warm cum over the silicone shaft, and fastened the Kraken’s suction cup base to the bench near William. Replaced the Matt-sized dildo with the Kraken.
Had ordered William to accommodate the Kraken, to let the imaginary Caleb fuck him.
William had obliged. Aligned his hole with the Kraken’s cum-glistening tip. Used a hand to ease the silicone head inside him. Panted as each millimeter of the thing burrowed deeper, its length and girth stretching him, causing his testicles to retract, then disappear. The plunger that was the Kraken pushed ever upward in the syringe of William’s hole, forcing pre-cum to dribble out of his cock.
Sweat had glistened on William’s face. He’d wanted to know how much further there was to go. About an inch and a half.
William had moaned as if giving birth.
“Dahling,” William had joked, “I think I need an epidural.”
Matt had sat on the bench behind William, supporting William’s torso, stroking his face, encouraging him like a midwife.
Eventually the Kraken had bottomed out. The molded silicone scrotum at the dildo’s base brushed against William’s ass.