Only then had Matt handed William some lube, given him permission to tug his willy.
Matt, still behind William, supporting his weight, had pulled William’s mouth towards him, kissing him.
William had ridden the Kraken, sliding up and down its length, letting it explore reefs inside him no other dick had never breached.
Matt’s tongue probed William’s mouth, one of two slick, slithering things thrusting and rolling in William’s cavities.
Up. Down. Whimper. Tug. William had sucked Matt’s tongue deeper into his mouth in much the same way as his hole pulled at the pole inside it. Up. Down. Whimper. Tug.
William had spasmed through his orgasm. Shot jets that splattered onto Matt’s face, in his hair.
Back on that last innocent morning of BMP, Matt, still positioned as William had been while riding the Kraken, stroked his cock.
He lubed the index finger of his left hand. Probed his hole. Teased it open. Explored until he found his prostate. Wished the Kraken were here and not safely stored at the clubhouse.
Matt stroked his cock with his right hand, fingered himself with his left. Imagined himself as both top and bottom. Pitcher and catcher. A one-man team. When he finally came, it was a homerun. Out of the ballpark.
Sated, breathing hard, he wiped himself off. He did not wank often anymore. On the rare mornings when he did, he usually waited for all evidence of his arousal to subside before heading to the showers.
Not today.
Matt slipped on his shower shoes, threw a clean towel over his shoulder, grabbed his body wash and a washcloth, and headed—naked—down the hall. Parading naked to and from the communal shower was Matt’s signature move. Doing so post ejaculation, while his cock was in its resolution phase (deflating, not yet flaccid), was a first.
***
Roger charged into Matt, his head ramming Matt’s chest.
Matt’s left arm snaked out, yanked Roger into a headlock.
“STOP!” Coach bellowed.
Matt reluctantly obeyed. He released Roger and stepped away from the fray. There would be other opportunities to settle this score.
Roger staggered backward.
A sullen hush settled over the room.
“A few minutes ago, no one would take responsibility for these underthings,” Coach said, pointing to the thong underwear and fishnet stocking. “Now I’ve got three suspects.”
Roger scowled. “Idabel and Mustang confessed. I didn’t.”
Coach crossed his arms, glared at Roger. “Even after I told you I didn’t want to play Cinderella’s Prince, you took the role and tried figuring out whether the underwear fit Idabel or Mustang!”
“Even if I did, that doesn’t make me a suspect.”
“Agreed,” Coach said. “Then you got hoisted by your own petard. Mustang turned the tables on you! I wonder if maybe he’s right and the man panties are yours.”
Coach’s face was red with anger. He snatched up the thong underwear, held them out towards Roger. “Want to see if your foot fits into this glass slipper, Cinderella?”
Roger shook his head, stared at the floor.
Matt almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Coach nodded at Roger. “Good choice. Now I can deal with the other two nitwits who are doing their level best to ruin my chances at a winning season.”
Coach let the thong underwear fall to the floor. He held up a finger. “How many fingers is that, Idabel?”
“One,” Idabel said.
“Mustang? Do you see more than one finger?”
Matt shook his head.
“Just checking to see if you two know how to count,” Coach said. “One. That’s all I needed. One guy to take responsibility for the man panties and the hooker hose. One guy to ride the bench for a couple of games, and the rest of us could move on.”
Coach paced back and forth like a caged lion. He was agitated. “Instead, it appears that I have two competing confessions. My hands are tied. I must turn it over to the Dean and let him sort it out…”
“…Unless…”
“Unless what?” Matt asked.
Coach slowed his pacing. “I’m wondering if maybe I misunderstood. That perhaps you two were trying to tell the same story—not competing ones. That you were trying to explain that you were only guilty of the bad judgment of having used Mustang’s key to give an unauthorized tour of this facility. That the real culprits here, the girl with the hooker hose, the guy with the man panties, are not students. That whatever they did, or did not do, while you were conducting your tour of this facility, is on them—not you.”
“Coach?” Idabel was confused.
Coach gave Idabel a salesman’s smile. “I was just wondering, Idabel. Obviously, only you and Mustang know what really happened.”
“That’s exactly what we were saying Coach!” Matt jumped in, improvising on the fly. He understood that Coach wanted out of this mess as much as he did. All that was needed was a story that cobbled Matt’s and Idabel’s earlier statements into a semi-plausible whole.
“Idabel’s sister and my brother met at our Friends University game,” Matt lied. “They hit it off. Started dating…”
Idabel shook his head. “I don’t have a sister.”
Matt elbowed Idabel. “What Idabel means, Coach, is that the young woman is not technically his sister. She’s his cousin. The two of them look so much alike that people jokingly refer to them as siblings.”
One of the seniors offered a mood lightening observation. “We are talking about McCurtain County, Coach. They’re known for sister-cousins and other odd forks of the family tree.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone but Idabel.
Matt continued. He had supplied the necessary non-student male and female. Now he had to dress them in the offending garb—and explain how it ended up on the locker room floor. “My brother dresses in that grunge style. Combat boots. Ratty shirts. Low riding ripped jeans. Man panties visible from the rear.” Man panties had nothing to do with Grunge. Matt hoped Coach wasn’t up-to-speed on teen styles.
“Got it,” said Coach. “And the fishnet stockings? Women’s–what did you call it, grunge?”
One of the players called out. “Nope, Coach. McCurtain County women are just trashy!”
Everyone laughed—even Idabel.
“Anyway,” Matt continued, “the four of us went out for pizza. The two lovebirds wanted to get a tour of this building, you know, see where the magic happens. I used my key to let us in. Since we also planned to walk around campus, I suggested to Idabel’s sister that she ditch the stockings. Told my brother to lose the man panties. I gave him some clean briefs from my locker. They must have taken my advice. I can assure you there wasn’t time for any hanky-panky.”
Coach weighed Matt’s story, ran a finger along his jawline. “I just want to clarify one point. Earlier, when Idabel referred to this sister-cousin as his ‘girl’, he wasn’t implying she’s his girlfriend, right?”
“Nope.” Matt said. “I can confidently tell you that Idabel does not have a girlfriend. Isn’t that right, Idabel?”
That was the only true thing Matt had said.
***
Matt’s bruised and bloodied right hand did not get that way by virtue of its having impacted with Roger’s face.
Matt’s hand and its knuckles had been fine throughout soccer practice. Still unblemished when Matt sat across from Idabel for dinner.
That was when Idabel had left the table and emptied his plate into the trash.