TALKING TRASH ABOUT THE TEAM
By Zachyboy & Scuba Steve
M/M, M/b, oral, anal

CHAPTER 1. COACH AND BRANDON

Big Bob Rumple and Fast Freddy Footman were doing what they do best at a
hair past midnight on a Saturday evening; sitting on the couch at Bob's
place, pants and boxers on a pile on the floor, legs up on the chipped oak
coffee table, clinking the ice cubes in a couple of Malibu and Cokes and
stroking their big, meaty man cocks. (Well, big is a relative term. Big in
their own minds, but probably not so much out here in the real world).

They'd hauled out the old middle school yearbook like they always did on
their Saturday get-togethers...a well-worn softcover, just a little crusty
with dried cum and lube, because it'd been thumbed-through (and
dicked-through) pretty extensively during the frequent get-togethers of the
two lifelong friends. Bob and Freddy were a dorkified bromance that went
back decades.

Bob and Freddy were the best of friends and good old fuck buddies, and as
usual on a weekend without any dates (man, woman or child, truth be told),
usually as a preamble to whoever wanted to fuck the other one first, they'd
spend their pre-game bragging about the boys they'd known. Or almost
known. Or nearly fucked. Or probably not fucked at all, as the case would
usually be. They were big on fantasies these two faithful nut-squirters,
but usually not big on authenticity. There was probably a whisper of truth
or a lick of legitimate nut sack flavor to some of the boys they bragged
about, but they wouldn't pass a lie detector test, let me put it to you
that way.

"Little Brandon," for instance, Bob said as he flipped to 7th Grade, page
24, and squeezed out another dollop of lube to lather his meat stick, "Now
there was a kid who put the "balls" in "baseballs."

"Oh fuck yeah," sighed Freddy, as he matched pace with the Bobber. "I
remember Brandon the year we played left field, right? Before you got us
kicked off the team for groping that handicapped kid."

"I was helping him out of his wheelchair and onto the bleachers," Bob
protested. "How was I supposed to know my thumb might accidentally slip
into his ass crack?"

Freddy wasn't buying it. "You stuck your whole hand down his pants,
Bob. You stuck the whole thing down his pants."

"Momentarily lost my manners," Bob grunted. "Lack of good judgment. I was
12. Shit happens."

Bob paused in mid-stroke and took a sip of his rum and coke.

"He was a randy little rascal, that Brandon," he sighed. "And why wouldn't
he be? The coach had been slipping it to him since he was 9 years old by
the time you and I met him."

"Seriously?" asked Freddy, looking honestly surprised.

"Oh, fuck yeah," said Bob, slowing his own pace down for fear he might
shoot too quickly. "Coach was nailing Brandon from 9-on-up."

"Huh," Freddy pondered. "Woulda never guessed it. He wasn't overly
pretty. I mean, cute, yeah. But not like you and me. How come Coach never
fucked US?"

"His loss" Bob shrugged. "But keep in mind, he's 12 in the yearbook. By
that time Coach was tossing him out like yesterday's Times with the
crossword puzzle half done."

"Tragedy they grow up so quick," Freddy muttered.

"But back in the 9, 10, 11-year-old days," Bob continued, "Brandon was
highly presentable, especially from the back."

Freddy nodded.

"I'm a firm believer," Bob stated definitively, "that any 10 or 11-year-old
in a scissor-pose has to be fairly cute if your eyes are closed and you're
slipping in for the evening. I mean, sure. Brandon may not have presented
very well here at 12, but it's a bad camera angle, and I'm fairly sure
coach thought he looked just fine at nine when he slipped up his sweet
little jism-gobbler for the first time. Hell, imagine those sweet little
whimpers he must have made when Coach pumped him with a cum enema for
after-school extra-credit. That'll make any boy look pretty in your eyes,
lickity-split."

"Here's to Brandon!" Freddy toasted, a little bit drunk, but happy to raise
a salute.

"I fucked him, you know," Bob boasted, grabbing his cock and twirling it
back into hardness.

"Oh, bullshit Bob, you never did," Freddy rolled his eyes. Bob was always
one for the "fucked him too" routine.

"Oh, yes I did, oh ye of little faith," Bob assured him, leaning back,
closing his eyes, and yanking on his shiny knob. "First time Coach did him,
Brandon told his dad. Said Coach put his wiener up his butt and he didn't
care for it. Said he didn't like the fit. But fuck, that just made his dad
horny. Asked for all the details, got good and hard, pulled down his kid's
pants, licked his ass, and fucked him on the spot. After that, Brandon
learned to keep his activities quiet."

"Don't blame him,' Freddy said. "His dad was a big fella."

"Sure as shit was," said Bob. "His dad rode him off to dreamland with the
ol' 7-inch Sedative almost every night after that. Poor kid, thinking he
was doing the right thing telling his dad? Whoof. Sometimes it's better
just to shut your mouth and not start anything."

"I hear you there, pal," Freddy said, sighing. Truer words had never been
spoken, since Freddy himself got a little too flirty with an uncle back in
his own childhood days and wound up riding the hard hobby horse for
Christmas four years in a row.

"Point is," said Bob. "After Coach and his dad got him warmed up, there was
no stopping Brandon that last year he lived here. I was 12 and he was 12,
and boys will be boys. He had me over for snacks and Monopoly after school
one day, and believe me, it wasn't too long before I had him bent over his
bunk bed and he was taking requests."

"You nailed him good, huh?" Freddy said, hardening. It may have been
fiction when Bob talked, but at least it was the kind of fiction that made
your dick hard.

"Oh yeah, Freddy. I gave him a couple of good ones, right up his Fenway
Park. He cooed like a pigeon."

The two men stared at the picture in the yearbook. Smiling boy. Young and
12. They stroked in silent reverence, remembering his face in the middle
school hallways. Wondering what it might have been like back then to truly
be inside him. Freddy didn't know and Bob was just lying.

With a quick gulp, Freddy tossed back the rest of his drink and got down to
business. He gave a nod toward Bob's hard cock.

"You need some help with that, Bobber old pal?"

"I thought you'd never ask, you lazy old fucker. Get down here and eat some
peeper."

Freddy dropped to his knees and was happy to oblige. He gobbled Bob's cock
with the skill of an old friend. Bob leaned back on the couch, locked his
hands behind his head and closed his eyes and let Freddy do his magic
tricks.

Three or four saliva-slick minutes later, he had Freddy bent over the arm
of the couch, sliding his cock up his buddy to the tight-hot hilt, sawing
in and out and grabbing the front of him for a courtesy reach-around. With
the perfect timing of two old friends, Freddy grunted and shot his sticky
jizz all over the couch while Bob grunted on the back of his neck and fired
two hot spoonfuls of cum up his best friend's rear.

All because Brandon looked pretty in the yearbook.

# # # # # # # # # #

We pause, dear readers, for a reality check.

Brandon Trianno, sweet sexy middle-schooler at Steven Shelter Junior High
School did indeed have a brief but memorable fling with his baseball coach
circa 1988, but he was 12 when it happened, not 9 as Bob Rumple so
enthusiastically estimated, and he moved away shortly after it happened, so
it was never the long, drawn-out thing Bob claimed it to be. It was hot, it
was great, but it was over before you knew it.

And he never, for the record, told his dad. And his dad never got hard and
licked his butt and fucked him on the spot. And he never let little Bobby
fuck him. God, no. That dumb jizz head? Nah. It was only just the coach,
and it was only four times, and the rest was just Bob talking trash. Then
and now, Bob talked trash.

The first time the Coach and Brandon did stuff together, Brandon had stayed
late after practice to work on his batting. Coach helped him, standing up
behind him, really close, arms around his shoulders, sharing the bat,
helping him swing. Coach liked how he smelled. Sweaty hot boy neck. Dust
and practice and salty perfection. There was heat to this boy, and Coach
felt it. Coach wanted it.

And Brandon could tell right away that the coach was hard as he pressed up
against him, spooning his cock into the arch of his curved, coltish back,
now all sweaty and tingling under his baseball jersey. And Brandon wanted
it too. He'd seen hard man cock before. Looked at pictures. Fingered his
butt. Tingled and pretened. He was that kind of boy. Coach was that kind of
man. When coach pressed his hard cock up against Brandon's back, helping
him hit balls out of the pitching machine, Brandon looked back over his
shoulder and smiled at him. Smiled and pressed back in desire. It was
understood. It was mutual.

Brandon had gone back into the locker room to shower and change – all
the other boys were long gone – and when he came out, wet and toweled,
coach was waiting for him at the locker bench, where without saying a word,
he dropped to his knees before the boy's dripping, pretty form, took his
soft cock in his mouth, made it hard in an instant, and after a loud
shaking climax of his own, jacking his load on the cement floor, Brandon
saw that and fired off too, and Coach sucked the three precious drops of
honey-sweet boy nectar from Brandon's 12-year-old nut sack whichh was
already working overtime that spring, and producing those beautiful, first
clear boydrops about five times a day. Brandon loved to masturbate, and
this new thing that Coach was showing him with his mouth? Well, this was
just icing on the cake as far as Brandon was concerned.

The second time they did stuff together, they were in an empty school bus
at the athletic field. It was also after practice. It was also one of those
private, late-stay, "help me with my swing" sessions, although Brandon now
understood that would be their code for "let's mess around." Coach saw
Brandon's cock getting hard in his uniform pants, Brandon saw Coach's cock
getting REALLY hard in his shorts, and before he knew it, Coach was nodding
at the team bus parked at the far end of the field, they were climbing on
board and Brandon was bare-ass naked before he knew it, lying back on a
seat, legs in the air, Coach hovering over him in the aisle with his hard
cock in his hand and worshipping parts of Brandon the boy had never, ever
considered desirable before.

Turns out coach appreciated a boy's feet more than he'd anticipated
himself, and with Brandon's legs straight up and his asshole winking
shining in living pink Technicolor, most guys would have dived right in for
the victory lap, but coach couldn't resist stopping on his way to the main
enchilada by putting Brandon's right foot in his mouth, then the left one,
slathering his wet tongue over Brandon's toes, and sucking the good, hot
boy salt from Brandon's just-unleashed piggies. There was nothing stinky
about them at all. They were in baseball cleats for the past two hours,
getting hot and ready for Coach's unexpected ministrations.

With his tongue painting whimpering brush strokes up the alluring curve of
Brandon's arches, his soft heels pressed to Coach's cheek, and each tiny
toe getting its own private blowjob from Coach's grateful mouth while
Brandon reached down and moaned and fingered his own ass, the taste and
smells were just fresh, hot, athletic boy feet. Rich and warm like earth
and cotton. Like the hot-inside of a very clean boy shoe. Hot to the tongue
and enough to make Coach's cock leak actual syrup as he stood there,
hunched over Brandon's hot, tiny frame, enjoying them, respecting them,
showing gratitude for them, with every taste and touch in his soul.

And to Brandon, who never thought a grown man licking his feet could be
anything less than weird, had a boyish change of heart in an instant. It's
one thing to think of it from a distance, removed. To consider it in theory
may seem even silly. But when you're lying on your back on a deserted
yellow school bus, and you're open and bare, and you're fingering your ass,
and the man doing it to you is moaning with love and affection and
pleasure, you become a believer on the spot. It becomes part of your
repertoire and your wiring. When Coach did that to Brandon, Brandon already
knew he'd grow up to do that too.

And when Coach lifted his legs apart, pushed his slender probing finger
aside and started eating his butthole, oh God, oh Jesus, Brandon though he
would die from the pleasure. He had never felt anything like that. Never in
a million years. The fingers he'd used as he stroked himself at bedtime,
the hairbrush he tried with hope and Vaseline, were nothing compared to
Coach's soft tongue making a seal on his anus and sucking and licking him
into new waves of passion. He came without touching himself, shuddering and
producing two drops of boy honey as Coach's thick tongue prodded deep into
his rectum. Fuck, that was nice. Fuck that was good. He wanted to
happy-scream. He wanted to shout swearies.

And after he came, Coach stood over his face, pointed his cock at him, and
came all over Brandon's face. ALL over Brandon's face. Came on his lips and
came on his mouth. And Brandon opened up and let the cum fill his taste
buds. He swallowed. Made a face. He swallowed again. Closed his eyes and
let Coach paint his lips with sticky hot semen. Listened to coach moan as
Brandon swallowed his offering.

"Eat it, little boy. You're so fucking hot!" Coach whispered, and it was
more like a growl. He scooped up a tiny bit of cum from Brandon's cheek and
slowly fingered it into Brandon's wet asshole.

Brandon moaned and shivered. He wanted Coach's cock in there.

"Next time," Coach promised. "I fuck you in here, Brandon."

He pushed his finger a little farther in.

"I fuck you right in this little hole."

And Brandon shivered again.

"Fuck me," he nodded, and giggled at the swear word. "Fuck my asshole."

"Your pussy," Coach corrected. "Gonna fuck your little boy pussy."

Brandon giggled. Boys didn't have pussies.

That was their second time.

The third time, they didn't fuck as planned, because they were interrupted
by Coach's after-school work. They were in Coach's office in the boy's
locker room. The door was locked and Coach's window shades were drawn. It
was completely private. Nobody was down there.

They'd been so horny for each other in school that day. When Coach (who
taught Social Studies) looked up at Brandon and Brandon (in the third row,
fourth desk) smiled back at him, Coach actually oozed pre-cum into the
front of his khakis. He actually felt it come out. And the day dragged on
like molasses until 3:10, when Brandon met coach in his downstairs office,
at the end of the locker room for "stuff" Brandon thought of it. For "doing
more stuff."

Coach had cleared his desk to be ready for the boy. He had Brandon's pants
halfway down and was sucking him like a madman. And Brandon was hungry. He
wanted Coach, too. He pushed Coach's head away, dropped to his knees, and
took Coach's six-and-a-half inch cock into his mouth like a boy
possessed. He hum-buzz-moaned over Coach's thick shaft as he made a seal
and went to work. Like a child with a mission. Like a kid with a candy
cane.

It only took about 30 seconds, Coach was that fucking horny, before Coach
was shaking and grunting and trembling and gasping and grabbing the back of
Brandon's head to push even deeper, and this time Brandon did NOT make a
face or wince at the taste. This time Coach moaned loudly and shot a hot
load of man-sticky semen deep into Brandon's wet mouth. Brandon didn't even
slow down. Didn't stop pistoning his mouth around Coach's cock for a
second. The fiery determination and inexhaustability of youth. He just
swallowed and sucked, swallowed and sucked. "Mmmmm" he moaned, and the buzz
his "mmmm" created around Coach's still-engulfed cockhead was
electrifying. Coach's knees almost gave way. He almost fell on the floor,
so strong was his orgasm and his lust for the little boy who was swallowing
it.

And they would have done more. They certainly would have fucked when Coach
had recovered. But while they were kissing and talking, whispering and
giggling, Coach's phone extension rang, and he had to pick it up. Had to go
upstairs and fill out some medical forms for a kid who got hurt in class
that day. Duty called. Principal Crater, that old fuck. It was a satisfying
blowjob, a great cum for both of them, but they still hadn't fucked
yet. They still had their eyes on the prize.

So.

The fourth time they met, they planned it to a tee. They BOTH needed to
fuck this time, and they were damn sure going to fix it so they could
finally do it.

Brandon was pretending he was staying overnight at his friend Bob's house
on Friday. Well, Bob wasn't a real friend, but he seemed horny all the
time, even tried to make some moves on Brandon himself, which Brandon found
hilarious (because Brandon now liked MEN not boys), but he was
willing-enough to cover for Brandon should his mother check in, which of
course, she didn't. When your kid gives you a Friday night off by staying
at a friend's house, you don't question fate. You don't look a gift horse
in the mouth. You stay nice and quiet and you don't scare the baby deer out
of the forest. So, Bob covered for Brandon, so Brandon could get fucked by
Coach.

Brandon stayed the whole night at Coach's house. Slept overnight, in his
bed and everything. Coach held him in his arms all night long. Spooned
him. Cuddled him. Loved him.

And this time, they did fuck. And God, it was wonderful.

Coach did all the right things he'd done to Brandon before.

He lifted his legs. He slathered his feet with love and attention. He could
cum just looking at those heels and arches and ankles. God, he could cum
just from that. But there was so much more to do. To see. To taste. To
feast on. Coach scrunched Brandon's knees up to his chest and ate his sweet
asshole like chocolates and caviar, and then after he'd fingered him gently
to open him up, first with one finger, then two, he pressed the
slippery-slick tip of his mushroom-headed mancock to the tiny dot-entrance
of Brandon's twitching little starfish and pushed forward gently, Brandon
hissing out winces, but eager and determined, until the length of Coach's
long man shaft was buried fully in Brandon's throbbing rectum.

This was incredible, Brandon thought, as a thousand new fireflies started
dancing in front of his tightly-closed eyes.

And in and out Coach sawed his cock gently. In and out and in and out, as
Brandon arched his head back and grabbed the bed sheets. A drop of sweat
dripped from Brandon's sideburns and rolled into the corner of his mouth,
salty like tears. It felt so good to let the coach control him this way. To
fill him this way. To fuck him like this. To fill him with man-need.

The coach fucked and Brandon moaned. 12 years old that spring, and he never
knew fucking could feel this good. He never knew having something this big
and this hard and this strong in his ass would change him this
way. Rebirth. Re-invention. You think you know who you are when you're
12. You think you know everything. But when you get fucked for the first
time, you find out you were wrong. You find out you're something new. And
powerful. And beautiful.

This was what he needed when he experimented with his fingers.

This was what he needed when he played with the hairbrush.

This was getting fucked felt like. And Brandon really liked it.

Coached leaned forward and whispered in his ear:

"Do you want my cum, Brandon?"

"Oh, yes," Brandon whispered.

"Where should I put it?" Coached teased him.

"In my asshole," Brandon whispered. "Put it in my asshole."

"Louder," Coach told him.

"My asshole," Brandon repeated, as Coach picked up the pace.

"Louder!" he said again.

"My asshole!" Brandon shouted. "Cum up my asshole!"

And Coach lunged forward with deep, solid cock-thrust and grunted an
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, my God, my fuck..." as he grabbed Brandon's ass cheeks
and sprayed his hot insides with the jets of his jizz.

"Nnnnghhh," Brandon grunted at the force of the eruption. He gasped and he
winced and he loved every minute of it. He loved the look on Coach's
face. The way his eyes rolled back and his mouth hung open as he seeded his
asshole.

His pussy, he giggled in his own head. He just fucked my pussy. Because in
the grand scheme of things, Brandon learned that day, Coach was
right. Sometimes boys have pussies too. And sometimes they need them
filled-up by a hard, grunting man. There's a big difference between boy
cock and man cock. And Brandon already knew which line he wanted to be
in. This is what he'd look for and come back to for the rest of his
life. This feeling. This now.

"Baby," Coach said as he bent down and licked Brandon's lips. He was
shaking. Scared. Hoping he didn't hurt him.

"Fuck me again," Brandon said hungrily. He bit Coach's earlobe. He licked
the side of Coach's face little a little hungry vampire. "Don't even take
it out. Just fuck me again."

And Coach, who hadn't yet pulled out, re-hardened with those sexy words,
and gave the boy his bedtime wish. Fucked him full of desire and
semen. Fucked him three more times that night. Fucked him and slept. Fucked
him and slept. Fucked him until his dick was limp and there was no more cum
left in his balls. And Brandon loved it. Wanted more all night long. This
moment. This forever.

This fine, fleeting magic.

# # # # # # # # # #

"So, how come Coach dropped him like a hot potato?" Fast Freddy Footman
asked, sitting on the toilet and farting a wad of Bob's cum into the bowl.

"Kid was too old to start with," Bob shouted down the hall, mixing up a
fresh round of Malibu & Cokes and debating which porn DVD he'd put in next
to try to coax one more midnight fuck out of Freddy. "Coach liked the
little ones." (Which was total bullshit of course).

"Too bad," Freddy sighed, wiping the semen off his hole and looking at the
soggy tissue with genuine respect before he threw it in the bowl. Say what
you want about Big Bob Rumple, but the guy could cum buckets.

"Just another average tragedy in the annals of boylove," Bob shrugged as
Freddy came out and he handed him his drink. "They grow up too quickly,
don't they?"

"They sure do," Freddy sighed. "They sure as shit do."

And of course, you know and I know that Brandon had simply moved
away. Coach and Brandon wrote and made phone calls, but it wasn't the
same. Brandon's family had moved three states away the next week, and they
knew it was coming, and they tried for one more meetup, one more sleepover,
but in the rush of the move, it just wasn't to be.

What they had was special and good, but it was only for a moment. And Coach
loved that kid like a hot little memory he kept to himself and he treasured
it firmly, like the rarest of gems, and he kept it in a secret place in his
heart where it remains to this day. A magical snapshot, locked in love and
lust and time. He never had another boy before or after Brandon. Never even
wanted one. Brandon was his first boylove and his last.

But you couldn't tell that to Big Bob Rumple.

"Oh, yeah," he bragged. "After Coach fucked Brandon, I fucked him that same
night (also a lie), and then he moved to Seattle (that part was true), and
we never saw him again."

"What about Coach?" Freddy asked.

"Oh, he must have fucked half the team after that." Bob said casually (also
a lie), slurping at his drink and popping a new DVD in the
player. "Remember Jakey?"

"Little Jakey with the pretend tattoos?" Freddy laughed. He hadn't thought
about that kid for years.

"Yep," said Bob. "That's the one. The whole team fucked Jakey. Swear to
God, we all nailed that little fucker."

(And that part, dear readers, was surprisingly true).

"Oh well," Bob said. "Let's start a new movie. I want to see if I can get
you horned-up for one more fuck so I can drag you off to my bedroom.

"I don't know," Freddy shrugged. "That last one stung a little. Whenever
you you talk about the baseball team, you start fucking like a madman."

"I'll go easy on the next one," Bob lied. And the two old friends grinned
at each other, knowing how totally full of shit Bob could actually be.

"Look up little Jakey in the yearbook, buddy," Bob nodded toward the
book. "Let's take a minute and remember what his little pussy looked and
felt like."

And Freddy obliged. There he was, 7th Grade, page 25, right after Brandon's
page.

"Whoof," said Freddy, as he came into view. Smiling little boy with a
little fake tattoo on his neck. Wore it right there in the school yearbook
picture, crazy kid. A little skull and crossbones. Pirate tattoo, the goofy
little horn-dog.

"Him and those gumball machine tattoos, man. He sure found some fun places
to stick those on us guys, huh?"

Freddy laughed and agreed. He'd gotten the Jakey tattoo treatment a time or
two himself and lived to tell the tale. And Holy Fuck, dear reader, there's
fine tail we need to tell you about someday, that hot little Jakey.

"Yeah," Freddy grinned. "He got me once or twice with those sticky little
fuckers, that's for sure."

The two men sighed and pulled down their underwear again, reached for the
lube and fired up their cocks.

Nothing but friendship and loving on a Saturday night, watching some porn,
tossing back drinks, and doing all the secret things that two old friends
will do when they're kicking it back old-school, yearbooks and laughter on
hand, getting hard, talking trash about the team.

I mean really. What are friends for?

# # # # # # # # # #

Love,
Zachyboy and Scuba Steve
z.blake@mail.com
scubasteve.12@hushmail.com