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