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Growing for the Team
|"Here you are, Son," said Mr. Skeen. "Size large, right?"
The boy nodded. Mr. Skeen handed the clean, folded jockstrap through the service window of the equipment cage, carefully noting the number written in indelible ink on the waistband, 124, in his neat ledger. Ace, three-inch waistband, pouch yellow-gray and thinning with age. Like my hair, Mr. Skeen thought with amusement. The young man on the other side of the window took it and handed in his used strap, still dank from yesterday's workout, which Mr. Skeen accepted with something bordering on reverence. He noted the number on its waistband, 385, and smartly licking his finger (which now bore a delicious trace of the teen's jock sweat), he turned the pages of his ledger back a week to mark that it had been returned. As the boy turned to leave, Mr. Skeen's eyes dropped down his figure. He was wearing the slouchy uniform of all high school boys -- curse those marketers at Abercrombie and Fitch, he thought. Still, he could detect a high, full ass holding up the waistband of his baggy shorts, and nice muscular shoulders beneath his loose tee. He let his eyes linger as the boy sauntered away.
Mr. Skeen took a moment to savor the damp feeling of the boy's jockstrap in his hand before he dropped it into the laundry bin. For a moment he permitted himself to imagine it cupping the muscular boy's genitals. Thick teenage meat slung snugly in the stretchy pouch. Hormone-pumping balls riding low and heavy with jism. Legstraps circling down around smooth, high gluteals to converge at the sweaty, fragrant point of the pouch just beyond his innocent fuckhole.
Ah, youth, Mr. Skeen thought, sighing. As there was no one else in line, he turned to survey his domain, the equipment cage in the boys' locker room. He ran a tight ship, he thought with pride. A place for everything and everything in its place. He had been doing this ever since he could remember – twenty? Twenty-five years? -- and now that his cat Biddy had died, it was one of his few remaining pleasures. The high cabinets where the football helmets were stored off-season. Innumerable cubbies containing shin guards, lifting gloves, cleats, neatly stacked baseballs, bats and gloves, all in their respective places. The racks and racks of gym shorts, tee- shirts, athletic uniforms of every type. And the jockstraps, hundreds of them, continually being cycled through washing after washing, keeping generations' worth of boys' equipment up and out of harm's way.
For him it was a labor of love. To keep the cycle going, encourage youthful vigor, and of course to provide himself with the occasional stunning relic of athletic prowess that made it all worthwhile. The cropped football jersey that was the property of a beautiful golden boy from 1987; the sweat-stiffened gym shorts of a rough-and-tumble youth who hadn't turned them in for washing all year, until the very last day of school. And yes, he had retired some of the jockstraps that came in after a week's worth of use, the especially good ones, or the ones from boys that he especially liked. No. 82 had been returned with a smirk by a boy who had taken care to deposit a fresh load of teenage cum in the pouch before handing it in. No. 244 had been worn by a swarthy young man who seemed to enjoy just hanging around the locker room, within view of the cage, wearing only the jock, displaying his thick bulge and showing his ass to Mr. Skeen at every opportunity. That was a special one. And there was No. 318, which had been returned with such a strong reek of piss and cum emanating from the pouch that Mr. Skeen could only imagine the handsome boy had never taken it off for the entire 7 days, pissing through it, shitting between its legstraps, and using it as a cum rag for his thrice daily masturbations. That one was kept in a Ziploc bag and only taken out for special occasions.
And then there was the wrestling coach. Dan Hall. He couldn't be that much older than the senior boys – just out of college, no older, and so beautiful. Mr. Skeen felt his cock stiffen in his pants as he thought of all the gear he had stolen from the muscular young man. Of course it was never missed by an athlete like him; he had such a profusion of shirts, shorts, jocks, he never knew the difference. But Mr. Skeen took good care of it. He had a shrine to Dan Hall inside one of the unused lockers in the back. Sweaty shirts and shorts of every description, a salty pair of weightlifting gloves, some gamy soiled socks, all on their own hooks. A swimmer-style jock with narrow waistband and a stained pouch that had lost its elasticity with age. Even a maroon and white school singlet he had worn in practice once demonstrating moves for the boys. The boys' size XXL had had been too small for him but he wore it anyway, wanting to demonstrate school spirit. That was a real prize. Running its smooth cool lycra over his fingers, holding it to his nose, imagining the muscle it had encased, was almost enough to make Mr. Skeen cum all by itself.
Yes, he had his relics. He took what he could of the budding masculinity of his charges. But of course it was never enough. Never enough. He wanted more; he wanted to linger over their bodies, caress their muscles with his eyes and hands, kneel in front of them and let their overwhelming male power flood his being. He wanted to accept their rivers of cum and obey their horny commands to fulfill their every sexual desire. And he knew this would never happen. Never. He cast his gaze down and for the ten thousandth time considered suicide.
At that moment, something caught his eye. A black flash of movement in a dim back corner of the cage. Moving closer to get a better look, he saw that it was – no! Could it be? – it was his beloved cat, Biddy, arching her back and rubbing against the base of one of the equipment racks.
"Biddy!" his heart leapt. "Is it you?"
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