|« PREV||INDEX||NEXT »|
Life Store, The: Wrestling Matt
|Aardvark2 has made a mistake. He told me it would be okay for me to write a chapter for his LIFE STORE series. And after beating off to his “Hot Cop” story a few times, I decided to have some fun myself. Happy Belated Holidays, everyone! Enjoy! Absman – who’d love to be known as Matt…|
|“Dad?!? I’m HOME!”
He emerged from the upstairs bedroom, wearing only a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a black baseball cap with the gold Iowa Hawkeyes logo on the front. Barely in his forties, he was densely muscled with the kind of powerful neck that betrayed all wrestlers. Every inch the coach, every inch the man who’d devoted his life to a sport, he’d wrestled since sixth grade, made varsity in ninth, high school national champion soon thereafter, recruited by Iowa, collegiate nationals champion his junior and senior years, now head coach at the junior college that prepped talent for UI, and first in line for the assistant’s position at the big school.
He looked down on me from the top of the balcony and in his gravelly voice said, “Oh, I see Loser U is finally on Christmas break. Wait, what do you liberals call it? WINTER break, right?” He chuckled hoarsely at his own joke, running a hand over his bare, muscular torso.
Even though I promised myself I wouldn’t react to his bait – the whole bus ride halfway across the country, I’d promised myself over and over – immediately I was defensive. “Dad… not everybody celebrates Christmas.”
“Oh, Jesus, Brian! It was a joke – a freakin’ joke!” He descended the stairs as he bitched, his big muscles bouncing as he plodded down. “That’s the problem with you east coast intellectuals, you’re too freakin’ good for everything! Sometimes I wish your little Liberal U HAD a wrestling team – it’d be fun to come in there and kick their ass!”
At the base of the stairs, we faced each other – at five-nine, we were the same height and structure, but he easily had me by forty pounds of muscle. He just seemed taller than me by the way he carried himself, by his confidence and posture, inflated by his ego.
We didn’t hug. He only hugged his wrestlers – and then only when they won – never his son. No, he held his hand out for me to shake. And naturally, he seemed disappointed by the firmness of my grip. “So c’mon in and see the place,” he said, leading the way into the house. I followed, eye-level with his massive traps.
This little off-campus, post-divorce house of his was a testament to his life as a single man and wrestler. A shrine, almost. Trophies and medals and photographs everywhere, posters and playbills from various events and contests, equipment and gear stashed here and there, a mishmash of obsession – maybe Mom had been right.
The whole place was a disaster. Torn apart, laundry discarded, dirty dishes in stacks, this was clearly not the work of one man. He obviously had his wrestlers over often – the gigantic sectional sofa looked well-worn and comfortable beneath its wrinkled throw, and there was no belittling the entertainment center and the nearly wall-sized plasma TV. What college-aged guy wouldn’t like that?
One of the coffee tables had been awkwardly cleared and a small, fake Christmas tree blinked merrily away, despite being decorated with a couple of dirty socks and someone’s jockstrap covering the face of the angel on top. Underneath was a single wrapped present, about the size of a shirt box. “That’s for you,” Dad said, handing it to me. “Well, really, it’s for BOTH of us, but, uh… I think you’ll get more out of it… initially. Open it.”
“Isn’t it a little early for…?”
“What?” he said impatiently – he wasn’t used to being questioned, some things never change. “It’s Christmas Eve, the sun’s almost down. What the fuck? Let’s start your homecoming right.”
I’d never seen that much sentiment out of my father, so I sat awkwardly on the sofa arm and opened his gift, tearing through the paper and opening the box. “What is this…?” I asked under my breath as I looked inside.
It was the strangest thing – he’d given me a singlet, an old Iowa singlet, black with gold piping and the word “IOWA” spelled across one leg, the Hawkeye logo emblazoned on the center front, where it would be directly over the heart when worn. It wasn’t even a NEW singlet. Beat up and flaking, stretched at the seams, as if the guy who’d worn it had been way too big for it – it was certainly too big for me, scarecrow that I am.
Also a jockstrap in the same condition. Well-worn, stretched elastic, there was no mistaking that this jock had been worn by someone with monstrous genitalia, the cotton pouch was so distended. It may have been laundered clean, but it was still someone’s used jockstrap. He’d given me someone’s used jockstrap for Christmas. Was this his idea of a joke?
He wasn’t laughing – rather, he had an anticipatory smile on his face.
“Okay, now before you say something that pisses me off,” he said, sitting on the coffee table before me, pushing some dishes out of the way so he could, “let me explain it.”
I made a fist and comfortably fit it in the pouch of the jock. “Absolutely,” I said. “I’d love to hear your explanation for THIS.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding slightly. “But first, go put that stuff on.”
“I bought it for you, Brian. Put it on.” He said that with a “coach” attitude, a man who wasn’t used to being questioned.
He held up his hand for me to stop. “But nothing. Put it on. It’ll be like your Christmas present to me. Your old man wants to see you in a Hawkeyes uniform just once before he dies, okay? Indulge me?”
“You’re not gonna die, are you?”
“Just put the fucking thing on!”
And so, in the filthy bathroom just off the kitchen, I shucked my clothes and put on the outfit Dad had given me for Christmas. The jockstrap didn’t even come close to fitting – or at least, that’s what I suspected. I’d only ever worn a jockstrap one time before that, and it’d given me a rash. Just a little too big in the waist, so that it fell and settled on my hip bones, and to make the pouch fit I’d need a balled-up pair of socks, or a grapefruit.
The singlet was just as bad. Though its elasticity was better, it was still clearly two sizes too large. With my boney bod, I might as well have been a wire hanger for the way it hung on me from the shoulders.
I looked ridiculous. Comical. Embarrassing.
How could my Dad and I differ that much?
When I went back to the living room, the smile on his face was the largest I’d ever seen on him – especially directed at me. A shark spying his evening meal.
“This thing is huge on me,” I said, embarrassed by his scrutiny, humiliated by his gaze.
“Yeah,” he said, like it was an unimportant detail. He reached down and adjusted his package beneath his sweats.
“Is this one of your old ones?” I asked.
“No,” he said quietly. “Mine would probably fit you, though you still wouldn’t fill it out as well.” He winked to indicate he was teasing – I let it go. “No, that there must’ve belonged to one of the big boys – maybe Gunter, or Johnny No-Neck.”
“Well, where did you get it? Why are you giving it to me?”
“First things first,” he said, standing. There was no hiding his dick as it pushed out against the loose cotton sweats he wore. Was seeing me in this singlet giving my Dad a hard-on? Ignoring it, and my unmistakable reaction to it, he reached in his pocket, pushing his big half-log to the side to retrieve a small plastic pouch. He tossed it to me.
Naturally, I fumbled it instead of catching it smoothly.
“Take those,” he said, crossing his hands before his package, lightly holding himself and tickling his dick with a finger. “Take those, then we’ll talk. I’ll explain everything.”
It was a small, plastic pouch about the size of a business card, two pills inside. Stapled to it, a typed paper label reading, “WRESTLING MATT, 20, 215lb class, Coach’s Favorite.”
“What is this?”
“Take ‘em,” Dad said – I think he WAS playing with himself. “You need some water or something?” He picked a half-full bottle from the table and held it out to me.
He spoke sharply, inflating his ribcage and bristling his muscle. “Brian,” he said, “just do what I say. Don’t make me MAKE you take them.”
And so I dry-swallowed them – but they must’ve been gel-coated, because they went down easy -- one tasted slightly metallic.
“Thank you,” he said in a lighter tone. “Now sit down and I’ll tell you what this is all about.” When I plopped myself back on the arm of the sofa, my hands crossed before my crotch, he continued, hurrying through the exposition. “I was in the city not long ago on a tourney, staying at a hotel in this weird little neighborhood on the east side. I was coming back after practice, walking down this street with all these little shops and shit and I pass by this vintage clothing store. There’s a singlet in the window – catches my eye – an old-school Iowa lo-cut singlet, like we wore in the eighties, when I was there.
“Anyway, I go inside, and the Man who owns the store, a little dumpy fag with this kind of know-it-all attitude sees me checkin’ out the singlet and the first thing out of his mouth – not ‘hello’, not ‘how are you?’, not ‘welcome to my store’ – no, he says, ‘Your son’s a disappointment to you. You wish he’d found the passion for wrestling that you have.’
“And what was I gonna do, Brian? It’s true. And it caught me off-guard. So, instead of questioning how he knew it, or what business of his it was, I nodded and said, ‘Yeah…’
“Because, it IS a disappointment to me, Brian. It breaks my heart that you don’t like wrestling – since before you were born, it was my dream to raise a little wrestler and be your coach.”
It was so weird to hear my Dad talking like this – it was almost too much. I was feeling a little light-headed, so I slid down onto the seat of the sofa and leaned back against the soft material, my hands still covering my crotch. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, near tears. “I wish I could’ve been the son you wanted.”
Dad smiled and barked a laugh. “That’s what HE said,” he said, “the Man at the shop. He said it was possible for me to have the son I’d always wanted. He said I could BUY that – I didn’t have to wish it, I could buy it – and he had just the thing!”
“What?” I asked – I WAS feeling dizzy, clouded. I was having trouble keeping up with the narrative. I felt like I had just taken cold medicine or something.
“So we’re in the back of his shop where the cash register and stuff is and we go to this filing cabinet. He tells me that this place is called THE LIFE STORE – the clothing thing is just a front – and through some unexplainable combination of alchemy and nano-technology or something, he’s able to craft complete new lives for people. He sells new lives!
“Okay, NOW I think he’s crazy and I’m just indulging him. I really just want to buy the singlet and get the hell out of there, right? And he pulls out this thick file marked ‘ATHLETES,’ and it’s full of biographies and profiles of all these different jocks and all these different sports. He’s humming as he sorts through them. There’s only a few wrestlers – what a shock, right? – when he pulls one out and says, ‘This is it!’”
It was still hard to follow what my Dad was talking about, but I realized that I wasn’t sick, wasn’t dizzy – no, just the opposite. I was starting to feel a buzz, like the coming wave that rides you up to drug-induced ecstasy. I was feeling kind of good.
I was even starting to get a hard-on. I could feel it growing beneath the loose jockstrap.
Instead of being embarrassed by it, however, I briefly thought, “Well, so does DAD…” before I dismissed it. Fuck it, let it get hard – it felt good. Besides, Dad wasn’t trying to hide his.
“It was a helluva profile,” Dad continued, watching me curiously. “And I loved how the guy’s name was a pun – Wrestling Matt.” He chuckled. “Oh, Brian, you’re gonna love being him.”
“What?” I asked, almost fully hard. “What do you mean?”
“I’m turning you into him, into the son I’ve always wanted. I bought the profile from the Life Store and I’m turning you into Wrestling Matt, a twenty year old, two-hundred fifteen pound, cocky, nationally-ranked super-jock whose only desire is to please his coach and be like his dad, obsessed with wrestling and training hard at the gym. He loves it, he loves Iowa, he loves his teammates, he loves his jock life, and he owes it all to his Dad, his coach, and he loves to show his gratitude.” He touched his dick again and dreamily added, “It’s gonna be fuckin’ awesome to have him around instead of you....”
Dad shrugged, his big traps flexing and falling. “I don’t know. The Man tried to explain it to me but it didn’t make any sense. Who fuckin’ cares HOW it works? All that matters is that it does.” He looked me up and down quickly, taking his measure, then said, “And it’s obvious that’s something’s happening to you. Stand up.”
I obeyed him so quickly that it surprised me. I didn’t even pause to consider any other options. He commanded and I obeyed, just like that – and it felt good to please my coach… I mean, my Dad.
“You’re already bigger,” he said. “How do you feel, Matt?”
Weakly, I said, “It’s Brian…”
A stern look crossed his face – he didn’t like being contradicted. (How could you be Coach’s Favorite if you questioned an order, Brian?) Dad got up in my face and growled. “It’s whatever I say it is… Matt. Answer the question.”
Again, without even waiting for him to finish the order, I obeyed it – and that gave me such pleasure. “I feel kind of weird,” I said, tingling, “but good. I can feel my body getting… I don’t know, THICKER almost. Inside and out. Stronger.” And before I could stop myself, I said, “But it’s nothing compared to how good it feels when I obey an order from you.”
There was triumph in his smirk, even though he hadn’t won, yet. It kind of pissed me off that he thought I’d be so easy to defeat – I was starting to feel kind of aggressive, kind of angry. Masculine. I was rock hard now, and even the jockstrap wasn’t able to contain me. Turn me into some kind of super-jock, will he? Fuck, when I’m two-hundred fifteen pounds I’ll show him.
I orgasmed then, facing off with my Dad. I grunted and moaned as I shot, breaking eye-contact with him – a big, wet stain immediately spreading on the singlet, but still I didn’t stop. I wasn’t even embarrassed by it – no, I fuckin’ LOVED it! It felt so GOOD!
“Yeah,” Dad growled. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about…”
“Fuck!” I screamed as the orgasm subsided, a few vain left-over spurts feebly making their way out of my still-hard cock. I felt so vibrant – so STRONG. “Where’s… a fuckin’… MIRROR?” I said, my voice gaining a rough edge it had never had before. That was certainly the first time I’d used the “F”-word in front of my coach… I mean, my Dad.
He seemed to be taking it okay, though. He had a huge smile on his face as he led me to the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway. A light shone done from directly above where we were standing, making for kind of dramatic lighting as I saw what had begun happening to me.
Mirrors had never been my friends – they always showed my flaws, my weaknesses. I would avoid my reflection as much as I could. But standing here with my Dad, I looked in the mirror and saw a whole different me. And since my dad was reflected accurately, then I must have been, too.
I didn’t see the skinny, weak, loser I had always been. No, I saw a developing athlete instead, with a strong muscular base that seemed to be growing before my eyes. Damn, I looked good in this singlet, tight as it was becoming – like it was MADE for me. Made for my body. Made to show off my muscle, my power – my very generous cock. I never thought I could be so hot. So incredible. Maybe I wouldn’t mind being this Wrestling Matt after all…
“Flex,” Coach said, looking at my reflection rather than me. I instantly obeyed, throwing up a double-bis, and my erection instantly returned.
Look how fucking big I was getting!
I went from pose to pose, Coach showing me the ones I didn’t really know – most muscular, side chest – my musculature improving and growing the more I flexed. Look at my traps, my neck – years of neck bridges showed as I flexed.
“Let’s see the abs,” Coach said, putting his hands behind his own head and flexing his – no wonder he stressed core-training as much as he did. His abs were incredible, dense, thick and separated by deep, oxen-plowed grooves.
I quickly pulled the straps of my singlet down, eager to see what mine looked like next to his. I wasn’t disappointed. All the hours we’d spent training together – the nearly obsessive nature of it – had clearly paid off. I remember it used to drive Mom fuckin’ crazy. No wonder she and Dad split up – she couldn’t understand men who had our priorities.
My abs were actually better than Dad’s… I mean, than my Coach’s. He was thicker through the middle than me – a little middle-aged spread, I’d joke with him when I really wanted to piss him off – my waist was almost two inches smaller than the old man and my tiny little hips gave me a “V” much more sever than his.
“Hard not to be envious, isn’t it?” I asked in my gravelly new voice as we fought for mirror space.
Coach barked out a “Fuck you” and cocked his fist like he was gonna punch me.
“Go ahead, old man,” I said, smirking, running a hand over my eight-pack. “Give it your best shot.”
As soon as his fist came in contact with my muscle, I orgasmed again, this time so powerful, it brought me to my knees. My big cock just kept pumping out the jizz, soaking the material and dripping down my leg. I fuckin’ LOVED it!
When I could control myself again, there on my knees in the hallway, I looked over at Coach, standing there with a triumphant smirk on his face – God damn, I loved him! After all, I owed him fucking EVERYTHING – he made me into the man I was today. He’d trained me all my life to be the best I could be – to be like HIM.
His big hard dick fought the confines of his loose sweats, and as the Coach’s Favorite, I knew what my job was. Without waiting for his order or his guidance, I reached over, untied the waistband, and pulled out his thick, nine-incher. Damn, I may’ve had better abs, but I had nothing on Coach’s hot, hot cock.
“You gonna stare at it,” he asked, “or are you gonna do something with it?”
“Just give me the order, Coach.”
That smirk – that cocky fuckin’ smirk – the one I’d inherited. Yeah, fucker, just watch what your favorite can do. Feel my talented mouth.
“Suck my cock, Matt,” he said, slapping it against my face.
The rush of pleasure I felt when I took it in my mouth caused me to cum again. Seeing our reflections in the mirror, this hulking college wrestler blowing his Coach, their muscle flexing, their faces locked in ecstasy, made it even hotter. I knew just what to do, just how to tickle, just when to deep-throat, and when he orgasmed, filling my mouth with his salty-sweet jism, choking me with its volume, I knew with certainty that was why I’d been created.
And I’d never be satisfied.
“Isn’t this better than being some pansy-ass performing arts major at Liberal U, Brian?” he asked as he leaned against the wall and I licked him clean.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked as I ran my tongue down the length of his impressive shaft. “My name is Matt. Don’t you remember, or did it take all the blood from your brain to fill this big dick of yours? I go to Iowa, like my dad before me. I’m on a wrestling scholarship that you helped me earn, and for which....” I kissed the head of his cock and slipped it back into his sweats. “…I will be forever grateful.”
“Excellent,” he said, patting me on the head. “Let’s go hit the mats, then, Matt. I want to see what you learned at Iowa this semester.”
It was our best Christmas ever – we could train, eat, and fuck without Mom breathing down our necks. Coach and I trudged through the snow to the Athletic Building on campus, opened up the wrestling room, turned up the heat, and grappled the night away. We started in our Iowa singlets, which was hot enough, then we stripped down to jocks and finally rolled naked together, sweaty. muscular and masculine. He was a tough bitch and I still couldn’t take him – but he took me, often and ferociously.
Quite literally, too. He took me right there on the wrestling mats, fucking me the way a man uses his favorite sex toy, the same way he had for years. I loved it so much. As team captain, I always had my pick of the other wrestler’s tight little asses, but rarely had to give up my own – that’s how often I lost. But man, Coach could always do me, and do me right. He could fuck me hard on the soft mats and I always wanted more. I may’ve even shouted “I love you!” as he came inside me – I don’t remember, I was so lost in ecstasy. So lost in gratitude.
I was Wrestling Matt, the Coach’s Favorite, a two-hundred fifteen pound state champion and fuck machine. And I loved it.
Afterwards, I licked the mats clean and joined my Coach in the shower.
|« PREV||INDEX||NEXT »|
This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.
Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.
Archive Version 070326