Lusty Mr Harold

 

 

Prologue SFW version. Find the NSFW version at https://reamstories.com/krestonbach

The first time Phillip Harold saw Tom Bolden, he noticed the size of him before anything else. He wasn’t just tall, the man was enormous. 

Tom seemed to rival any of the statues to fallen heroes around the park where the basement of the community center held the Thursday night Sexaholics Anonymous meeting. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead and the folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle. Most of the men there kept their eyes low, hands folded, voices quiet. Tom looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely. Seven feet of muscle wrapped in a dark wool coat, shoulders broad enough to block the hallway behind him.

Phillip watched him from across the room while stirring a paper cup of day old coffee. The giant hesitated for a moment, scanning the room with sharp, guarded eyes before taking an empty chair. When he sat down the metal legs of the chair creaked in protest.

When it was Phillip’s turn to speak he did what he always did. He was quick, witty, just self-deprecating enough to keep the room relaxed. The group liked him. People tended to like Phillip Harold once he started talking.

But the big man across the circle was not smiling. He was observing. It seemed as if Mr Phillip Harold had raised his interest. Maybe it was the way he was self-assured despite his height or the apparent confident smile, but he was different.

After the meeting ended the men drifted out in small groups. Phillip was stuffing his hands into his coat pockets when the giant appeared beside him.

“You talk a lot,” Tom said.

His voice was rough, gravelly, the kind of voice that sounded like it had spent years shouting across football fields. Mr Harold turned around, looked up, and up. 

“I’m a lawyer,” he replied lightly. “We get paid by the word, you know.”

For a second the big man studied him like he was trying to decide something. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Phillip could tell Tom wanted to ask him something, but couldn’t bring himself to say it, so he decided to say it for him. 

“Beer?” Phillip asked.

Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise and relief. “Sure, if you’re buying.”

They ended up at a dim sports bar a few blocks away off of the financial district. The place smelled like moisture and old wood. Tom stopped bothering with pouring from the  pitcher to the beer glass after the second one. He drank from the pitcher as if it was a mug. 

Mr Harold on the other hand talked lively while sipping on his martini. Tom listened to him like he was a puzzle difficult to solve. Slowly the big man began to open up.

Tom had played professional football once. A career cut short by injury and bad decisions. Women, alcohol, a life that spun too fast and too loud. Now he was trying to put something new together. Phillip told him just enough about himself to keep the conversation moving. 

“I am married and have a son. He’s nine.” he shared. 

His career was going well enough to keep him and his small family living comfortably in a suburban track home. The cookie cutter house made him feel like he was blending in and keeping up appearances.

“What about you?” Mr Harold asked. 

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about that.”

“Well, you came to the meeting for a reason. What’s your poison? Chronic masturbator, too many women, too many men?” Mr Harold laughed. 

“Mostly women,” the big man said, avoiding looking him in the eyes. 

“I see. Mostly. Why mostly?”

Tom turned and stared at the short blond man. From his expression, Phillip deduced he was going to have a hard time sharing. He figured he would try sharing first. Maybe that would make him feel more comfortable. 

“I discovered after two years of marriage that as much as I enjoyed women, sex with men was better. Now unfortunately I can’t stop myself. I crave it constantly,” Phillip shared which seemed to work because Tom started sharing too. 

“When I was playing ball in college, I had it all. I couldn’t go anywhere without them throwing themselves at me. I became insatiable, even fooled around with some of the cuckold husbands.” Tom said. 
“Ah, so you have tried sex with a man. How did you like it?”

The hours passed without either of them noticing.

When they left the bar headed for their cars, they stumbled into the quiet lobby of a nearby hotel. The city had gone dark. Phillip laughed at something Tom said and felt the strange electricity of standing next to someone who made him feel so small and vulnerable for the first time in his life.

They didn’t say it but soon, Phillip had paid for a room and they took the elevator upstairs.

What happened behind the hotel room door stayed there, wrapped in gin, beer, curiosity and the kind of reckless honesty that only comes from strangers who know they will never have to see each other again.

Mr Harold walked to the mini-bar, took a little vodka bottle for himself, then lifted a bottle of beer in the air. Tom put up his hand as a sign of approval. Phillip tossed it and the bottle was caught by the man’s hand. With the push of a button, Mr Harold ignited the flat screen and found a music channel. 

Days later he was standing in his living room adjusting his tie while his wife Vivian moved around the kitchen.

“Phillip,” she called. “My friend from the club is coming for dinner tonight. Her husband too. Be polite.”

“I’m always polite,” he said.

The doorbell rang.

Phillip walked over and opened the door.

The world seemed to tilt. Standing on the porch was Tom Bolden in a dark tailored suit, towering exactly as Phillip remembered. Next to him stood a smiling woman holding a bottle of wine.

Tom’s eyes widened just slightly as recognition landed. Behind Phillip, Vivian called from the kitchen. 

“Phillip, are they here?”

Tom Bolden stepped inside the house like a man walking into a surprise he did not yet understand.

 

Portrait of Coach Hunt

 

Coach Hunt is the central character of Big Man Goes Down novel by Kreston Bach. 

 

 Coach Hunt woke slowly, not to the sound of an alarm or sunlight creeping across the room, but to the distant rush of the shower running.

For a moment he lay still, staring up at the high plaster ceiling of the bedroom. The mansion’s master suite was cavernous, designed in another century and for people who had believed space itself was a display of wealth. Tall windows framed by velvet drapes let in the pale gray of early morning. Somewhere outside, birds had begun their lively conversations in the hedges.

He turned his head slightly as if to test how much it ached. On the nightstand beside him sat a glass of whiskey, half full and forgotten. He frowned faintly because it explained the heaviness behind his eyes.

One of his powerful hands rubbed across his face and he exhaled. His thick dark mustache shifted under his palm as he yawned. Even half-awake, his presence seemed to fill the entire bed. At nearly seven feet tall, Hunt was used to furniture feeling small beneath him.

Memories of the night before drifted back in fragments. He remembered there was music and even laughter. It started coming back to him when the shower stopped.

The man sighed quietly as the bathroom door opened and a man stepped out, steam following him like a ghost. He was handsome, about his own age, athletic, still toweling his hair dry. Strawberry blond curls clung to his forehead, and his smile was easy and hopeful.

“Morning,” he said.

Hunt raised an eyebrow slightly but gave a polite nod. “Morning, Lance.”

Lance moved casually around the room, comfortable in the way people often were after spending the night in someone else’s bed. He had wrapped a towel around his waist but didn’t seem particularly concerned with modesty.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said. “I had to take a hot shower.”

Hunt pushed himself up slightly against the headboard. His massive shoulders shifted beneath the sheets.

“No,” he said calmly and lied. “I was about to get up.”

Lance grinned. “Good. I know you’re not a morning person.”

Hunt didn’t answer. His eyes flicked briefly toward the whiskey glass again. Lance sat at the edge of the bed, looking pleased with himself.

“You know, I actually called in sick to work this morning,” he said.

That caught Hunt’s attention.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” the redhead said with bright enthusiasm. “Figured… why rush off? We could spend the day together, since you said you don’t have practice today.”

Hunt’s expression barely changed, but the silence that followed was long enough to become uncomfortable. Lance’s smile faded slightly.

Hunt swung his legs out of the bed and stood. Even without trying, he was an imposing figure. Tall, broad, heavily muscled. Dark hair ran across his chest and down his torso in thick natural patterns. When he stretched his shoulders, the movement looked almost effortless, like a lion waking from sleep.

He walked toward the window, pulling the curtains open just enough to let pale sunlight spill into the room.

“That wasn’t a good idea,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?”

Hunt glanced over his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t miss work.”

“It’s just one day,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I thought…”

“There’s really no reason for you to stay. I got stuff to do.”

The words weren’t polite. They cut like daggers and Lance’s face fell before responding.

“Oh.”

Coach Hunt walked toward the dresser, picking up his watch and turning it slowly in his hands as if making sure of the time.

Lance stood slowly from the bed, hurt feelings flickering across his face. “I thought last night meant something.”

Hunt’s voice remained even, almost cold. “It meant we had a pleasant evening.”

“That’s it?”

Hunt didn’t respond immediately but finally he said, “I was clear since I met you that this was casual.”

The towel slipped slightly as Lance shifted his weight, but he didn’t bother adjusting it.

“Do you know what you are?” he said suddenly. “You’re impossible,” he said. “Everyone wants you. Everyone talks about you like you’re some kind of legend.”

Hunt leaned against the dresser.

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you seem unimpressed.”

“I’m not unimpressed,” Lance snapped. “I’m angry.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t let anyone get close.”

“That’s not your concern.” Hunt’s expression hardened slightly.

“It is when you invite someone into your bed.”

“I invited you for the night,” Hunt corrected.

The man shook his head.

“You really don’t get it.” He took a breath, gathering the courage to say something he clearly believed. “You’re going to end up alone. Not because people don’t want you, but because you refuse to put in the work.”

Hunt said nothing while he crossed his arms, rolling his eyes while he allowed Lance to continue. After all, it wasn’t the first time he would hear the same lecture he had heard so many times before. 

“You act like relationships are disposable,” Lance went on. “Like people are temporary.”

Lance grabbed his clothes from the chair.

“You’ll never find love if you keep doing this,” he said quietly. He dressed quickly with sharp movements and a wounded pride. He paused at the door. For a moment it looked like he might say something else, but instead he just shook his head and left.

The heavy door closed with a slam. Coach Hunt stood still in the silent room. Outside, the birds continued their morning chorus which annoyed him more.

After a moment, another knock came at the door before Sterling stepped inside.

The old butler moved with careful dignity, dressed in a perfectly pressed dark suit that might have been fashionable in the nineteenth century. His bald head gleamed faintly in the morning light.

“Good morning, sir,” he said warmly.

“Morning, Sterling.”

Sterling glanced briefly toward the hallway, clearly aware someone had just left. He had been expecting it to happen. 

“I trust your evening was agreeable,” he said while fixing the pillows and the sheets. Hunt gave a faint smile.

“It was what it was. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of him anymore.”

Sterling nodded knowingly but did not pry. “Breakfast will be served by the pool in ten minutes, sir.”

Coach Hunt | Big Man Goes Down

 

 

Complete Audiobook  and E-book Available: reamstories.com/krestonbach 

 

Coach Hunt Goes Above and Beyond for the Team
 

Part 1: The Devil’s Plunge


It was the first official day of practice of the year. The day when Coach Hunt himself would be taking charge of the team. As it was customary, until then assistant coach Mills had been preparing us for Coach and running drills. Practice was always fun, but not on a Friday when there was a game on Saturday. While everyone was out having fun on a beautiful Fall day, we were in the pool doing laps. Then to top it all, our reward would be the usual lecture about not going out at night, no drinking or partying so we can be our best for the match. The humidity in the indoor pool room was so high that the smell of chlorine impregnated everything. We did have the record for most olympic swimmers that came out of our school, so we hoped it would all be worth it in the end. 

I was thinking that day that having practice on Friday did have a perk. We got to take the devil’s plunge. I was deep in thought about it when Ron, the noob just arrived from some one horse town in one of the square states interrupted me. 

“Man, Coach is a hardass. This session was no joke,” he said, punching me in the arm. 

“That’s Coach Hunt for you, but if you wanna be the best,” I said without bothering to finish my thought. I toweled my hair one more time, but it made little difference since the towel felt just as wet as the pool. We started walking together towards the locker room while I took another swig of my purple sports drink. 

“You have two seasons on you so far right?” He asked. I always seemed to be the one noobs would approach and try to be friends with. It was my gentle demeanor or that’s what I always told myself. 

“Yeah. The plan is to win some gold and then sell endorsements and be on cereal boxes. You know, the usual,” I told him grinning, knowing that was always the plan for all of us. 

“No shit! Me too,” he said, not realizing my sarcasm. 

“What about you? How are you settling in? All enrolled and paperwork out of the way?” I responded in an attempt to change the topic. 

“Yeah. I think so. I never knew it was all so different,” he said. I was not sure if he was talking about matriculation, practice or the facilities so vastly different from the swimming hole where he probably did most of his swimming at home. 

“Well, it's the first day of practice so there is more awaiting us in the locker room,” I told him and walked ahead of him to catch up with my buds from the previous year. I didn’t want to seem too chummy with noobs. Most of them wouldn’t be in the team within a month anyway. 

As luck would have it, his locker ended up being next to mine. I took my time changing because I knew the routine. Assistant Coach Mills would give the tired lecture about how partying and lack of sleep can ruin our performance. He would carry on boring everyone with his monotone speech pattern.

He would then hand out clipboards with paperwork that was filled out for us to sign and initial in a few places. It was a non-disclosure agreement. It contained several sections, but the one that was most emphasized contained clause after clause about not sharing anything that had to do with the coaches, their methods of training, their strategies, their behavior during and after hours. The agreement went on for perpetuity, but we were all very eager to sign it. 

If it wasn’t because of Assistant Coach Mills’ constantly smiling face, he would not come across so goofy. By the time he was finished, we would all be showered or at least changed into our street clothes. Most of us just like to throw on sweats over our swim briefs, so it never took long. Then Coach Hunt would stop the rambling and take over. 

“We had some decent times out there today, but they are not enough to get us to where we deserve to be. There’s more hard work ahead, but for a first practice, I think you all deserve some credit and you are all invited to “the mans” for some rest and relaxation if you are interested. You all know where it is and if you don’t, ask. 

I looked up at the ceiling, awaiting the question. I knew Ron would be asking and he didn’t disappoint. 

“What’s a mans? Are you going?” he said as expected. 

“He calls it that because he lives in a mansion. Big house. Yeah, I go whenever he invites us but it's not for everyone,” I said, trying to warn him that he might want to think about it twice. After all, he was new and from a not very progressive state. 

“Sounds interesting, but you sound like you are telling me not to go. Why is that?” He asked and once again this year, it would fall onto me to explain without hurting sensibilities. 

“What I mean is that around here everyone lives and lets live. If we don’t like something, we just don’t participate. Also, we don’t judge if others do,” I hoped that my answer would be enough. Then Ron said something that surprised me. 

“Hey, I may be from a small town, but it doesn’t mean I’m not woke,” he said. He seemed a bit offended by my answer and it made me feel bad for jumping to conclusions. Still, I didn’t know if he understood. He stood up from the wooden bench and hurled the strap of his bag over his shoulder, ready to walk away. 

“I didn’t mean to piss you off. Listen, if you want to go, you can ride with me. I got my car in the lot,” I offered to make up for it.

“Now, that would be very nice of you,” he said and extended his hand. We shook, making peace. 

The ride over was pleasant enough. It turned out that we liked a lot of the same music, so my playlist suited us just fine. The breeze running through our hair felt so good and so did the afternoon sun rays. When we pulled up to the gate, I could see that Ron was not expecting the mansion to be what it was. It had been in Coach’s family for generations. The weathered granite facade was all shades of gray like the hair on Coach’s head. The spruce lined driveway and lawns added an air of old money to the place. I couldn’t blame Ron. I had a very similar reaction when I saw it for the first time a couple of years back. 

We got out of the car and made our way to the front door. We could tell some of the other guys were already there because I recognized their cars in the driveway. The doorbell rang melodic bell chords announcing our arrival. Simpson was Coach’s butler and he opened the door to let us in. 

“Good to see you again, sir. Welcome for the first time to you,” he said to me and then Ron. I always found it so amusing that he spoke like he was from last century in some old castle in Europe or something like that. 

“Thanks Simpson. This is Ron. Is everyone here?” I said.

“I assume everyone who is coming is already here, sir,” he said, leading the way to a sitting room in the back of the house. The trip down the hall rivaled a walk through a museum with every surface done in rich woods, marble and high plaster ceilings. In the room was Coach over by the fireplace. Simpson led us to the bar where he served us some fruit blended drinks. 

“I’m 19, man. I can’t be seen drinking this,” Ron said to me in a very low voice. 

“Relax, Coach wouldn’t serve alcohol. It’s just fruit juice mostly,” I assured him. 

We looked up and saw the coach talking about the next day’s friendly competition with a few of the guys. He waved in our direction acknowledging our arrival. Outside by the pool were a handful of the other guys. I knew they were up to no good, so I decided I wanted to join them. I tapped Ron on the arm as an invitation to come with me if he wanted to and he did follow me outside. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” I said to the group. 

“Just waiting out here for things to get going. I see you brought the noob,” said Bert. He was a good guy but loved teasing the new guys. 

Seth reached in his pocket and took out a shiny stainless steel flask. He offered and I accepted. I poured some and offered to pour some in Ron’s drink while looking out that nobody from the inside was watching. He hesitated for a second but then placed his glass filled with blended fruit juice under the spout. I then returned the liquor back to his owner. 

“Don’t worry. Coach is on his third whisky by now,” he pointed out. 

“So did you tell Big Ron what goes on around here?” Bert said with a shit eating grin. 

“If this is anything like the parties we used to have out by the swimming hole back home, I don’t need much explanation,” Ron came back. 

“Oh, no shit! You take the devil’s plunge back where you come from?” Seth said in disbelief. 

“Hey we get real horny out in the country too and gay sex is better than no sex. Am I right?” he responded, surprising everyone even more. 

“Is that so? You’re alright Ronny. You’ll do fine around here,” Seth said approvingly. 

For the half hour or so, we stood there enjoying the sunset. The drinks were not bad and we moved to the gazebo where we couldn’t be seen when Bert decided to spark up a joint. We all knew the risk, but it was early in the season and random tests were very rare that time of year. 

As we were making our way towards our spot by the pool, we noticed there was activity inside the house. We looked at each other and knew it was time to rejoin the party inside. The French doors were wide open. We stood there looking in. 

We saw Simpson close the door to the hallway and dim the lights in the room a tad. The scent of hormones filled the air. I looked at Ron to make sure he would be alright. He seemed very comfortable watching Coach Hunt and his moves. His eyes were wide open and filled with anticipation. 

Seth and Bert made their way to the bar where Simpson poured them another drink. Bert asked the butler to pump up the music playing from the speakers embedded in the walls. We followed suit and joined them by the bar where the comfortable stools afforded us a very good view. 

Coach was sitting shirtless on the couch between Mark and Beto. I could tell Ron, our new friend, was excited to see what would happen. Our mentor was one who loved to be groped while he had his nipples pinched and suckled. In return, he played with one cock in each hand. 

John walked up to the coach, who lifted his butt off of the sofa and allowed him to slip off his shorts. John knelt before Coach Hunt as the man then lifted his tree trunk legs in the air. This gave John the chance to bury his face between Coach’s massive ass cheeks. 

Michael was behind the sofa bent over and kissing Coach Hunt. I glanced at Ron and could see a stiff erection developing a slight tent in his sweats. 

Coach had his back arched up. We could hear the muffled moans even when lip locked with Michael. There was no doubt that he was enjoying his hairy big ass eaten by John. We had missed some of the initial moments but we could tell that Coach was nice and wet. Michael broke lip contact and stood up. Then, he took his index and middle finger and stuck them in the man’s hungry mouth to probe and play. Coach Hunt barely made any gagging sounds. His throat was too well trained for that. Disappointed that his fingers didn’t seem to pose a challenge for our coach, he withdrew them. 

“Maybe if you use that big cock of yours, I might gag like you want me to,” Coach mocked. The man enjoyed teasing, challenging and pushing us to hustle, be aggressive and dominant, just like on the field.

John was ready for more, so he stood up to place himself on top of the coach. Our other three teammates dropped their shorts and swimwear before getting closer to them. Ron and I knew that we had walked back into the room at the right time. 

I can’t remember how many others were in the room exactly just watching, like we were, but it must have been most of the team standing or sitting stroking their dicks.

I turned to check on Ron. The light from the chandelier above made the sweat over his brow refract into vivid colors. His heavy breathing was a sure sign that he was enjoying what he was witnessing. I looked down and saw his hand tugging at the contents of his crotch. 

“Are you going to feed me that cock or not, Michael?” Coach asked.

Michael patted John on the back giving him fair warning of what he was about to do. He didn’t just place his stiff cock over Coach’s mouth, he drove it deep inside. This time, the man did make a guttural noise as he fought the urge to close up his throat. John found the grunt satisfactory, but it was uncomfortable having to stand on his toes to reach Coach’s face at such an awkward angle. 

Mark and Beto recognized the situation and struggled to get the coach’s burly body to slip off the sofa. John pulled his cock out of the hungry mouth before dropping to his knees onto the oriental rug covered floor. Coach Hunt looked like a cheap slut rejoicing in his good fortune of being manhandled by four young athletes full of hormones and lust.  

John climbed over the sofa and joined the others surrounding the submissive giant with rock hard cocks. Coach opted for John’s first, perhaps to continue what he had started. Although he always seemed to favor him at the beginning for some reason. 

We saw our coach’s big blue eyes looking up at John who grabbed the man’s head and shoved his big cock into it deeper than before. The man used his other hands to grab Mark and Beto’s cock to stroke them in unison. John liked fucking the coach’s throat balls deep. Soon, tired of waiting for a turn, Michael grabbed a handful of the man’s salt and pepper hair forcing him to turn his head so he could have a go. 

The familiar smell of sweat and the sounds of flesh crashing against flesh filled the stately room. We never understood how a man as masculine and tough as Couch Hunt would enjoy playing submissive bitch to horny young bucks, but we were glad he did. 

Michael shoved his cock inside the wet mouth until the nose was buried in his shaven pubic area. With his other hand, he slapped the back of the coach's head attempting to make the veteran cocksucker take it all and gag. Michael let go of his hair and Coach Hunt came up for air while drool ran down the sides of his mouth. 

“Fuck yeah, boys. Don’t hold back! Go rough on me!” we heard Coach beg.

The man hadn’t caught his breath but it made no difference to Beto who grabbed him by the head. He started to selfishly fuck the face as the older man continued to stroke the other’s cocks with his hands. We watched our coach choke and gag without protesting as the guys passed his head around as if it was a toy to share. There was so much drool mixed with pre-cum running down the man’s chin it was a sight to behold. It dripped down his hairy and muscular body and onto the rug creating a noticeable wet spot. 

“Fuck yeah! Stuff his fucking mouth full of cock!” someone shouted.

Michael broke the blowjob roulette by sitting on the wooden coffee table. He lifted his hand and wiggled his finger at the coach. The man knew exactly what Michael wanted. He let his body fall forward until his hands and knees were placed firmly on the floor. Hurriedly, he turned himself around exposing his ass as if to provoke the younger man. 

Michael knelt behind Coach Hunt. He grabbed his hips and drove his cock home in one brutal thrust. The man hollered loudly but unclear if he felt pain or pleasure. Michael grabbed the hair in the back of the coach’s head and used it as leverage to fuck him wildly. 

“Ah, fuck! Yeah! Give me that cock! Fuck me like you mean it, boy!” the coach roared, giving us the answer. He was enjoying every second of it. 

Beto saw this as an opportunity to shove his dick deep in the man’s mouth. It seemed like a well rehearsed synchronized routine. They had a perfect alternating rhythm, shoving their cocks in balls deep spit-roasting our slut of a coach. The man never looked so happy as when he had cocks fucking him. 

I had to check again on how Ron was reacting so I peered out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling, obviously enjoying the view as he was stroking his dick through the fabric of his sweatpants. I had to admit I was impressed by his chill attitude.

“Hell yeah, Coach! Don’t pussy out right now. I’m close. I’m so close…” Beto hollered.

He exploded. Beto didn’t lose a beat as he shot gobs of semen deep in the hungry throat. Michael wasn’t far behind and let out a grunt. 

“Fucking tight hole. I’m gonna breed you hard, Coach!” announced Michael as he dumped rivers of seed inside the man. 

“God damn, he’s a pro!” I heard Ron whisper in my direction. I could only smile because the provincial new comer hadn’t seen much yet. 

Mark pushed Beto out of the way. He decided to pump his cock in and out of the coach’s mouth as soon as it became available. His cock punished the man’s throat with all his might. Coach Hunt appreciated that there wasn’t much time between the first and the next big dick. I could tell, because if he didn’t have a cock in him at all times, he would start barking orders at everyone to use his holes like he always did.

John had tasted the man’s ass but he hand’t fucked it yet, so he grabbed Coach in a choke-hold and led him back on the couch. John let go of Coach Hunt’s neck and sat wide legged on the couch. Then the young man motioned for Coach to mount him so he could sit on his hard dark uncut cock. 

“Yeah? You want me to ride that big beautiful dick?” Coach teased him. 

The slutty coach was very happy to oblige. He straddled John, easily impaling himself on his big hot dick. He made good use of his massive leg muscles covered in blond fur to bounce up and down. 

Mark watched the two get into the new position and he had a decision to make. He could go for the mouth by standing behind the sofa, or he could try to force himself inside the tight pink asshole with John. Mark made the right choice. 

He placed himself behind the coach and used one hand to grab him by the neck and the other to aim his stiff uncut cock at the already taken sphincter. 

“Do it Mark! Force my hole to take you both! Ah, fuck, yeah! Keep trying!” Coach encouraged Mark as if he was playing against the clock during a game.

Mark pushed and pushed repeatedly until Coach Hunt announced with a loud moan that our teammate had succeeded. 

“No fucking way!” I heard Ron shout out. His eyes glued at the amazing feat of Coach taking two huge cocks up his ass at the same time. 

“I guess you didn’t see this back home,” I teased.

Ron used his free hand to punch my gut playfully. I remembered how amazed I was the first time I had seen the man do it. Someone handed us another drink.

Mark was in a better position to thrust hard. He would pull his dick almost all the way out and then ram it back in mercilessly making the coach grunt every time. John was enjoying the sensation of their dicks touching as Mark slid in and out. 

Even Simpson, the butler, was enthralled by the spectacle. Everyone in the room was breathing heavily and stroking their cocks. The room was filled thick with the smells of sex and the sounds of it. Coach Hunt sure knew how to throw a party for the team. 

“I think I want to have a go at coach, man,” Ron whispered next to me. 

“He’d love that. I’m gonna have a go too, but I like it when he’s really wet and sloppy,” I responded in all honesty. 

John and Mark started announcing how close they were to climax by shouting obscenities at our coach. 

“Fuck yeah you goddamn whore. Squeeze your hole! Make me cum!” Mark roared.

They rocked their hips to plow the man as deep as possible and as hard as they could. 

“Fuck his cunt, bro! Fuck this bitch!” yelled John from underneath. 

“I’m so close! This hairy man-pussy feels so good!” Mark responded. The two of them continued to thrust wildly until Mark let out one last shout. 

“Son of a bitch! There you go, Coach! Take my fucking load, bitch!” Mark bellowed as he injected a steady flow of white cum deep inside the man’s ass. 

When Mark pulled out after every drop had been discharged, he almost lost his footing and stumbled back. This allowed us a perfect view of Beto’s cum dribbling out of Coach Hunt’s hole as John continued to fuck. The semen dribbled onto John’s dangling balls before dripping down onto the leather of the sofa cushion. 

Coach Hunt, feeling free from Beto’s grasp, used the opportunity to once again bounce furiously on John’s hard cock. It wasn’t long before the young man’s body stiffened letting everyone know he was close. He raised his hands over his head as if to show everyone that our coach was doing all the work. 

“Fuck! I’m cumming!” John yelled out in pleasure. He filled the now loose pink hole with his seed. When Coach Hunt felt John’s cock growing limp, he stood up. 

Coach Hunt was a beast. His sweaty body glistened, reflecting the light of the crystal chandelier. He rolled his neck as if to recuperate from his ordeal before arching his back and smiling at us. 

“C’mon boys! Don’t let me down. Who else wants to have their turn on good old Coach Hunt?” the man asked, anxious to satisfy anyone else who wanted it.