The Star Quarterback and the Maintenance Man

The story below is based a little on my experiences at the college I attended during my own baccalaureate education, a little on my experiences during the universities I attended during my graduate education, and a good bit more on my imagination, which showed me how a few aspects of those experiences could be merged.

It’s told from two perspectives about a series of encounters between a young star quarterback and a college maintenance man. It’s set in the late 1980s or very early 1990s.

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Getting out of my native South Carolina to go to college was exciting; I’d never been outside my small town except one big trip to Disneyworld when I was seven, so going off to school was a big event. My parents had loaded up the ten-year-old family car with everything they thought I’d need and then some.

We arrived in the heat of late summer at a small private college in the North Carolina coastal plain. I’d been offered a football scholarship for five years, but my parents reminded me—after they helped me unload the car and take everything into my dorm room—that they really expected me to finish in four years, as one of my uncles had done, with a degree that would make me employable. Something in business or computers, they said.

To myself, I rolled my eyes, but for them I pasted on a smile and agreed. They drove off, and I was finally alone, living in a new place for the first time in 18 years.

There was no air conditioning, just box fans we’d set up as we brought my stuff into the room, so I stripped off my sweaty shirt. I stood in front of the mirror on the side of the room I’d picked, looking at my body with a critical eye. I really hoped my new coach would appreciate the increased hours in the gym I’d put in after I signed on the dotted line earlier in the spring, before I graduated. My shoulders were broader, my pecs were larger, and my arms rippled with muscles; a true six-pack showed above my waistband.

I tried a few stereotypical muscle-flexing moves, laughing at myself for posing. I liked the muscles, liked not having any hair except a little bit in my armpits and a thin happy trail down the center of my stomach. I liked the light caramel color of my skin and the short Afro that copied my father’s. I looked like a redbone gladiator.

Still watching my moves in the mirror, I palmed an imaginary football with my big left hand and pretended to throw a long pass. Now that’s what I was going to be doing for the Coastal Atlantic College Mustangs! They’d signed me up as their new star quarterback, as the person who was supposed to take them to the next North Carolina state championship.
Hell, I was young and cocky.

“I’m ready, coach,” I told the mirror, liking the sound of my voice in the empty room. “I’ll go out there and kick some ass!”

By the end of the next day, I was considerably less cocky. I’d met the coach and the assistant coaches and trainers, and my roommate had arrived in the early afternoon just in time for a grueling four-hour practice—complete with pads and helmets—in 98-degree heat. We had three breaks the whole time. My high school coach had never worked us this hard or this long.

My head was swimming as I stumbled wearily to the showers at around 6:00. The afternoon sun was slanting through the locker-room windows. The whole setup looked like it was straight out of a 1960s movie—very different from my high school back home, where we had a field house with attached showers that had been renovated in the early 1980s. No one used them except the opposing teams; we just drove home after practice and showered at home.

So this was all new to me. I wasn’t exactly scared, but I was a little apprehensive about showering in front of other guys. You see, way deep down where I kept personal information that no one else knew about, I knew I was curious about other guys. I knew I wanted to look, especially at their cocks and balls, and I was worried about being caught looking or even (God forbid!) throwing a hardon in the shower. At the very least, I was wondering whether I measured up.

I’d only caught a few glimpses in the past. Several times over years of attending the state fair in Columbia, I’d managed to look up and down a line of pissing guys at the urinals, but I hadn’t seen much past a few cockheads poking out of pants. And my dad had been in the Army, so he wasn’t exactly paranoid about being seen naked between the bathroom and my folks’ bedroom. I knew I was larger than him (both thicker and longer), but had no idea what was the average.

Other than those stolen glimpses of dicks, I’d only had a glance at a hard nipple here or a bulging jock there for jackoff material. Now, I was going to see fully naked college jocks. I could hardly wait, scared as I was of revealing my real interest in their bodies.

Stripping off my sweaty uniform, pads and all, I picked up a towel and headed for the showers, my cock swinging against my thighs.

Standing around showerheads that were on posts in the middle of the room, the other guys glanced at me and then glanced again, their eyes getting big and their mouths falling open, their hands becoming still in the soapsuds covering their muscular bodies. I looked down at myself and then at them. I looked around the room, one by one. Mine was the largest in the room by a long shot. There was a long silence punctuated only by running water. I felt myself tensing up.

Finally, one of the linebackers broke the silence. “Damn, man. Look at that horse cock! Shit! What the hell do you feed it?”

I relaxed and smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

He laughed. “Hell, Coach must’ve known he got a Horse Man for us Mustangs!”

(The nickname stuck. From then on, at Coastal Atlantic College, I was “The Horse Man” or, later, simply “Horse.” Almost everyone knew what it meant: Their star quarterback was truly the biggest man on campus. I never bragged about it, because I never looked to be famous for that—I hadn’t even known I was particularly large—but even at reunions, these days, guys from other graduating classes come up to me and call me “Horse.” I’ve learned to take it in my stride. I’ve also learned to take their not-so-subtle glances at my crotch in stride as well.)

I looked around and realized I had not only the largest cock but also some of the largest muscles in the room. I noticed other guys glancing at my pecs and abs, especially, as I washed myself under the hot, soothing stream. When I washed my wrist-thick cock and heavy balls, I noticed a few of the guys copied my actions with their own; several of them in the process became almost as thick—in proportion—as I was. I looked around again. Most of the guys were cut, like me, confirming what I’d seen over the years at the state fair pissers, but a few were uncut. I made a mental note to watch rather closely at a later date to see how their foreskins worked. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if I looked at their cocks as openly as they stared at mine.

It had been quite a workout, and the cascading water was relaxing, so I stayed under the spray for longer than anyone.
I especially wanted to make sure my left shoulder didn’t stiffen up—Coach Martin had had me throw more passes during this practice than I was used to during my high school team’s practices.

I was about to step out of the shower when an older man came into the locker room. He looked to be about 45 or 50 and was dressed in oil-stained coveralls—with “Coastal Atlantic Maintenance” on his chest pocket—that failed to fully conceal his own rather lean, tall, muscular build. I could see a bald head, a thick reddish-brown moustache and goatee, and thick, curly reddish-brown hair peeping from the wrists and collar of his coveralls.

It was a small college, and there was only one newspaper in town, so I instantly recognized the guy in the showers from all the hype. He was the new star quarterback who Coach Martin thought would take the Mustangs to a state title this year. He’d done quite well in high school—yardage and passing records, lettering each year, named to statewide and national all-star teams—so I knew Coastal Atlantic had high hopes for him.

He was a little shorter than I expected—maybe 5’10” or 11”—but he looked like a bodybuilder, all wet, rippling caramel-colored muscles. I told my cock firmly to stay down and looked away.

I’d lived my whole life in that little one-stoplight coastal NC town, where everyone knew me and my family. I’d grown tired of the constant questions from my family and acquaintances—“Why don’t you get married, Red? I know this nice girl from Elizabeth City”—and had retreated into a gruff, cantankerous persona in order to avoid saying out loud what I truly only admitted to myself whenever I whacked off: I didn’t like girls, or women, not that way.

For almost thirty years, I’d kept the athletic buses and town police cars running. I’d long since gotten into the habit of showering off in the college gym before walking home. Most of the time, I’d be alone, which is what I preferred. Occasionally, Coach Martin or one of the assistant coaches or trainers would shower there, but not often—maybe 10 or so times in the last five years. Luckily, I felt no interest in any of them.

But now, here I was, alone with the new star quarterback. Me with oily circles under my fingernails and streaks of sweat and oil on my sleeves and temples, where I’d wiped my face in the heat of the day—and him looking as brown and tasty as a Hershey bar. A naked Hershey bar. Down, dick! Down.

I turned my back toward the older maintenance man as he stepped into the showers, not wanting to look like I was trying to scope him out. But as he stood there under the stream, his face drenched in the streaming water and his hands pressing against the wall, I knew this was my only chance to look him over without him noticing me staring.

Wow! He had thick dark reddish hair everywhere—chest, belly, and legs, but also ass, arms, shoulders, and back! It looked like a carpet. I wondered what it would feel like to be that hairy. Whether it would be bristly or soft. How his hair would feel against my skin.

His shoulders were broad and his legs were equal to his chest, but his overall height and build gave the impression that he was tall and lanky. His muscles were sinewy, not pneumatic. His ass looked like twin volleyballs covered with fur. Much of his face and the tops of his shoulders were covered with reddish-brown freckles. He looked like red-hot sex on a stick.

Against my best efforts, my already wrist-thick cock started getting thicker as I stared. I knew that before too long, it’d start hitching itself upward with every heartbeat like a crane raising materials to the top of a skyscraper, its light-pink head glowing like a beacon atop the darker brown shaft. I tried thinking of deaths in my family, of ugly people, of anything other than the dream man across from me in the warm shower room, and was almost successful—until he turned around.

Damn! His cock was longer than mine! Not quite as thick, but hey, you can’t have everything, right? Thicker than normal, at least. His cock was like a Dr. Grip pen compared with my Sharpie. And a long, veiny sleeve of very white skin tightly encased his cockhead, revealing the broad flare of his corona underneath. I could only stare as the water dripped from the pointy snout of his foreskin. I knew my mouth dropped open.

I heard a roaring sound in my ears and started feeling weak in my knees. I know now that I was more powerfully aroused then than at any other time in my life, but at the time, I thought I would pass out.

“You OK? Hey, man, you all right? You look like you’re gonna fall out.”

Shit. My staring must’ve been obvious. My mouth working, I couldn’t find words. Then, I could.

“Just a little weak from being in the sun all afternoon with only three water breaks.” But I still felt dizzy. It must’ve been easy to see.

“Hey, man, take it easy! Here, let me help you.” He came over, put his furry muscular arms (soft! not bristly!) around my torso, and lowered me gently to the floor of the shower room on my back, putting his hand behind my head to cushion it, and then bending over me as tenderly as a mother over a sick child.

I could only lie there, dizzy and embarrassed, my cock pointing like a thick exclamation point toward my sternum. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his quick glance at it.

“You gonna be all right for a moment while I get some towels?” His deep, masculine voice was gruff but full of concern.

“Yeah. Thanks, man.” I put one hand over my eyes, more embarrassed now than dizzy.

He came back with the towels, folding one and putting it under my head, then rolling my body to the side and back onto another one, covering my torso and crotch with the third one. I was almost disappointed with the impersonality of his touch, until he knelt down again to make sure my head was comfortable and his dangling cock’s tip touched my bicep.

More! More! More!

yes please, I am throbbing now finish me off !

Very nice touch, NC.

That's some fine writing NCBear! (who I hope will titilate us with more to cum soon)

I need more NCBear-you can't leave us all on the edge, awaiting the next chapter.

Very nice indeed!

Great job..love the two person perspective.

I really like the flow of imagery and language.
It's quite closely held ... but goes very comfortably and equably wherever you want it to go.
Not trying particularly to be deep but really well achieved.
Rubi believes that clearer comprehension of what he's saying will be achieved by those slightly blitzed on good scotch and something else.
But no one cares.

Thanks for the compliments! I think they might be from people who (ahem!) read with one hand, which makes them even more (ahem!) stimulating.

Watch this space for more NCbear-written erotica.

NCbear (who had to take some time off from developing this story in order to develop one $1.8 million grant proposal, another $120,000 grant proposal, and a third $500,000 grant proposal--it's my job )

I like the story and shae work interuptedyour flow but you have to live :)

Now I know how young teenagers must feel waiting excitedly for the next installment of harry potter when that was all the rage!!

Please please type us the next chapter in that steamy saga x

ok NCBear, you've had well over a month--finish this off, NOW! :-)