That morning, maybe Jerome had a revelation, or maybe he’d thought about it and wanted something extra. Something more than just glances in a mirror, no matter how arousing they were.

That morning – about four weeks into the summer-long Saturday morning course – he stood there and started slowly masturbating in the mirror, watching his big hand pull his chocolate-brown foreskin back and forth over a pink head (the color of strawberry sherbet). I swear, it was as though two of the three Neapolitan ice cream flavors were right there in front of me. I couldn’t help licking my lips as his eyes met mine in the mirror.

Alfonzo’s towel rubbing became more blatant when he saw Jerome start pulling off. His thick purple cockhead started getting shiny, and his thumb started moving over the pisshole with each up and down motion. The heavyset, shorter man stared at the football player as he moved both hands back and forth, up and down his thick veiny shaft. Jerome’s eyes cut over to him every few strokes, and Jerome’s chest started moving faster as his breathing sped up.

I couldn’t believe it. My own cock was almost poking through the front of my swim trunks, and my mouth was dry. I wondered how far they’d go. I wondered whether they’d let me do more than watch….

[to be continued]