By Locker Jock.
It was bound to happen.
One of those deserted weekends, when I thought that no one would be in the locker rooms, I was going to get caught. Like so many of you, I am a jock-sniffer. Just the word “jockstrap” gets me rock hard, and the sight of a jock hanging in a locker conjures up all kinds of fantasies which can either keep me dripping pre-cum for hours, or explode in a few strokes.
I am an athlete, that is true, and consider myself to be in excellent shape. I work out every day, and try to maintain a healthy balance in my diet. Did I mention that I am gay? Well, not only gay, but a jock-loving gay.
It was the weekend during spring break. The school was closed for vacation, and those who could, had made arrangements to travel home or to the last weeks of skiing or the all-week drink-fest in Florida. A few of us stayed on campus. I was a senior, and needed to complete the writing of my thesis before graduation. I am not a skier, and do not drink, so the quiet time was appreciated. I completed the bibliography, and decided to take a break in the afternoon by going out for a run.
Bike jockstrap, white crew socks, Adidas running shoes, t-shirt and shorts. Stretches and calisthenics. Then, off to the track behind the gym. Great spring day, no one around, just me cleaning the cobwebs out of the thesis brain.
Our campus was both rural and small, and so there was never a concern about theft. Doors were left unlocked and open at all hours. After my last lap, I headed for the side doors into the gym complex, and of course, they were open. The gym was quiet, and you could hear the creaks and groans of the wooden flooring from the basketball gym echoing throughout the rest of the building. The lights were off, but the sun was shining through the many windows as I walked down the hallway toward the main and team locker rooms. I opened the double doors into the main locker room, and immediately both my cock and my nipples hardened at the sight and the smell from row upon row of metal lockers, wooden benches, the damp smell clinging in the air, and the thought of so many athletes who normally used the lockers and the showers. And, like everything else on campus, most of the locker doors were unlocked, and being open cages, you could identify everything in each person’s locker.
I took my time walking down the aisles, making certain that no one was there. To my relief, I reached the end of the main lockers, and concluded that I was quite alone. From the main locker room, there were hallways which led to the various team locker rooms. Each team locker room had a hallway door and then another door which led into the large, communal shower room. The team room doors could be locked from inside, which then required a key to gain access.
I turned the knob for the baseball room, but the door was locked. So, I went a little further, and tried the door for the lacrosse room – bingo! I entered into the lacrosse team’s locker room, and quickly locked the hallway door to ensure some privacy.
The sunlight was shining through the upper windows, and the locker room was a jumble of lacrosse sticks and assorted personal gear strewn from one end to the other. There is an athletic fragrance which is special to lacrosse. Grass and turf are mixed with the sweet smell of shampooed hair under the helmet and salty sweat permeating pads and cleats. But, there is one peculiar fragrance which only another lacrosse player can appreciate: the warm, damp, salty, sticky inside of lacrosse gloves. There is a headiness about the brawny musk which wafts out of a lacrosse player’s gloves which is unrivaled – and which can be a menacing tease to a jock-sniffer like me.
I was already horny when I walked into the main gym, so by the time I locked myself into the lacrosse team room, I was just about ready to explode. I wasted no time. I peeled off my sweat-soaked t-shirt, and shucked my shorts. I was in my jockstrap, socks and running shoes, and was about to begin a serious work-out involving all of the lacrosse gear I could find.
Jockstraps. Cups. Compression shorts. Socks. Cleats. Shoulder pads. Arm pads. Helmets. Mesh jerseys. And gloves. With no locks on the lockers and with half the gear just lying on the benches and on the floor, it was an ideal place for a cock-pounding orgy.
Let me say that there are two kinds of jockstraps: sweet and sour. The sweet jockstraps are worn by guys who want to always be clean. Those jockstraps have only a faint fragrance of deodorant soap and laundry detergent. Those jockstraps are clean and fresh, and for lack of a better word, are wholesome to behold and to see.
On the other hand, the sour jockstraps are worn again and again, sometimes for the entire season, without ever being washed. The waistbands are muddy and gray. The pouches are caked with piss dribble and sweaty salt deposits, shriveled pubic hairs, and more often than admitted, dried cum. The intersection of the leg straps with the V at the bottom of the pouch is encrusted with pre-game dump or what some lacrosse players call “duck butter” which drips down with ass crack sweat.
Some lacrosse players are brave – or just plain stupid, depending on how you look at it – and do not wear cups. Those who do wear cups fall again into two categories: singles or doubles. Single cup wearers just yank the entire cup-jock combination up and over their naked – and usual unwashed – cocks and balls. Single cup-jocks are immediately identifiable by the dank yellow stains all around the pouch material, representing game after sweaty game of gunge. Double jocks, as the name implies, are worn by guys who first strap up a regular jock, then pull a pair of light, sanitary cotton shorts over the jockstrap, and then secure the cup-jock combo over the cotton liner; the uniform shorts are then donned atop the entire vesting. Those cup-jocks are usually damp to the touch from the absorbed perspiration, but rarely throw off any skank odor.
I told you at the beginning, I am a jock-sniffer, and I know my jockstraps, the way they are worn, and the attitude of the players who wear and wash them – or not, as the case may be.
I started to walk down the aisle of the lockers, and opened an unlocked door. There was a Bike jockstrap hanging on the hook. I reached for the pouch, squeezing it as if I were squeezing the balls that had nuzzled inside that pouch for four quarters of a game. The texture was soft and pliable. I raised the jock off the hook, and drew it to my face. Sheer beauty. I inhaled, and brought the pouch to my nose. It was a sweet jock, with sweat perfumed by soap. I unsheathed my throbber, and started to stroke. But, I knew that I had the whole afternoon, and still had many more lockers to search. I replaced that jockstrap, and went to the next locker. I rummaged through the gear, nothing of real excitement, and continued on.
Like jockstraps, jock socks are available in two, distinct flavors: warm and sweet, or stale and sour. And like jockstraps, it all depends on how clean the athlete is who is wearing the socks. Some guys are clean, even use foot powder, and their socks have an inviting fragrance which combines the leather of the cleat with the grass on the field. Other guys, though, have putrid toes and dried skin at the heel. Their socks reek of athlete’s foot and are crusty from yellow skin. So, it is usually a given that if a guy’s jockstrap is sour and ripe, so are his socks.
I turned one bank of lockers, and started down the next row. My shorts and t-shirt were far behind me near the locked front door, and I halted in front of a sniffer’s trove: this guy was evidently collecting jocks and cups, along with pairs of socks and cleats and running shoes. I have no idea who he was, but he was definitely a gear freak. I couldn’t resist. His cup-jock was hanging on the hook, with the cup still snapped inside. I grabbed the cup pouch, and imitating an oxygen mask, smothered my nose and mouth with the intoxicating aroma of the material, the sweat, the plastic, and the musk. My knees buckled, and I forced myself to release my stroking palm, otherwise I knew that I would spurt all over the place – and my afternoon excitement would end abruptly.
This guy’s helmet was resting on the top shelf of the locker. It was just too tempting. I pulled the helmet off the shelf, and took a strong whiff of the inside. It was obvious what I needed to do. I took his jock-cup, and fixing the waistband like a headband above my ears, I dropped the cup pouch right over my nose, and let the leg straps loop around my ears and drop across my chewing lips. Then, I slid the helmet over my head, and secured the chin strap so that my entire head was encased with all of the different smells of a lacrosse jock.
I do not know what other people have told you about wearing a helmet, but once I snapped the lacrosse helmet in place, I could not hear another sound other than the pounding of my heart. Perhaps experienced lacrosse players have attuned their ears and their hearing after years of wearing a helmet, and can actually hear the plays being called by their coach, halfway across the field. But, for me, once I slid the helmet over my head, I was completely deaf to the world around me. Add to it that I had a cup-jock with a cup in it now secured against my nose and locked with the face-mask of the helmet. I could not hear very well, and every time I breathed, I was just inhaling more and more of the intoxicating aroma of a sweaty jockstrap, a humid cup, and the moisture quickly accumulating within the helmet.
As I stroked, I sat on the bench situated between the two facing rows of lockers, with my socked running shoe feet spread out, wearing my own jockstrap, and stroking to the intensity of the aroma of the cup and helmet. I was lost in a trance. In my horniness, I had completely forgotten about the other door, leading into the shower area. In fact, I had not even checked to see if that door was open or locked. When I first entered the locker room, though, I did not hear the showers running, and it had been at least 20 minutes that I had been investigating the lacrosse players’ gear, and I was lulled into a state of fantasy world and privacy.
My concentration was shattered as two hands clasped onto my shoulders from behind.
Here I was. Wearing someone else’s helmet, with a cup-jock mounted across my nostrils, stripped down to a jockstrap, jacking my cock, and moaning in a private team locker room. Did someone just flash a red light saying “Busted!”?
Now, I am going to deflate all of your pent up fantasies. It was not the lacrosse coach. It was not the particular player whose gear I was snorting. No. It was the team physical trainer. You know the stereotype: a stocky guy with no sense of humor, who has a mini-medical kit strapped onto his polyester buttoned staff shorts. He’s the guy who either is oblivious to or is totally into smelling the stinking feet of players as they sit waiting to have their ankles taped. He’s the guy who never seems to leave the training room, except to refill the ice cooler and to retrieve supplies of white tape, ace bandages, and various sprays and powders. He is not particularly handsome, and has a reputation for being a hard-ass when it comes to the rules and regulations inside the training room (“Hey! I’ve told you a hundred times! That ice is not for drinking!” You know the voice and the attitude.)
I was caught red, er, sticky handed by the trainer, and there was no denying for a moment what I was doing, in a jockstrap, stroking my cock, with a helmet on my head and a cup up my nose. No, there was no way that I could bullshit my way out of this situation.
“What the fuck are you doing, and what the fuck are you doing in here?!” he bellowed at me. The irony is that my mouth was chewing on the V of the cup-strap, and really, what could I say at that moment to him?
“Stand up!” he ordered. I was in no position to argue with him. In a matter of seconds, he had seized hold of a long defenseman’s stick which was standing in the nearby corner. I thought that he was going to start to beat the shit out of me. “Turn around!” he said. I said to myself, Get ready for a hard whack across the head, or the back, or the ass – wherever it landed, he was going to be mean about it. “Stretch out your arms!” At first I did not fully understand what he was talking about. “Your arms! Stretch them out!” he said again. I did as instructed. Within a few seconds, I felt the metal of the lacrosse stick slap up against the back of my wrist – and then heard the unmistakable sound of white athletic tape being wrapped and spliced, securing my left hand to the back of the lacrosse stick. In a few more seconds, the trainer had secured my right hand with athletic tape to the other end of the stick, and there I was: helmet, cup to my nose, naked except a jockstrap and socks and running shoes, effectively immobilized by having my arms outstretched and secured to a lacrosse stick.
“It looks to me like you have two choices,” he said. “The first choice is to cooperate. The other choice is that I call the cops with you dressed just the way you are. Now, which is it going to be?” My mouth had suddenly gone dry from all of the panic, and the cup-jock leg straps were pasted onto my lips. “I’ll cooperate” I managed to squeak. He wound more tape across both of my wrists, effectively immobilizing my arms with the lacrosse stick, and patting down the last of the tape said, “I thought you would. Now, let’s begin.”
He unsnapped the chin strap of the helmet, and was rough in pulling the helmet off my head. I must have looked ridiculous at that point, standing with a cup-jock suspended atop my head. He also yanked the jock off my face, and then locked his eyes on me. He was not an attractive man on his good days, and today, he was all piss and vinegar. “I cannot accuse you of breaking and entering since this locker room is effectively open to the public. I also cannot accuse you of stealing anything, since you have not walked out of here with any gear or personal belongings. It is not illegal to be partially naked in a locker room. But, it is stupidly dangerous for you to be jacking off in a public place! Anyone could catch you, and now you have been caught. I was going to say ‘red handed’, but it looks more like spit and precum.”
I was still apparently deer-in-the-headlights stunned by everything that had happened in a matter of a few minutes. I just stared at him, and could not even think clearly.
“What are we going to do now?” Was he asking how he would report me to the police, or was he preparing a threat to blackmail me?
He reached down to retrieve one of the lacrosse gloves. He slipped it onto his own hand. “Do you know why lacrosse players always need a cup?” and with that, he smacked my nuts with a gloved fist. I recoiled, but was pinned against the lockers, and the next thing I knew, he fastened a vice grip onto my jock pouch with the lacrosse glove. “Lacrosse players need a cup to protect their balls – not to sniff with their nostrils.” With that, he tightened his grip and I let out a yelp.
With his other gloved hand, he quickly covered my mouth to shut me up. The rank stench from weeks of sweat built up into the leather and the material of the glove flew up my nose, and my eyes began to water from the combination of having my balls squeezed with one glove and my lips tasting the other glove.
He moved the grip of the glove from the front of the jock pouch to grab my balls from underneath, and manoeuvred the thumb and the index finger of the glove behind the mesh of the pouch, latching onto my cock head. At the same time, he removed the glove from my mouth, and pinched first my right and then my left nipples. The sensations were incredible, and he must have known what my reaction would be, so he had already managed to encase my cock in a downward direction between the gloved fingers. As he pinched and massaged my nipples, my cock sprung into a raging and leaking hard on, but I was in torment because my cock was forced down inside the jock.
Without warning, he grabbed me at the waist, and turned me around so that my face was up against the lockers and my arms were still taped across the lacrosse stick. He continued to massage my nipples, at times using the gloved finger in a tortuous circling motion at the tip of the nipple, and at times, pinching the skin around the nipple and actually lifting me on my toes.
>From behind, he inserted the glove underneath me, and reaching inside the jock pouch, he pulled my cock head out from the bottom of the jock, half hard, and now pointing backwards. He began to stroke the veins of the underside of the shaft, and as I continued to gush more and more pre-cum from the sensitivity, he lubricated all around the edges of the cock head with drippings of pre-cum on the gloved finger.
He stopped for a moment. “Lift your foot onto the bench!” he ordered. I raised my foot and place my running shoe on the wooden bench. Without bothering to untie the knot, he yanked the shoe off my foot. “The other one!” Same thing.
“Bend over!” he barked. I bent down with the lacrosse stick across my shoulders. “Spread those pretty little feet, jock boy!” My socks were still damp and sweaty, and slid easily to the sides on the cement locker room floor.
Pulling back in a hard tug against my leaking boner, he managed to extract a glob of pre-cum onto the middle finger of the glove. And, with one forceful shove, he drove that gloved finger straight up my asshole.
“Yow! Oh, fuck!” I shouted in pain and in terror. “What are you doing?!” “Listen!” he said, “you either cooperate and shut your mouth, or in two seconds, your ass is going to be in jail where this is just an appetizer course. Do you understand, jock sniffer?” I did understand. He was right. I was in a shit of trouble already, and the last thing that I needed was to go to jail as a pervert.
“If you are going to bitch and moan,” he said as he pulled the glove out of my ass, “then we are going to have to find a way to keep you quiet.” With that, he told me to stand up. He grabbed one of the raunchy jockstraps from the floor and shoved it into my mouth, and then he took one of the filthy white tube socks and bound it around my head to keep the jockstrap secure in my mouth. The stench was overbearing. “Assume that position again, jock boy!” Placing one hand on the small of my back, he forced me to bend over again, but this time, I was muzzled.
He must have carried a tube of lube with him in that fanny-pack of training supplies, because the next thing I felt was a handful of cold lube being spread and jammed up my hole. This time, he had no mercy on me, and shoved the entire finger up without stopping. I tried to scream, but the jock-gag was so firmly in place that all I could do was whimper.
He finger-fucked me for what seemed like an hour, but in reality was only a few minutes. Then, suddenly, he pulled the glove out and pushed me into a standing position. He brought the shitty, lubed finger up underneath my nose and ordered me to have a good whiff of what he had done.
I had a non-stop hard-on tenting my jock pouch. He forcefully yanked the pouch to one side, and began to slap my rock-hard cock, first from side to side, and then by whacking the head down from the top and again from the bottom. It really stung, and I winced each time. “It looks like you need to protect yourself, jock boy, but you don’t have a cup.” He reached over into the locker, and found a muddy cleat. He ran the toe of the cleat and underneath my balls, rubbing all the way back to my ass. Grabbing my aching boner, jammed the cleat like a giant sheath over my cock, and took particular delight to see that my hard-on was so powerful that I was jerking the cleat back and forth. The feel of the padding and the smooth leather just made me throb harder.
Reaching into this kit, took out a pair of medical scissors, and snipped the tape binding my two hands to the lacrosse stick. “Are you going to continue to cooperate?” I could only move my head up and down as a form of assent. “Good. Down on your knees!”
As I dropped, he unbuttoned his shorts, exposing his own jockstrap which had obviously not been laundered for a long time. Grabbing my head from behind, he smothered my nose with his own pouch, and began to massage his cock against my hair and face. With his foot, he kicked the cleat off my cock. He still had the scissors in his hand, and reaching behind, he snipped off the binding sock and then pulled the saliva-drenched jockstrap out of my mouth. “Show me what your mouth can really do,” he snarled, and drove my face into his pouch.
I began to inhale the stink, which made me leak and drip openly onto the locker floor. I moved my tongue up and down the mesh of the pouch, lubricating his cock with my saliva. He started to moan, showing his pleasure. As he hardened, I nibbled just the head of his cock out of the side of the pouch, and sealing my mouth over the mushroom, circled my tongue around and around the circumcised head. At the same time, with my hands now free, I moved my fingers underneath his ball sac, tickling the pubic hairs and moving my finger up and down his perineum fold. I could tell that he was enjoying himself as he was thrusting his hips back and forth, and shifted from being harsh to gently stroking the back of my hair.
It did not take too long. After several minutes of prolonging his ecstasy, I felt the eruption gather into his sac. He clamped both hands onto my head, preventing me from moving, as he gushed his cum into my mouth. I could not help myself, and gagged, and reaching for the already soggy jockstrap on the floor, spat all of the cum out of my mouth and into the pouch of the jock. He did not seem to mind, though, and made a point of swiping that jockstrap, “for my personal collection” as he put it. I later found out that he had drawers and drawers of zip-lock baggies with jockstraps from various players which he collected over the years.
As everyone knows, after one person cums, the other person is left in an awkward position. The other person is spent, and usually has no further interest. But with this trainer, it was different. “You!” he jabbed his index finger into my chest, “back on the bench!”
I positioned myself at the end of the bench, and the trainer knelt down in between my spread legs. He raised both of my socked feet and massaged each of my toes before placing them, one by one and then together, on his nose and in his mouth. He took a long whiff and taste, and then placed my feet atop his shoulders. Bending in, he pushed me upward, exposing my sore and fingered asshole. The next sensation I had was his tongue darting into and out of my chute, and the stubble on his chin scraping the insides of my thighs. At this point, it was the third time that I had reached an erection without being able to shoot, so I was beyond torment. He must have sensed that, and he adjusted my jockstrap pouch by moving the crotch-V up and over to expose my throbber. Wrapping his fist around the base, he lurched forward and swallowed my entire cock into his mouth. My piss-slit was raking his tonsils, and after only a few slurps, I exploded and exploded into his throat.
I tried to pull my cock out of his mouth, but he held me firmly inside and around my shaft, and just sucked and swallowed until I was pleading that it was too sensitive and I really could not stand it any more.
I collapsed onto the bench. The trainer sank and sat onto the locker room floor. It was totally quiet. We both were waiting for our heart rates to come down to normal, and neither of us moved from our spot.
“Next Saturday night, I need help cleaning up the locker room. Be here at 11 PM. You already know what to wear.”
He stood up, and did not say another word. He walked out of the locker room, leaving me still lying on my back on the bench. I was totally spent. I eventually got up and retrieved my own gear, and went back to my dorm.
That Saturday night, I was at the gym at 10:45, kitted out as ordered. It seems that the induction which I experienced on the previous weekend was only the beginning of my new adventures in jockstrap training and locker room discipline.