Hard As Nails: Gay Erotica, The Rusty Saber Collection

Our school team, the Angels, were a pretty awful bunch. We pretty much were the worst in our league, which was kind of a running gag. The headline “Fallen Angels” ran more than once in the school paper. But it was fun going to the different schools and checking out guys. My teammates were kinda the nerdy geeky atypical jock crowd, so it was pretty non-stressful. Our coach, Emma Coutchie, was a big old lesbian. She was tough but she knew it was a lost cause. Bless her heart. But one day during practice I noticed a new student talking to Coach Coutchie.
I heard about him from the cafeteria grapevine. His name was Sam Young. Rumor had it that he got expelled from a school across town for sending a kid to the hospital for looking at him funny during a basketball game. Sam was easily over six feet tall with jet black hair and an angular face and muscular arms. In other words, he was fuckin’ hot--like one of those porn stars in that pile of gay whack off magazines I found while hiking in the woods. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him.
Apparently he also was a great volleyball player and wanted to join the team. Coach Coutchie was glad for the addition and made him team captain on the spot.
“Boys,” she yelled after blowing into her whistle. “This is Sam and with his help we might make the league playoffs,” she smiled while the team members looked at each other incredulously. Sam nodded to everyone and stared at me a little too long for my comfort. He looked really sexy in his shorts with his smooth muscular legs and built torso.
After dispensing with the formalities, we went through a grueling few weeks of practice. During practice sessions, it was pretty obvious I was the least coordinated of the bunch and after a few days of missing passes or spiking into the net, Sam had had it with me.
“Nick, what’s the problem? C’mon, hit the damn ball!” he yelled at me in from of our teammates as I spiked into the net again. He marched toward me, which got me sweating bad, and stuck his face within an inch of mine. I could feel his hot breath on my face and smell the sweat on his athletic body. I had to try my hardest not to get a hard-on right in the middle of the gym. Coach Coutchie, wearing her tennis visor, was dozing off on the sidelines, her arms folded over her big belly, her chin to her chest.
Sam didn’t yell at me, but in an intense whisper said, “I need you to be better. I’ve always made the playoffs, and I don’t want that streak to end now. Not in my senior year.”
I didn’t dare blink while he was so intent on talking to me. Some of his spit hit my face. This was the closest I’d ever been to him and naughty thoughts were swirling in my teen brain. What he said next I would never forget.
“And when we do make the playoffs,” he said smiling slightly and licking his upper lip, “I’m gonna make you my bitch. You know you want it…”
With that he turned away, yelled at the other guys to quit dawdling, and it was back to the practice drills.
I wasn’t sure if I heard right. Back in the locker room, Sam was joking around with the others. Sometimes he’d catch my eye and he’d make sure I knew he was looking at me. When I returned the stare, he’d just nod ever so slightly as if to say, “Yeah, you heard right, pussy.”