Gay Erotic Stories

Coach Michaels was a hunk. He was 37, about 6' tall, built like a brick wall, slender but solidly muscular, usually clad in a flimsy white t-shirt squeezed around two massive biceps and a barrel chest completely covered by thick, billowy swirls of fine, light brown hair, as were his thick forearms, whose hairiness swirled up slightly beyond his elbows, with thick tufts of hair billowing out from his pink skin just at the crook of his arms. He was not overly hairy. But the hair on his arms was curly, beautiful against his pink skin, and the musculature of his arms was solid, sinewy, and powerful-looking. His vein-popping biceps always caught your eye; if he didn’t wear a tight, white t-shirt, then he would wear a golf shirt, open at the collar exposing the thick curls of hair on his upper chest. The light brown hair on his head was slightly thinning, but he had an angelic face with a cute button nose, ruddy Irish skin, and a heavy five-o-clock shadow with long, perfectly shaved sideburns. I wanted to kiss that scruffy face every time I saw him. I wanted to bury my face in the middle of that hairy chest every time he walked by with the top of his shirt unbuttoned. And no, I was not one of his players. I was a colleague, a history teacher at the school, close to him in age, but I had a crush like an adolescent schoolboy infatuated with his coach. I was certainly infatuated with this one.

I would run into Coach just about every day in the faculty lounge. If he had been working out, or coaching, he would be in that white t-shirt soaked with sweat, its transparency revealing the dark swirls of hair on the muscular body underneath, a tuft now and then protruding delicately above the collar of his shirt. The hair on his powerful arms would be matted down in sweat, and sometimes he would lift his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing as he did a treasure trail to die for, thick, curly, sweaty, disappearing tantalizingly into his red cotton gym shorts, or into the upper band of a visible white jockstrap. His legs were bicycle legs, strong, muscular, equally hairy, as I imagined his ass to be, although I had never gotten the chance to see him naked in the locker room. That would have to change, I said to myself. And so, I made it happen. I decided to quit my gym and to start working out at school.

“Hey Coach!” I said one day as I strolled cocky but a little nervous into his gym office. “I know I’m not part of the coaching staff, but you got an extra locker down here I could use? I’m gonna start workin’ out at school.” He smiled and said “Sure, man. We’ve got three or four in the faculty locker room. We got our own room, ya know. We don’t shower with the kids. Let me show you.” So he led me into the faculty lockers. I had never even been in there before. Nice! Clean, tiled floors with large green metal lockers and wooden benches, separate sinks and stalls, a small 3-man open shower, and, of course, the wonderfully musky smell of a men’s locker room. “Here,” he said, as he showed me the lockers. “Take the empty one next to mine. No need for a lock. Kids don’t come in here.” I quietly excited myself with the thought that I was taking a locker next to his, that I was even standing there, taking in the smell and sexual aura of a men’s locker room while talking to this hairy muscular hunk of so many of my masturbatory dreams. As it was, he was a sight to behold at that moment. He was wearing light gray, tight cotton gym shorts which gripped the two globes of his muscular ass, and one of those light gray, sleeveless and cut-off football practice shirts which exposed the mid-section . . . in this case the dark hair of his thick treasure trail and his muscular stomach. He reached over me to open the locker, making sure it was empty, and his hairy arm brushed against mine. I shuddered. And when he said “That ought to do you,” and turned to leave, slapping me on the back, it was almost too much! I almost fainted!

“Are you okay man?” he said, as I collapsed onto the nearby bench. He steadied me, and sat down next to me, putting his muscular arm around me in a gesture of concern. He crooked his arm over my shoulder and I could feel the soft billowy hair of his forearm against my face. He was so gentle! So genuinely concerned! It was all I could do to keep myself from putting my head on his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” I said, “just a little light-headed. I guess I skipped lunch.”

He laughed, tussled the hair on my head playfully and said, “Well, if you’re gonna work out down here, no more skippin’ lunch! You can’t build muscle without fuel!” As he said it, he flexed a bicep in front of me and patted his hard, hairy and chiseled stomach. I just stared at it, and licked my lips. “You sure you don’t need some water or somethin’?” he asked as he walked out the door.

“No, thanks, man,” I said.

“You can use the weight room any time,” he continued, “but it is pretty much empty after 5:00, and oh yeah . . . don’t forget to bring towels!” he yelled back at me. “We don’t supply them down here.”

The sudden thought of actually showering with this gorgeous hunk of a man made my head swim, so I put it out of my mind and walked back to my office, graded a few papers, and took myself home. But the next day I showed up at school with a gym bag ready to start my new routine. I worked late after school as usual, graded papers, and then headed for the gym at about 5:00. No one was around, so I just went to my locker and started to change. As I did, I took a good look at myself in the mirror. I certainly had nothing on Coach, but, heck, I wasn’t bad. I had more hair on top of my head, a little darker than his, and I had been liftin’ for a couple of years, goin’ for the occasional run, and was in decent shape. And, if I wasn’t as hairy as coach, I still had a lightly hairy chest and arms, some decent-looking biceps, and, a nice smile (or so I am told). I did have one thing I was really proud of, a big, thick 8" cock . . . one which in this new setting I was having a little trouble keeping at bay!

Then I saw it . . . Coach’s locker was ajar. I couldn’t resist taking a peek. I pulled open the door. Hanging there in front of me was a roller stick of Old Spice deodorant, a canister of shaving cream and a razor, some after shave, a sweaty white t-shirt and a soiled jockstrap. I hesitatingly lifted both from their hooks and put them to my face, sniffing the man-scent of the jockstrap while eyeing the numerous loose curls of chest hair on the inside of the t-shirt. Standing there in the nude, I slowly stroked my cock, which was at full attention, and breathed in Coach’s musky smell, sniffing the armpits of his t-shirt, and then sucking sweetly on the damp cup of his jockstrap. “Slam!” I heard the sound of a door down the hall and hurriedly placed the jockstrap and t-shirt back where they belonged, closed Coach’s locker, and pulled on my own jockstrap and gym shorts as fast as I could--false alarm. No one came in. I pulled on my tattered shirt and socks and shoes and headed for the weight room. As I approached, I saw the door open and heard the soft strains of country music coming from a radio inside.

As I walked in I had to catch my breath. There he was. Straddled out horizontal doing a bench press . . . and shirtless! I just stared like a fool. “Oh, there you are!” he said. “I thought I might see you today. Hey, how about giving me a hand . . . I need someone to spot me.” I moaned in disbelief to myself and walked over behind him to comply. He had a lot of weight on the bar, and I couldn’t believe the eye-popping ripple of muscle in his arms as he pressed upward. My hands steadied the bar, but my eyes were fixated on the thick hair of his chest, matted down in sweat, and on the incredibly curly and thick swirls of hair under his armpits. Gorgeous! I think I literally drooled. “Hey, thanks stud!” he snapped as he finished his set, lying there without getting up and fingering his own hairiness, rubbing one hand up and down his hairy torso while I stood over him. I was hard as a rock, wishing his hand was my hand. Good thing I had on the jockstrap.

“You can toss your shirt, if you want to, man. Ain’t no kids around. And it gets hot in here.”

Without thinking I let slip “Man, I’ll say!” He chuckled and gave me a little wink. So I tossed my shirt in the corner and went to work. “Hey man, you mind givin’ me a few pointers? I mean, with a body like THAT, you’re the expert!”

He smiled again and said, “Sure, stud. What you wanna know?”

So I said “Well, proper form on simple curls, that’s all.”

He smiled, and came over and straddled the bench where I sat with some dumbbells, and sat down behind me. “Here, let me guide you,” he said, sitting close behind me, his sweat-soaked chest hair brushing against my back as his strong hairy arms wrapped around me and guided mine. I had a hard-on like never before! Slowly we pumped through several curls together, at one point with only the right arm as we focused on technique. His left arm steadied me, reaching around me with his left hand pressed against the hairy center of my chest. Was it my imagination, or was he copping a feel? His own thickly hairy chest, wet from his profuse sweat, pressed firmly against my back. At one point, as he held me steady, he leaned forward and the stubble of his unshaven cheek rubbed against my own. I was in Heaven.

Needless to say, our little workout session required a lot of pointers! Once he even told me to take my hands and feel the muscles in his back in order to demonstrate which muscles I was working. I daringly turned it into a quick shoulder massage. He moaned. But finally he got up and walked toward the door and said, “Well, I’m gonna hit the showers.” And before he even got out of the weight room he had stripped off his red gym shorts and headed out the door.

I yelled after him “Wait! I wanted you to show me how to do one more thing.” And so he walked over to where I was about to do squats under a bar to show me how . . . seemingly forgetting himself and standing there soaked in sweat in only his jockstrap as he demonstrated the proper use of the weights I was using. His jockstrap looked like it was three sizes too small, his massively thick crotch hair billowing out from either side, and out from the top, where it merged into his thick treasure trail. And I finally got a good look at his muscular ass! His ass crack was as hairy as they come. I drooled as he walked away.

When I finally walked my tired, sweaty body to the coaches’ locker room, he was standing in his office, still in only a jockstrap and putting away some gear. I took a good look and headed for the showers. I closed the door behind me, stripped and grabbed a towel from my bag. I was too tired even to consider the fact that he might join me. I had seen (and felt!) my share of his body for the day. So I jumped into the shower and soaped myself down. With my mind captivated by the pulsating warmth of the shower, I was a little startled when Coach suddenly walked into the locker room, grabbed a bottle of shampoo from his locker and walked into the showers still wearing his jockstrap.

“Hey man, how’s the water?” he said, aggressively, turning on the spigot next to mine. He began to soap up his hairy chest, the thick swirls of hair mingling with the soap suds dribbling down across his hairy abs and onto his wet and half-transparent jockstrap. Was that a hard-on that I spotted? The top of his jockstrap was slightly open from the bulge underneath the pouch, and the soap suds dribbled down through the luscious curls of hair trailing across his abs to his crotch hair and into the opening there. I drooled. I watched intently as he soaped up his hairy ass crack and seemed to wash his balls from behind. But he kept the jockstrap on.

Suddenly he remarked, “Man, you look bushed!” and he reached out and started to massage my aching shoulders and back muscles.

“Ooooohhhhhh! Don’t stop!” I said. He didn’t. He moved in closer, taking a bar of soap and washing my back.

“Hey, man,” he said, “I’ll wash your back. You wash mine.” I complied instantly, despite the hard-on I was having difficulty restraining . . . but as I was washing the hard, vibrant muscles of his back, he did something unexpected. He turned around. “Don’t stop, man! Wash me all over!” I hesitated, but suddenly found my hands running a bar of soap across his hairy chest, that barrel of a chest hardened by a thousand bench presses, and covered with thick, luscious curly hair my fingers could lose themselves in. As I continued to soap up his hairy chest like a schoolboy having sex for the first time with a coach he worshiped, I looked up at his face. He smiled at me gently, reassuringly, reached up with one hand and caressed my face, and then leaned in, and kissed me. “I’ve had a crush on you ever since I started coaching here,” he said.

On me!? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! On me!!! He took my hand and guided it to his crotch, placing my hand on the cup of his jockstrap. I dropped to my knees instantly. Tugging on either side of his jockstrap I quickly pulled it off of him, placed both my hands on his ass, fingering the thick hair in his hairy ass crack, and pulled him forward. He was huge, at least as big as me, but I took him into my salivating mouth and sucked his huge cock, deeply and slowly, burying my face in the profuse hairiness of his crotch like I was in love, using every technique I could think of to send him into ecstasy. But, no, I didn’t let him come. I wanted him to savor this.

We rinse off and grabbed our towels to rub each other down. It was glorious watching his chest hair billow out from his pink skin as I dried him off. I dried him off completely, and he dried me, and then we embraced, the soft silkiness of his body hair brushing against my skin from head to toe as we kissed. “I can’t stand it any more, Coach! . . . I want . . . I want you to fuck me! Please fuck me!”

Without a word he put his arm around me and led me to his office, knelt with me to the carpeted floor, laid me back, and climbed over me, his chest hair brushing delicately against my face. He placed his swollen cock against my quivering asshole and toyed with me there for about ten minutes as my hands explored his hairy chest and arms, or caressed the unshaven stubble of his cheeks. Then he reached for what appeared to be a bottle of lube, effortlessly lifted my legs onto his shoulders, and inserted his slippery cock into my ass.

“AAAAAAaah!” I was too deliriously happy to feel any pain. His long cock slid up into my ass smoothly and he began to fuck me, ever so slowly, gently, lovingly. I could feel his low-hanging balls slapping against my ass, again and again and again as he fucked me. I lost my hands in the thick hair of his chest as he fucked harder and harder, leaning over me, leaning down to kiss me, and grabbing my cock with his powerful free hand and stroking me until, kissing me one last time, we came together. He collapsed on top of me, and I held him close, my face buried in his hairy chest as we snuggled there on the floor, pulled a nearby blanket over us, and fell asleep.