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A Totally Bound Publication

Doing It for the Coach
ISBN # 978-0-85715-657-0
©Copyright Tamsin Flowers 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright February 2014
Edited by Jennifer Douglas
Totally Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination
and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or
places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form,
whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of
the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound
Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil
proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs
and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator
of the artwork.

Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road,
Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Warning:

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This
story has a heat rating of Totally Sizzling and a Sexometer of 2.

YLVLW 683(5,25=25* IRU PRUH PP ERRNV

Private Jimmy Jackson wants to make it onto the squad boxing team—and when he meets Coach

Perry, he realizes that’s not all he wants…

Private Jimmy Jackson joined the army for one reason—for the chance it would give him to
box on the All Army Team and turn professional. But as a gay soldier, he sometimes needs to
use his fists for other reasons, so when he arrives at his new unit at Fort Sandbridge, his main
aim is to keep his head down, work hard and impress the coach. What he hadn’t bargained
for was the sheer animal attraction that springs up between himself and Coach Virgil Perry
the  moment  they  meet.  All  Jimmy  can  think  of  is  taking  their  momentary  locker-room
encounter further, and his fantasies are fuelled by dreams of what they could get up to alone
together.

Luckily, Jimmy impresses Coach Perry enough with his boxing to be included in the training
squad and, with his roommate and sparring partner, Moreno, he begins to prepare for the All
Army Championships. A steamy off-camp incident with Coach Perry raises the stakes even
higher. Perry makes it clear that if Jimmy wins his championship, he’ll make it onto the All
Army  Team  with  the  opportunity  of  some  one-on-one  training.  If  he  loses,  he’ll  be  off  the
squad and his dreams of Coach Perry will be shattered.

The competition arrives and just three rounds stand between Jimmy and his dreams…

Tamsin Flowers

Chapter One

I met Virgil Perry on the very first day I arrived at Fort Sandbridge. And I dreamed of

being fucked by Virgil Perry my very first night there. His strong, tanned fingers parting my

ass, lubing me up good and proper and sinking his huge—in my fevered imagination—

throbbing cock right up inside me till I roared with the pleasure and the pain. I woke up the

next morning hoping to God I hadn’t been sleep talking because I had a brand new roomie

and I didn’t know how he was gonna feel about being bunked with a gay soldier.

Truth be told, I’d been pretty nervous about joining my unit at Sandbridge. Even

though DADT had been redacted for a couple of years, guys like me were never gonna be

welcomed with open arms. And I could live with that, but I still didn’t want to ruffle any

feathers before I’d had a chance to settle in and get to know the boys I was gonna be working

with. My plan had been to take things slowly, nice and easy for the first few weeks. But when

I’d made that plan, I hadn’t imagined that Virgil Perry would be there to complicate matters

in such a big way.

* * * *

I was fresh off the transport and just about to take a quick shower before heading out to

the welcoming address by the Brigade Commander when Virgil Perry made it known he had

other plans for me. I hadn’t even met my roomie or my CO. I was stripped down to my

shorts and digging a towel out of my kit bag when there was a knock on the door.

“Hey, newbie in there, is your name Jackson?”

I went to the door and pulled it open.

“Private Jimmy Jackson,” I said, ready to salute if the caller outranked me.

But the guy who was standing there was in sweats so I couldn’t tell his rank.

“Relax,” he said, pushing past me into the room. “I’m Moreno, Shane Moreno. Your

roommate.”

I followed him back into the small room that from now on we would be sharing. He

wouldn’t be a stranger for long.

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“Got a message for you. Coach Perry wants to see you over at the gym.”

“When?”

“I’d get over there now if I were you,” said Moreno. “Bastard hates to be kept waiting.”

“But I got a CO’s briefing,” I said.

Moreno shrugged.

“Boxing is taken pretty serious here and Coach Perry looks like he’s on his way to the

national team. You want in on that, don’t get him pissed at you.”

Of course I fucking wanted in on that.

So Moreno took me down to Virgil Perry’s kingdom. He had his own boxing gym in the

Fort, separate from the main fitness gym, and only for the use of the boxing squad. I’d boxed

my way through high school and it was the real reason I’d joined the Army. I know I could

have gone to college on a boxing scholarship, but I couldn’t be assed with the academics.

And when more than half of the national squad is made up of Army boxers, it made sense to

me to join one of the infantry divisions with a strong team. I’d sparred a few rounds and

fought couple of bouts during basic training and the coach there had said he’d flag me up.

Hopefully, I was on my way.

Perry’s gym was bigger than any of the boxing facilities I’d ever been in. He had four

practice rings and, on the other side of the long corridor lined with silver trophies and team

photographs, there was a separate gym for weights, punch bags, jump rope and circuit

training. Then there were locker rooms and showers, physio rooms and right at the end of

the corridor Coach Perry’s office.

That was where Moreno deposited me and, feeling like a bundle of nerves, I knocked

on the door. It was like the job interview for the rest of my life.

“Enter.” His voice rumbled with confidence.

I fight welterweight and that makes me about one hundred and fifty pounds. The guy

who stood up from the behind the desk as I came into the room was a heavyweight. He

towered over me and I could see his nose had been broken in at least three places, but, oh my

God, was he a handsome son of a bitch.

“Private Jackson, sir,” I said, saluting the sergeant major stripes on his arm.

He walked over to me.

“So some schmuck at basic thinks I should take a look at you.”

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He walked around me looking me up and down.

“How long you been boxing, son?”

“Five years, sir.”

He stepped in closer to inspect my face.

“It doesn’t show,” he said.

He ran a finger down my jawline and there was a sudden explosion of pain. He’d

sucker-punched me good. I took a step back to keep my balance, but I didn’t make a sound

and I didn’t put my hand up to the place where his fist had smashed into my jaw.

“Just wanted to check it wasn’t made of glass,” he said. “Wouldn’t waste my time on a

guy with a glass jaw.”

“It’s made of steel, sir,” I said through gritted teeth.

Macho guys like him are one of the reasons I took up boxing—for self-defence, I mean,

not so I could perv on them. I’d had the shit kicked out of me at school by a couple of guys

on the football team when someone had told them I was gay, and I’d vowed to never let it

happen again.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he snarled. “Let’s see how you move in the ring.”

He walked me through the locker room, making me exchange my uniform for a pair of

someone else’s discarded boxing shorts. Stripping off in front of him gave me a hard-on so

big I had to turn away for fear of him seeing it. But I swear his breathing upped a notch and

he didn’t take his eyes off me as I peeled off my fatigues. He found me some boots that were

half a size too small and a pair of gloves. I was good to go.

We crossed into the room with the training rings in silence. He was walking behind me

and I could feel his gaze tracing the muscles of my back. I went through the double swing

doors with a warm fizz in the pit of my stomach.

Now, for the first time since arriving at Fort Sandbridge, I felt really at home. The smell

of stale sweat, the suppressed grunts, the thud of boots on the canvas floor of the rings, the

sight of sweat-sheened torsos ducking and weaving, and the sound of leather gloves making

contact with flesh. It was all so familiar, and I experienced the little flurry of the excitement

that rattled through me whenever I walked into a gym.

Moreno was lounging against the ropes in one of the rings and when we came in, he

tossed me a head guard. I weighed him up—firm musculature, long arms with the division

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insignia tattooed at the top of one of them, wiry legs that suggested he’d be a dancer in the

ring. Me? I’m a brawler. I fight scrappy and relentlessly, wearing down my opponents with

my fury as well as my punches.

“Okay, Jackson, Moreno’s my best boy. Let’s see you take him down.”

Oh, I already knew by that point that I’d do almost anything to make Coach Perry

proud of me.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I tore my gaze away from Perry’s ice chip blue eyes and the dark red curl of his lip and

put on the head guard. I should have had a gum shield as well, but mine was still in my

luggage and it’s not the sort of thing you borrow from someone else. Setting my jaw solid as

the adrenaline pumped through me, I climbed into the ring.

Moreno was fast, light on his feet, and although he was the same weight category as

me, he easily outreached me with his long gorilla arms. In two minutes I’d worked up a

sweat and had taken a couple of heavy punches to the ribs. But as soon as I felt him easing

up on the gas, I was in there with a flurry of low smacks to his diaphragm and, as he brought

his arms down to defend himself, a great looping left hook that crashed against his jaw. If he

hadn’t been wearing the head guard, I think he might have gone down.

Perry let out a whistle from the corner as Moreno staggered out of reach. I didn’t drop

my guard, though—I was ready for whatever he was gonna come back with and come back

he did. After a second to regroup he was in with a battery of punches targeting my neck and

shoulders. I put up my best defence, but now it was my turn to stagger. However, I timed it

right and stepped back just as he was expecting to make contact. His balance veering

fractionally off gave me an in, and I went for him again with all the pent up frustration that

fighting a long-armed opponent draws up in me. With my southpaw advantage, I’d

managed to turn the fight around.

Suddenly Coach Perry’s voice cut through the red haze.

“Okay, guys, I’ve seen enough. Jackson, you’ll report here for training tomorrow at

0800 hours. Moreno, give me fifty fucking press-ups for that little girl performance.”

I bumped gloves with Moreno to show no hard feelings, but he was glaring at me out of

his head guard and I wondered if I shouldn’t have taken it a bit easier for the sake of

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domestic relations. Hell, no, I wanted a place on the team and I wanted to catch Coach

Perry’s eye, so I was gonna give it all I’ve fucking got.

* * * *

By the time I’d chowed and unpacked my kit bag, Moreno seemed to have cooled off a

bit. He was wandering around the room naked from the shower and it made me glad that he

wasn’t really my type. That’s not to say he didn’t have a great body—all boxers do. But I

could tell from the get go that the chemistry wasn’t there, and that was fine by me. Falling for

your straight roomie—I could easily tell the guy was no fag—was an added complication

that I knew too much about. It was bad enough that I was already jonesing for the coach.

* * * *

So, like I said, my dreams that night were of Virgil Perry. That moment in the locker

room, when he’d been staring at me stripping off. But in my dream, when I got down to my

briefs and reached for the boxing trunks, he stops me with a hand on my wrist.

“All the way, soldier. Show me what you got. I need to see the whole package.”

Trembling, I pull down my briefs and kick them away across the floor. As I stand naked in front

of him, I feel the stirrings of a blood rush in my cock. My cheeks flush and I move my hands to hide

myself. The coach shakes his head and I let my arms drop to my sides. He goes on studying me for
what must be a full minute before he speaks.

“Turn the fuck around,” he says. “I need to see your back as well.”

I’m relieved to be able to turn away from the spotlight glare of his stare, but it makes me nervous

to know that he’s standing somewhere just behind me. My cock on the other hand now thinks it’s got a

free pass to get up to no good and I feel the familiar heat of a rising erection, the tugging and the dull

ache and the burn in my balls. My mouth is dry, but there’s a beading of sweat breaking out across my
top lip.

I hardly hear him coming up behind me until his breath caresses my neck.

“You got a fine fucking ass there, boy. Mind if I…?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand cups the curve of my buttock possessively, eliciting a

grunt from deep in my throat. I lean forward and put my hands up high on the wall to brace myself.

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He spreads my legs with a kick of his booted foot and his other hand alights on my other buttock. I gasp

for air and my cock twitches against my stomach. Oh God, I don’t mind at all. I push my hips back in
an open offer.

Coach Perry drops to his knees. Fingers part my cheeks and I feel—what fucking bliss—a hot

tongue running slowly down the crack between them. My hips jerk, but the coach holds me firm and

works his tongue deeper into my slit. It pushes against the sides then circling the tight puckered hole at

the centre. My hands claw at the wall as the coach lubes me up with his hot spit and when the tip of his

tongue pushes into my hole, I’m whimpering like a virgin. He uses his hands to prize my cheeks even
farther apart and the soft tongue is replaced by a hard finger.

He works my hole like a pro, gradually stretching it wider, adding another finger, spitting more

lube into my crack to make it easier. Three fingers pull and tug and stroke, cajoling the ring of muscles

to relax. I’m writhing against the wall, biting my bottom lip to keep my moans under control. Jesus, he

could get me off like this in a second, but I want to hold out for the main event. I want something

wider and longer than a finger thrusting up inside me, taking me all the way, pushing me to my
limits.

Finally he decides I’m ready for him and when he pulls his fingers out I almost sob with the

anticipation. God, I need this. The tip of his cock strokes slowly down my crack and I buck against the

wall.

“Steady, boy,” whispers the coach, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I try to relax again, feeling the cold tiles pressing up against the raging fire in my cock. I soften

my hips, my breathing coming hard and fast as I wait for him to enter me.

“Please…” I moan.

Then it’s in, pushing through the muscle barrier with ease—preparation and planning, soldier—

surging up into my ass, sending shivering pulses of sensation up through my body. He thrusts hard

then pulls back. The friction burns and my muscles tense, causing that sharp, stabbing pain I so love.

In and out, every ingress making me cry out. He grunts with exertion and I can smell the sweat
coming off his body, feel his chest slick against my back.

It’s so good. It’s so fucking good. My balls pull up, pressure building pain forging pleasure. I

crush my cock against the cold tiles. I’m virtually fucking the wall as the coach fucks me. Then he slips

a hand around to my front and grabs the base of my cock, squeezing hard. At the same time he slams

into me from behind, higher and deeper, his balls slapping against my ass. My back arches—things

have gone beyond my control. He works my cock like a joy stick as I lean against him and the explosion

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bursts out of me. Hot semen firing into the air, a roar from the back of my throat that builds and

builds, louder and louder, as my orgasm rips through me.

One last plunge carries him right over the edge with me and I feel his hot cum shooting up inside

me.

“Yes, fucking yes, soldier, fucking yes,” he growls in my ear, shuddering against me.

Spent, we slide down the wall and collapse onto the floor, the coach catching me across his lap,

both of us panting.

And I wake up abruptly. My sheets are wet and sticky and the room stinks of cum.

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Chapter Two

I’d done enough to impress Perry that he was considering me for the team for the

National Army Championships in eight weeks’ time. This meant full-time training and only

token soldiering. Moreno was also on the squad, so we trained, ate, washed and slept

together—no, strike that last one—slept in the same room. It didn’t take him long to realise I

was gay, but luckily he was a grown up, so it was a bit of a non-issue.

“I just wouldn’t share the fact with Coach Perry,” was all he said when he

acknowledged that he knew. “I don’t think he’s up for having fags on his team.”

But I thought different. I’d seen the way he’d watched me undressing that first

afternoon and I’d seen the way he watched the guys sparring in the gym. Boxing is a macho

sport but, boy, does it have some fucking gay appeal. Fit guys getting sweaty together,

punching the shit out of each other—what’s not to love about that? And I’d seen the way

Perry’s tongue would slide between his lips for a second or how he’d suddenly disappear

into his office, readjusting his trousers with a clammy hand.

No, Coach Perry was showing up loud and clear on my gaydar and I intended to have

him. I’d always had a thing for slightly older guys, men in positions of authority above me.

My biggest fantasy at high school was being kept back late by my history teacher, Mr Barnes,

and being taken by him over the teacher’s desk. It never came true but, God, even now the

thought of it gives me a hard-on.

Coach Perry was similar to Mr Barnes in a number of ways—I certainly have a type I go

for. Big men with broad chests and tight muscles, tanned skin and clear blue eyes, a little

smattering of grey through the hair is a big thing with me. You might say father figures, I’d

say whatever. I just want to fuck, or better still be fucked by, them. Fucked senseless till I

don’t know my name, rank or serial number. What I dreamed about with Coach Perry, I

wanted that for real. But on the other hand, there was no way I was gonna risk my place on

the team to make it happen. I would bide my time, wait for him to come to me. In the

meantime, I always had those dreams and my own left hand.

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We were a squad that worked hard and played hard. Training took it out of us, but as

we grew tight, the six guys on the team tended to socialise together after working out. Most

of the time, things had to be pretty tame—no one can party hard and expect to make the

grade as a professional sportsman, which is what we were all gunning for. But once a week,

the coach would encourage us to blow off steam by heading out of the camp and into one of

the bars downtown.

“Have couple of drinks, boys, and then find yourselves a pretty little bitch so you can

shoot your load. Stale spunk does nothing for your fitness, so be sure to get it out,” he would

bellow. I wasn’t sure that this was within the realm of the scientifically proven, but the rest of

the squad seemed keen to take him at his word, and I was happy to tag along with them for

the laughs and the drinks.

Old Town Sam’s quickly became our favourite bar. The staff were friendly, the drinks

were cheap and the girls even cheaper. Most Saturday nights you’d find us in there, kicking

back after a hard week’s training over a few beers. Moreno was the horniest of the guys. He’d

always manage to pull some chick who’d either take him home with her or service him in the

parking lot out back. Meissen and Kaplan ran a close second and the other two, Scott and

Peabody, got laid almost as often. No one cared jack shit that I never disappeared with a girl.

I was the youngest on the squad and either they knew I was gay or thought I was shy. It was

cool.

One Saturday in particular all five of the guys had pulled. Kaplan and Scott had headed

off early with a pair of twins they’d dallied with before, while the other three were in the

early stages of getting laid, charming their targets at the bar and on the dance floor.

I caught Moreno’s arm as he passed our table.

“I could do with some fresh,” I said. “I’ll see you back at base.”

“You good?” he said, his voice a little thicker with drink.

I nodded.

“Go find yourself a guy, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Enough with the moaning under the

covers.”

I laughed, but he was right. It was time I got some. My nuts were like a dead weight in

my groin, a voiceless rebuke to me that my body had needs beyond the ministrations of my

own left hand.

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“I heard there’s a gay bar down on Ninth,” he said before heading back over to a small

blonde who’d turned short-and-tight into an art form.

The cold night air outside cleared my head of the faint beer buzz and I stood on the

sidewalk trying to decide whether to head up to Ninth Street or back to the camp. Fuck it! I’d

go to the bar. A little sharpener of bourbon was tempting enough, whether or not I scored

some big, swinging dick.

I headed up Main Street and took a right onto Ninth. The bar Moreno had been talking

about stood out like a sore thumb with ‘fuck me’ written all over it. There was neon, there

was noise, pulsing music and gyrating bodies on the sidewalk. A full on party. And as I got

closer, I could see by the haircuts that quite a few of the guys that had spilled out were from

the camp.

I went inside and shouldered my way through good-humoured crowd to get to the bar.

I hadn’t seen anyone I recognised, but that was probably a good thing. I wasn’t looking for a

soldier, just a local boy who’d give it to me good on a one-time only basis. I ordered a double

bourbon and decided to prop up the bar for a spell while I checked out the meat that was on

offer. Beyond the bar, in the middle, there was a small dance floor that had been taken over

by the leather and chains brigade, but the majority of the clientele were just in jeans and tees,

typical small-town Saturday night uniform.

My eyes strayed along the bar and nearly came out on stalks. The guy near the other

end looked just like… Fuck me—it was! Coach Perry was deep in conversation with a man

who had his back to me. They both had tall glasses of something dark, a rum or whisky-

based cocktail I guessed, and every now and again I could see the coach throwing his head

back with laughter. After a couple of minutes they were joined by a third guy and there was

a third drink on the bar. So what was the dynamic here? I wondered. Who was fucking who?

Seems like I’d been right about the coach being a southpaw.

As they reached the end of their drinks, I saw that the newcomer had slid his hand into

the back pocket of the other guy’s jeans. They looked like a couple and when the coach

tipped his glass to see if they wanted another I could see them shaking their heads. They

headed off and the coach ordered a short for himself. He was standing alone at the bar and

now was my chance. The beer and whisky had made me brave—they’d made me forget that

this was the one thing I wasn’t going to do.

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I sidled down the bar with my drink my hand. He cocked one eyebrow when he saw

me, but he didn’t say anything. He just finished his drink and turned to leave.

“Can I get you another, sir?” I said. So fucking brave.

He turned back and looked me up and down.

“So I send you out to go and get yourself fucked and you turn up here?” he said.

“It’s hardly a surprise,” I said. “You know I’m gay and I know you’re gay.”

“Well, fuck you, soldier,” he said. “You think you know me, do you?”

He raised his glass to the barman indicating he wanted another. I did likewise. He

slapped his hand over my glass and shook his head. The barman watched us warily.

“Boy, I think you should get the fuck out of my bar.”

I turned to the barman.

“Give me another.”

With a shrug the barman poured two more measures of bourbon and handed one to

each of us.

Perry watched me with narrowed eyes over the rim of his glass. I stared right back at

him. The staring match went on in silence until we’d both finished our drinks. Perry

slammed his empty glass onto the bar and I did the same. Without another word, he tapped

me on the shoulder and headed towards the back entrance of the bar. I followed him, my

heart pounding in my chest, my Dutch courage evaporating fast.

We came out into a half-full parking lot. Two feeble street lamps cast small circles of

golden light at each end of the lot, the rest was in total darkness. I glanced around. There was

nobody in sight.

Perry continued walking till he reached the back of the lot and, in the empty space

between two cars, he turned to face me. I should have known to be more careful of him. He

had weight and reach on me and I knew from Moreno that he’d been an army heavyweight

champion. So really, the punch that came at me shouldn’t have been the surprise it was.

I sprawled backward onto the asphalt and put a hand to my jaw. Goddamm, it hurt. My

brain was still reverberating in my skull and my vision was blurred as he stepped forward

and stood over me.

“Now tell me what the fuck you want, soldier,” he said in a parade-ground bark.

I struggled to my feet and stood to attention in front of him.

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“I want to make it onto your Nationals squad, sir.”

This time when he swung at me, my fists were up and I was able to deflect the blow,

but the power in it still made me take a step backward. The coach came forward, menacing,

making the most of his physical advantage.

“No, boy, I’m not talking about that bullshit. I mean what do you want from me? Here,

now?”

My heart flipped in my chest and my balls pulled up tight as if they wanted to retreat

right inside my body. I could hardly breathe.

“Fucking tell me,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full height. His right arm was

twitching to pull back in a punch.

I was speechless. I couldn’t say it. I stood in front of him, trembling, as a hard-on

pushed out against my jeans. I wondered if I was flushing my boxing future down the pan.

“I know what you want,” he said.

He put his hand to his crotch suggestively.

I nodded and dropped to my knees. Please, God, I needed him now. I wanted this man

more than I could ever remember wanting anybody. I wanted him to stick his cock in my

mouth, deep into my throat, and come there and I wanted him to flip me over and fuck me

till I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. A small moan escaped my mouth.

Virgil Perry laughed and disappeared around the back end of dark SUV. I got up and

scurried after him. Now we were well out of sight if anyone came into the parking lot.

“Back on your knees, soldier.”

Perry was leaning against the rear of the vehicle and I could hardly see him in the dark

shadows. I knelt in front of him and stretched out my hands, feeling for the top of his pants.

He didn’t stop me when I hooked my fingers into his waistband and let them brush against

his rock solid abs. He simply threw his head back against the rear of the SUV and pushed his

hips forward.

“Get the fuck on with it,” he said.

I didn’t waste another moment. I unbuttoned and unzipped him and slid his pants and

his shorts down to his knees. My hands went to his cock and when I felt the weight of it

pushing up against my grip I had to gasp. It was thick and long, as big as any I’d come

across, and it was as soft as velvet. An iron piston in a velvet glove. I stroked it gently to feel

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its length, wondering if my hand would ever reach the end of it. I was beside myself. This

was way better than anything I’d dreamed of. A beautiful, warm, twitching cock in my

hands. I needed to get it into my mouth.

I leant forward and let the head brush against my cheek. There was low rumble of

impatience in the coach’s throat. I slipped my lips gently over the end, holding it steady with

two hands on the shaft, and with the tip of my tongue I felt for the tiny slit at the apex. I

pushed against it, and as I did Perry’s legs suddenly braced. He was ready for what I had to

give and so I started the buildup. First I licked, swirled, and rasped my tongue on the most

sensitive tissue at the end of his cock, tracing a path down the long, thick shaft, twisting

against the thick trunk. Using my lips, I kept sucking and encircling, releasing and blowing,

whispering across the warm skin, feeling the bulging veins, the soft rim that delineated the

head. I nipped and bit and scraped up and nibbled down. And each time I explored, I took

the coach’s giant cock a little bit farther into my mouth.

Saliva was running down my chin and dripping off the tip of his cock. I moved my

hands moved from his shaft to his hips to his balls and back again. I massaged his balls,

tightening my grip as I sucked his cock into my mouth, scratching them and rolling them

against each other until I felt the man trembling beneath my touch.

He pushed his hips forward and, as I let my throat open to him, he really began to fuck

me. I clung on to him, looping my arms around his buttocks, and he thrust his hands into my

hair and grasped it till I thought he would tear it out. My being able to breathe wasn’t a

priority to him and he plunged again and again, in and out, lubing my mouth with his salty

pre-cum, grinding his cock into my face, rubbing it against my teeth and diving deep to

where my throat tightened around it and gave him the traction he needed. It was so much

better than all the times I'd run this scene in my imagination.

I heard his orgasm before I felt it. A low moan that rolled up into a cry. His body went

stiff, his hips shuddering, then I felt his cock surging forward. Hot spunk spurted out of the

end, too far back in my throat for me to taste it, but I felt the pumping pressure as it jetted

down my oesophagus. My own balls went ballistic and my cock strained, still constricted in

my jeans. The coach dumped his load and still kept thrusting on the way down the other

side, his hands working my head backward and forward as he wrung out every last scintilla

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of pleasure from the act. By the time he let it slip out of my mouth, his cock was softening. It

slid down my chin and he smudged it clean on my T-shirt.

I gasped for air, savouring the trail of sperm that he’d pulled through my mouth, and I

let go of his waist to bring my hands down to my own crotch.

“Do it for me, boy,” he rasped. “Let me see you come.”

I needed no extra bidding. I had my zipper down in a flash and my cock forced its way

out into the cool night air. I sat back on my heels and gazed up at Coach Perry as I started to

stroke.

There was an appreciative “Mmmmm…” from above and I watched as the coach

cradled his own dick in his hands while he watched me.

I was so turned on, so horny, so desperate for release that it only took a moment. With a

moan, I let my orgasm break over me, hot and sharp and fast, a stream of hot spunk

steaming on the asphalt as my hips jerked and I pulled on my swollen cock. Nothing had

ever felt as good as that moment in the parking lot, jacking off for the coach, his eyes

devouring my hot cock as I milked it dry. I was spent and I was exhausted. My mouth felt

bruised and there was a swelling on the jaw where he’d hit me, but I felt so fucking good.

“You want more of that?”

He was tucking his dick back into his trousers as he asked me this.

I nodded, still fighting for breath, still gently stroking the last drops out of my cock.

“Well, I don’t like to shit where I eat, soldier.”

“But it was good, sir. And you’re gonna want it again.” I was an idiot.

Coach Perry stared at me with contempt blazing across his face.

“Damn right I might want it again, boy, but when, or if, it happens is my call. Do me

proud at Nationals, you might get a taste,” he said. “But you fuck it up, boy, and you’ll never

see this big, beautiful cock again. You’ll be off my team and back to being an ordinary dumb

grunt. Got it?”

He left me there, kneeling in the parking lot, nursing my cock and dreaming of the next

time. I’d make that fucking team and make him fucking proud of me. And I’d get another

dammed taste of him or die trying.

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Chapter Three

With only a few weeks to go until the biggest competition of our lives so far, training

went into overdrive. What had happened in the parking lot stayed in the parking lot and the

coach showed me no special favours in return for having his cock chewed. In fact, if

anything, he worked me harder than the rest. He seemed to have high expectations of me

that he inferred I would fail to live up to. I’d never worked so dammed hard in my life.

Moreno commented on how Perry was pushing me.

“What the hell’ve you done to rile the P-man like that? He’s got it in for you.”

I shrugged. We were in our room, both lying on our beds, getting over a fifteen mile run

before heading back to the gym to spar. The regime was killing me.

“He hasn’t seen me in a bout yet, so maybe he’s just a bit twitchy about putting me on

the team for Nationals. If I don’t make the grade, he’ll look pretty damn stupid.”

Moreno tossed me a protein bar.

“Eat,” he said. He knew I needed another couple of pounds of muscle to reach the top

end of the weight limit for a welterweight.

I chewed the bar and let my thoughts drift to all the things I’d rather have in my mouth.

Not all the things. One thing. Then I had to quickly think of something else before Moreno

saw the tent I was erecting in my sweat pants. I got up.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said.

Moreno groaned and followed me out of the barracks. We fell into an easy jog and

reached the gym a couple of minutes later. As we came through the double doors into the

central corridor, I saw the coach just disappearing into his office at the other end. Meissen

and Scott were standing at the notice board halfway down.

“Moreno, Jackson,” said Scott, holding up a hand in greeting. “Final team selection.” He

nodded at the board.

“Good or bad?” asked Moreno.

“For you two, good,” said Meissen. “But Kaplan’s not coming.”

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This came as no surprise. Kaplan’s training hadn’t been going well. He was dogged

with an old ankle injury that had flared up at just the wrong time.

“Shit, he’s gonna be so pissed,” I said. I was truly sorry for him, but inside I was

flooded with relief that my place on the team was secure.

“Way to go,” said Moreno. “But you know what it means? Training just got a whole lot

fucking harder.”

“So get the fuck into my rings, you wasters!” the coach bellowed from his office

doorway. “I want to see sparring like your life depended on it. No hanging back. No fucking

pussy footing in my gym. Jackson, get in here.”

A flash of adrenaline, a surge of blood to my cock.

I hurried up the corridor and followed him into his office.

“So you’re on the fucking team and I must be out of my mind,” he said, as soon as the

door had swung shut behind me.

“You won’t regret it, sir,” I said.

“I’d bloody better not,” he said.

His expression softened and he came round to the front of his desk.

“Jesus, Jackson…” He let out a long sigh.

I stood, rooted to the spot. My heart was pounding. This was the first time we’d been

alone together since the parking lot and, though I’d caught him watching me while I was

training or in the ring, he’d made no reference to it or given me any acknowledgement that it

had even happened.

This was different though. I heard his breathing speed up as his eyes travelled down

my body. I was as beefed up and as fit as I’d ever been in my life. It looked good on me and

Perry seemed to be appreciating the fact.

Without warning he stepped forward and grabbed my crotch. He had my cock and

balls in his grip and he squeezed tight. My cock struggled against his hand, a hot surge

swelling it, and my breath hitched. His face was so close to mine I could have kissed him.

“Get the fuck out of my office and go and train, you cunt,” he said, letting go of me.

I went straight to the stalls in the locker room and, clamping my teeth around my lower

lip as a silencer, jacked off with desperate speed. My cock was aching for the coach and all I

had to offer was my hand, but I got off and caught a hot spurt of spunk in a wad of toilet

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tissue. My eyes were watering and my bottom lip was bleeding by the time I finished, and I

took a great gulp of air as I slumped back against the partition. Coach fucking Perry, what you

do to me.

* * * *

Three weeks later we flew down to Texas for the All-Army Championships. If I did well

here, there was a chance that I would get to the USA Boxing National Championships, the

springboard for the national team or a professional career. As well as Coach Perry, the team

was me and Moreno, welterweights, Meissen who boxed heavyweight, Scott, bantamweight

and Peabody, who fought featherweight. Kaplan had been officially designated Perry’s

assistant so he could come along for the ride, and I don’t know if it was worse for him to

watch from the sidelines or to be left at home. Either option seemed like a shitty one.

There were army squads from all over the country and a few that had flown in from

overseas postings. I’d never been to anything like it—such an intense concentration of boxing

talent and experience, so many fighters. There was an electric crackle in the air and for first-

timers like me, it was a chance to see bouts between the guys on the All Army Team we’d

just heard stories about up to now. And, if you were particularly unlucky in the draw, you

might even get to fight them.

We arrived on base a week before the bouts started and in those seven days, training

didn’t let up. We all pushed ourselves that much harder, now we could see the competition.

And we all started to feel nervous as we eyed up possible opponents in the huge dining hall,

every single one of us wishing we’d run that extra mile, put in that extra hour in the ring.

Coach Perry was hanging out with the other coaches, each of them bragging about their

team, trying to catch crumbs of information about the strongest fighters. Every time we saw

him, he seemed crosser and meaner, blasting us for being lazy bastards, telling us we didn’t

stand a chance in hell of progressing through the rounds.

The squad each handled the pressure in their own way. Peabody went running

incessantly, Meissen worked out and obsessed about his weight, while Scott and Moreno

sparred whenever they could get into one of the rings. Me? For me, it was all about

visualization. I would find a quiet corner and play out every possible scenario in my mind.

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Every punch that could come my way and how I’d respond, until I had my reactions down

pat. I also spent a lot of time just watching the other squads sparring. I learned which

members of the teams were the welterweights and I studied their technique and looked for

their weaknesses. They say boxing is about strength and agility. But for me, every fight is

fought in the mind, the guy with the bigger brain is the guy who’ll win.

Of course, the fights weren’t the only thing I was visualising. Virgil Perry had made me

what I took to be a promise and my dreams of winning my weight category went hand in

hand with my dreams of how Perry was gonna come good on that promise. I didn’t think

about not winning or about Perry busting me out of the squad.

There were fifteen welterweights in the competition—that meant four rounds, over four

days, with one lucky bastard getting a bye. The draw was announced on the morning of the

first bouts. Moreno was the bastard who got to kick his heels till the second round. I was set

to fight some cunt from the 4

Armored Division who I’d been watching sparring in the

gym. He was good but not that good, so I wasn’t too worried about progressing to the

second round.

The coach came into the locker room as I was getting ready for the bout. He took over

for Moreno, wrapping my hands and giving me the pep talk he thought I needed. The touch

of his strong brown fingers made my legs tremble, especially as he slid one finger slowly

along the inside of my wrist, his navy blue eyes locked on mine.

“You’ll do okay, Jackson. Nothing to worry about,” he said, as he walked me to the

ring.

The fight was easy. I won on points and, the next day, my second round fight went just

as well. The semi-final, against a guy who’d flown in from Okinawa and looked far too large

to be a welter, got scrappy and I came away with a narrow win and a badly split lip. Coach

Perry smeared it with ointment to stop the bleeding and gave me an icepack to hold against

it. That moment, his fingers across my lips, too fucking fleeting. My cock stirred in my pants,

though he showed no sign of being aware of it. But, fuck it, I was through to the final and

Perry was pleased with me. I wondered how pleased, and let my thoughts roam on that as I

spent the rest of the afternoon watching semi-finals in the other weight categories.

The other welterweight semi was between Moreno and a black Marine called Roach. Of

course, I should have wanted Moreno to win. He was a member of my squad, for one thing,

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and for another, I knew all his moves which would help in the final. But he knew all mine

too, so there wasn’t necessarily an advantage in that. And recently, when we sparred, he’d

been coming out on top more often than not. Add to that, I didn’t want to share the spotlight

of Perry’s approving glances with anybody else and, deep down inside me, I really wanted

Roach to win. It kills me to admit that about one of my own teammates, but no one becomes

a champ by playing softball.

Moreno won.

The final was slated for the next day and that evening Perry called us together for a pep

talk.

“I don’t know how the fuck you two did it, considering you fight like a pair of little

girls.”

Moreno laughed nervously.

“Just one word of advice,” said Perry. “I want to know which one of you is really the

best so don’t pull your punches just because it’s your roomie in the ring with you. He’s still

the enemy and you need to fucking slay him if you’re gonna make the All Army Team.”

He looked from one to the other of us with a conspiratorial expression on his face.

“And, this ain’t in the news yet so don’t broadcast it, but next season I’ve been offered a

coaching position with Team USA. I’ll be hanging up my tags and moving to Colorado and

the only way you’ll continue to benefit from my words of wisdom is by doing good

tomorrow, making the All Army squad and then improving beyond your wildest

imagination.”

All of a sudden the stakes were that much higher. I had to beat Moreno if I was to stand

a chance of getting onto the All Army Team, let alone the Team USA squad. Perry would be

leaving Ford Sandbridge and I had to make sure that I had a chance of going with him.

I swapped bunks with Scott that night—neither Moreno or I needed the other one

psyching us out through the night. But sleep wouldn’t come. This was the most important

fight of my life so far and the fact that I was coming up against Moreno made it that much

tougher. The room was hot and Meissen was snoring, but it wasn’t those things that kept me

awake. It was Coach Perry, or more accurately the prospect of losing him. I don’t know if I

would say I’d fallen in love with the guy or whether it was just a bad case of lust, but his

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Chapter Four

I woke up to the sound of Scott jacking off in the en suite. He was grunting louder than

the shower at full blast, so I stuck my head under the pillow and waited several minutes

before emerging. The fight was in the late afternoon and as training was a no-no, there was

no particular hurry to be up and about. I had brunch after my weigh-in, carb loading and

grabbing a couple of bananas against cramp, then I went down to the locker room in the gym

to get a massage.

Of course, I ran into Moreno. That much was a given but what I wasn’t prepared for

was to find him in a huddle with Coach Perry. They stopped talking as soon as they saw me

and even had the decency to look guilty. But I saw red.

“What the fuck?” I spat, stepping up to where they cowered just outside the physio’s

office.

Perry drew himself up to his full height and menaced me good.

“Calm down, soldier,” he said.

I didn’t hear his explanation. I ducked into the nearest changing room. I didn’t care. If

he was giving Moreno tips, it proved he didn’t want me to win. And if he didn’t want me to

win, I could hardly believe I stood a chance with him in any other way. I slammed my left

fist against one of the lockers and pain exploded down my forearm.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I’d grazed the skin and it was bleeding but what was more worrying was the throb of

pain radiating from my centre knuckle up through my wrist. Biggest fucking fight of my

non-existent career and I go and do this. Meissen came in and stood staring at me as I

examined the damage.

“Get some ice, would you?” I said, without looking up.

He came back with the physio, who took one look and said the words every boxer

dreads hearing.

“You shouldn’t be fighting with that. Looks like you cracked your knuckle bad. Get

down to the MTF for an X-ray in case you need to have it set.”

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The fuck I would.

Meissen caught the look in my eye and hurried the physio out of the room. When he

came back, I took the ice away from my fist. It was swollen and there was the beginning of a

black bruise spreading across the back of my hand.

“Jesus, Jackson. You gonna go ahead?”

“Wrap it for me, would you?”

Meissen wrapped both my fists, taking extra care with my left hand and building up an

extra layer of padding. With ten minutes till fight time, he gingerly pulled my gloves on for

me and laced them up. The pain was excruciating, but I was going to have to fight through it

if I was going to prove to that bastard Perry that I was worth of a place on the team.

Walking into the ring was my first taste of what a professional fight might be like. The

Army, making up by far the biggest slice of the audience, were stoked that Moreno and I had

seen off the contenders from the other services and there was a lot of whistling and cat

calling as we climbed into our corners. Meissen was acting as my second and Kaplan was

over in the opposite corner, feeding Moreno his mouthguard. I looked at the front row

spectators. I was only looking for one man, but he wasn’t there. Fuck him!

The PA shrieked as the crowd settled.

“In the red corner, from the Thirty-twos out of Fort Sandbridge, weighing in at one

hundred and forty-seven pounds, in his first All Army Welterweight Championship final,

Private Jimmy Jackson…”

There was a roar. Apparently I had fans.

“In the blue corner, also from the Thirty-twos, weighing in at one hundred and forty-

nine pounds, in his second All Army Championship final, Private Shane Moreno…”

An even bigger cheer. Moreno had been in the game longer than I had.

But I was gonna take him down.

The ref took over from the PA.

“Three rounds of three minutes for the All Army Welterweight Championship. Let’s get

ready to rumble!”

The whole crowd was on its feet as Moreno and I stepped forward to bump gloves. The

ref checked our shorts were at the right height and gave us the obligatory lecture.

“Keep it clean, do what I tell you. Do it right away. Good luck.”

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We headed back to our corners.

“Seconds out!”

The bell rang and I was out of my corner like a greyhound out of the trap. I hit Moreno

fast and hard with a right-handed cross before he’d got halfway to the centre of the ring and

it was my intention to keep the pressure on him, round after round, till he crumpled. But

Moreno had longer arms and he came straight back with an uppercut that I only just

managed to parry. We danced round, eyeing each other up angrily, both looking for a way

in.

I pressed forward, trying to back him onto the ropes, but he spun out sideways each

time and pressed back. Still, I was holding the centre of the ring and eventually he gave the

opportunity for a left hook. I smashed against his shoulder and pain flared in my knuckle,

bringing water to my eyes. He tried to come in under my arm with a battery of uppercuts,

but I kept jabbing and blocking and moving so his flurry amounted to not very much at all.

We fell into a clinch until the ref separated us and sent us back a pace. Then we went at

it again, dancing, attacking and parrying, looking for our chance until the bell rang the end of

the round.

“You’re looking good, Jackson,” said Meissen as I sank down onto the stool in my

corner.

I spat my mouthguard into his outstretched palm. He squeezed cold water over my

head and thrust the straw from a water bottle into my mouth. I drank greedily.

“How’s the hand holding up?”

“Like it’s been through a grinder,” I said. “Where’s the coach?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

He shoved the mouthguard back in and gave my shoulders a quick rub to keep them

loose.

“Seconds out!”

The bell rang. Meissen whipped the stool away as I sprang to my feet and we

catapulted into round two.

My left knuckles were on fire and every touch I made felt like I’d punched straight onto

a dagger or skidded across the blade of a chain saw. The best fighters are almost equally as

strong with their weak hand as with their lead. I worked with my right hand a lot, but I

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wasn’t there yet. I was still reliant on my southpaw for the real power punches and the pain

was only getting worse with each tap. I was buffeted by the roar of the crowd and the arena

seemed to be spinning round me as I danced my way out of Moreno’s reach. But as the pain

seemed to drag me down, I could quite literally feel his confidence growing in the speed of

his punches. He came after me relentlessly and I lost my spot in the centre of the ring. Now I

was the one wasting the energy running round him. I had to get a grip. I had to pull myself

back up into the superior position. I knew that at this moment I was certainly behind him on

points.

Then, down by the side of the ring, I saw what I’d been looking for. Coach Perry was

standing at the foot of one of the aisles, close enough that I could reach through the ropes

and touch him if I wanted to. I couldn’t read his expression, but my heart skipped a beat. He

mouthed something at me and my gaze lingered on his face for just a split second too long.

The next thing I knew, I was eating canvas as an explosion of pain blinded me.

“…three…four…” intoned the ref’s voice out of the haze.

Jesus fucking Christ! I tried to get up, but my legs were jelly beneath me and I

staggered. My left cheek and eye socket felt like pulp.

“…five…six…”

“Get up, you fucking princess!” It was the coach, his face practically jammed between

the ropes.

I pulled myself steady on the top rope and blinked several times.

“…seven…eight…nine…ten!”

Moreno was back onto me with a vengeance as soon as the ten-count was up. He had to

try to finish me off now, while I was still dazed and unsteady on my feet. I had blood in my

eyes and one of them was starting to swell. Moreno came in with a flurry of left and right

hooks. Each time I deflected one, another came pouring in. I crouched low and got him in a

clinch to give myself some breathing space, but the ref quickly pulled us apart and gave me a

warning.

My strategy was blown out of the water and I knew that there was only one way for me

to win this fight now. If I could last this round, I would have to knock out Moreno in the final

round. I would have to go out stronger, tougher, meaner and rip his world to shreds. I would

need to leave him lying stunned in a pool of his own sweat and vomit on the canvas while I

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paraded round the ring with the fuck you raised arm of the victorious. I visualised it while I

fought him back. I played that tape of me winning in my mind for the rest of the second

round, hitting him harder and getting back my power. Each time, turning the pain around

and sending it right back to him with bells on. At last the bell rang and I was able to retreat to

my corner to ready myself mentally for the punch that was going to spell the end of Shane

Moreno’s fucking career.

I spat my mouthguard out before I recognised the hand, but as it closed round the spit

soaked resin I realised it wasn’t Meissen’s. It belonged to the coach. I twisted round on my

stool and he leaned in close to me as he sponged the blood from my face and used an eye-

iron to stem the flow.

“You want my cock in your mouth again, soldier, or anywhere else for that matter, you

got to knock your boy out.”

“Yes, sir!”

The coach was in my corner and the thrill that had surged through me when he’d

whispered the word ‘cock’ in my ear was enough to re-energize me. Adrenaline flooded my

veins and my legs started twitching for action long before the bell.

But at last it rang.

“Round three!” yelled the ref.

Moreno and I charged like crazed bulls into the centre of the ring. I didn’t know if he’d

seen the coach in my corner but neither did I care. We came in close and danced round each

other. I kept a high defensive stance, but I watched closely, looking for a chink in the armour.

He came on strong with a couple of jabs, but I danced spun out of his way. His third one

glanced off my right ear as I flipped my head to one side, leaving him momentarily

vulnerable to attack.

I grabbed my chance. A right uppercut that pushed his chin out into the open, followed

by a left hook that had him staggering back against the ropes. I capitalised on my advantage

and brought in a succession of short straight-punches to his torso, never letting up, never

letting the fucker draw a proper breath. He lunged away from me to one side and I followed.

I was seeing red and I wouldn’t stop my attack until I had him down.

And with a good hard cross that connected with his eyebrow I did it. Moreno staggered

and sunk to the floor. The ref held me back with an outstretched arm and started the count.

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“One…”

I looked down. Moreno seemed to be unconscious.

“Two…”

I could see his chest heaving as he fought for breath.

“Three…”

His eyes opened momentarily, then closed again.

“Four…”

His leg moved and one of his hands tried to grip the canvas.

“Five…”

A groan.

“Six…”

The crowd was going mad, scenting a possible knock out.

“Seven…”

Moreno bent one knee up towards his body. He was going to try to get up.

“Eight…”

My heart wanted to rip its way out of my chest. I watched him floundering on the floor,

struggling for traction. Please, God, let him stay fucking down.

“Nine…”

Sweat dripped off me onto the canvas. The coach’s face was a blur at the edge of the

ring, shouting to Moreno to get up.

Moreno made a supreme effort, rose to one knee and crashed back down onto the ring

in a quivering heap.

“Ten…”

The volume in the arena doubled, tripled, went beyond anything I could imagine. The

ring was full of people. Meissen was beside me, holding up my wrist in victory. Scott was

bent down by Moreno, only to be shoved out of the way by an army medic. The ref consulted

with the ringside judges as the medics helped Moreno from the ring. A moment later the

referee grabbed my hand from Meissen and formally declared, “The new All Army

Welterweight Champion, winning the bout with a total knockout, from the Thirty-Second

Division out of Fort Sandbridge, Private Jiiiiiiiiiimmyyyy Jaaaaaaacksonnnnnn!”

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Chapter Five

Moreno was fine. He’d grown up as a tough street fighter and both he and the coach

assured me he’d seen far worse. The medics insisted on keeping him in MTF overnight to

watch him for concussion and I spent two hours in there after the fight having my fist X-

rayed. The coach flitted between me and Moreno, telling us what a pair of little girls we were

for winding up there and keeping him from going out celebrating with the rest of the squad.

I told him he should go if he wanted to, but I knew he didn’t want to and he knew that I

didn’t want him to. So he stayed, kicking his heels on the green plastic chairs in the facility

and outlining for me where I’d gone wrong at every stage of the fight.

“Yeah, but I fucking won, sir,” I said, trying not to grin.

“You got fucking lucky, son. That was a fucking lucky punch that didn’t go where you

were aiming it but just happened to land better. So, fuck, yes, you won. But in my book you

fucking didn’t deserve to.”

Whatever he said, it couldn’t dent my delight over the fact that I’d won the belt and that

the guy of my dreams was hanging out with me. Small glances told me what I wanted to

know—the coach wasn’t here out of duty to his team. The coach was here because he wanted

to be. He wanted what I wanted. I could almost smell it on him.

My X-ray results showed that my knuckle was badly bruised but not broken or even

cracked. Thank fucking Christ for that, because the coach had already made it quite clear that

if I had a broken knuckle there’d be no future for me in boxing.

“Now, you little cunt, let’s get you out of here,” he said when I’d finally been given the

all clear.

I followed him out to the parking lot and he got into the driver’s seat of his rental car. I

went round to the passenger side and got in.

“What now, sir?”

He turned to look at me, finally with the megawatt smile that he hadn’t allowed himself

earlier.

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“You fucking did it, kid,” he said. “And I have to be straight with you, I never thought

you’d do it a million years. You lost me a ton of money on the outcome of that fight, you little

shit.”

“Fuck you, sir,” I said. “I told you I’d do you proud.”

He started the engine and put the car into gear. We drove out of the camp gates and up

onto the freeway.

“Where’re we going, sir?”

“I think, Private, we’ve earned a bit of R&R.”

The motel we stopped at was far enough away from the camp that we wouldn’t risk

running into any army types and we were both out of uniform. I waited in the car while he

got us a room. Then I followed him up a flight of concrete steps to the second floor row of

rooms.

He went along the balcony landing and unlocked a door at the end of the row. He

turned to look at me as I walked towards him.

“You, Private Jimmy Jackson, have worn me down.” He pushed me into the room.

“You’ve put temptation in my way and flaunted yourself in a way I can’t resist.” He shoved

me up against the wall and placed a hand on my T-shirt, just over where my heart was

racing, thumping so hard against my ribs I thought it might break them. He nodded as he

watched his hand pulsing up and down on my chest. “I’m gonna take your sweet ass,

soldier.”

Then his lips were on mine and his tongue invaded my mouth. I surrendered myself to

the desire for this man that had been smouldering inside me for months. I put my arms

around his neck and I ran my fingers through his short hair, pressing his mouth against mine

as I explored him in return. He tasted of beer, sharp and fresh, and the warmth of his body

pressed against mine sent a wave of desire billowing up through me. ignited the fires at the

base of my groin.

I pushed my hips forward against him to make him feel the erection burgeoning in my

sweat pants and I slid my hands down his back and into the top of his trousers. He chewed

on my lower lip, tracing the line of a small cut, pushing against the swelling where one of

Moreno’s punches had hit home. I groaned at the sweet pain of his suction, grinding myself

harder against him.

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He broke away from me and put both hands up on my shoulders.

“Slow down, boy,” he said. His voice rasped. “We got all goddamn night and I want to

do right by you.”

He went into the main part of the room and dumped his car keys and wallet on the

table, kicking off his shoes as he did so. It was just a generic motel room, two queen-sized

beds with floral coverlets, a worn carpet on the floor, heavy brocade curtains pulled across

the window. I flung myself down on my back on one of the beds and enjoyed the view as the

coach pulled off his shirt and threw it over a chair. God, he still had the muscles of a

heavyweight fighter and all I could think about was biting his shoulder as he…

He disappeared into the bathroom at the far end of the room and I heard the roar of the

bath taps.

“Come on, you need to soak those bruises,” he said, leaning on the door jam.

This was a side to the coach I hadn’t ever seen before. He could do caring?

I went into the bathroom with him and allowed him to undress me. He pulled off my T-

shirt, then rolled my sweat pants and my shorts down my legs. I rested a hand on his

shoulder as he knelt down to help me step out of them and take off my socks. Standing up

again, he inspected the bruises on my torso, tracing their outlines with a finger, applying a

little pressure and laughing as I winced.

“You’re gonna be sore for at least week, Jackson,” he said.

He turned off the taps and I stepped into the warm, bubbly water and sat down. Christ,

it felt good on muscles that were already starting to seize up. The coach gently soaped my

back and I couldn’t remember anyone washing me like this for years. Only this time, it really

turned me on. My cock stood to attention, breaking through the surface of the water to bob

up against my stomach. Once he’d finished rinsing the soap off, Perry pushed me back until I

was resting against the end of the tub. I closed my eyes and it felt like I was back in a dream

as his hand went to my cock. I had to blink once or twice to make sure that I was actually

awake. But there he was, Coach Virgil Perry, kneeling by the side of my bathtub, soaping up

my cock and showing it some extra special care.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined doing this,” he said and I could detect

a crack in his voice.

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His hands slipped up and down my shaft, slick with soap, smooth and soothing as he

rinsed it away. My hips twitched and my cock bucked against his touch, and when he

tightened his grip I couldn’t help but let out a long, low moan. The moan turned sharper

when I felt his lips on the head of my cock and his tongue swirled around its swollen tip,

sending delicious ripples of sensation coursing through my warm, relaxed body. I quite

literally melted against his touch, buoyed by the hot water, floating in a sea of pleasure.

“So fucking good…” I murmured.

“It’s about to get even better.”

His hot breath fluttered against me as he spoke. Then his mouth sucked me in, farther

and deeper than before. My hips pushed up, out of the water, and I thrust against his face as

his mouth opened wider to accommodate me. With one hand supporting my waist, his other

hand found by balls and took a hold. I was at his mercy, under his control, and he was a man

who certainly knew what he was doing. As he worked my dick in and out of his mouth,

applied and released the pressure on my balls, I pumped under his hands, building

inexorably towards the climax I knew was coming.

He teased with his tongue and his teeth as he drew me out. He sucked cold air across

my shaft and pulled it back into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth. A fire started in my balls

and they became hard and tight in his hands. Water sluiced over the side of the tub. And the

coach, with his clever tongue and dexterous fingers, reeled me in, wound me up, then let me

plunge as the sensations overwhelmed me. I shot my load, hard and fast, into Perry’s mouth

and he lapped up every drop, pumping my cock with his hand to milk it out of me, drinking

it down with a sigh of satisfaction.

I slumped back in the bath, spent, limp, bruised, my cock pulsing as it slowly deflated

and slid down under the surface of the water. The coach wiped his mouth with the back of

his hand and smiled down at me.

“Okay, soldier?”

“More than okay, sir,” I gasped.

He grabbed a bath sheet from a shelf above the tub and unfurled it as I climbed out of

the water. He wrapped the towel around my shoulders and pulled it tight across my chest,

more or less pinning my arms to my sides. Then he swung me up into his arms and carried

me through to the bedroom as easily as if I’d been a featherweight.

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“Now, it’s my turn to explore that pretty little ass of yours,” he said, tumbling me out of

the towel and onto the bed.

My breath caught and my cock tingled. This is what I’d been wanting for so long. My

stomach flipped as I watched him shed his pants. He already had a hard-on and I was

mesmerised. That night in the parking lot I’d felt it with my hands and with my mouth. I

knew it was big. But seeing it, as it bobbed out in front of him. God, it was the cock of my

dreams, pale and veined, darkening to magenta at the head, coming towards me with only

one intent.

He knelt at the end of the bed and, as he spread my legs, I whimpered for him. I could

hardly breathe as I watched him roll a condom down his thick shaft, and a sharp jab of

longing high in my ass foreshadowed the pain that I knew was coming.

There was a tub of lube lying on the bed and he picked it up. The shock of the cold

made me yelp, but the touch of his fingers as he rubbed them up and down the crack of my

ass felt unbelievably good. I pulled up my knees to give him easy access and he let his slick

hands wander from my ass to my perineum and round to my cock and balls. My breath came

faster as his hands worked me over, caressing and massaging until my cock regained wood,

squeezing and teasing, pushing my thighs farther apart and pressing on the tender spot right

behind my balls.

I moaned and writhed under his touch. I wanted him to go on forever but at the same

time, I wanted to feel the stab of pain as his cock breeched my ass. A sob escaped my throat

and he sensed what I needed.

“All in good time, soldier,” he said, pinching the soft flesh of my inner thigh.

Then he flipped me over onto my front and began working with the lube good and

proper. Another flash of cold, more targeted this time, and fingers working their way into the

tight ring of muscle. Two fingers straight off, pushing hard into me, until I cried out with the

fierce pain that jabbed up inside me.

“That what you wanted?” he said.

“What I need,” I said through gritted teeth.

He grabbed one of the pillows and slid it under my raised hips. I had the good sense to

bite down hard on the other one because when he finished finger fucking me with vigour, I

felt the blunt end of his cock edging its way down my ass crack. It was big and I knew it was

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gonna hurt but I wanted it to hurt. There’s no sweeter pain than being fucked in the ass by a

guy who’s cock is bigger than your own.

I took deep breaths. I tried to relax for what was coming. I spread my legs wide and

pushed my ass up to meet him. One of his hands gripped my waist tight and he pushed his

way into me. A stab of pain and he pulled back, another thrust, making my muscles contract

when I wanted them soft and loose. His other hand spread my ass cheeks wider, using a

finger to stretch me again. Another push. Breath through the pain, soldier. With a final surge

forward, his cock was inside me. It stormed up my back passage. My muscles screamed as

they fought against it, but the coach was stronger. Fierce, fiery pain, then the pleasure kicked

in. My back arched against him and my hips swung up and down, while inside I was

clenching and relaxing. He let out a grunt of appreciation and we were away, him riding me

like the devil was chasing him. Me, grinding back into him, sucking him in, roaring as he

pulled free, only to plunge once again into my pliant flesh.

My cock pulsed and my balls ached, swinging heavily against the pillow underneath

me. I pushed up onto my knees so I could get a hand down to my cock, but the coach batted

it away and took over the job.

“That belongs to me, soldier,” he growled in my ear.

He fucked me harder still and worked my cock to the same rhythm, and despite the

fight and hours in the MTF and the BJ in the bath, I still had it in me to shoot another wad.

He orchestrated things so we came virtually together. He roared into his climax a moment

before I did, sending me tailing him into orbit. I felt his hot cum through the thin membrane

of the condom, jetting into me, burning hot ecstasy as every nerve cell in my body turned a

somersault. I slumped forward onto the cum-soaked pillow, fighting for breath, and the

coach stroked my back and whispered things in my ear that I’d never thought I’d hear him

say.

And after we slept, we did it some more. This time slowly, sitting facing each other, legs

splayed and tangled, with our cocks pressed tight together. The coach wanked us both off,

using two hands, our hot shafts stuck to one another with the other’s pre-cum, our lips

locked in a long, heady kiss.

At dawn, we drove back to the camp and after breakfast the squad set out home for

Sandbridge. With Moreno in the MTF, no one realised I hadn’t been in my room all night.

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They were none the wiser about our little fuck fest and all thought that the huge grin on my

face was a champion’s grin. And so it was, in a way.

That was a few years ago now, before I turned pro. But I still love fight nights when,

win or lose, Virgil takes care of my cuts and bruises and certain other parts of my anatomy.

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

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Letters to a War Zone

Lucy Felthouse

Excerpt

Chapter One

After clicking all the available links on the website to find out more about it, Bailey

decided to go ahead and sign up. He’d never know what it was really like unless he gave it a

go.

He’d read about the site in an article somewhere, about how it linked people with

serving soldiers, pilots, marines and sailors in order to write to them. It had been proven that

receiving mail—even from someone they didn’t know—improved military morale. It

sounded like a damn good use of time to Bailey, and it would be interesting, too.

He began typing his details into the online form. Of course, the chances were that he’d

be paired up with a man, given the ratio of males to females in the forces. It didn’t matter,

though. He could still exchange letters with a guy, become friends. It seemed like such an

old-school way to communicate with someone, given how technology had come on over the

years, but at least it was different. Perhaps it would give him something in his life to look

forward to, something other than getting up, showering, going to work, coming home,

eating, watching television and going to bed. The watching television—and even the

eating—were occasionally replaced by nights out with friends or seeing family. Weekends

were spent cleaning, washing clothes, gardening and odd jobs. Dull stuff, in other words.

He had an utterly mundane life, and Bailey knew it. It wasn’t even as if his job was

exciting. Insurance broking was hardly thrilling, game-changing, or going to save the world.

He didn’t expect having a pen pal to change his entire life, but it would certainly break the

monotony. Hopefully.

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He went through the various steps to fill in his details and create a profile, then

continued right through to the information on actually writing and sending the letters. It

looked straightforward enough.

His mind made up, Bailey immediately went in search of a pen, some nice paper and an

envelope. Armed with a print out of exactly what to do when the letter was finished, he

settled down at the kitchen table. Instantly, his mind went blank. What the fuck was he

meant to say? He didn’t know any soldiers or other military personnel, didn’t know anything

about their lives, other than there was a great deal more to it than shooting people and being

shot at. His own existence was so fucking boring that he didn’t want to write about it. Unless

there were any insomniacs in Afghanistan—telling them about his day would solve that

particular condition right away.

After chewing on his biro until it broke, covering his lips and chin with ink, Bailey

replaced it, resolving to try harder. He’d tell his pen pal the bare essentials about himself,

then ask lots of questions about them and their work. That was bound to rustle up some

conversation.

That decided, he began to write absentmindedly swiping at his inky skin with a tissue.

He’d have to scrub it off when he was done with the note. His wrist and hand had begun to

ache before he was halfway down the page. He rolled his eyes. He sat on his arse at a desk all

day, using a computer. As a result, even writing something short by hand was hard work!

There was no way he was going to divulge that particular piece of information to someone

that was willing to lay down their life to protect their country.

He just about managed to fill a single side of the A5-sized paper. And that was only

because he’d formed large letters and spaced his words and lines out plenty. But he tried not

to worry—at least he’d finished it, his first letter to a war zone.

He read through it carefully, relieved to find no mistakes. He’d forgotten how much

more difficult—and messy—errors were on the written page. Computers let you edit and

rewrite to your heart’s content. No correction fluid or crossings-out necessary.

Finally, he addressed the envelope. It felt like the longest address ever. The area and

country was bad enough, even without including the soldier’s name and BFPO address. But

it was done—Bailey Hodgkiss had penned a missive to Corporal Nick Rock, currently

stationed at Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

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Now he’d just have to post it and wait for a reply. The website had said his missive

would take between one and three weeks to reach Corporal Rock. Then he had to allow for

time for him to read it and send a reply. It could be around six weeks before he heard

anything. If he heard anything at all.

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About the Author

Tamsin Flowers loves to write light-hearted erotica, often with a twist in the tale and a
sense of fun. Her stories have appeared in a wide variety of anthologies and she is
now graduating to novellas with the intention to pen her magnum opus in the very
near future. In the meantime, like most erotica writers, she finds herself working on at
least ten stories at once.

Email:

tamsin.flowers@gmail.com

Tamsin loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and
author biography at

http://www.totallybound.com

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