Playbook is a a collection of ty dehner's short stories involving sports gear, bondage, and kink! These exciting stories once appeared in the online ezine Ropedweb.com and have never been presented together in print. Now it’s time to gear up in your football, boxing, baseball, or MX gear and start reading these original and thrilling man to man adventures!

 

Playbook

 

I could feel his dick getting harder as it was stretching my throat. This was the point of no return when I got the guy under my control. Sure, he is the one with his pecker deep in my hole, but I’m the one who will decide when he will finally explode in his ecstasy.

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He had slowed his pistoning as he was totally into the warmth of my gullet enveloping his manhood. His gasping was slowing as I was finding it harder to breathe, but I was still able to take in the heavenly scent of his well-worn, sweaty jockstrap. My head was being held tightly by his hands, covered in heavily padded lineman gloves. This blond-haired plug of a man was keeping me held down on his bed by his weight, my hands having been bound in athletic tape to the headboard.

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Struggling to maintain my breathing as this guy’s long pecker had found its home deep down my throat, he was moaning louder and louder as he was about to shoot his seed, coating my insides with his taste for my drive home.

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We were at the goal line, and then he made the rush, broke through the defense and scored a touchdown, the celebration of his success choking me as he growled with the ultimate pleasure for a man. He achieved his goal, scored and now was resting upon his success.

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As his dick spasmed the last time, he slowly lifted his body, and once again I could see into his eyes as he was wearing his football helmet from the team I just signed on to. His blue eyes sparkled with life returning to his body after such an intimate moment between us. I had no idea who he was when I met him in the bar a few hours ago. But now, we had just bonded as teammates. His hands started to stroke my head lightly as I could sniff the leather of the well-worn gloves. Never releasing my gaze, he lifted his helmet, lowered himself so that I could taste his lips against mine.

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Closing my eyes, my hard cock was reaching its own goal line. As this guy’s tongue invaded my lips, this gridiron guy reached down and started to stroke my cock, using all that fucking precum leaking from my cock for lube. My hips would rise and fall slightly as my body tensed. The taste of his lips, the feeling of his tongue exploring between my lips, the same lips that had just brought him to his touchdown. My senses were on overload. I felt the boiling in my balls as he squeezed my prick, providing a few more jerks. I reach my endzone, shooting a geyser that probably left a mark on his ceiling. Moaning into his lips, I was breathing so heavily, his naked chest pressing against mine, our sweat mixing.

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Eventually, he released me from the simple bondage, and we lay in bed for a while longer, lazy, and just touching each other. We commented that it was fate that we met at the bar and were on the same football team. He told me he was looking forward to seeing me on the field.

As I was getting ready to catch the Uber back to my car, he kissed me and told me to play it safe and remember to always respect the number one rule of football. I looked at him with a questioning look.

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“The team begins with you,” he stated firmly, not breaking his stare into my green eyes.

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I had never heard that, but I took it to heart, as it seemed very important to him.

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When I signed on to play semi-pro ball for the Oklahoma Gophers, it was a big surprise.  While I was a guy in his thirties, I was still in good condition. I never gave up on my workouts and always had the desire to play. It had been two years since I was cut from the Atlanta Hawks' practice squad. While I never made it up to the show, I was content with playing for an NFL team.

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Getting to know the guys on the main squad was always a pleasure, but there was always a change. If anyone knows professional ball, a career can start and end in one play on the field. I saw so much joy and even more tears as lifelong dreams would come crashing down because of one little mistake on the gridiron.

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So, when the opportunity came along to make it on this minor league team, I didn’t hesitate. It was something I had to do. My second career in real estate was doing well after two years, but I chucked it all, putting that career on hold to find a little shit apartment in Oklahoma City and become part of the starting lineup for the Gophers.

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They had hired a new coach after the last one retired after ten winning seasons. This new guy, Kevin Watts, had the weight of the entire community on his shoulders. He contacted me, out of the blue, over the phone, and we talked for three days before he offered me the opportunity to join the team as a linebacker.

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I arrived at the small training facility at the local community college. There isn’t much money in minor league football, and this stadium certainly showed that. It was probably built in the sixties with a few updates here and there. I parked my Prius, grabbed my bag, and headed towards the locker room, following the weather-worn signs that pointed the way.

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Pulling on the heavy wood door, the unmistakable scent of a male-dominated locker room rushed past me, filling my nose with the masculine aroma. At my first glance saw a couple of guys, all of them certainly younger than I. Here I was, a thirty-five-year-old white dude about to start playing football again for a team composed of dudes who just finished their college careers. But that coach must have seen something in me to want me to be here.

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The guys in the lockers were in their street threads, as there wouldn’t be much on-field action today. I could tell I was from a different era, as these guys all dressed differently than I did. They were in their skinny jeans, white Adidas, chains around their neck, a couple listening to their tunes with their Beats headphones, their heads bopping to the beat.

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I found my marked space and admired my new jersey with my name on the back. The team colors were maroon and gold, so the jersey was maroon with my name in gold letters. My number was 64. Putting my bag into my assigned space, I sat on the hardwood bench, pulled out my phone and texted a friend I had left behind.

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While I was waiting, I watched a few of the other guys enter. Some seemed experienced with the club, going straight to their assigned lockers, while others looked around for their new homes. Then the coaching staff entered, and the assistant coach introduced Coach Watts.

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I looked up and was shocked to see that the new coach was the guy that seeded my throat the night before! Damn, I was embarrassed and flattered at the same time. He was wearing slim-cut khakis that fit him well, with black Under Armor cleats. His maroon polo shirt featured our team mascot, Gus the Gopher. He held an iPad as he scanned his team. As our eyes locked, he nodded slightly, his eyes reflecting that he knew who I was. I thought then and there that I would have a good time on this team; after all, I had gotten it on with the coach.

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We went right into our training camps, with the new season starting in a few weeks. Practices were daily with a three-hour break between. Some of the guys had jobs that they had to connect with. I had kept my real estate license, so I was going to start selling in the area. 

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After two weeks, I was feeling good about my performance at the camp. But I got a call Sunday night that bothered me.  Coach told me he is worried I won’t make the team unless he helps me with the playbook.  I thought I was doing well with it, but I wasn't. 

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The Coach said, “I need a big guy like you on my team, but I’m not putting up with any piece of shit either.”

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I was surprised he was referring to me.  He told me to be at his house after the afternoon camp session at five on the dot, sounding more like an order.  As I hung up, I had this strange feeling in me.  I knew I’d show up; I wanted to make the team.  But why did he want me at his house? 

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I showed up at his house about ten minutes late; traffic was a mess.  When I got to his front door, there was an envelope taped to it.  On the outside of the envelope, it read: Read completely after entering the house.  I opened the door and went in.  After closing the door, I took out the instructions. 

 

Rookie-

Your training starts now.  Follow every order written, or you will be punished.  Go downstairs and put on the complete uniform I have provided you. Get ready as if it were game day!  If you want to make the team, you must follow orders completely!  Once in uniform, begin stretching.  I will oversee other exercises.  Move out, rookie!

 

Shit, what is this crap?  Who does this guy think he is?  But I could feel my cock growing in my jeans.  I decided to go down and see where this would lead.

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In the basement was a very roomy workout room.  On the bench was a complete football uniform in the team colors, pads, and all.  I stripped off my jeans, boots, and shirt.  Putting on the provided cup, I slid into the pants and laced them up.  Next came the socks and cleats, followed by a UA lightweight shirt. I slid the Mister D pads over my head and settled them on my shoulders, strapping them up. Thankfully, the jersey was already placed on the pads, so I pulled it down and tucked it into my tight-fitting football pants. There was still some gear to go, including arm pads and heavy, padded black leather lineman gloves. Finally, I put on the Revolution helmet, and I was ready for the game.  Or whatever game I was going to be experiencing here in Coach’s basement.

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I started my stretching.  Normally, this wasn’t done in full pads, so it was an interesting experience. As I was moving about, feeling the weight of the pads and snug uniform on me, I could feel my cock straining against the jock cup. Yeah, a long time ago, I got horny putting on football gear. Not sure when I finally realized that I was a fucking kinkster for this gear, but by college, I was saving my used gear and stealing other guys' gear to jack off with in the darkness of my dorm room. Now that I was instructed to put this gear on, it only turned me on even more!

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But I remained focus on my stretching as I wouldn’t be doing much with my cock while it was buried inside the cup behind the nylon spandex football pants.

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As I was finishing my first stretching, I raised my head to find Coach standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing Under Armor shorts tight around his huge thighs, high-top bright orange UA cleats, and a white t-shirt with bold black letters reading COACH across the chest.

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He came to me, ordering me to turn around.  Quickly, he grabbed one of my hands, then the other, and then I heard it, the click of handcuffs.  What the hell!  What was this guy’s game?  He quickly turned me around and pushed me to one knee. 

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“Rookie, you are the worst fucking playing on our team!” He grabbed my face cage, continuing his rant, “I am here to tell you that unless you follow my guidance, you will not make the team.  Do you understand?”

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As his eyes stared deep into me, there was this urge to respond to him, but not with a yes, but with higher respect with ‘Yes, Sir.’ But, like hell am I going to say this shit to this stranger. While I was calm with a little bit of kink last night, right now, this guy was going too far.  Then he slammed his hand against my helmet.  “I didn’t hear you, rookie!” 

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“YES, SIR” was all I heard. I was fucking amazed that I spouted such words to this man, my eyes gazed at him, and he knew that he had taken control of me.

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Believing that if I responded with respect, he would take it easy on me, I let my guard down. But that only served as an opportunity for him to slap my helmet again as he released his hold on my face cage.

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As I remained in the football kneel before my Coach, he started listing all my faults, which were all bullshit. But here I was, this new rookie, kneeling before this guy, and I felt so low, so submissive. And that is when I felt my cock growing in the hard plastic of my cup. That cup was getting warmer, as my manhood was enjoying the feeling, but it was so fucking hard.

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Coach crossed his arms, standing over me as my crotch was getting warmer and warmer. That warmth was now turning into a burn.  Fuck, he had put muscle balm in the cup.  I started to squirm, which he noticed, bringing an evil grin to his face.  “No one said this training was easy, rookie.  You’re going to sweat and hurt as you’ve never hurt!”

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He grabbed my helmet as I started to say something.  He unsnapped it, taking it off.  Grabbing me by my neck, he dragged me to the bathroom.  He lifted the toilet seat and grabbed a dirty jock that sat on the counter.  He proceeded to piss on the jock, soaking it.  I watched, realizing where that piss jock was about to be placed, as my crotch was burning.  I struggled in the cuffs, but it was no good. 

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He finished pissing, flushing.  Then I watched that dirty, pissy jock make its way straight for my mouth; I closed my lips tight.  But his kick to my stomach opened my mouth, and then he inserted the piss-soaked jock.  Before I could get it out, he had wrapped athletic tape around my head to hold it in. 

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He dragged me back to the room as I could feel the piss dripping down my throat.  My crotch was hotter than hell, but I was hard as a rock!  He slammed the helmet back on my head, snapping it up.  He released the cuffs, then stood in front of me, his eyes meeting mine.

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“Workout time, Rookie.  And you’re going to hate it cause you didn’t arrive on time.  On the floor, now!”

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I fall to the floor on my back.  “Give me 100 crunches, plus 10 for every minute you were late, which was 10 minutes.”  Before I start, he tapes my feet and legs together and my hands to my helmet.  “Go!”

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I get the first 100 easy, but the next 100 get really tough.  Coach beats me with his hands or kicks me slightly with his cleats while berating me verbally as I struggle to meet the 200.  As I get the 200th crunch done, I collapse on the floor.  My muscles are killing me, but I’ve totally forgotten about my burning balls, as the piss dripping down my throat keeps my thirst at bay. 

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As Coach cuts the tape, he orders me to stand and hands me a jump rope.  As I take hold of the rope, Coach reminds me that his written orders are for me to be in full game-day-style uniform.  Looking me down, he quickly informs me that I didn’t tape my wrists or ankles. I am surprised that he wanted that much detail for a workout session, but he was correct.

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“Your lack of focus requires more punishment, rookie!” the Coach barks, with a sound of some pleasure in his voice, and I realize his sadistic nature.  

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Before I started my jump rope session, the Coach taped the handles to my gloved hands; there is no way they will be removed without scissors. He nods, letting me know I can start my next exercise.

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As I start jumping, he informs me that I must go for 20 minutes.  As I jump, he explains that the weights are next, and it will be rough, and I will scream in pain. He seems to emphasize his desire for me to suffer and be in pain. I realize that he has put me in some bondage for each exercise. Being that I am jumping up and down at a good pace, I am getting winded. The weight of the shoulder pads and helmet is felt each time I touch down on my cleats. But I check out the bulge in Coach’s shorts. I know he is a kinky fucker based on our sexual session the other night, but I truly didn’t know he was this deep into controlling a man. 

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As he walks around me, my breathing labored through the face bars on the football helmet, bouncing up and down, Coach tells me that we will be headed to his backyard later this evening. There, I will have my face planted in the turf many times as we get into some rough tackle football. I’m going to learn how to take a hit. And when Coach is done with that, he might wrap me up and use me as a tackling dummy. 

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My jumping comes to an end, and I stand, catching my breath as Coach stands directly in front of me. Staring me down, his face against the helmet bars, he proclaims, “When I am done with you, rookie, you are going to be sore, tired and probably thinking of quitting our team.”

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Coach grabs my helmet face in his gloved hands, “If you end up quitting, then I will hunt you down and drag your ass back here! You will be forced to work out and brainwashed so that you can only sleep, eat and live football. I will fucking destroy you to the point that you can only function on the field! You got that, fucker?” Coach releases my helmet, pushing me back.

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I catch my balance, fearful of how much control this guy wants over me.

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“Another thirty minutes, rookie!” Coach commands as he heads to the stairs.

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I can’t believe he wants me to do another half hour! I look at him, as he can hear that I haven’t started. So he pauses, turns to me. “That isn’t a fucking request; get it done, shithead!”

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Staring me down, I can tell that he will not let me out of this jump rope session, so I start spinning the rope and hopping. There is an evil grin as he knows he is in charge, as he turns, making his way up the stairs.

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The pads on my shoulders grow heavier and heavier as I jump.  This guy is insane, and I know I need to get out of here.  But I am turned on by him controlling me.  Deep inside, I have always been turned on by guys who are cocky and know they can control a guy like me. But I never realized that I projected it so much that a guy like the Coach is using it to not only control me sexually but also use it in building my career in football. I’m a total slut, as when he was pissing, how I wanted to take his cock in my mouth and show him how I am not a rookie. When he was done pissing, I would’ve sucked him off. He knows I won’t give up; I’m committed, and that is why he can make me do what he wants.

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As my jumping session nears the thirty-minute mark, I am breathing heavily through my nose. That piss-soaked jock is drying out with the hour of heavy cardio training. As I finish my jump rope, I barely get my feet off the ground as I jump over and over. 

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Finally, Coach returns, yelling for me to stop.  He removes the tape from my hands and the jump rope.  But before I can rest, Coach hands me a pair of 20-pound hand weights.  He proceeds to tape them into my hands with duct tape.  There is no way for me to release them.  He demonstrates the various routines he wants me to work out, stressing my muscles in places I never knew. 

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After the third routine, Coach reaches under my jersey and pads and puts a pair of tight tit clamps on my tits.  He explains that working through pain increases my training capacity, making me work harder and faster to complete my workouts. 

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He is right, but I also work harder to improve for the coach. My mind is getting into the mode of wanting to please this man. I find that as I get tired, I actually become more committed to working harder. As I work harder, I notice that he provides a bit of affection, with light touches of his hands against my ass or my helmet.

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Through the weight training, I work up a sweat.  When I move, the tit clamps remind me of how much this guy controls me.  After many repetitions of standing exercises, I am lying on a workout bench to start new routines. 

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