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Famous Basketball Coach’s Experiment

As I’m sure you know, basketball is a demanding sport. By the end of a game, if you’ve played properly, your energy is entirely spent. When I was 12, I was a bit taller than other kids my age, and people kept suggesting basketball. I was totally uninterested. I can’t explain why, but over the course of a year or so, I became enamored of the sport. By the time I was 14, I was 6’2″ and as it turns out, sort of a local star among kids my age. Having watched Harlem Globetrotters endlessly on YouTube, I had mastered a number of their tricks, and invented some of my own, which only made people think I was even better at this sport than I am. Of course I got into college on a basketball scholarship. I know it’s crazy, but I’m studying all the time. Oh, basketball is tons of fun, but what I really want to do is become a surgeon, maybe working for a while as a volunteer physician in a third-world country. The scholarship and perhaps a few years of pro play will make that possible.

So, the first few weeks of school were just great, although I was a bit disappointed that all my classes weren’t medically oriented. One has to complete the junior education first – biology, Latin, Chemistry, things of that sort. It’s actually kind of fun anyway. But the most fun was the basketball practice. Most of the guys on the team are as tall as me, some taller. That’s a refreshing challenge. I’m not the best player any more!

Along about the third week, after a couple of local meets, the coach said that we were dragging like a bunch of old ladies. He then announced it was due to nutrition, and he put us on a strict diet: No sugar, few carbs. I didn’t much care for it, but knowing what I do already, he’s right.

Then he said something else that I found rather too straight-forward, or what you might call personal: He said that our sex or masturbatory habits were probably all wrong. He announced that if we could control the timing, we’d be a more successful team. OK, that was alright.

Then he went on to say that to that end, he had set up an experiment. This would be the first year his team would try it. He made arrangements with a masseur and a masseuse to administer handjobs on the day before games. He actually used the word ‘handjobs.’ We were not to ejaculate between the time of these massages and a game. I was floored, as were everyone on the team. I saw several faces turn bright red with embarrassment. I didn’t know the coach that well yet. surely he was joking. He concluded by telling us that this was a real treat. We were to cherish these handjobs, and take them as our reward for complying with his plan. I’m sure my face was as red as the others.

For the next couple of days, nothing more was said other than a lot of speculation among the team as to whether this would really happen, or whether the coach was touched in the head (he’s a famous coach who’s been guiding winning teams for many years).

Then I received an email from the athletic department. My first massage was scheduled for 6:20pm the next day. Whattt? I was flummoxed. Dumbfounded. I was also thinking perhaps the coach was just making up the handjob part. Or maybe that part was optional. Top athletes do get massages all the time, after all. His email was in HTML and had a little reply box with two radio buttons. Did I want a male or female practitioner? Really! Well, you can bet I choose female. I didn’t want some random guy touching my junk. Come to think of it, I really didn’t want some woman doing that either. Bad enough when you get your balls checked in a physical.

I checked with some of my teammates, and they got the same email, but scheduled at different times. We were all quite confused. This couldn’t be real. To be fair, the emails never said anything about ‘handjob.’ Maybe they were just regular massages.

I can’t tell you how many flip-flops my heart and stomach did as 6:20 rolled around. I mean, as a solid athlete and student, I hadn’t even had sex with any girls yet. I was happy to wait. Oh, yes, I’d get crazy and jerk off every now and then. OK, like once or twice a day. But never, ever, by someone else.

I walked over to the little room off the locker room, and knocked on the door. I had no idea what kind of woman to expect. I half-wanted it to be an old, heavyset lady, so I wouldn’t get all crazy. The other half of my mind imagined a super-sexy young chick. Maybe like this one player on the women’s team I had been meaning to at least say ‘hi’ to.

A guy answered the knock, opened the door and let me in. He immediately introduced himself as Jackson, my massage practitioner.

“What… what?” I started to stammer.

He cut me off, “Almost all the guys want a woman practitioner. There’s only two of us, Shelly and me, and I’m afraid you’re stuck with me…

I was quickly working my way up to a very angry state. This balding 40-something-year-old, heavyset white guy was going to give me a massage? A handjob even? No fucking way. I turned to leave, but I didn’t. To this day, I don’t understand that. For a week afterward, I kept telling myself the reason I stayed was to appease the coach. You don’t piss off the coach if you want to stay on the team. Especially if your scholarship depends on it, and you’re not nearly the best player.

I was figuring, how bad could it be? I mean, even if this old fart gave me a real handjob, I’d live through it, right? Like getting my balls checked by the doctor. No big deal. So why was my heart beating so fast?

The old flubbery fellow started talking, kind of digressing into a story about athletes who have been on the team before me. These are names I’ve heard before. Some became quite famous. For some reason, I told him I didn’t care about fame. Oh, the fortune would be good, so I could take care of people in Africa, maybe Cameroon. Pretty soon, I was talking more than the massage guy. He had worked some sort of magic on me. I started to like old Jackson, and was enjoying the conversation.

We must have gone on a good ten minutes, when he suddenly announced, “We only have forty minutes. Take off your kit.”

I guessed he meant my clothing. What could I do? I kept reminding myself it would just be like a physical exam. Just a professional sort of thing, right?

I took off my T-shirt. I pulled off my shoes and socks. Then my pants, but I stalled out when it came to my underwear.

“Time’s a wastin’,” he prompted.

Still, I stalled. I was thinking about the door again. I was starting to get angry again. My mind went to ‘anger management.’ I’ve had a bit of trouble with my temper, but I’ve been pretty good about managing it these days.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen a million guys’ junk,” Jackson added.

Have you ever felt like you’re in a situation where whatever you do is going to be wrong?

Well, that was me, right then. So, under the circumstances, pulling off my briefs wouldn’t be any worse than anything else.

Off they came. Silently, the massage practitioner pointed to a sheet-covered massage table. I climbed on, face down. He put a tiny towel on my butt, and then went to work.

He massaged my shoulders, my neck, my arms, my legs, even my hands, before working on my back. I have to say, his hands were warm. And the guy was surprisingly strong. More than that. His hands really felt quite nice. He removed the little towel, and was working his way lower and lower down my back, starting ever lower, with strokes up toward my shoulders. He was really leaning into it. It almost hurt, but felt great. Somewhere along about here, all my anger, embarrassment, whatever it was I was feeling disappeared. I was becoming blissed out.

The strokes started lower, until they were at the base of my butt, and working up. As he kept returning to my lower butt, he was sort of spreading my ass cheeks apart. I felt a bit of coolness on my anus, as it was exposed to the air each time. Dude, I have to tell you, it felt nice. OK, I’ll admit it, it actually felt sexual.

I didn’t notice that I had developed an erection until Jackson asked me to roll over. Suddenly, I realized the situation, and so of course I refused. He laughed, and told me in a more commanding tone to roll over. I’ve been taught to respect and obey my elders, so I did what he asked. I was already figuring that he must have seen erect penises before.

He resumed massaging me – my arms again, my feet, my legs, my upper legs. His strokes went up near my groin as my penis, erect, laid against my stomach. Dude, I was having a good time! This was feeling very sexual, and with a funky old goof. How weird was that?

It came to my attention that his fingertips had brushed against my scrotum a couple of times. In any other universe, I would have balked. I would have been embarrassed. I’d get mad, and maybe even clobber the guy. Before I completed that thought train, he had stopped the long strokes up my thighs, and had turned his whole attention to my scrotum. I scrunched up on the table for a second to see what he was doing. He was using the first two fingers and thumb of each hand to gently massage my balls within my sack. I didn’t stop him. I wouldn’t have stopped him if my life depended on it.

He started pressing harder, and my balls were sort of slipping back and forth under his grasp like wet bars of soap.

Jackson quietly informed me that I should let him know when it becomes too intense. It was starting to hurt just a bit, but I was afraid if I said anything, the treatment would end. So, I probably endured a bit more pain than I should have, but it wasn’t really hurting. Hell, it wasn’t hurting at all. This was becoming the time of my life. But then, after a minute, it was hurting, so I asked him to stop.

He stopped. I was immediately disappointed. I could have taken more. It hadn’t really hurt all that much. Damn!

Then, with one fingertip, he just brushed against the underside of my dick. He touched what I later learned is called the ‘frenulum.’ My dick jumped an inch in the air. It felt weird, like an electric shock of some sort, but good. He did it several more times, each time separated by a few seconds.

The next thing I know, a huge orgasmic feeling built up quickly, and I was shooting cum on my stomach.

“Nice,” Jackson said. Then he went on to say, “Most guys need at least a little stroking to ejaculate.”

He told me I had several minutes to compose myself, then I should get dressed and leave. He thanked me. I mean, I should have thanked him. Actually, I did, but he left me feeling very good about our session, like as if I had done him a favor.

A few days later after practice, the coach pulled me into his office and said, “The massage practitioner says you need some special treatments for a slight premature ejaculation problem.” He said it with a straight face, not at all embarrassed to say that. I, on the other hand, wanted to sink through the floor. But, he handed me a two-day-a-week massage schedule, and told me attendance was required.

At the first appointment, in which which I was actually looking forward to seeing Jackson again, I was shocked when I entered the little room, and was greeted not by Jackson, but an early-thirties, thin, tall, big-breasted, totally hot, blond chick who introduced herself as Shelly, the other massage practitioner.

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