Towel Boy
Denny staggered forward a few steps before regaining his equilibrium. He wanted to reach back and rub the sting off his rear, but that would only encourage the behemoth. And others like him.
Still, as runty and ineffectual as kickers were, they were stronger than Denny, and this one grabbed him as he tried to walk past to give the player with the grumbling stomach a power bar and held him there to dispense several swats to his ass.
“Stop touching me,” Denny ordered once he’d gotten himself free.
“I don’t like it,” Denny contradicted, but at his first opportunity, he shoved a hand down his own pants to corral his dick into a position where its swelling would be less obvious.
Too many big, handsome guys touching him—that was the problem.
And what was up with them spanking him? Every player he went by seemed to land a swat or two. The game couldn’t start soon enough.
Finally Coach Abrams blew his whistle, and the team collected their helmets and formed a line to head onto the field.
“Gotta get our good luck taps in,” the starting tight end—he really did have a tight end too—said from his place near the front of the line.
“That’s a hockey thing,” the quarterback retorted. Their QB was as full as himself as a star player could be—which was pretty fucking full of himself—and considered any sport that wasn’t football to be of a lower caliber.
“Good luck is good luck,” an offensive tackle countered. “What should we tap?”
“I know what the towel boy wishes we would tap,” the hotshot receiver said. “His ass.”
Everyone laughed. Denny glowered. Yes, he did fantasize about some of these guys fucking him, but not that particular guy. Except sometimes. The hotshot wide receiver might be an asshole, but he was also a really talented wide receiver and too good-looking for anyone’s good.
“I’ll tap it,” the OT said.
Denny raised his eyebrows, along with half the team.
But then the OT grabbed him, flipped him over his arm as if he weighed no more than the towels they imagined him in charge of, and slapped his ass.
So apparently the OT had interpreted tapping the way the tight end had originally meant it, not how the wide receiver had meant it.
“Yeah, all right.” The tight end circled back to where the OT had Denny draped over his arm and smacked him good and hard.
And once those two had slapped Denny’s ass, whether for luck or just because they were a bunch of bullying baby-men, everyone had to do it.
As the team filed onto the field, each player added another lick of heat to the fire that glowed increasingly red on Denny’s backside.
“Make him sing,” the OT prompted, visibly relishing it when someone delivered a particularly harsh blow.
“One per customer,” he admonished when the backup kicker tried to add a second slap.
But then he laughed and said, “Whatever, dude. Go for it. You need all the luck you can get.” Their kicking game had not been good thus far this season.
When the locker room was empty, the OT put Denny down on his feet, rubbed his head, and said, “There you go, towel boy,” as if Denny had asked to have this done to him.
Denny was fuming. And sore. And turned on.
He wanted to march straight into Coach Abrams’s office and complain about the way the team had treated him, but just then Coach Abrams came out with his clipboard in hand and his game face on and Denny figured Coach wouldn’t even hear him if he tried to talk to him now, so he resolved to deal with it after the game.
He had duties to attend to—water bottles to dole out and, yes, towels.
But after the game, definitely.
After the game, everyone was in high spirits because they’d not just won but won resoundingly, which the tight end insisted was because they’d tapped Denny’s ass for luck.
Denny had wound down a little since then, the game being pretty absorbing for everyone, and was prepared to let what had happened earlier go, but he could tell from the way the tight end was talking that slapping his ass was about to become a regular pre-game ritual.
Once a team settled on a superstition, they never let it go, at least not while the team kept winning.
So he would have to suck it up and go to Coach Abrams and insist.
His resolve was strengthened every time someone snapped a towel at him.
He hadn’t showered himself, so his ass wasn’t bare, and he didn’t have a towel of his own to snap, but that didn’t stop the guys from including him in their shenanigans.
And even through his khakis, the towels hurt.
His ass was already sore enough. It didn’t need the snap, snap, snap of terrycloth constantly thwapping against it.
His ego was sore too. If one more person called him towel boy, he was going to snap back.
So when the team had finally packed up and cleared out, he stood outside Coach Abrams’s office twisting his hands in front of him, working up the resolve to go in there and make a complaint.
He was an equipment manager, a respected professional.
Not a towel boy and not a whipping boy either. The team had left him no choice.
Nevertheless, his heart was in his throat as he knocked on Coach Abrams’s door. He’d never bothered Coach before, and he wasn’t entirely sure he should be doing it now.
“Come in,” Coach yelled, his voice deep and rough, his tone no-nonsense.
Denny reminded himself that he had a serious complaint, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
“Um, sir?”
“What is it, um…”
“Denny, sir.”
“Right, Denny.” Coach didn’t say anything else, just sat there in his large leather seat behind his large wood desk with a pencil clutched in one large, callused hand.
Denny opened his mouth, but no words came out. Coach raised his eyebrows. He dropped the pencil and leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn’t look more unwelcoming if he were trying, and he might be trying.
Denny should leave. Was it that big a deal if the team gave him good luck taps before a game? Truthfully, he’d sort of enjoyed it. Maybe this was something he should work out on his own. With some lube.
“Um.” He was about to say never mind, back away and close the door, but just then Coach barked out “what?!” and the sound was so loud and abrupt it startled Denny right into speaking.
“The team hit me.”
“The team,” Coach said flatly. “All of them. The team, as a collective, hit you.”
Denny nodded.
Coach sighed like Denny was the absolute last thing he needed today. And this was him after a victory. Imagine if they’d lost.
“Before the game,” Denny explained. “As a good luck thing. Everyone hit me. Here.” He turned to present his backside and pointed at it.
“They gave you a spanking?”
“A good luck spanking.”
“Okay, well, it seems to have worked.” Coach picked up his pencil and bent his head toward the papers covering his desk.
“But I don’t want to be spanked,” Denny blurted out, annoyed at having been dismissed so casually.
“We won, didn’t we?”
“Yes, but.” Denny didn’t see how whether or not they won could be the deciding factor in whether or not it was right for the team to hit him. “But I don’t want them to spank me.”
Coach dropped his pencil. “Let me get this straight. The guys gave you a tap on the ass, a thing they do to each other all the time, a thing I do to them, normal team camaraderie shit, because they thought it would increase the chances of the team winning, and then the team did win, and now you’re in here bitching to me about not wanting it to happen again? Is that what’s going on here?”
Denny was confused. Why did it sound like Coach was mad at him?
“Are you a part of this team or not?”
“I’m the equipment manager,” Denny said hesitantly, unsure if that made him part of the team.
“Then as part of this team”—okay, so apparently it did—“I expect you, like all the members of this team, to give a hundred percent. If something is going to help the team win, then you do it.”
“But they hit me. On the butt.”
“I’m going to hit you on the butt,” Coach threatened and before Denny could say that he didn’t think that would be appropriate, Coach grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him over his lap.
Denny yelped. This was just as awkward as being over the OT’s arm and a lot more intimate.
Plus, Coach didn’t just give him one swat and let him go. Coach started railing on him.
Denny thrashed, but Coach had him securely around the waist, and the more Denny thrashed, the more his dick, which had perked up the moment Coach started whaling on him, rubbed against Coach’s thigh, which had the effect of making him even harder.
He started grinding. He couldn’t help it.
Over the OT’s arm, there hadn’t been anything he could do except thrust wildly into the nothingness of air, but having a warm, hard body beneath him was irresistible.
Coach stopped slapping his meaty hand down on Denny’s sore ass, but it took a moment for Denny’s brain to catch up and he embarrassingly continued humping, his intent made more obvious by the lack of any other motion.
“What in tarnation is going on?” Coach lifted him to his feet so fast it took his breath away. When Coach glanced down, Denny followed his gaze to the unmissable erection distending his pants.
“You mean to tell me,” Coach said, “that you get off on being spanked?”
Shamefaced, Denny shook his head.
“I don’t give a fuck what you say when the evidence is right in front of my own eyes.”
Denny tried to put his hands in front of his groin, but Coach was holding his arms too securely for him to budge them.
“You got off on it,” Coach said. “Those men doled out a few friendly swats, giving you a sexual thrill, and you had the nerve to come in here and waste my time complaining about it.”