One of the Junior Varsity boat's big strokes is a kid named Marshall Nichols, from the upper midwest. Marshall had looks right out of a clothing catalogue, the kind of natural good looks that drive girls wild and makes guys envious. He's small for a stroke, but his body was powerful which made up for his lack of physical continuity with the other bigger guys. He is 5'10" with a fullback body, strong legs, size 10 feet, with dark brown hair. He's got one of those sexy crew cuts, with the same dark hair in his armpits, and a thatch above his dick. Fat balls with a seven inch dick that stands straight up to his navel when he springs a boner, with a nice fat mushroom tip. His rubbery nipples are like little erasers that grow hard at the touch, and his arms, his powerful legs and ass, have hardly any discernible hair with just a few dark strands lining his pretty little butt hole near the ass lips.
I had discovered on one of the team's trips that Marshall liked to stroke his pud. Watching him one night through the windows of the cheap motel we stayed at, I saw how he worked that big meat and tugged at his spiky nipples. Mostly though, Marshall got a steady diet of pussy, making sure that his dick was dipped often enough to keep his hands away from his pork. There was no way I would get him like I did Tyler cause he seemed like the prototype good college jock, focused on his studies, his regular fuck schedule, and his rowing. But as fortune would have it, Marshall had a problem with which I decided I could help. As usual, Coach turned any team performance problem to me as Captain, and since Marshall wanted to make the varsity boat, I knew I would have a shot at getting into his shorts.
Marshall was having trouble with his timing on the strokes. His legs were powerful, and they determined his ability to get into the varsity boat. But his stroke timing was off just enough to result in a lack of synchronism for the whole boat. Marshall was just cocky enough and boy enough to want to make it right. He was determined to make varsity boat, and no technical problem was going to stop him. I arranged to have him come to my room, and discuss the problem. He walked in wearing a pair of worn button fly Levis, a t-shirt and flip-flops that showed his muscular, meaty feet, with his ball cap on backwards. I explained that his stroke timing was a serious matter, and that for a guy who seemed so disciplined, I was surprised that he was having problems. I went through a litany of possible causes, 'was he not getting enough sleep,' 'was his diet off,' 'was he lifting too much'...all the stuff I knew he would dismiss and I wanted to dismiss. Then came my almost casual reference to cunt. "So Marsh, you pounding pussy on a regular basis...I see you hanging with that gal pretty steady?"
He blushed, but confessed that his prick was getting regular attention, and in particular she would give him head when they could not find a place to fuck. I pressed, he blushed some more, and the details of how often she either had her lips smacking around his prick or had it wedged up her greasy slot, slowly came out. With a sanctimonious air, I said "that's it." He wondered with a quizzical look what I meant. "Marsh, you're not as focused as I thought. Guys like you sometimes lose concentration when you get too much of the tuna. You know in the old days, coaches used to keep their guys from getting pussy before football games and basketball, and all that crap. But ya know, there's some truth to that shit. You know Tyler Martin. He was having that very problem. Now I've got him on a 'squirt' regimen, and he's made wonderful progress."
Marshall looked perplexed, and then asked "a squirt regimen? What's that?" Looking away, and talking very casually, I explained that Tyler was getting ejaculation therapy, timed and controlled ejaculation so that he would not be worn out, and he would be in a strict discipline to ensure that his stroke was on par with the rest of the team. Marshall wondered if other guys were taking that kind of therapy, cause he'd never heard of it before. I said, naw, that some guys need it, and others don't. I told him with a kind of indifferent tone, that if he wanted to try the therapy, I'd be willing to take on his case just cause I liked the way he worked so hard, and thought he might make a valuable addition to the Varsity boat next year. He looked at me so earnestly, that handsome face and those gorgeous eyes, and said he'd really appreciate any help I could give him. I told him it wouldn't be easy: "Marsh, you're gonna have to take a break from pussy, and we're gonna do some stuff that'll be just between us so other guys on the team wouldn't ask funky questions." Then I told him, that the same regimen of cock control and timed ejaculation that I had been giving to Tyler would be given to him. He looked blankly at me, and then began to hem and haw. Maybe there was another way, he'd go and speak to the coach, and blah, blah, blah. I said fine, but I reminded him that the Coach had given me the responsibility for team discipline, and that the reason why Tyler Martin was undergoing this therapy was cause the Coach had asked me to take him on. Marshall looked at me again, then lowered his eyes to the ground, staring between his slightly spread legs, thumbs hooked on his belt loops. "Shit, I guess I'll have to try... is it too weird...I've never had any guy mess with my cock...it's sure gonna be strange." I responded with the voice of responsibility: "Hey, man I know where you're commin' from... that's why I suggested that we just keep this to ourselves. We'll try different approaches, cause I'm sure that what I've been doing for Tyler, won't necessary be what's best for you. Hey, you wanna start now, and ease into this?"
Marshall looked at me innocently and with an air of apprehension said OK, reluctance giving way to resignation, realizing that I would be making the decisions on the Varsity boat and recommending them to the Coach. "Let's start with an interview Marsh...I try to get the facts so that whatever approach I take, it'll work for you. Let's do a physical while we talk...why don't you shuck your clothes, and I'll lock the door."
So began Marshall Nichols training. He looked overwhelmed at my suggestion, but followed each order obediently. He kicked off the flip-flops, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Those lucious nipples erected when the material grazed them, causing the pebbled brown paps to jut deliciously from his pecs. He popped the buttons, and hauled down his levis and boxers, his slightly tumescent prick resting at comfortable angle from his body on his balls. I told him to sit back on the bed, and he did so, hands at his sides, and feet and legs slightly spread. I began the interview.
"O.K, Marsh, when's the last time you shot your spunk?" (hoping to see if I could get "rise" out of him)
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Changes last made on: Friday, October 23, 1998