The coach on the bus

THE COACH ON THE BUS
By The Tall Man

It all began with what seemed like a harmless jerk off competition between the lads, a spontaneous lark to relieve (haha) the boredom on the journey home to Newcastle after this year’s 18 to 21 age group inter-counties athletics championship at Crystal Palace, London; it was June and pretty hot weather, for a change.

What we didn’t know immediately was that the athletics coach, Peter, had been left behind; nobody noticed, not even his wife Carol until we had been rolling for almost an hour. By then we were just onto the M1 motorway going north after our team bus had weaved its way across London through very difficult traffic congestion.

Carol had got a call on her mobile phone from Peter and as she talked, she began looking around her, as though she could hardly believe he wasn’t on the bus with us. We heard later from those sitting near Carol that Peter was hopping mad; but he finally told her not to have the driver worry about turning back at that late stage. He had been running around in ever decreasing circles (ageing 400 metres runner that he was), and had been fortunate enough to find another team bus in the car park of Crystal Palace which was also travelling roughly north but not to Newcastle; knowing at some point he would have to change modes of transport, he took the only available solution right then to being stranded a long way from home. He was mad, but thinking straight, so we were instructed to continue our trajectory. Poor Peter. Lucky us, as it turned out.

Carol looked vaguely upset and wide-eyed guilty at first – I suppose for not noticing that her husband of the last seven years was not visible. But shortly afterwards a distracted smile came back to her pretty face and she started to busy herself with her usual homeward bound, on-board club duties. This was a part we all loved. Everything about Carol, we loved.

All of us – or most of us who stayed awake, anyway – had been ogling Carol at every chance on the way down to the track and field meeting very early that morning. For the next couple of hours, Carol would be again the centre of male club athletes’ attraction, as she always had been for as long as I remember; on the track, in the clubhouse, coaching alongside the high jump fan or in the gym during workouts and weight training. Now she had started walking up and down the aisle of the bus, fetching and carrying goodies from ice boxes and handing out cereal bars and energy drinks, supposedly to reward us and restore our vigour after what had been a good county performance overall.

Carol was tall and lithe with slim but shapely and muscular legs, as you would expect from a former international high jumper. Those legs! The smoothest of tanned skin decorated her thighs below her bermuda shorts. At 30, her competitive career had sadly come to a close in the last two years. She still trained and coached, and her body was still in magnificent shape; I for one said it was a body to die for, and I was one of her willing apprentice jumpers. Unlike a lot of female athletes, she did not have a flat chest. Her breasts were full and firm, without a hint of sag, and swayed slightly with the rhythm of the bus as she walked the gauntlet of greedy young eyes.

I swear she was braless and I could see her nipples poking through her snug yellow club t-shirt as she approached us with the cereal bars and cool drinks. She had shoulders which were quite broad for a woman; her waist was trim and her hips were by no means the child-bearing kind, all this on a five feet nine inch frame. Her sporting style, short blond hair and blue-grey eyes enhanced her facial beauty, which compared well with that of the actress Charlize Theron. Well, almost. Whatever, any of us would settle for this beauty.

She of the complete athletic sexuality was now being ogled to a more or less secretive extent by at least ten horny, adrenalin driven young athletes fresh from the showers, and mostly with hardons fuelled by her luscious curves. I was one of them.

That’s how it started.

Dave the Shot, absolute winner in his event today by twenty centimetres, came up with the opener. “Kinell, I’ll need a wank soon. Just look at Carol, she’s given me a mother and father of a stiffy” he said quietly, almost, but not quite, to himself. Dave was not considered the most articulate of young men.

Those of us in line of sight looked down at his crotch. Dave was a big boy, well over six feet four at 19 years of age and a big, solid frame, as you would expect of a man who pushed big weights, ate like a horse and threw discus as well as the shot. The swelling showed. His big fist closed around the engorgement and he began to squeeze his cock slowly on the outside of his tracksuit pants. If I thought the first glance of his cock was impressive, within a minute I saw enough swollen meat bulging against his pants leg to fill two teenage girls’ hands. And he knew it. Dave was not shy.

There was a WC on board, in a tiny closet accessed via steps down to a lower galley. Jim the Miler (actually 1500 metres junior champion), a slim, long legged, good looking boy with jet black hair, grinned “Go on then, the toilets are down there. You might get to rub it up against Carol on the way.”

“Yeah, I’ll go next after you, be quick about it” said Roy the Javelin, only fifth in his event, a shorter but muscle bound power house of a boy who would surely progress through the ranks in his specialist event when he got his technique right. He was sitting on the other side of the aisle opposite to me. “Wouldn’t mind rubbing mine up against that lovely bum either, he said grinning lasciviously”

So it went on. Nobody went to the toilet. All talk.

There was only one competitor from each event on board; I was Bob the High Jump, almost 6 feet long and very slim but with powerful legs and very pleased to have got a second place today behind a winner who was two years older. I kept quiet, just thought about it and got harder and harder. I thought about doing more than rubbing my dick up against that desirable piece of tail, but I’m sure we all did; that’s how inexperienced adolescent fantasy goes.

We all thought about doing it, but never imagined it would happen. I was a virgin; all I had so far was wanking and fantasising how it might be. Before long, it seemed the whole men’s team on the bus had a raging erection of indescribable proportions, and the prospect of having to wait another three hours until we got home for release was not easy to contemplate. But it was either that or going down to the WC one after the other.

I can’t remember who got his cock out first; I think it was Steve the Hurdler, a powerful sprinter who had finished third in the 110 metres highs. I do remember however, that Dave the Shot‘s sprang into view immediately afterwards; he had no inhibitions about his cock. We should have named him Dave Horse’s Cock from that moment of revelation.

We had all seen dicks in the communal showers, of course, but never taken much notice; I didn’t recall seeing any of them stiff before, so I guess all of them were revelations. Homo or not, there was no contest, no question - when all the team’s cocks were out (at least the cocks attached to those who were not too timid), Dave’s was the stunner – the rest were, well, just big, stiff and angry. And begging for some sort of attention, any attention.

The three lads on the back seat were first to wave their hard as iron organs before us, like two pale gherkins and a red cucumber with veins, maybe thinking themselves safely shielded pretty well from uninterested people on board – for there were some non-participating athletes who had come along as supporters plus a few parents and friends. Still, they were mostly up at the front end of the half empty coach, and we stud athletes were near the back. Plenty of empty seats in between.

I was fairly quick to join in. And why not? We either got away with it or we ALL got rumbled. Safety in numbers, perhaps.

The two out-in-the-open cocks on the second to back row, were turned sideways, so that the masturbation group could be sure everybody got a good view. Roy the Javelin, opposite to me was kneeling up on his seat, his proud stiffy out and his jeans down below his bum. Although not afraid to be seen - as I realised quickly that my cock was of pretty good dimensions alongside theirs (Dave apart), I pumped mine more discreetly. A couple of lads who, finally, were too shy to let theirs out into the fresh air stood up in the aisle; they wanted to see of what was going on (gay or what, I thought.) Problem was we couldn’t any longer get a proper look at Carol to fuel our pleasure, because they partially blocked the view both ways. What to do? We hissed at them to clear our line of vision.

I leaned over to see Carol standing up less than halfway along the length of the coach, sideways on and talking to one of the parents, smiling, the outline of her t-shirt encased breasts tantalising us and enraging our hormones, even speeding up our ejaculation ETA. Even her teeth were perfect and I saw a flash of her pink tongue as she laughed. The stuff that wet dreams are made of. Or surreptitious wanks.

We now had five proud erections on display; five fists of various dimensions clasped around five rigid, uncontrollable cocks, at various paces and rhythms on the unstoppable road to five major ejaculations. Dave Horse’s Cock, full of lust and bravado told the two curious spectators again to get out of the way; he wanted to dedicate his sperm to Carol, even if she didn’t know she was going to get it. We all craned for a look at Carol’s swaying breasts, and occasionally her tight bum, and we stroked.

It was Jim the Miler who suggested the competition, an adept it seemed at the ancient art of masturbation. I can’t remember whether it was meant to see who could come first, or who could hold it the longest. We must have made a little too much noise with our enthusiasm for the contest, because Carol turned around and started to walk with apparent nonchalance towards the back of the coach. On her way along, she glanced out of the windows and smiled at one or two passengers.

Curiosity about the subdued cheering at the back, to bring us more cereal bars and energy drinks or whatever her reason for walking towards the back of the bus, we never found out. But it was simply impossible that Carol would not see what was going on.

No-one had spurted yet. I feared our contest was at an end.

The smile we had seen on Carol’s face a moment ago faded away rapidly. Carol stopped after walking unsteadily a few paces, roughly halfway towards where we were sitting, dropped a few bars and drinks on an empty seat and stood there looking, her breasts still swaying with the bumps of the bus. She said nothing, just looked, her eyes darting from one face to another, then down to the one or two cocks that were plainly visible, one to another.

Fists stopped pumping, except one. Roy the Javelin, opposite me, still kneeling when Carol saw us, plopped down onto his seat, trying unsuccessfully to pull up his jeans and stuff his hard appendage back into his zipper, but he showed himself to be totally inept at doing that rapidly whilst seated. We all felt his embarrassment. I was shielded from Carol’s view by the seat in front. Some on the back seat were in plain sight, and it was those that Carol saw first and fixed her eyes on. Only ...


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