I always had a love for sports and had worked very hard at becoming the best athlete I could possibly be. I dedicated all my free time to finding new ways to possibly get better or to gain an edge on the competition. I literally put blood, sweat, and tears into playing baseball, football, and wrestling. Each year that passed, though, regardless of the touchdowns I'd caught, the tackles I'd made, or the home runs I'd smashed, I seemed to fall short of a championship!
Wrestling season was by far my biggest frustration! Every year for the last three years, I won every match until the finals, then ultimately lost. I'm not necessarily a superstitious person, but at this point, it was almost like a routine. Every finals match I wrestled a black guy and, you guessed it, I lost every time.
I decided that this year I was skipping out on football and baseball and focusing on wrestling and wrestling only. I was going to change the outcome, no matter what I had to do, at all costs. I got online and searched some wrestling forums to find the best coach possible. I reached out to a few, but after meeting up with them, I decided my skill level was probably higher than theirs, so I was running low on options.
After what seemed like forever searching and a handful of pointless calls later, one of my old coaches contacted me and said he knew of a camp that was the best in the whole valley and possibly the nation. It would be extremely difficult to get into because it was predominantly all black guys, and if you weren't black, then you had to be rich because they wanted $250 per session. I was desperate for a chance to get better and desperate for a championship, so I worked up the courage and sent an email.
Three days later, I got a reply. "Hello Jay, Coach here. As you've previously heard, it's nothing personal, but my sessions are predominantly students of African American backgrounds. However, there is always a chance to be selected. Please send me some info and pictures. I need your height, weight, wrestling record, videos of past tournaments, and current photos of yourself. Look forward to your reply, Coach."
I immediately got busy compiling everything he wanted in an email and sent him everything he needed. Two hours later, my email went off, and sure enough, it was Coach, and it read: "Jay, not gonna lie, but it's a little hard to watch your wrestling videos to see your skill level, but after the bonus videos you sent, I want you to be here tonight at 9 p.m. sharp. One minute late and the invitation is no longer available. Coach."
My stomach dropped. Bonus video? What was he talking about, bonus video? I opened what I sent him and didn't realize while I was hurrying to send him what he asked for, I also sent two videos by complete accident. One was a compilation of about 15 to 20 videos of me shooting load after load of cum in my own mouth. The second was a compilation of me fucking myself with many different objects from dildos, cucumbers, bottles, and even a couple of different real cocks. Not just any cocks, they were both black cocks. My secret was out.
The address Coach sent me was a little over three hours away and it was already after 6 o'clock, but I threw everything in my gym bag, ran to my car, and spun out of my driveway. I was in no way, shape, or form going to be late. I was tired of losing and made up my mind that I was going to do whatever it took to get better, no matter what I had to do. My mind was spinning, and being embarrassed was an understatement. How could I be so stupid and reckless and send those videos? My brain was on overload trying to comprehend what had happened and how it happened, but deep down the inner cum and cock-loving slut in me was praying my "mistake" was a blessing in disguise. My dick was hard as a rock, my mouth was watering, and I was clueless about what was going to happen in just a short matter of time.
The industrial park seemed dead after dark and was just a long row of warehouses and loading bays stretching endlessly. My headlights swept across sketchy doors and padlocked gates before I finally saw the numbers 4872. Unit C sat at the end of a row with its back entrance illuminated by a single light that buzzed barely bright enough to see. I shut my car off and, for a long moment, I just sat there gripping the steering wheel. Every instinct told me to pull back onto the highway and pretend none of this had happened. Beneath the terror and embarrassment—and there was plenty of terror—something else hummed low and electric. I'd driven three hours to get here.
The back entrance was a steel door with peeling green paint and a deadbolt that turned easily when I pushed. Inside, the air smelled of sweat and rubber mats. The hallway was narrow, unlit except for the light at the far end. The room at the end was a wrestling gym. A single mat covered the floor, its surface scuffed and stained. A heavy bag swayed in one corner, and along the far wall was a row of trophies. Coach Marcus Reeves stood in the center of the mat; he was bigger than the photos online suggested. He was maybe late fifties, bald, with a short graying beard. His sweatpants hung loose over bare feet.
"You're early," he said, his voice calm.
"I didn't want to be late."
Coach Reeves didn't move. His eyes tracked down my body and back up the way a mechanic assesses a car before popping the hood. "Close the door." The click of the latch felt final.
"The videos you sent," he said. My throat constricted.
"Coach, I can explain—"
He held up his hand and loudly said, "Don't. You don't explain, you don't apologize, you don't make excuses. That's the first thing you learn here." He took a step toward me, and the mat barely compressed under his weight. "You sent me three match tapes and two... other recordings. I've watched all of them. The matches told me about your footwork, your reaction time, your tendency to drop your right elbow when you're tired. The other two told me what you're really afraid of."
"I'm not afraid," I said, but the tremor in the words betrayed me.
Coach Reeves smiled. "Yes, you are. You're afraid of what you want. That's why you can't finish a takedown in the third period. That's why you freeze when the match is on the line. You don't trust yourself to take what's yours." He stopped three feet from me, close enough that I could smell the soap on his skin. "You've got a body that knows how to submit and a mind that's terrified of what that means. Those videos weren't an accident."
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"You wanted me to see," he continued. "Maybe not consciously. But you picked those files because some part of you is tired of hiding. Am I wrong?"
I couldn't look at him. My gaze dropped to the mat, to the ghost-marks of old tape and older sweat. I never would have looked at myself in the way he was speaking, and part of me thought he was full of shit. "I drove three hours."
"That's not an answer."
"No, you're not wrong, Coach. Listen, I'm tired of losing and I'm tired of falling short. Obviously, I can't do this on my own or with all the other coaches I've worked with. I was told you wouldn't even consider me to be your student and I was wasting my time driving all this way down here, but as I told you, I am willing to do whatever it takes for you to help me and I will find a way to come up with the money to pay for each lesson, I promise. I will fully dedicate all my time and energy into this, and I promise you won't regret taking this chance on me. Please, man, I'll do ANYTHING!"
Coach Reeves started laughing and asked me if I was 100% sure about this. I nodded.
"Then we can begin. Take off your clothes."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"You heard me. Well, not everything yet—just your shirt and shoes. Leave the shorts for now, but I need to see what we're working with."
The request was surreal, absurd. And yet my hands were already moving, gripping the hem of my T-shirt, pulling it over my head before my brain could veto the motion. The cool air hit my chest and felt amazing. My shoes came next, kicked off to the edge of the mat, followed by my socks. Coach Reeves circled behind me. I felt his presence like a heat lamp.
"You've got good definition through the lats," he murmured, and a finger traced down my spine, stopping just above the waistband of my shorts. My whole body shuddered. "But you're tight here. All this tissue is locked up. That's why your bridge is weak on the mat. Face down."
I lowered myself onto the worn surface, the rubber cool against my cheek. My pulse hammered in my ears. Above me, I heard him kneel, heard the soft shift of fabric as he settled into position. His hands found my shoulders. They were broad and warm, the palms callused in the way of someone who'd spent decades gripping and being gripped. He pressed, and I felt the muscle resist, then yield.
"Breathe." His thumbs worked into the tissue along my shoulder blades, finding knots I'd been carrying so long I'd forgotten they even existed. Each release sent a ripple of sensation downward, through my ribs, into the basin of my hips.
"You've been training alone too long; your body's learned all the wrong patterns. Nobody's taught you how to surrender the right way." His hands slid lower.
"Nobody's taught you how to let go and keep fighting." His thumbs pressed into the small of my back, and a sound escaped my throat—not pain, exactly, but a moan I didn't mean to let slip. I was doing my best to try and keep my dick from getting hard, but I was wasting my time.
"Take your shorts off and strip completely naked. Let's work on some flexibility. You sent me a video of you on your back with your legs over your head, and before we start, you need to make sure you're hydrated. Drink every drop of cum out of your balls. Now!"
"Finally," I said to myself. I gladly did as he told me and knew I wouldn't last long because I had fucked myself the whole trip to meeting him. Sure enough, I shot one of the biggest loads in my mouth I've ever had, and just the taste of something so delicious instantly had me rock hard again.
"Your asshole looks hungry. I bet you're so desperate to win a championship you'd let me breed you if I said that's what it takes to get better, wouldn't you? I bet whatever you want to offer that from this point forward, I own your ass. All mine. My little bitch!"
Of course, what he was saying was true, but what I wanted to tell him was he could breed me no matter the situation, because one of my biggest weaknesses was seeing another man's hard cock needing to be taken care of and balls drained. Actually, that was my biggest weakness, and when you added to the fact that the cock happened to be black, then I was completely powerless.
To most people who knew me, they just thought I was some overconfident prick who loved pussy. Never in a million years would they guess that behind closed doors, I was a dirty cum slut—one who had never said no to a dick that needed sucked or fucked. I loved to be talked down to and told how big of a cum and cock-loving bitch or slut I was.
"Get on your hands and knees, whiteboy, you're going to be my cum dump." He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, his breath hot against my ear. "That's how you pay for these classes. You understand?"
"Yes, sir." The word was a sob.
"And not just me—I've got friends who'd appreciate a tight white hole like yours. You'll take all of us. Whenever we want." My body was answering before my brain could object. "Say it." He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. "Say you'll be our bitch."
"I'll be your bitch." The words poured out of me. "All of you. Anyone you want. I'll take it. I'll be good, Sir. I'll..."
He slammed into me balls deep, and the rest of my sentence turned into loud, animal-like moans. His rhythm became punishing, each stroke hitting something deep inside that made me almost pass out.
"You will never waste a single drop of cum from any of our big black cocks. You'll either swallow every drop or let us fill this little ass. Or both. That's lesson two."
I wasn't sure how many friends he had in mind that he would let use me, but I was hoping however many it was, that they would treat me and fuck me just the same way.
As I previously mentioned, I enjoyed fucking myself with just about anything that felt good. I also REALLY enjoyed swallowing all the cum I could get and taking all the cock I could get. I wasn't sure what exactly it was, but my brain was programmed to be obedient when it came to getting fucked or basically anything to do with another man's hard cock(s). The way I saw it is you only live once, so always do what you love.
I let older men have their way with me and absolutely loved being the bitch. Every black man I had been with told me that I was the best piece of ass they'd ever fucked and that my white ass was made to be used by black cock. I had to say that I totally agreed with them. My newfound coach seemed like he thought that way as well.
After he was done fucking me, he filled me in on my new guidelines I had to go by and let me know that if I messed up just one time, I was no longer a student.
His camp consisted of three other students, and all three would need help with weight cuts every week. My job was to make them sweat in the sauna, and by that I mean let them pound my ass for as long as they needed to make weight.
I honestly couldn't have been happier. Also, any friend he had who needed some ass, I was to fully satisfy them and completely submit. Again, what more could I ask for?
My next tournament rolled around and after weeks of my coach's guidance and sticking to his guidelines, I finally won my first tournament.
We made a deal that I would work for him from here on out and I would be paid however much I decided to charge my client. I was also his personal assistant and weight loss specialist. As I said before, I have a problem telling anyone no, so I was about to become an even bigger whore.
I didn't do many tournaments after winning, and I guess I became what you would call a "company man" and worked any chance I could. It's funny how one email can literally change someone's whole life!
