Chapter 7: Bus Ride Blowjob
The stale air inside the bus hung thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap energy drinks, the sharp tang of deep-heat liniment, and the unmistakable musk of exhausted young men. Streetlights strobed through the grimy windows, painting fleeting stripes across sleeping faces slumped against headrests or pressed to the glass. The roar of the engine was a constant drone, punctuated by the occasional snore or the rustle of someone shifting in their seat. Victory against State was a warm hum in Derek’s chest, dulled by fatigue and the persistent, low ache radiating from his core – a brutal souvenir from the equipment shed’s damp darkness hours ago. Every jolt of the bus over uneven pavement sent a fresh twinge through him, a visceral reminder of Coach Taylor’s ownership.
Derek sat stiffly in the very back row, the cracked vinyl seat groaning under his weight. Coach Taylor occupied the window seat beside him, ostensibly reviewing game footage on a tablet, the blue glow casting sharp angles on his handsome, impassive face. The rest of the team sprawled ahead, most dead to the world after the grueling match and the celebratory chaos that followed. The space felt charged, electric. Derek could feel the heat radiating off Taylor beside him, smell the familiar blend of his cologne and underlying sweat. The memory of being bent over the mats, gagged by Taylor’s own sweat-soaked jockstrap while the team laughed nearby, pulsed in his mind, a confusing cocktail of shame and unwanted arousal tightening his gut. His cock stirred traitorously in his sweatpants.
He shifted, deliberately letting his knee bump against Taylor’s thigh. Taylor didn’t flinch, didn’t look away from the tablet. His expression remained that of the focused strategist. Derek swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The engine’s drone seemed louder, isolating their corner of the bus. He let his hand, resting on the seat between them, drift. Fingers brushed the coarse fabric of Taylor’s track pants, right over the bulge at his crotch. A deliberate, feather-light touch.
Taylor’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, but his jaw tightened. Derek’s heart hammered against his ribs. He did it again, pressing the flat of his palm more firmly this time, feeling the solid heat beneath the fabric. The outline was unmistakable, thickening rapidly under his touch. Still, Taylor gave no outward sign, no word of rebuke or encouragement. Just that charged stillness.
Derek’s fingers trembled as they found the zipper tab. His eyes darted to the slumped forms ahead – Carter snoring softly, Jax with headphones on but eyes closed, Martinez hugging his lax stick like a teddy bear. Nobody was looking back. The risk was insane. Paralyzing. Exhilarating. He tugged the zipper down slowly, the metallic zzzzip sounding deafening in his own ears. He slid his hand inside the opening, beneath the waistband of Taylor’s briefs. Hot, hard flesh met his questing fingers. Taylor was fully erect, thick and pulsing.
He glanced up. Taylor’s eyes were now closed, his head resting back against the seat, but his chest rose and fell with deliberate, controlled breaths. The blue light from the tablet played over the sharp line of his jaw, clenched tight. Permission? Apathy? Derek couldn’t tell, but the lack of a direct order to stop was fuel. He fumbled, pulling Taylor’s cock free from the confines of his briefs. It sprang out, rigid and heavy in the dim light, the broad head glistening faintly. The primal scent of him, muskier now, cut through the bus’s stale air.
Derek’s throat tightened. He slid off the vinyl seat, down onto the gritty floor of the bus aisle between the back row and the seat in front. Knees on the vibrating metal floor, he leaned forward, his face inches from Taylor’s cock. He could see the thick vein running along its underside, feel the heat radiating from it. He licked his lips, the taste of his own nervousness metallic. Then, driven by a mix of fear, twisted desire, and the need to appease the powerful man who had brutalized him only hours before, he opened his mouth and took the engorged head inside.
He heard Taylor’s sharp intake of breath above him, a low, guttural sound swallowed by the engine noise. Derek worked his lips down the thick shaft, taking more, forcing his jaw wide. It was a stretch, a familiar ache echoing the deeper one between his legs. He used his tongue, swirling it around the sensitive ridge, tasting the salty pre-cum already beading there. He sucked, hollowing his cheeks, the wet, filthy sound masked by the bus’s rumble. One hand braced against Taylor’s thigh, the other gripped the base of his cock, feeling the powerful throb against his palm. He bobbed his head, setting a rhythm as best he could in the cramped, jostling space. Each time the bus hit a bump, he’d take him deeper, gagging slightly, tears stinging his eyes, but pushing through. He focused on the weight on his tongue, the salty-bitter taste, the sheer power he was servicing.
Taylor’s hand found the back of Derek’s head. Not guiding, not yet. Just resting there, fingers tangling roughly in Derek’s messy black hair, a silent claim. His hips began a subtle, involuntary thrust, pushing his cock deeper down Derek’s throat. Derek choked, saliva slicking his chin. He fought the reflex to pull away, letting Taylor fuck his mouth in short, insistent jabs. The hand in his hair tightened, pulling him forward insistently.
"Yeah," Taylor breathed, the word a harsh, almost soundless rasp Derek felt more than heard. "Take it. Fucking take it all, Rocket."
The use of his nickname, the raw command, sent a jolt through Derek. His own trapped cock strained painfully against his sweatpants. He relaxed his throat, letting Taylor push deeper, until his nose pressed against the coarse hair at the base, the thick shaft filling his throat completely. He breathed raggedly through his nose, eyes watering, focused solely on the cock pounding his throat, the pressure in his skull, the scent of Taylor’s skin filling his nostrils.
Taylor’s thrusts grew faster, more urgent, losing their subtlety. His grip on Derek’s hair became punishing, holding him firmly in place as he pistoned his hips. Derek’s jaw ached, his throat burned, but he didn’t fight. He sucked hard, massaging the shaft with his tongue, wanting it, needing it to end, craving the release he knew was coming. The bus swayed, Carter snorted in his sleep a few feet away, but Derek existed only in the dark space between the seats, consumed by the man using his mouth.
A low, choked growl rumbled from Taylor’s chest. His body tensed, every muscle locking. The hand on Derek’s head clamped down like a vise. He shoved himself to the hilt, holding Derek there, impaled on his cock. Then the first hot, thick pulse hit the back of Derek’s throat. Derek swallowed convulsively, the salty-bitter flood overwhelming his senses. Another surge, thicker, filling his mouth. He kept swallowing, gulping it down, his throat working desperately against the pressure. Taylor grunted, short, sharp sounds muffled by the ambient noise, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself down Derek’s throat. Derek took it all, every last spurt, swallowing repeatedly until the pulsing stopped and Taylor’s cock began to soften slightly.
Taylor slumped back, his grip on Derek’s hair loosening. His breathing was ragged, loud in Derek’s ears now. Derek slowly pulled off, a thin string of spit and cum connecting his lips to the slick, spent cock resting heavily on Taylor’s thigh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trembling violently, the taste still coating his tongue. His knees ached from the hard floor, his throat felt raw and bruised, his own arousal a painful, ignored throb.
He stayed crouched for a moment, catching his breath, listening to the snores around him. No one stirred. Slowly, shakily, he pushed Taylor's softening cock back inside his briefs, fumbling with the zipper to close the track pants. He avoided looking up at Taylor’s face. As he hauled himself back onto the seat beside him, his legs felt weak.
Taylor didn’t look at him. He picked up his fallen tablet, the blue glow illuminating his profile again, now damp with a faint sheen of sweat. His face was a mask, utterly composed, betraying nothing of the raw act that had just occurred. He cleared his throat softly, adjusting his jacket.
"Good hustle tonight, Hale," he said, his voice low, calm, perfectly modulated – the coach addressing his player. It sounded obscene after what had just happened. "That final assist was textbook."
Derek stared straight ahead, into the gloom of the bus aisle. His throat burned. His mouth tasted like salt and submission. His body ached in old and new ways. He nodded mutely, the gesture feeling hollow. The victory glow was gone, replaced by a cold, sticky shame that clung tighter than the drying spit on his chin. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the vibrating window, the miles stretching out endlessly ahead, the taste of Coach Taylor still thick on his tongue.