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Emery  • CHAPTER 1

by Sean Reid Scott


[NOTICE: This story contains vivid descriptions of homosexual encounters. There's lurid, kinky sex here. Homo sex. It's prolly straight out of HELL, if you're inclined to hold the religious perspective. Really, this story is not for those who button the collar tightly. If you can't stomach this kind of smut, skedaddle. Likewise if you're under 18.]



THE MAN WAS THE EMBODIMENT of muscular magnificence. He— he was… strikingly handsome. Just gorgeous. But that’s not even the first thing I noticed.

First thing that jumps out at you is that body. Off-the-scale brawny, and powerfully-built. Muscles out to here. I kid you not, the guy was all-beef bodybuilder studliness wrapped up with a model-face ribbon.

But let me back up a bit, and tell you how I met him.

It was early spring, and my daughter—well, I mean our daughter—had been begging us (my wife and I) to let her start soccer. She was only six, so it was a little kid’s league. Basically, it was just a chance for the kids to play and get used to the game. A bunch of five and six year-olds are not what you’d call competitive.

I love my kids. Pumpkin and her little brother Fontleroy are the lights of my life. But I wasn’t quite ready for the stage of life where you spend almost every waking hour at your kids’ games and school activities. Yet I didn’t really have a valid excuse when Cheryl (my wife) said “It’s time.” It was time to commit to real parenting.

So, there we were, Cheryl and I, taking our family to little Pumpkin’s first soccer game. We were rockin’ the soccer parent thing, complete with the minivan full of shin guards, balls and water bottles. When we pulled up to the soccer complex (and yes, it was a complex), the place was full of minivans identical to our own—maybe a handful of Suburbans or Escalades too. Have to admit a bit of car envy right there.

The place was teeming with kids and parents, all looking for their assigned field—which was quite the task, considering the complex had eight soccer fields. Granted, these weren’t regulation fields; these are kids, remember? But still, it took us a good ten minutes to find the right spot.

Pumpkin was told to wear her blue uniform for this first game, and so we found the other blue kids, then staked out our lawn chairs next to the sideline.

There was a middle-aged guy, short and a bit stalky, who had a clipboard. The blue shirts were gathered around him, so I took Pumpkin over to join the crowd, and introduced my daughter, and myself.

The guy looked for her name on his roster. “Hmmm… Pumpkin Stevens… let me see…” He ran a pointed finger down the clipboard. “Oh there she is.” He checked her name off and greeted her all friendly-like.

“So you’re the coach?” I asked the man.

“Oh, no,” he scoffed. “I’m just the assistant coach,” he said. “More like assistant gofer than a coach,” he laughed. “Emery is getting the last of the equipment from his rig. Should be here in just a sec.”

“Emery?” I asked.

“Yeah, Coach Emery. He’s great with kids. You’ll love him.”

A voice from behind startled me: “I am? He will?”

I turned around and—not to be too dramatic—my world changed forever. My breath caught. I think I might have blinked a few times. I got this chilling wave that started at my scalp and traveled down my whole body and went out of my toes.

Holy fucking christ. The guy—Emery—was a god. The most gorgeous manifestation of muscles and good-looks I had ever seen. And I’d seen tons of gorgeous muscle men on the web (I’ll get into that a bit later). This guy took first prize. And overall. Supreme Blue Ribbon. Best of Show.

Goddamn he was fine. He was more than merely fine. He was stunningly good-looking. And hard-bodied. My knees actually buckled. That’s no cliché, man. I had to force my legs back to straight so I wouldn’t just tumble to the grass right then and there, possibly salivating, and whipping it out in front of everyone while I rolled around and jerked off.

“Hell, Emery,” the assistant gofer said, “everyone knows you’re fantastic with the kids. And I have no doubt that all the parents love you.”

Mr. Gorgeous Muscles chuckled and looked at me. “Emery Braun,” he smiled as he extended his hand.

“Jason Stevens,” I said in my best “confidence” voice.

His eyes were piercing. They drilled past my facade and found something deep inside me, ripped it up through my body, yanked it out of me, and lasered it to oblivion right there. Fuuuuuuck. Something inside me was suddenly gone. Or dead. Hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I do know one thing: From that moment, I was doomed.

There was no way I was going to be able to hide my attraction to this fucking god.

I quickly checked for a ring. My heart sank when I spotted it. But then, I was married, and that definitely wasn’t an indicator of my orientation. But really, who was I kidding. Most married men are straight—my own convoluted situation notwithstanding.

Still, Emery was a magnet. A fuckin’ Jason magnet. I could feel his pull. Gravity. I actually think I was leaning slightly toward him. And his piercing eyes—those eyes that had just stolen something unnamable from me—didn’t help things either.

I have no idea how long our handshake lasted, but I’d like to think it lasted longer than normal for two ostensibly het guys. Dunno. Lots of things that morning I do not recall.

But I do recall this: Emery Braun was every man. Every gym rat (in the best possible sense), every magazine model. He was every fantasy. The thing about him, though, was that he was definitely not a roid monster. Maybe he was a natty (natural bodybuilder). Or maybe he didn’t even compete. Obviously, though, the man had honed his tall body to perfection.

The long-sleeved compression shirt he wore showed off everything. Especially those shoulders. God I love compression shirts: they’re basically a T-shirt that squeeeeeezes the body into a taut, tight, dense, compilation of lust-worthy muscles. If you’re well-built (and duh about Emery), a compression shirt makes the amazing amazing-times-two.

EmeryLike2I don’t think I’ll ever come up with words to adequately describe how incredible his body was. After the shoulders—they were so round and separate from his arms—I’d say it was a tie between pecs and arms. A shelf of powerful—but not overwhelming—chest muscles sat comfortably at the top of his ripped torso. Those arms were incredible examples of slightly over-developed biceps & triceps muscles that exuded power. I’d bet most guys would assume Emery had to use steroids to have arms like that, but they didn’t look bloated or out of balance with the rest of his stupendous body. Anyone who looked at Emery had to get the message loud and clear: This is a man of strength. You do not want to mess with this guy.

Hand-to-God truth here: I don’t actually remember anything that happened between the moment I first laid eyes on him and some random point during the game. I was in some kind of trance.

“Our coach is… certainly…” Cheryl had been standing beside me during the whole game so far, but I don’t know if we’d been actually talking or what.

“Yeah, he is,” I said before she could finish her thought.

She jerked her head toward me with a quizzical look. “What? I didn’t even say…”

I’m sure I flushed, but I kept my eyes on the field, averting my stare from Emery, and onto the kids, so she wouldn’t know I was looking at him. I’m sure it was the first time I’d peeled my eyes from the man since I’d met him. “Our coach. He’s great,” I said with a soft cough.

In my periphery I could see her frown before she turned back to the game. “He’s rather well put-together, too,” she said with a smile in her tone. I felt a tinge of jealousy and envy. Cheryl knew I worked out six days a week; she knew I was obsessed with being buffed and ripped. But obviously I was nowhere near Emery’s level of physical perfection. That old song-and-dance of envy/comparison/lust/inferiority/desire… it was a familiar tune. And the orchestra’s brand new maestro was named… Emery.

“Yeah. He is,” I said. I didn’t want to deny the obvious; it’d just make me look weird. “I wonder where he works out.” 

Cheryl didn’t mention Emery’s build the rest of the morning.

After the game, Cheryl and I approached Emery and thanked him for his enthusiasm with the kids. It was a great opportunity for me to (attempt to) catalog the man’s physical features again.

He had light brown hair—borderline blond. It was short, but not too short. Businesslike. I’d say he was in his late 20’s—at least his face was. (His physique belonged on a man who’d spent decades in the gym.) His face was uniquely beautiful. By that I mean, he didn’t have the stereotypical dark eyelashes, pouty lips and other features you might associate with models. Nevertheless, his deep brown eyes were captivating—sparkling with energetic life. He was masculine. Square jaw. More jock than model, if you know what I mean. He was confident, and carried himself like he had absolutely no idea that every single person who laid eyes on him was totally astounded by his looks. No idea whatsoever. He was no prima donna; he was there to coach soccer, not parade his body. But if he’d wanted to, no one in their right mind would have objected.

Just talking with Emery made me hard. Fortunately the weather had warmed up since we’d first arrived. I’d taken my jacket off, so I was able to position it at my waist to hide anything that might give away my hopeless attraction to the man.

After a moment, Cheryl stepped aside and joined our two angels (Pumpkin and Fauntleroy) to celebrate whatever the hell happened with the game. Cheryl and the kids approached a woman who held hands with a girl who shared Pumpkin’s blue uniform. The woman and girl later turned out to be Emery’s wife Sherry, and their daughter, Sunflower.

Before everyone left, Emery made a point to compliment every kid on his team—by name. He was definitely a great coach, outstanding with kids: yet another reason to love the man (as if I needed more reasons).

He plainly knew how to deal with children. At this age, kids really just need a ton of encouragement. As far as the actual game goes, technique, positions and the rest—that’ll come later. Hell, most of the time during that first game the kids were kicking toward the wrong goal! It didn’t matter. Emery made sure everyone just had fun. They needed to be encouraged. They needed to see themselves as successful in a really fun environment. I don’t even think anyone kept score during the game. Pumpkin was on cloud nine as we drove home.

So was I.

As we left the complex, I wondered to myself if Emery might need another assistant coach for the team. Maybe I should call and offer.


ALL DAY LONG, I COULDN’T STOP thinking about Emery. I was sure my memory was building him up in my mind, to a point that totally exaggerated his actual body and looks. That was an assumption I’d eventually realize was erroneous. There was actually no way I could do that. My mind was barely able to wrap itself around the reality of Emery, let alone fabricate something better.

To be honest (and I’m not proud of this really), I retreated to the bathroom as soon as we got home from the game. Cheryl was busy in the kitchen making sandwiches, and the kids were playing, so I had a few minutes to myself to take care of “business”. It’s a good thing I did, too. I’d been hard since, like, all morning, and the man from Phallicus definitely needed attention. When my jizz blasted up onto the bathroom mirror, it was one of the more potent orgasms I can ever remember having. A really big mess. I think Cheryl sometimes wondered why the bathroom mirror was always so clean; I’d convinced her that I was a neat-freak when it came to glass: “Glass is the reflection of our lives.” Stupid, but she seemed to buy it.

Yet even having jerked off (quite violently, I might add) to Emery’s visage in my mind, my relief from Emery-itis was short-lived. I could have easily whacked my dick again mid-afternoon. I just couldn’t stop thinking about him. As it was, I waited until the house was quiet that night for the second go-round.

I’d tried to steal away right after I’d put Pumpkin and Fontleroy down to bed (I love those kids), but Cheryl needed “to talk.” Her need to use up some 100,000 words per day (at least it seems like that) compared to my need to limit it to, maybe, 200, is one of the reasons I often questioned how gay I really was. Don’t gay guys like to talk? Not me. And sometimes gay guys are really expressive, using their hands a lot while they talk, right? Not me. Yeah, yeah… I realize those are stereotypes that I need to get over. But seriously, I have no idea how Cheryl is able to come up with all of the words she utters every day. And evening. When I get home from work. And whenever she’s conscious.

She’s a kind soul, though. Certainly doesn’t deserve the situation she ended up in—even if she doesn’t know what that situation is (being married to a guy who loves men). She’s a beautiful woman, actually—personality-wise (aside from that incessant talking I guess) and physically. I got a kind of trophy wife, I guess. I think people look at us as a trophy couple, I guess.

Anyway, Cheryl eventually fell asleep after she stopped talking, having apparently exhausted her daily allotment of words. The man from Phallicus and I have always counted ourselves lucky that Cheryl is such a deep sleeper. I swear, a 747 could crash into our living room and she’d sleep right through it. Which is nice, considering that I make a lot less noise than a crashing jetliner when I jack off.

Why don’t I have sex with her more often? I mean, I married the woman, didn’t I. Didn’t I know I was attracted to men when we married? Yeah, I did. But religious and family pressures were intense. I totally figured (at least hoped) that God would “honor” my efforts to live in accordance with His commands, and someday remove the burden of same-sex attraction. So far, He’s yet to fulfill His end of that bargain. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m not holding my breath.

Anyhoo… I quietly snuck into the master bathroom, just off our bedroom, looking back to make sure Cheryl was lost in sleep. I closed the door behind me and locked it. (Early on I’d come up with a line to use in case she came to the door and found it locked. She’d obviously wonder why I’d lock the door, so I’d feign ignorance. “Oh, it was locked? Must have twisted the knob wrong when I closed it.” At least locking it would give me a few seconds to get things in order when she stirred; I’d sit down on the pot and pretend like I had constipation or something. So far, I’d never had to use that ruse. Cheryl was an extremely heavy sleeper [as I mentioned], and she was kind of noisy when she moved. She didn’t know the meaning of stealth. Her heals always hit the floor hard, even when she tried to “tiptoe.” I’d grown grateful for her inability to do pretty much anything quietly—except for when she got up early and decided to go downstairs and clean the kitchen while I tried to sleep. What a racket.)

So anyway, I’d have more than adequate warning if she woke up.

Keeping the bathroom lights dimmed low, I made my way to one of the two sinks at the large mirror. I sleep in a T-shirt and boxers; I stripped the T off and fondled myself through the boxers. God, I was hard.

As I mentioned, I work out six days a week; I’m definitely well-built. The hours of gym dedication have paid off. I’m not bragging. I just know the difference between buff and not. If I do say so myself, I’m kinda buff. So, the image staring me back in the mirror wasn’t offensive in any way. Not that I get off on myself. Not at all. My thoughts were only for Emery—as they had been all day. Still, totally objectively speaking, I could be described as hot.

My boxers forced my boner to one side. As I played with myself through the fabric, I felt the wet stain of pre-cum at the tip of my cock. I reached inside and teased myself with very light strokes. I don’t know if my hand was having more fun than my cock or not, but either way, I was so fucking hard it hurt. The ridges of the veins on my shaft were defined and lumpy. It felt so good. All because of Emery.

That’s truth: Even though I’m easy on the eyes (IMHO), my thoughts certainly weren’t about myself. There was only Emery. His muscles dominated my thoughts. Well, that and his arresting face. The way his clothing hugged everything.

It was time to lose the boxers. As soon as they were off, my cock sprang up like an untrained puppy jumping up, yearning for attention: Pet me, please!

I stroked myself, and Emery started taking off his clothes. Oh god. Oh fucking god. His image in my mind was the biggest turn-on fantasy I’d ever experienced. Shirtless, his muscles were so well defined and ripped that I just wanted to touch them. And his skin was without blemish or flaw. Just perfectly golden skin everywhere. He gave me a slight smile and I melted. Instinctively, I stroked harder, stifling a moan. God this was going to be good.

I wanted to draw out this session as long as humanly possible.

Time to run some bath water.

I absolutely love jerking off in the tub. We have this oversized oval tub that has jets in it. Very comfortable. I started the water. Cheryl wouldn’t stir. If she did, the “I couldn't’ sleep so I thought a hot bath might help” line was always available. She’d buy it too.

The water was perfect. Nice and hot, but not too. I stood, with just my feet in the water, waiting for the water to rise to an acceptable level. In the mirror my reflection sported an erection to beat them all. And to be beaten—off. That’d happen in short order.

Once I was down, and surrounded by hot water, I turned the faucet off and grabbed the bar of soap. I kept the jets off. I lathered my hand and cock. My left thumb found its way to the base of my shaft and pushed against it, fulcrum-ing it to as high as it could get—which, as it turned out wasn’t much higher than, I’d say, a 70 degree angle. I began to play with my balls. Tickling my perineum lightly, I let out a soft moan. Oh god, Emery. He was standing next to the tub, totally naked now. Fucking christ, he was so amazing. He smiled down at me, and my hand moved up my shaft.

I played with myself, conjuring up scenario after scenario where I would be meeting Emery in a very intimate setting. Maybe it’d start out innocently—he and I would go out for drinks at some bar. The conversation would be all cool and everything, but then one of us would say something that could be taken more than one way. Innocent enough, you know? But then the other of us would reply to the double entendre, and red flags would go up in my mind.

A nice, hard stroke.

Maybe he’d look at me then, quizzically. I’d scoff, and make like I didn’t mean it that way. He’d smile, but he’d press the issue.

Another tickle of my sweet spot, just under and behind my painfully ripe balls. The warm water of the tub was so nice…

I’d look quizzically back at him. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he’d shrug. “It’s just that… I don’t know… my wife doesn’t always get it, you know? Sex… Well… Sherry’s kind of oblivious….”

“Tell me about it,” I’d respond, my heart pounding out through my chest. “I hear you, dude.”

He’d sigh and push away, leaning into the back of his bar stool, relaxing. “You too? God, I thought I was the only guy who felt this way.”

This is exactly what I wanted to hear. I’d sigh too, and say, “I think it’s more prevalent than you realize.”

“Really?” His eyes would open more. Then he’d become pensive. He’d lean forward and put an arm (a huge one) on the bar and say, “I wonder how many married guys jerk off as much as I do.”

A long, soft stroke. God my cock was ready to explode.

“Shit,” I’d say, “Dude, you’re not the only one. There’s something only my hand can do for me. Cheryl has good intentions, but really, she just doesn’t get it.”

“You too?!” he’d smile. “God, I thought I was the only one. Sherry is, well… decent… in bed, I guess, but she totally ruins the concept of a blow job. I’ll be honest with you, Jason. I’d much rather jack myself off. A lot more pleasurable. Don’t tell anyone that, of course.”

“Oh, I was planning on putting a notice in the paper, bud,” I’d smirk.

A roaring laugh, and that killer smile would make me nearly swoon.

I increased the rhythm of my stroking. God, I loved how big, thick and long I was. This was heaven. This was Emery stroking me now.

Emery would then look at me seriously. He’d hesitate. “Okay, just between you and me… have you ever…” He’d stop himself. “Nah, I can’t ask that. Never mind.”

“Have I ever what, man?”

“Nothing. It’s a weird question.”

“Emery, we’ve already admitted to each other some pretty personal and private stuff. Out with it.”

My hand moved faster and harder, traversing my long, thick cock like there was no tomorrow.

He’d lean close. “Okay, I think I can trust you.” He’d look around the bar to make sure no one was listening, then lean back into me. “Have you ever…” He’d hesitate again. “Oh hell, you’re going to think I’m out of my gourd.. a perv.”

“No. I promise I won’t,” I’d assure him. “This conversation is strictly between the two of us, man.” Come on dude, out with it.

“Have you ever… gotten head from someone other than your wife?”

I’d frown, feigning ignorance as to what I really wanted him to be meaning. “Well, sure,” I’d say. “Before I got married….”

“No, I mean since then.” Another check of the bar, for stray ears. “You know, on the down-low.”

My hand slowed, and opened up. I tickled my twitching cock with my fingertips in a slow, erotic stroke.

I’d give a slight smile. My eyes would move back and forth slowly, as I’d think for my answer. “Well, to be honest, no.” The guy was obviously getting pretty suggestive, and hell—I really wanted to know what he meant by “down-low.” Did he just mean secretively? or did he know the other connotation that suggests man-on-man encounters that is often attributed to the black community? But I had replied honestly. I had never hooked up with anyone—certainly not female—since I’d been married. “But given the opportunity, I’d have to say that I’d be… curious, at least. Like I said, Cheryl just doesn’t get it.”

He’d chuckle and relax, obviously pleased that I wasn’t judging him. “Yeah.”

A resumption of full-on stroking now. God I loved where this imaginary conversation was going.

“Have you?” I’d ask innocently, making sure to provide the perfect amount of curiosity and acceptance in my question.

“Yeah, but not very often,” he’d say.

“Not often enough, I’d guess.”

He’d toss his head back in a loud laugh. The dude had no cavities. God, just perfect teeth. Everything about Emery was perfect.

Faster. More intense stroking. This had never felt so good in my life!

“Dude, you got that right,” he’d say when he was done laughing. “Fuck, I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. I’m sorry man.”

“No, no,” I’d assure him. “Emery,” (I’d love using his name) “I think you and I are a lot alike, man.”

“I mean,” he’d come close and quiet again, “I have special needs, dude. I guess you do too.”

Almost there. My balls churned. They pulled tightly into their sacs, readying. My entire cock tensed.

“Definitely, man.” I’d brazenly give him a wink.

“Okay, just one more question,” he’d say. “And you have to promise you won’t freak out on me.”

“Dude, I think we’re both beyond the point of freaking out about what we’re sharing.”

“I don’t know,” he’d hesitate. “Just… I’ll understand if it bothers you—if you’re not into it, but…”

“You’re killing me man.” He really was. His smile was enough to do that. But add to it all of that physique perfection—and the fact that he was sharing intimate things… with me!

“Okay.” One final glance around to check for people who were too close. This was obviously going to be some kind of bombshell.

I’d momentarily take my eyes off his breathtakingly gorgeous face and examine all those bulging, perfectly-proportioned muscles again.

Faster and faster. I was right on the edge. This was going to be a huge orgasm.

“Okay,” he’d repeat, bringing my eyes back to his. “Have you ever gotten a blow job…” he reduced to a whisper, “…from a gu—“

My cock burst its first blast straight up into the air. It must have squirted up a couple of feet. Long ropes of white cum blasted up in the nearly-dark room. Some of the strings of jizz caught a faint glimmer of the dimmed lights, glistening briefly as it hung in mid-air then dropped, slow-motion, onto my torso and the water. Fuuuuuck.

It took every ounce of self control I could muster to keep from yelling out Emery’s name. My back arched and I blasted out more and more volleys. The water in the tub sloshed and splashed from my body’s uncontrollable jerking. I kept squeezing my cock, stroking and pressing every last drop of semen from myself. It plopped onto my well-defined abs; totally polluted my pubes; dribbled down my now 8-inch long monolith.

I breathed heavily. The clean-up would take a minute or so. I sat up quickly so the floating deposits of jizz wouldn’t find its way onto unknown spots on my body. I scrubbed my pubes clean. I blinked my eyes at the amazing orgasm I’d just had. Possibly the most passionate, lusty, enthusiastic orgasm I’d ever had.

If only that kind of scenario was possible with Emery. Holy, fucking fuck.


[More to cum...]



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© 2018 Sean Reid Scott

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