From: silicondog WARNING: If you are under eighteen or find explicit sexual references offensive and male to male sexuality, read no further. By silicondog@earthlink.net Seven-Eleven A Science Fiction Story by silicondog@earthlink.net Getting up on a stool to stand eye-to-eye with him, I reached towards the release snaps of his helmet. Gingerly (because that helmet is worth about a million dollars, with the radios and screen), I snapped the locks off of his uniform. 7-11 and I have had a fairly stormy history on the team. Before he started, I was the assistant trainer for the team, and he was assigned to me along with some other guys. We took a liking to one another, to our mutual surprise. To me, not only was he not just one more guy in the same locker room I've worked in for years, because he was white (the marketing consultants had made him white, changing their minds at the last minute). For him, he has had a fan club since he was 16, and is just about the hottest digital matrix (what was called a hot body when I was his age) on the Net. He modeled for a line of underwear (which means, of course, that they morphed his body into the underwear image) and no porn site anywhere on the Net is complete unless they have a clip of some porn actor's face morphed onto 7-11's body. Anyway, when he joined the team (on his 19th birthday), 7-11 already had a rep as a "discipline problem." Now jocks with "discipline problems" could be into anything from trashing hotel rooms on up, but with his background (a rather shadowy early childhood featuring genetic engineers, sports marketing consultants and committee-selected parents, all encrypted by lawyers) it was hard to scope out. And the team has a policy against any kind of strong personal loyalty formation, so we were ordered to cool it. I was reassigned; he got the senior team trainer. I was pissed but kept my mouth shut. 7-11 was pissed and did something about it. A kid like 7-11, who got his nickname the day his height was measured as a high school freshman for the WNFL farm team statistical package, does not take frustration internally. Especially a guy whose hormones apparently got boosted along with everything else in his body. The first object of his frustration was a running back who had started a fuck- buddy relationship the momnent the coach had turned his back. At 400 pounds he was a little light for 7-11, but I don't think he minded much as long as he didn't expect the guy to keep up with him in bed. The day after I got reassigned away from him, a scheduled massage/blowjog escalated courtesy of 7-11 into a five hour marathon session, 7-11 on top, that almost jackhammered the guy through the slats of the hotel's bed. He was on the disabled list for a month; the main office just said he had "suffered a training injury." It wasn't until after the episoide in the shower with the quarterback that I was re-assigned to him for good. He had approached the team's quarterback (who was straight six days a week) and with his characteristic subtlety, snuck behind his back to grab the guy, sliding his sixteen-inch weapon between his legs to forklift his 350-pound team-mate right up in the air under the showerhead, hugging his torso and whispered into his ear, "Wanna get it on?" The quarterback, remembering the length of time the defensive end had spent on the disabled list after reviewing the playbook with Seven-Eleven, asked the coach to put me back on my job. "Here we go" I called, to warn him, and pulled the 50-pound helmet off his head. I watched his brown eyes blinking in the first normal light he had seen in hours, and he shook his head after the weight of the helmet was off his head. Short thick black hair in a dense tangled mass, matted with a heavy sweat. Next were the kevlar/plasteel shoulder pads, which he had to help me peel up and over his head; between them and the other pads that Seven-Eleven wears, it totals about ninety pounds. At last he was naked from the waist up, except for the medical monitor on his pec; I carefully peeled it off of his plate of muscle. As usual, he shyly smiled and reached up, his paw holding my hand on his muscle when I rubbed the spot where it had been glued to his body. "Good strong game" I murmured, as he shook his head back, forth, up and down. It's part of our ritual after each game; I'm his third (and longest) trainer/coach, and I learned first thing that this kid does not like certain kinds of surprises. So I knew he wouldn't mind next when I slipped my hands down to his skin-tight trunks. After several tugs I could get my fingers betwween the thick fabric and granite muscles of his belly and hips. Pulling it down over the great tree-trunks of his upper legs, I was hit instantly by a hot odor of come and sweat from his groin protector. I looked up and knew I would find him smiling and blushing, a combination of shyness and conquest. One of 7-11's trademarks (though you sure as hell won't hear about it on ESPN5) is the way he sacks quarterbacks. In his freshman (first and last) year of college, he liked to tear the uniform off the quarterback with one of his hands, especially if he was on the bottom of a pile and the cameras couldn't catch him. He kept whatever part of the uniform he could stash away as a souvenir . In the WNFL, he loved to spook a quarterback he had just nailed by delivering some long, heavy dry humps against his body if they were on the bottom of a pile; often 7-11 blew his load into his protector then and there. You can't see it on camera because of the uniform, but 7-11 told me that the quarterbacks sure as hell know. "One or two, they don't mind at all. Well, yeah, they mind, like, but they're not really freaked out. Shit, once or twice they call me after the game but they can't get through. Last week the guy tried to grab my goods to taste it but he couldn't get his fingers in there in time, you know?" Today I could tell that 7-11 had gotten lucky at least once, probably more; a heavy strong smell and streaking white leakage smeared by his tights over his pubes, belly and upper thighs. While 7-11 opened up a five-gallon jog of protein juice and swilled it down, I tugged and finally snapped off his jock and the kelvar cup, pulling down the come-soaked fabric and plastic, to say hello to about a foot (soft) of cut boner, with two orange-sized balls cuddled between his thighs. Shaking my head (and 7-11 chuckling), I took my time pulling the jockstrap and cup down his long, wide legs. I even watched the company logos on his cup cycle back and forth from one to the other, their timing dictated in 7- 11's contract. Having just chugged down five gallons of nutrient, I watched the tight, locked muscles of his belly ripple under his tanned skin as he started on another. When you're over 200 kilos (or 500 pounds, for you rubes out there), that's a snack. While I was tugging down his smeared jock, he tore the top off of another jug and casually began pouring it down in one fell swoop. I watched the swallowing down his pumping broad neck into huge traps, and I could imagine the protein drink being turned directly into muscle along his chest, the trees of his thighs and biceps without even making it into his stomach. He belched and hit his own belly, a loud hard smack of fist on muscle. Like hitting the front tire of your car, except your care tire's probably softer than 7-11. "Could we hit the steam?" "No prob, my man" I answered, unbuckling my own belt without his help. At least 7-11 lets me do some of the work. We walked into the steam room (his, by contract), me watching the sweaty lumps and mounds of his broad lats grind under the skin, my eyes level with the middle of his back. His butt was smooth curves of bunching muscle, not like the striations and grooves on the ass of professional bodybuilders. It's a "bubble" butt that you could break a basetball bat on. "How's your shoulder healing?" I asked, professionally. He had dislocated his shoulder three games back; he had re-set it himself after the game by wedging his shoulder into a doorway and twisting. His shoulder had snapped back into place. The door frame had snapped in two. "Healed" he purred, reaching with one great arm around me to clamp over my bare torso and lifted, my 240 pounds not even straining the dense muscles of his arm and lats. We walked into the steam this way, me carried by 7-11 in one arm, curled slowly and carefully. We sat side by side in the dim steam, a light tree trunk of thigh draped over my smaller dark leg. He left his heavy arm around my shoulder and I felt my right bicep swallowed by his right hand. He was fascinated with my tattoos; his palm almost completely wrapped around my muscle, a thumb exploring the pattern on my inked skin. I was careful not to fles my bicep in his hand; he gets excited fast and could clamp down, snapping my bone, even under the muscle. "Wow, man, they did that with needles back then?" 7-11 asked, his thumb nail cautiously tracing the gang letters of my bicep. I never had them lasered off like most people do. The tatoos are over thirty years old, but they're my own. They're better than the rodmans the basketball pros have to wear, logo tatoos of advertisers who buy career-lifetime leases on their own skin by the square centimeter. 7-11 could balance the federal budget. "Lean back and arch your neck"I said, watching him continue to work out some kind of cramp in his neck. Reaching down I cradled in my hand one of his heavy balls laying on top of a hairless thigh. Gripping it, I squeezed as hard as I could. On a normal guy, I could crush them; but 7-11's heavy meat was a cannonball, hot and hard. He treated me like a dog when you pet its belly; he just purred and arched his back to rub his head against the wall of the steam. Casually as his head bobbed back and forth, his great arm gently and without effort scooped me up in the air. Thick fingers clamped around my hips and swung me over and around so we were face to face; then he let me down onto his crotch, my body sliding down his come-caked sweaty abs until only his arching cock kept me from sliding down to the floor. I reached out to begin massaging his chest, stroking lightly around the nipples with only my fingernails. Each pec was a two-handed job, and mine couldn't even begin to cover it all. He flexed each pec once at a time, the muscle yielding under my fingers one moment, as tight as statute the next. His great cock felt like a hot steam pipe as I sat, the cheeks of my butt feeling 7-11's pulse along the veins that snaked down heavy, hard muscle. In the dim steam, his eyes were closed and you could barely see the attempt at a fu-manchu moustache trail across his lips. A teenager grows one to reassure himself that his hormones will start working someday. His hard cock contentedly supporting my 240 pounds, I didn't think 7-11 had much to worry along the hormone front. By now you're asking: was I in love with him? It was a weird mix of protective mothering instinct, professional interest (I was his trainer, after all), father-son vintage pride and let's not forget ballcracking lust. Even if this year is 2020, I'm still closing on fifty. To 7-11, it doesn't matter. "Why" he asked, when I talked about it, "why do you think you have to do something about it? You're healthy, right? And you look fine to me" he would add. That's surpising enough, but when we started talking about my tattoos he convinced me of one last thing: he didn't understand racism. Not at all. He looked at color like whether you were right-handed or left-handed. With his design and development (if it had been done by his parents and not genetic engineers, I'd call it upbringing). Naive and, when I first met him, innocent. John F. Kennedy? A president (but he wasn't sure). Malcom X? Denzel Washington before he got into politics. He had learned more about how to read the screen in his helmet than about the world and his size and muscles hadn't given him the strength to start asking questions about himself. He was eager to learn. I was eager to teach.