37: Coach Connally (Houston)

Coach Connally and the outline for this story were developed in collaboration with follower Coach Sal B. The story itself was then written by me. This installment is a testament to the vibrant, hot creativity of Louche Lothario readers. I invite you to celebrate this art by diving into the narrative. If you’re interested in collaborating on your own story, please fill out this form with all your depraved details. Your ideas could inspire Leo’s next steamy adventure.

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This wrestling academy didn’t even exist when I was a kid.

I’m in Houston visiting family and, since I’m here, I thought I’d check in on my old wrestling coach. While he no longer works at my old high school in the Heights, he did apparently start his own academy a few years after I graduated, according to whoever answered the phone at the front desk of my old school.

I ducked through the doorway of the academy, immediately hit by the familiar smell. 

Some things never change. 

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A cluster of college wrestlers and Olympic hopefuls were gathered in the far corner, finishing up some drills while Coach Connally stood watching, arms crossed over his chest.

Coach spotted me and did a double-take. Then a smile broke across his face – that same commanding grin that used to make me straighten my back and puff my chest out.

"Holy shit," I muttered under my breath, finding my back and shoulders had adjusted of their own volition.

Coach Connally looked good. Better than good. At what must be his early 50s by now, he was somehow more impressive than when I'd wrestled for him all those years ago. His olive green shorts showed off quads that looked carved from stone, and his academy-branded tee stretched tight across his chest. The salt-and-pepper hair was cropped even shorter than I remembered, and his mustache was still immaculately trimmed. The man had visible abs, for Christ's sake. Visible abs in his fifties.

Aspirational.

He held up a finger – one minute – and turned back to his fighters. I leaned against the wall, content to wait and watch. The sport, which I played when off-season from football or baseball, held so many memories for me. The countless hours drilling takedowns, the brutal conditioning, the way Coach would stand over us during push-ups, demanding one more set when our arms were already shaking.

Coach Connally finished giving instructions to the team, his voice carrying that same commanding tone I remembered. The academy was stifling – had to be pushing ninety degrees in here. The windows were cracked, but there wasn't even a hint of a breeze. The wall-mounted AC unit sat silent in the corner, a piece of paper taped to it with "OUT OF ORDER" scrawled in thick marker.

"Maintenance keeps promising to fix it," Coach called over, noticing my glance. "Been three weeks now."

"I mean, that's illegal, right?" I replied, only half joking. Coach just laughed.

Sweat poured off him, his gray shirt darkened to charcoal across his chest and under his arms. I was starting to feel it too – my white tee already clinging to my back after just standing here for five minutes.

"Alright, that's it for today. Hit the showers," Coach barked at the wrestlers. 

"Travis, make sure they're out in fifteen," Coach barked at his assistant coach, "Don't let Matthews hog all the hot water again, and see that they exit out the back to the parking lot. I’m locking up the front door over here."

And, about that assistant coach… beefy, muscular, with shaggy blond hair. I could only see him from behind, but damn. I'd like to get a better glimpse of him sometime.

"Aye!" Coach's voice boomed once more as the student athletes followed the assistant coach to the locker room. "Atascocita Academy next week! Y'all ready to slam those dorks?"

The athletes dispersed with a chorus of "YES SIR!" that sent me straight back to high school. Aside from my own father, Coach Connally was the first man I'd ever called 'sir' and meant it. Not out of obligation or politeness, but genuine respect. He'd demanded excellence, and somehow made you want to give it to him.

As he walked over to me, Coach grabbed the back of his soaked shirt and yanked it over his head in a single motion. 

Jesus Christ.

His torso was a topographical map of muscle – pecs, shoulders, and those abs, all gleaming with sweat. He looked like he could still pin half the guys I workout with back in New York.

The smell hit me before he did – that powerful, masculine musk that took me straight back to being seventeen. Raw, salty, primal. My stomach tightened.

"Leo fucking Driskill," he grinned, arms wide. "Get over here, fighter."

Before I could respond, he pulled me into a bear hug, his sweaty chest pressing against mine. His scent enveloped me completely – pit musk, clean sweat, and something distinctly "Coach” that I’d never clocked on another man. My white tee was getting soaked through, and I found myself not caring at all. In fact, I was fighting a completely unexpected rush of arousal.

"Good to see you, Coach," I managed, hoping he wouldn't notice.

Coach Connally stepped back, his hands still gripping my shoulders as he gave me a once-over. His eyes dropped to my torso, lingering there with an appraising glint that made my skin prickle.

"You were always ripped, Driskill, but damn cowboy, you are shredded." He gestured at my midsection. "Look at them abs."

I glanced down and realized my white shirt had gone translucent from sweat, clinging to every ridge and valley of my stomach. Each brick of my core was visible through the soaked fabric, the definition running all the way down until they disappeared into my thin black running shorts – which were just as damp. I hadn't exactly dressed for a reunion, just figured I'd pop in to say hello while I was back in town.

"You're one to talk, Coach." I laughed, shaking my head at the ridiculous physical specimen standing before me. "Your arms are huge, sir. What are they, like 19 inches?" My eyes traveled from his bulging biceps to his carved midsection. "And talking about abs – that gut is impressive."

Coach's chest puffed slightly at the compliment, though he tried to play it cool. He flexed one arm casually, the muscle bunching into a hard peak.

"Eighteen and a half," he corrected with a wink. "And this old gut's seen better days."

That was bullshit and we both knew it. His stomach looked like it belonged on the cover of Men’s Health, not on a wrestling coach pushing retirement age.

"The hell it has," I said. "Bet you've got the best abs of any coach in the circuit."

Coach's reaction was instant and unmistakable – a visible twitch in his olive shorts when I complimented his abs. I caught it, and he knew I caught it.

Fuck, I thought, he's only twenty years older than me. Not exactly ancient. Just a man in his prime who happened to be my former coach.

Standing here in this sweltering room brought it all flooding back – how Coach had molded us into "fighters," not wrestlers. The distinction mattered. Wrestlers followed rules; fighters found every edge, legal or otherwise, to crush their opponents. It wasn't enough to win – Coach wanted us to break them.

I remembered the unofficial team rituals he pretended not to see. The way upperclassmen would pin freshmen and sophomores, then drop their sweaty pits directly over the poor kid's face, forcing them to inhale that worked-up musk until they tapped out from the smell alone. I'd been on both sides of that ritual. The humiliation of having Jake Simmons' armpit pressed against my nose freshman year. The power of doing it to others later.

Coach Connally’s mat rooms had always reeked of testosterone and sweat. The padded walls and floor seemed to absorb years of male exertion, releasing that concentrated jock stink with every impact. Even now in this new location, it was intoxicating.

Coach grinned, slapping my shoulder hard enough to make me wince. "You're still a goddamn charmer, Driskill. Now tell me what brings you back to Houston. I thought you were living the high life in New York?"

My mind flashed back to that defining moment under Coach’s supervision. Junior year, facing off against Evan Teixeira – a scrappy kid with something to prove. I'd been dominating the match, my technique flawless as I racked up points. Evan was getting desperate, his face red with frustration and embarrassment.

Then it happened. 

We were grappling on the mat when Evan broke free and did something completely illegal – drove his fist straight into my gut. Not a glancing blow, but a deliberate, vicious punch that sank deep below my navel. With all my attention on my arms, I hadn't been flexing, hadn't been prepared. His knuckles disappeared into my midsection, compressing my intestines against my spine.

The pain was instant, overwhelming – and unexpectedly electric. It felt like my entire digestive tract had been shoved backward through my body, every loop of my guts displaced by his fist. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. My vision clouded.

And, to my absolute horror, I came. Right there on the mat. An overwhelming wave of pleasure crashed through the pain as my body betrayed me completely.

I tapped out immediately, curling forward and rolling away. 

"You okay, man?" Evan had asked, suddenly concerned his illegal move had done serious damage.

"That was a good punch," I'd groaned, "but it made me nauseous. I need a minute."

Of course I wasn’t nauseous. The lie came easily as I desperately needed to get to the showers.

Coach had seen the illegal punch and my tap-out. He'd approached me cautiously in the locker room afterward, keeping a respectful distance as I licked my wounds. I couldn’t possibly tell him it had made me cum, and it certainly wouldn’t have been appropriate anyway.

Not to be dramatic, but it was a turning point for me and I felt like I suffered alone. Or something.

"You alright, Driskill? That was a nasty hit."

I'd nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "Yeah, Coach. I'm fine."

He hadn't pressed further, just nodded and walked away.

That moment had awakened something in me I'd spent years exploring since.

"Just visiting family," I told Coach now, dragging myself back to the present. "Thought I'd stop by and see if you'd changed."

"Some things never change," Coach replied, his eyes holding mine a beat too long. "And some fighters never forget what they learn on these mats."

Coach Connally wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing as he studied me. "So, Driskill, you still as tough as you were when I trained you?"

Something in his tone made my guts tighten – a challenge layered beneath the casual question, I was sure of it. The room felt even hotter suddenly.

Did the air just get thicker? More humid? Woof.

"No," I replied, meeting his gaze directly. "I'm way tougher these days."

Coach's eyebrows shot up, and a slow smile spread across his face. He took a deliberate step backward, giving himself space to look me up and down properly. His eyes lingered on my midsection again, that same appraising look from earlier, but now with something hungrier behind it.

"Well, well," he said, rolling his shoulders back. "Travis took the guys to the showers. We've got the room to ourselves for at least fifteen minutes."

My pulse quickened. I knew exactly where this was headed.

"What are you suggesting, Coach?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, the movement impressively ballooning his beefy pecs. "I'm suggesting I bet I can get you to tap in five minutes or less."

The proposition rattled around in my head for a moment before I accepted.

"You're on," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Damn right, boy." The words rumbled from deep in his chest.

I reached down and pulled my sweat-soaked shirt over my head, tossing it aside. Now we were both bare-chested, wearing only shorts. The contrast was striking – his salt-and-pepper chest hair against the dark hair of my torso, his weathered, mature muscle against my leaner frame.

Coach's eyes traveled over my exposed abdomen, taking in the definition that years of disciplined training had sculpted. I didn't miss the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth or the way his breathing deepened just a fraction.

Coach extended his hand for a handshake, his arm angled upward so his pit was fully exposed. His musk hit me again – concentrated sweat that had been brewing all day in that wrestling room. My nostrils flared involuntarily, drinking it in.

I reached out, clasping his hand firmly. Our palms pressed together, skin slick with sweat.

"Just like old times, Dris – "

His words cut off as he yanked me forward with shocking strength. In the same fluid motion, his knee drove upward, burying itself deep into my lower belly just above my pubes. The impact was so unexpected, so perfectly placed that I couldn't even gasp. My unprepared six pack blew apart upon impact, his knee driving my guts into my body.

"HUUHH – " The sound that escaped me wasn't even a word, just air forced from my lungs.

Before I could recover, Coach's hand tangled in my hair, fingers gripping tight as he yanked my head up. My body wanted to fold around that first blow, but he wasn't allowing it. He power-walked me backward, my feet stumbling to keep up, until my back hit the padded wall.

"Tougher than you were, fighter?" he growled, and drove his fist straight into my shocked gut – not that I'd flexed to protect myself.

The second punch sank even deeper than the knee had, his knuckles burying directly into the rounded bottom of my belly. His knuckles brutally flattened my bowels, the feeling so intense I grabbed ahold of his bulging, flexed arm as I caught my breath. This motherfucker never wanted to wrestle.

"Fuck – " I wheezed, the word barely audible.

A third punch followed immediately, higher this time, right into the soft pocket above my navel. My knees buckled slightly as my guts seemed to liquify under his fist.

"The amount of abuse you can take…" Coach began before plowing a fourth punch through my bowels, "…astounds me."

I couldn't answer. My mouth hung open as I panted, as Coach Connally drove another into me. His cock was already hard in those olive shorts, gutpunching a former student with zero reservations, zero mercy.

"Goddamn, Driskill," he said, admiration clear in his voice as I remained standing despite the assault. "You're as tough as you ever were. Tougher, maybe."

The next blow came without warning. Coach drove an uppercut directly into my solar plexus, his knuckles finding that vulnerable hollow just below my sternum. The punch was so powerful it immediately doubled my chest over, Connally's fist compressing my diaphragm.

He punched a sound out of my lungs that I didn't recognize. My legs nearly gave out as I slumped against the padded wall. My diaphragm, guts, stomach, liver – all felt like they had been rearranged within my body, crushed and flattened by his knuckles.

Coach caught me before I could slide down the wall, one hand gripping my shoulder to keep me upright. His eyes dropped to my shorts, where my own cock was pressed against the fabric of my shorts as his had been for some time already.

"Well, well," he murmured, pressing his body against mine. The weight of him pinned me to the wall, enclosing me as I fought for breath. "Some things never change, indeed."

I still couldn't speak, could barely breathe. His face was inches from mine, his musky pits overwhelming me.

"You know, I remember that day," Coach said, his voice rumbling like gravel. "When Teixeira punched a load right out of you on my wrestling mat."

My eyes narrowed on Connally's gaze. He'd known?

"Didn't say anything 'cause you were a minor," he continued, one hand still firmly on my shoulder, the other resting against the wall beside my head. "But I saw. And I always wondered in the back of my mind if you grew up to seek it out."

His eyes held mine, searching. "I knew you'd be a tough son-of-a-bitch, Driskill. Most fighters would've been hurt by that punch, would've complained, maybe even quit. But you?" He shook his head as he chuckled.

I caught my breath gradually, still pinned against the wall by Coach's solid frame. When I finally straightened up, I couldn't help but smirk.

"You know who could always get me to tap, aside from that one time with Evan?" I asked, voice still slightly strained. "Beau Travis."

Coach's eyebrows raised slightly.

"After that time with Evan, Beau and I used to train together at his place," I continued. "He'd usually win, but I made damn sure he never walked away without an ache in his guts."

I chuckled softly, remembering those sweaty sessions, mostly in Beau's garage. "He had this way of catching me off-guard, getting in under my defenses. But man, the noises I could punch out of him when he wasn't ready..."

A knowing smile spread across Coach Connally's face. "Beau Travis, yeah?" he asked, smiling.

I nodded.

"Well," Coach drawled, "did you get a look at my assistant coach?"

I glanced toward the locker room and coach office as the pieces clicked together. That muscular back, the shaggy blond hair…

"Wait – that was Beau?" I stammered.

Coach nodded, his grin widening. "Got his girlfriend pregnant right after senior year. Declined the Princeton scholarship. Stayed local, took his athletic scholarship to Rice instead." He shrugged. "Coached wrestling privately for a few years after college, then came back here to work with me about five years ago."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Never saw his face."

The memories flooded back – Beau's powerful arms pinning me down, his belly softening as I drove my fist into it, the way he'd groan and then immediately retaliate with twice the force.

"He's married now. Two kids," Coach added. "Still built like a brick shithouse though."

My mind raced with the implications. Beau was here. In this building. Right now. The same Beau who'd pinned me to the mat countless times, who'd discovered the same thing about my gut that Evan had – and who'd discovered the same thing about his own gut – but had the good sense to keep it between us.

"Is he still – "

Coach Connally, apparently done with small talk, cut me off with an uppercut that came out of nowhere. His fist drove deep into the center of my belly, knuckles disappearing into the thick beef above my navel. The blow folded me in half, forcing all of the air from my lungs in a violent rush.

"OOH – " 

My cheek smacked forward into Coach's wet, sweaty pecs as I doubled over. His scent enveloped me completely as I groaned against his chest, my face pressed into the hard muscle. My intestines felt like they'd been shoved up into my ribcage, compressed and flattened.

"Still what?" Coach taunted, grabbing a fistful of my hair to pull my face up.

Coach's fist was still buried in my belly, grinding his knuckles deeper into my bowels. I could feel them shifting inside me, compressed, flattened and sliding against his knuckles. My six pack had long given up any pretense of protection – I'd gone completely slack, letting him in as deep as he wanted.

"You holding up, boy?" Coach asked, his voice husky. Sweat dripped from his salt-and-pepper hairline, splashing onto my chest.

I lifted my gaze to answer, mouth opening – 

His other fist powered upward in a brutal uppercut that crashed into my solar plexus. His knuckles found the spot just beneath my sternum where my diaphragm had nowhere to hide. All of the air evacuated my lungs in an instant.

UGH – 

My legs buckled completely this time. I would have collapsed if not for Coach's fist, still buried in my midsection, somehow holding me upright through my gut. My arms shot forward instinctively, fingers wrapping around his sweaty, slick biceps for support. The muscles beneath my grip were like warm steel, flexed and solid.

As I folded over his arm, I pressed my face into his armpit. The concentrated musk hit me like another punch – raw and overwhelming. My head swam with it as I struggled to find air. Coach's pit stink filled my nostrils, my mouth, coated my face and the back of my throat in equal measure. I could taste him.

"Look at you," Coach murmured, his voice a low rumble above me. "Still taking it. Still wanting more."

He wasn't wrong. Despite the pain – or because of it – my shorts were tented obscenely. My cock throbbed against the fabric, harder than it had been in months.

Coach slowly withdrew his fist from my gut, letting me sag against the wall. He studied me with an appraising eye, taking in my heaving chest, my sweat-slicked torso, the way my abs contracted involuntarily as I tried to regain control.

"One more?" he asked, almost tenderly.

I knew this punch would be the one to end me. The finisher. The blow that would crumple me to the mat.

But God help me, I wanted it.

I slowly unfolded my body, pressing my shoulders flat against the padded wall. I lifted my chest, rotated my pelvis backward, and let my belly hang completely loose – offering him the most vulnerable target possible. My intestines, already battered, felt heavy and exposed as I presented my gut to him.

I nodded once, maintaining eye contact.

Coach's expression settled. He took a half-step back, measuring the distance. Then his arm drove his iron fist forward, driving his knuckles brutally deep into my lower belly, just above my pubes. His knuckles disappeared into my soft, hanging lower gut, smashing my deepest bowels into my spine.

A moan escaped me as I was dangerously close to cumming right there in my shorts, in front of my old coach, from nothing but his fist in my guts.

"Goddamn, boy," Coach said, stepping back to admire his handiwork as I slumped against the wall. "I have always admired how tough your guts are. Those abs are rock hard, but I really gotta hand it to you for being able to take what you can without their protection, straight into your guts."

I braced myself against the wall as my insides practically slowly settled back into place. Coach's punches had thoroughly scrambled my guts, leaving me simultaneously wrecked and aroused.

"Thanks," I managed, wiping sweat from my forehead. "So... Beau's your assistant coach now? How's that working out?"

Coach grinned, flexing his punching hand absently. "Beau and I have grown really close. He's a nice guy, great wrestler, fantastic fighter." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But he really does only seem to know how to fight and how to fuck."

I laughed despite my aching gut. That sounded like the Beau I remembered.

"He's also pretty cocky and arrogant sometimes," Coach continued, "could use a reality check from time to time." His eyes gleamed with mischief. "So I'll sometimes sucker punch him in the belly, completely out of the blue."

My eyebrows shot up. "No shit? How does he respond to that?"

Coach's expression turned almost dreamy as he recalled it. "Beau's got this beefy, muscular body, right? All that power. But man..." He made a fist, looking at it appreciatively. "Every time that boy needs a reality check, my sucker punches plow into his guts."

Coach demonstrated the motion, a short, powerful uppercut. "I catch him when he's relaxed, usually mid-sentence about something he's bragging about. My fist just... bam. And the sound he makes – " Coach closed his eyes briefly. "This deep, wildly sexy grunt, like, 'OOF!' Then he doubles over, every time."

I shifted against the wall, my own gut clenching at the mental image of Beau – now fully grown, muscular and confident – folding around Coach's fist.

"But the thing about Beau," Coach continued, "he always recoups quickly. Always has. And then he straightens up, still catching his breath, and gives me a fuckin’ smirk. Like he's saying 'That all you got?' without saying a word."

A noise echoed from the office at the far end of the wrestling room – metallic clanging, like someone rummaging through equipment.

Coach's head snapped toward the sound. "Who's in there?" he called out, his voice bouncing off the padded walls.

The office door creaked open, and a blond head poked out. "Just me, Coach. Looking for those new – "

Beau Travis froze mid-sentence, his eyes locking onto mine. Even from across the room, I could see the shock of recognition wash over his face.

"Oh shit?" he breathed, pushing the door fully open. "Is that Leo Driskill?"

He started toward us, then stopped abruptly, his gaze darting between Coach and me – taking in our bare chests, the sweat glistening on our skin, my disheveled hair. Understanding dawned on his face.

Without hesitation, Beau grabbed the hem of his own shirt and yanked it over his head, revealing a torso that was even more impressive up close than it had been from behind. The years had been good to him – his chest and shoulders had filled out substantially since high school, muscle covered with a light dusting of golden hair.

He sauntered toward us, the same cocky, golden retriever energy I remembered, but with the solid weight of a man now.

"Well, well," Beau drawled, stopping a few feet away. "What've we got going on here?" His eyes traveled from Coach to me, lingering on my midsection with obvious interest.

"Just catching up with an old fighter," Coach replied casually.

Beau's gaze narrowed as he noticed the redness blooming across my abdomen – hot splotches that suggested a story. He pointed at my belly.

"Your abs are looking pretty red there, Leo," he observed, his voice dropping slightly. "Coach been giving you some love?"

Coach Connally chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Turns out Beau's not the only one who needs some knuckles in his guts from time to time."

Beau's eyebrows shot up, and that familiar smirk – the one I'd seen countless times before he'd try to take me down – spread across his face. "Is that right?"

"You got fucking ripped, man," Beau said, eyes sweeping appreciatively over my torso. "You were lean back in the day, but damn – you're diamond-cut now."

I laughed, returning the once-over. "Yeah, and you're built like a fucking tank these days." I gestured at his broad chest, the thick arms, the solid core. "The guys you coach must be terrified of you."

Beau grinned, absently running a hand across his abs. "They should be."

We stood there for a moment, sizing each other up like we used to before matches – except this time, the tension wasn't just competitive.

"Jesus Christ," Coach Connally interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I want you two homos to fight for top for me."

Beau and I both turned to stare at him, momentarily stunned by his bluntness. Coach's expression remained completely serious, though a glint of something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

"What?" I managed.

"You heard me," Coach replied, crossing his arms over his chest again. "Y'all aren't students anymore. Y'all are grown fucking men. You two are gonna fight for top and I'm gonna ref it."

I glanced at Beau, who was watching me with that familiar cocky smirk – the one that had always made me want to wipe it off his face. But now I understood there were multiple ways to accomplish that.

"Unless you're scared," Beau taunted, his voice low and challenging.

"Fuck off, Travis," I shot back with a taunting smirk.

Coach stepped between us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. His grip was firm, authoritative. "Rules are simple," he said. "First man to get the other's shoulders pinned for three seconds wins. Winner gets to – " he paused, his mustache twitching with amusement, " – decide what happens next."

Beau extended his hand toward me, that insufferable smirk still plastered across his face. "Just like old times?"

I clasped his hand firmly, feeling the familiar calluses against my palm. His grip was stronger than I remembered, his hand larger. We weren't boys anymore.

"Not quite like old times," I replied, holding his gaze.

We circled each other on the mat, neither making the first move. Beau's eyes never left mine, his body coiled with potential energy. The sweat gleamed on his shoulders, highlighting every curve of muscle.

"So what are the actual rules here, Coach?" Beau called out, not breaking our circling dance.

Coach Connally leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his inflated pecs, that dangerous glint still in his eyes. "No rules. Beat each other down until one of you taps out. Get to it, fuckers."

Beau's eyebrows shot up, and a slow grin spread across his face. "No rules?"

"You heard the man," I replied, matching his smile with one of my own.

Nearly fifteen years had passed since we'd last faced off like this, but my body remembered his patterns, the way he shifted his weight before attacking.

He lunged forward, and just like that, we were back where we'd left off all those years ago.

Beau and I collided like freight trains, our bodies slamming together with a wet thud of thick, sweaty muscle. His arms locked around my waist as he tried to take me down, but I sprawled backward, my feet digging into the mat for leverage. We were both breathing hard already, the warm humidity in the wrestling room making each gulp of air feel like breathing hot coffee.

"Still quick," Beau grunted, his biceps bulging as he adjusted his grip.

I broke free with a twist, circling him again. "Still predictable," I shot back.

Beau's chest heaved, sweat already pouring down the valley between his pecs. His golden hair was darkening at the temples, plastered to his forehead. That cocky grin never left his face.

"Predictable?" he taunted, feinting left before launching a right hook straight into my gut.

His fist connected with my abs, which I'd flexed just in time. The impact still drove the air from my lungs, but I held my ground, absorbing the blow.

"That it?" I wheezed, genuinely enjoying the burn spreading through my midsection.

I countered with a quick jab to his solar plexus. Beau hadn't braced – his gut gave way beautifully, my knuckles sinking into the soft meat beneath his sternum. His eyes widened as he folded slightly, a strangled "OOF" escaping his lips.

God, I'd missed that sound.

We grappled across the mat, trading positions. His shoulder slammed into my chest, driving me backward, but I hooked my leg behind his and sent us both crashing down. We rolled, muscles straining, each fighting for dominance.

I managed to get on top, straddling his waist. Without hesitation, I drove my fist down into his exposed belly. Beau's abs were relaxed – he'd been focusing on my shoulders – and my punch sank deep, disappearing into his gut. His soft, unguarded intestines sloshed like liquid under my knuckles, a satisfying feeling I'd never forgotten.

"Fuck!" he groaned, his face contorting in pain and – unmistakably – pleasure.

Beau bucked beneath me, using his superior weight to throw me off. As I tumbled sideways, he caught me with an elbow to the face. Pain exploded across my cheekbone, and I tasted copper as my lip split.

"Sorry," he muttered, not sounding sorry at all.

"Do it again," I taunted, spitting blood onto the mat.

We circled again, both breathing hard now. Coach watched silently from the wall, his face settled with focus.

Beau lunged, but I was ready. I sidestepped and slammed my fist into his exposed ribs, then followed with an uppercut that caught him square in the navel. His belly compressed around my fist, and I felt his guts shift inside him to the will of my knuckles as a primal groan that escaped him.

He staggered back, one hand briefly touching his stomach before he recovered. Blood trickled from his nose where I must have caught him with a glancing blow earlier.

"You hit harder than you used to," he said, wiping the blood with the back of his hand.

"You take it better," I countered.

We clashed again, our bodies slick with sweat, sliding against each other as we fought for control. His muscles were thick and warm against my body and beneath my fingers – bigger than mine, but I was faster and more precise.

As I came out from his hold, Beau caught me with a vicious cross to my unprotected belly. I hadn't seen it coming, and my abs were mostly slack as I focused on what my own next move would be. His fist plowed into my gut, catching me above the navel, nearly doubling me over.

"UGH," I gasped, but didn't go down.

I saw my opening. As Beau moved in to capitalize, I suddenly drove forward, lowering my shoulder and plowing it deep into his midsection. The impact was brutal – my shoulder buried itself in his soft belly, driving through his bowels.

Beau grunted hard as my shoulder smashed his guts into his body. His feet left the ground as I lifted and drove him backward. We crashed to the mat together, Beau flat on his back, me on top.

Before he could recover, I locked his arms with my legs and positioned myself over his exposed torso. His belly heaved beneath me as he breathed, vulnerable and open.

I pulled my fist back so hard that I flexed my shoulder blades before driving the punch down with everything I had. It sank so deep into his exposed liquid muscle gut I felt his spine beneath my knuckles – a solid stop upon my fist entering his sloshable bowels. Beau convulsed upon impact, his mouth opening as if to shout, but no air was left in his tough body to produce a sound.

The second punch was even more brutal, targeting the same spot. His abs were remarkably still unflexed, though I'm unsure if that was on purpose or due to shock or something. Like the first, the second punch immediately knuckle-tapped the assistant coach's spine through his intestines.

The third was the finisher – a twisting uppercut into his lower belly that practically sloshed all his bowels from the lower region of his belly to the upper region. I felt everything in his gut give way beneath my fist.

Beau's hands frantically broke free from my hold, immediately cradling his devastated midsection. His abs flexed hard beneath my knuckles now, far too late to protect what I'd already rearranged inside him.

He tapped the mat frantically, panting for breath.

I rolled off him, my own body aching beautifully. Coach rose from where he'd been kneeling at the edge of the mat, his face flushed with excitement. He began to clap – slow, deliberate applause that echoed through the wrestling room.

"Goddamn," Coach said reverently. "That was beautiful."

I extended my hand to Beau, who was still on his back, cradling his midsection. He took it with a grimace, and I pulled him to his feet. His other arm remained wrapped protectively around his gut.

"Jesus Christ," Beau wheezed, standing hunched over. "Those last three punches... fucking brutal, man." He shook his head in disbelief. "My guts feel like they got put in a blender."

I smirked, still catching my own breath. "Sorry. No holds barred, right?" I wiped sweat from my face and blood from my lip. "Besides, you landed some solid shots yourself. That cross to my gut? Nearly took my legs out, bro. My guts still hurt."

Beau managed a pained laugh, finally straightening up. He extended his hand again, this time for a proper handshake. "Good fight."

"Alright, alright," Coach Connally interrupted, stepping between us. "Remember what I said? You two were fighting for top."

I looked at Beau, then back at Coach, and chuckled. "I thought you were talking shit. Beau's straight. He's married with kids."

Coach's hand shot out, grabbing Beau by the back of the neck. His fingers dug into the muscle there, possessive and commanding. "Beau is whatever I say he is. Aren't you, Travis?"

Beau's expression darkened, his face shifting from pain recovery to something… different. There's something here I hadn't picked up on before. Something that must have bloomed between them over their last five years working together, always around each other with their pumped up bodies, testosterone, and sweat. Beau didn't resist Coach's grip – if anything, he leaned into it.

"Yes, sir," Beau replied, his voice dropping an octave as he smiled at me, as if he were letting me in on the secret.

My cock throbbed in my shorts again. The dynamic between them was suddenly clear.

"Yeah, okay,” I said, holding back how eager I was. “Drop the shorts, Beau," I commanded, deciding to test my newfound authority.

Beau's hands moved to his waistband, but Coach held up a finger, wagging it slowly.

"I may have misspoken earlier," Coach said with a sly grin. "You weren't fighting for who gets to top. You were fighting to see who would lose." He nodded toward Beau. "You won, Leo. So Beau here is gonna bottom – but he's getting fucked by me, not you."

I felt a rush of disappointment…

…quickly replaced by a different kind of excitement.

If I couldn't fuck Beau myself...

"Well then," I said, matching Coach's smirk with one of my own, "if I'm not fucking your assistant coach, I'll have to watch you fuck him while I punch his guts some more."

Beau's expression perked up, his lips parting slightly. A visible shudder ran through his muscular frame.

"Fuck," Beau whispered with a grin as he adjusted his cock in his shorts.

Coach Connally grabbed Beau by the hips, yanking his ass backward until it pressed firmly against his groin. In one swift motion, he ripped Beau's shorts down, exposing the assistant coach’s muscular ass and freeing his hard dick. Beau's back glistened with sweat as Coach dropped his own olive shorts, revealing a cock that made my eyebrows shoot up. The man was massive – thick and veined, jutting forward like it had its own gravitational pull.

Jesus Christ, I thought. Glad I won, for more than one reason.

"Bend over," Coach ordered, shoving Beau's upper body forward. Beau complied immediately, folding at the waist until his ass was perfectly positioned in front of Coach's cock.

I circled around them, taking in the scene from different angles. Beau's face was flushed, eyes pleading with anticipation. Coach, an exhibitionist, I guess, caught my gaze and smirked, clearly enjoying having an audience.

Coach spat into his palm, a thick glob that he then smeared across Beau's exposed hole. Beau shivered at the contact, his muscular back rippling. Coach spat again, this time rubbing the saliva along the length of his own cock until it glistened in the fluorescent light.

"You want it, Travis?" Coach asked, his voice dropping to a growl as he readied himself.

"Yes, sir," Beau replied.

"I'm gonna go slow," Coach murmured, pressing the head of his cock against Beau's ass. "Just like I always do. Feel that?"

Beau moaned deeply as the head breached him. "Fuck, Coach – "

"Breathe through it," Coach instructed, sliding in another inch. "That's it. Relax. Open up for me."

Beau's hands clutched his own calf muscles, his knuckles whitening as Coach continued to push forward. A long, guttural groan escaped him as Coach's thick shaft disappeared inch by inch inside him.

"Ohh, yeah. Almost there," Coach said, his own breathing becoming labored. "Take all of me. You got it."

With a final push, Coach buried himself to the hilt. Beau's entire body shuddered, an animalistic sound of pleasure ripping from his throat.

"Good boy," Coach praised, gripping Beau's hips tightly.

He began to move, pulling back before driving forward again. Beau's moans grew louder with each thrust, his body rocking with the force of Coach's movements.

"Fuck," Beau gasped. "You're so fucking big – "

I stood in front of them, my cock straining against my shorts as I watched Coach's massive shaft disappear into Beau's ass. My body felt like it was physically vibrating with arousal, sweat trickling down between my pecs and abs in the stifling heat of the wrestling room.

"Pull him up," I commanded, surprising myself with my own boldness. "I want his belly."

Coach paused mid-thrust, eyebrows raised at receiving an order. For a moment, I thought he might tell me to fuck off – but then his mustache shifted with amusement.

"You heard the man," Coach growled, wrapping one muscular arm around Beau's throat.

In one fluid motion, Coach yanked Beau upright, pulling Beau's back nearly flush against Coach's own sweaty chest while remaining buried inside Beau's ass. Beau's mouth hung open, eyes glazed with pleasure, blood dried over his mouth and chin from our match. His muscular torso was now fully exposed, his sweaty belly vulnerable and on display for me.

"Fuck," Beau panted, his voice ragged. His belly heaved with each breath, sweat pouring down the valleys between his muscles.

"Leo... come on…" Beau invited.

I stepped closer, the musk of their bodies – groins and pits alike – washing through my senses. Coach's pits were dripping with sweat. Beau's golden hair was plastered to his forehead, his own armpits gleaming wet in the fluorescent light.

"Come on?" I asked, trailing my fingers down the center of Beau's heaving torso. "Come on and do what?"

"Punch me," he begged, his abs flexing and relaxing with each of Coach's slow, deliberate thrusts. "Punch me while he's inside me."

I locked eyes with Coach over Beau's shoulder. Coach nodded once, tightening his grip around Beau's throat just enough to arch his back further, presenting his belly to me like an offering as Beau groaned.

"Make it count," Coach growled, his hips beginning to move again, slowly at first.

I cocked my fist back, gently shaking it as if presenting it to Beau. Beau's eyes were locked on mine, then on my fist, then back on my eyes. His abs relaxed completely, surrendering to whatever I planned to deliver.

"Do it," Beau whispered. "Fucking do it."

I placed my knuckles against Beau's midsection, feeling the thick muscular wall of his abdomen. Despite the strength evident beneath my fist, his belly remained fully relaxed and pliant, completely yielding to my touch. The position Coach had him in – back arched, throat captured in that headlock – pulled his torso into a beautiful, vulnerable curve. His abs were defined but not solid, the golden trail of hair running down his center glistening with sweat. The skin was hot, almost feverish, red, and stretched taut across muscle that entirely gave way under pressure.

His navel, a shallow divot surrounded by that wet, golden fur, practically beckoned my fist. The lower part of his belly, where his intestines lay packed beneath the muscle, pulsed slightly with each of Coach's thrusts from behind. His gut was magnificent – powerful yet yielding, a perfect canvas suspended between Coach's arm and cock.

"So hot," I muttered, tracing the contours of his abdomen. 

I stepped back, cocked my arm, and drove an uppercut directly into the center of Beau's exposed belly, directly above his navel. My knuckles sank in with a dull thud – not the liquid slosh of earlier punches. With his back arched so severely, there was nowhere for his guts to move. The impact transmitted pure, concentrated pain straight through his trapped intestines and into his spine.

"UGH – " Beau choked, the sound strangled by Coach's forearm across his throat. His eyes bulged, face reddening as he struggled for air.

I delivered another uppercut to the same spot. Another hollow thud. Another ramming of the guy's exposed innards from the front, as Coach, deviously grinning, continued to thrust from the back.

"FUCK – " Beau gasped, drool pooling in the corners of his mouth. "Lower... please."

I paused, my fist ready for another strike.

"Lower?" I asked, trailing my fingers down to the soft area just above his groin.

"Yeah," Beau begged, his voice cracking in the headlock. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. "Right there. Fuck, please punch me there."

Tears welled in his eyes, not from pain but from the sheer overwhelm of sensations. His body trembled between Coach's thrusts and my touch. A single tear ran down Beau's face as I circled my knuckles around Beau's lower belly.

I took a step back, wound up, and drove my fist forward with brutal precision. My knuckles slammed into the soft, unprotected meat of Beau's lower belly, just above his swinging cock. The impact was perfect – deep and invasive, my fist disappearing into his bowels as it compressed his intestines, bladder, and prostate against his spine.

"AAAUGH – FUCK!" Beau howled, his entire body responding to the shot to his bowels. His head thrashed forward, eyes rolling upward as his mouth fell open in a pant. His cock jerked violently, precum beginning to leak from the tip.

But it wasn't pain in his voice – it was ecstasy. Pure, unfiltered pleasure that, for all I could tell from the look on Beau's face, bordered on religious experience.

"Oh fuck," Beau gasped when he could speak again. "Right there – right there – "

Coach's expression widened behind Beau, his rhythm faltering momentarily as he processed Beau's reaction. A grin spread beneath the mustache.

"Hit him harder," Coach commanded, tightening his headlock on Beau's throat. "Fuck him up, Driskill. Look how much he wants it."

Beau whimpered in agreement, his abs going completely slack again as he offered himself up. "Yeah," he begged, voice cracking, "do it."

I pulled my arm back further this time, twisting my body to generate maximum torque. My second punch drove even deeper into Beau's lower gut – a crushing blow that folded the athlete's bowels around my knuckles like soft dough.

Beau's reaction was instantaneous and violent. A strangled cry tore from his throat as his legs buckled. Only Coach's arm and cock kept him upright as his body tried to collapse.

"Oh, FUCK yeah!" Coach bellowed, his voice echoing off the padded walls like a man possessed, as if shouting out a Sunday sermon. His eyes were wild as he shouted at me, "Do that again! Right there – same spot."

Coach's voice dropped to a more reverent level as he leaned forward, his lips almost touching Beau's ear as he addressed me. "I felt that one. I felt his fucking guts shift against my cock. I felt your punch from inside him."

Beau groaned loudly while nodding his head, but didn't say a single intelligible word.

The thought of my fist's impact transmitting through Beau's bowels directly to Coach's cock was almost enough to make me whip out my own cock and jack off right then.

"You want more?" I asked Beau, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears.

"Uh-huh," Beau groaned, completely surrendered between us.

I unleashed.

My third punch slammed into the same vulnerable spot, just above his groin where his bowels had nowhere to hide. My knuckles disappeared completely, compressing his gut with brutal force.

"UNNGH – " Beau's eyes rolled back, his mouth falling open as he panted through it.

"Fuck!" Coach gasped, his rhythm stuttering. "I can feel it – I can feel everything – "

The fourth punch drove in harder, my fist practically flattening his bowels so deeply, I was surprised I didn't feel Coach's hard cock against my knuckles.

"GOD – " Beau wailed, drool running down his chin.

Coach's hips jerked erratically. "Don't stop – don't fucking stop – "

Fifth punch. Sixth. Seventh. Each one as powerful as the last, flattening Beau's loose lower guts into Coach's hard cock. Beau's involuntary guttural grunts that I punched out of him blended with Coach's growls of approval.

I locked eyes with Beau as I wound up for another blow. Sweat poured down his golden torso, his loose belly inflating and relaxing with each ragged breath.

Beau, seeing me pull back for the next punch, consciously relaxed his abs in anticipation. My groin swelled as I watched his abdominal definition fade and his guts swell as the muscle fell away and gravity did its work.

I cocked my arm back, twisted my hips, and drove forward with another powerful punch into Beau's arched lower guts. Again, my fist plowed through the loose surface tension of his belly, smashing his bowels down into Coach's cock.

Beau's legs convulsed. His mouth parted with a deep groan as his cock erupted untouched, thick ropes of cum shooting across the wrestling mat. His stomach muscles contracted and relaxed rapidly around my knuckles, his intestines aching as Coach and I forced the cum from him.

"FUCK – YES – " Coach roared, his rhythm faltering as Beau's ass clenched around him. "I'm fucking cumming – FUCK – "

Coach's head fell back, neck corded with strain as he slammed into Beau. His entire body went rigid, muscles locking as he emptied himself inside his assistant coach with a guttural groan that echoed through the wrestling room.

For a moment, we were frozen there – Beau's beaten and used body suspended between us, impaled front and back.

Like a gutpunch fetishist's Eiffel Tower…?

Then Coach abruptly released his headlock and pulled out, shoving Beau forward with unexpected force.

Beau rolled and hit the floor on his back, his body landing on the mat with a heavy thud. His substantial frame landed hard, his muscular limbs sprawling across the padded surface. The impact sent ripples through his thick pecs and shoulders – not the soft jiggle of fat but the dense, fluid movement of relaxed muscle.

His pecs quivered with each panting breath, the meaty slabs shifting like heavy plates beneath his skin. Even his abs – those defined blocks that had been so vulnerable to my fists – undulated subtly with each exhale, the musculature loose and pliant in his post-orgasmic state.

Beau lay sprawled on the mat, eyes closed and arms outstretched like a golden sacrifice. His body heaved with each deep breath. I watched the rise and fall of his beaten gut.

Coach Connally walked over to where Beau lay, seemingly in no hurry to get dressed. Without any warning, he lifted his foot and dropped his heel like dead weight unceremoniously onto the center of Beau's exposed belly, right across his navel. The weight of Coach's foot immediately fell deep into Beau's intestines, sloshing his soft muscle gut and forcing a startled grunt from the assistant coach – OOF! Fuck… – followed by a deep, drawn-out, appreciative moan.

Beau didn't even try to flex his abs to protect himself, instead keeping his belly yielding completely around Coach's foot as it pressed his loose guts down into the mat.

Coach's toes curled slightly, digging deeper into Beau's abdomen as Beau moaned again. The sight was obscene and perfect – Coach standing victorious, his foot claiming ownership of Beau's gut while Beau just lay there taking it, a dopey, satisfied grin spreading across his face.

With his foot still buried in Beau's guts, Coach extended his hand toward me. I took it, feeling the lingering strength in his grip.

"Good to see you again, Driskill," he said, smiling. "Want to hit the showers?"

I glanced down at Beau, who was looking up at me through glazed eyes, still panting slightly. He smirked despite the foot in his gut, and I couldn't help but smirk back. The thought of his sweat, his moans, and his complete surrender would fuel my fantasies for months.

I turned back to Coach, shaking my head.

"Thanks, but I should head back to my hotel. Going to jack off to all this pit musk that rubbed off on me." I inhaled deeply, the combined scent of both men still thick in my nostrils, and then lifted my arm and smelled my own pit. "It's like I took a fucking bath in testosterone."

Coach's mustache twitched with amusement. He squeezed my shoulder, his hand leaving a red imprint on my skin.

"Atta boy," he said with genuine approval.

I began walking toward where I dropped my shirt, but stopped and turned on my heel, turning back to where Beau remained under Coach’s foot, catching his breath. I leaned down next to Beau’s face, Coach Connally peering over my shoulder. Beau looked me in the eyes as I knelt down to him, brushing the hair from his face so he could see me clearly.

“Next time,” I said to him, “that ass is mine.”