The locker room is jam-packed, steam from the showers billowing about, boys whipping each other with wet towels, a cacophony of shouting and grunts until Patrick stands on a changing bench and clears his throat, pen and pad in hands.
"Evan Platt?" The room falls silent. A jocky, curly-headed boy stands apart from the crowd, a towel wrapped around his waist. You wait far behind the scene, where nobody can really notice you.
"Ah, yes, Evan," Patrick steps down, "coach needs to talk to you about..." he trails off as all of the boys stare in curiousity, "just follow me." In a swift turn, Patrick darts by into a separate room, grabbing you by the arms and shoving you into a locker full of helmets.
"When I give the word, take the shot." You look down at the camera and suddenly, the locker is shut. Evan walks into the room, Patrick shaking his hand and closing the door behind him. For several minutes, you can only hear muffled speech, a couple gasps, and slowly, Patrick leads Evan to a large bench that sits right before your locker.
"Cheating? How the fuck does Swanzo think I cheated? I earned that medal through the hardest fucking work..." Evan tenses up, his muscles bulging as Patrick tries to calm him, telling him he can fix it if Evan will comply.
"Listen, Evan, I know you, I believe you, it's just, all that talk, it's spread. You know how talk spreads, man." Evan is almost in tears, his fists clenched on the edge of the bench. You observe.
Evan Platt, 5'6", mildly short in some respects, but he makes up for it in a fantastic build; abs, wicked arms, toned legs, his waist pouts out to form a nice, smooth curve that disappears behind the towel; his dark, curly hair still drips with water down his farmer-tanned body, washing down his pecs, his stomach, down to his belly-button where Patrick is gently rubbing in circles and whispering into his ear.
All you can hear are a few phrases.
"...fix it in a day..."
"The front-page..."
"Everybody reads it..."
"...if you just give me one thing."
Evan looks into Patrick's eyes, a nod slowly coming to form. With that, Patrick places a finger on Evan's bottom lip, whispering into his ear from behind him.
"I...am...a faggot..." Evan whispers out, tears slowly meeting with the droplets of water from his hair. Patrick unravels Evan's towel, revealing a massive package drooping over the side of the bench. Patrick begins to suck on Evan's neck, trailing his hands down his body and eventually cupping his balls, massaging them through his fingers. Evan tilts his head back, closing his eyes as the action continues, or out of embarrassment. As Evan's cock begins to gradually grow out of manipulated pleasure, Patrick stands on the bench, Evan's upper-half seated between Patrick's legs.
"Open up," Patrick coos, and begins to unzip his jeans, a thick, long cock appearing, two healthy balls hanging beneath. Dropping his jeans around the back of Evan's head, he slowly descends until his balls are stuffed inside of Evan's mouth, the jock muffled and gagging.
The scene is arranged with expertise; faced in your direction, a towel wrapped around Evan's feet, Patrick's jeans dropped around the jock's neck, the runner gagging and following the journalist's instructions, his hand now reaching up to wrap around Patrick's thick dick.
"Now," Patrick says in a hushed voice, "Beat it", and with that, you know the secret word has been said, and so as cum is being pumped and "beaten", per say, from Patrick's cock onto Evan's face and body, you take the picture, just cropped enough so that Patrick's head is cut at the top, but the rest is prime material.
From the darkness of the locker, you see this and are reminded of the animal kingdom, the food chain, the pyramid of command. Evan, the unfortunate and manipulated prey, pressed between the firm and towering legs of Patrick, his juice flowing down Evan's chin, neck, chest, the signature of his authority. You don't know where Patrick is going with this, and you don't know how he worked Evan into the trap, but you do know that from this distance, observing the scene before you, that fear has beaten Evan, and Patrick knows no fear. On that bench, he is a God of a sort; his legs, shaking with ecstasy, his arms stretched behind his head, his stomach muscles clenching and unclenching, his dick bobbing up and down with cum dripping, and now, his eyes, seemingly staring right at you, straight through the tiny holes of the locker, the predator in a state of almost slow-motion, breathing slowly, watching you, calling to you, .
Unplugging himself from Evan's lips, Patrick steps down and wipes off his privates with the jock's towel. Evan holds onto the bench, gasping for air as tears roll down his face. Patrick begins to pull his jeans up as he utters, "alright, , come on out." Frozen in fear, you hold onto the camera and hesitate.
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