Tags: Gay threesome, oral, coach, modern day magic
*This story involves the use of a magic whistle, which results in hardcore nsa sex between an adult male and teenage guys, and does involve some scenes of incest. If you would rather not read about gay sex (why the fuck are you on this sight then? GTFO.), or it is illegal for you to do so because of your age or ridiculous laws, then I recommend you leave now and go find something else on the internet to do. All the other usual legal disclaimers apply.
**This is my second story to Nifty, but I am trying to practice my writing skills with this story, and really with every story as I go along, so you may notice that I am getting into descriptive paragraphs, trying to let the characters stream of conscious free flowing thoughts fill in on their emotional state and current psyche. I am not great, and I typically don't do a lot of proofreading (so if you find mistakes, let me know) but I normally don't make many truly noticeable grammar mistakes that should interrupt you and jar you from the narrative as you're reading, and I almost never make logic errors in my writings. By logic error I mean where I mix up names of characters or change circumstances, I know I am not the only one who's really into a story, and then notices the author called a character by the wrong name, added a new last name, switched to character's names, or just some other detail that doesn't fit right with the narrative already present. Again though, if you find something let me know, and if you ever want to proofread my stuff before I submit it, email me. I am about to have a lot of free time on my hands, and am looking for a lot of hobbies to fill my time.
***Finally, Nifty is a free story database that we all use to get our jollies off, whether it be a creative outlet to submit our own stories that we would never let the public know we imagine and write, or to just read a hot piece of action, adventure, and a lot of sex. So please, consider donating to nifty so that we can continue to keep this free service it provides and we can keep getting our jollies off.
The Whistle By Mister Dan
Chapter One
"Come on boys! Don't faint on me now!" Barked Coach Johnson at his baseball team as the majority of the players, even his best ones, began to falter and slow down, having been running laps for almost an hour at this point. Coach Johnson was seething, and he knew his players knew it. If he could he would have them run laps until they fainted, dumped water on their sorry asses, and made them get up and run fifty more.
It was all Dinaldi's fault, he knew it, but none of the other players would give him up. Made him pissed and proud at the same time, too bad this wasn't the circumstances to keep ranks. Damn kid couldn't keep his head together if he fucking tried, same as his father and the rest of his father's family. Coach Johnson practically grew up with Mario Dinaldi, he was on first name basis with most of his family, but damn that Italian blood flowed strong in all of them, and especially Jason Dinaldi, leaving them strong and handsome, but also short tempered and brutish. Jason was the only one Coach could think of that would pull this fucking stunt, but since no one fessed up or gave him up, it was laps for all of them until someone caved or a day of practice was wasted.
Who the fuck thinks it's okay to dump shit—literal shit—God fucking knows how the little fucks got their hands on that much shit, all over a rival team's locker room and uniforms? Granted it was a team of entitled ass-wholes who dumped all over his team, teepeed most of the upperclassmen's houses, and egged the fucking water boy (poor kid refused to leave his house for two days after that), but this was nasty and way too extreme. Coach Johnson only prayed that it would scare the other team off of retribution given how far his team went.
Glancing at his watch with his green-blue eyes, he saw that there was still another forty minutes to go until practice normally ended. Thirsty, he hauled his considerable weight from the bench he had been sitting on in the shade, and walked over to where the water boy, or as they liked to be called nowadays team manager, was so he could refill his water bottle while continuing to keep an eye on the team. The effort made his joints pitch fits and nearly rebel, one of the consequences of knee surgery from years of abuse in sports. He really wasn't even that old, just having turned 38 last month, but the forced sedation due to extensive sports injuries following years of heavy eating and intense physical activities caused his body to rapidly deteriorate so that he looked and felt much older than he was, and even his son, who was trailing behind everyone else, could run laps around him.
It was bad enough having a body that didn't move the way it used to, but tack on a rebellious team that refused to listen and seemed shocked every time they lost, taking it out on him when they never did what he fucking said, and Coach Johnson was frustrated and exhausted, desperate to do anything to get his boys in line, get his old body back, or just throw in the fucking towel. It's not like he was even the toughest coach at the damned school, and he never outright demanded respect just to make himself seem like an ass, and he sure as hell never let them walk all over him. Short of kicking out the worst offenders, who also happened to be the most talented players, he truly was out of options at this point—and the dick of a principal who put sports on a pedestal, was breathing down his fucking neck to either make progress, or he'd be out of a job. Don't get him wrong, Coach Johnson agrees that sports are important, but not every team can be a winning team, and high school should be more about academics, getting these kids prepared for college or the work force, sports should only be an avenue to teach them some valuable life lessons and get scholarship opportunities, the sports only philosophy the principal fostered in his school would only lead the majority of his players for a rude awakening when they left high school for the real world.
"Finish this lap, get some water, and hit the batting cages!" Coach Johnson yelled out, after tossing his broken whistle into the trash after it failed to sound its shrill shriek to get their attention. He was sick of watching them run and not wanting to completely waste a day of practice. He saw some of his players visibly relax in relief now that their punishment was over—Dinaldi wasn't one of them. Grumbling to himself he went to observe their practice hits, belting out criticisms and compliments of their form for the next half hour.
By the time practice was done, every single player was physically drained, and Coach Johnson was mentally drained. Exhausted and still in a piss poor mood, he rounded up the players and harried them so that they would be out of his hair as soon as possible. Most of them got the message, but a few numbskulls, Jason Dinaldi included, were horsing around well after the first teammate had taken his shower and scrammed.
"Stop your messing around and get, or all of y'all that are still here will be running suicides for the first half of tomorrow!" Johnson growled, for once sending the mutinous little shits into a scramble of getting changed and out of his war path. Most of them felt sorry for his son, Sean, who would have to go home with his irate father and perhaps bear the brunt of his frustration about the team.
Once the last of them had disappeared from sight, Coach grabbed his keys and bag, herding his son in front of him as they left the locker room and he locked it up tight. Still fuming from handling the crap his team was giving him all afternoon, Coach Johnson was silent for the short walk to the car, and Sean did nothing to break that silence for most of the trip home until they were almost at a strip mall where the grocery store where they normally shopped was.
"Don't forget, Mom wanted us to pick some stuff up at the store for dinner on our way home," Sean gently reminded his dad, trying to be delicate enough so his dad wouldn't snap at him.
He needn't have worried, his dad just grunted in response as he turned into the mostly empty parking lot and pulled into a spot close to the store front. The grocery store was probably the largest storefront in the strip mall, bookended on either side by a hair and nail salon and a used book store/coffee shop. Really feeling the length of the day, and groaning as he remembered all he had yet left to do tonight, Coach Johnson decided he needed a little pick me up, and the coffee at the store was normally pretty decent.
Handing his son a forty dollars, he sent him into the grocery store to pick up all the stuff his mother needed, while he strolled over to the book store to give himself a pick-me-up. It was a quaint little store, run by an almost nerdy looking fellow—almost because he reminded Coach Johnson of most of the athletes he had known all of his life, looked and acted like a confident stud with an angular and blocky face, muscular body, and that swagger that only handsome men on top of the world can do, but at the same time came across humble, demure, and academic, especially with the thickly framed glasses that really showed off his cat like green eyes. Coach Johnson enjoyed talking to him because they were similar in that regard, they were both active and fit men (or in Coach's case he was, and still would be if he had a choice) and yet placed great stress on the importance of getting an education, and all the doors it could unlock for you. As Coach Johnson liked to put it from a more practical point of view for his athletes, a good athlete has success while he plays, a smart one has success even after the game is over.
Ian, the owner, looked up as the bell attached to the door clanged, announcing his entrance, smiling as Coach Johnson made his way to the counter, eager for some coffee and light conversation.
"Hey Tim," Ian greeted him warmly, "what you looking to get?"
"Other than a team that listens?" He quipped, "How about just a normal medium coffee."
"Still giving you trouble?" Ian asked remorsefully as he went about getting the coffee and pouring him a cup.
"Get this, one of them literally covered the entirety of a rival school's locker room in, I can't even say it it's so disgusting just to think about."
"Hey man, you can't just leave me hanging like that." Ian jested in response.
"Fine but promise you won't say a word of this to anyone else," Coach leaned in and whispered, checking the room to make sure no one was close enough to listen even though he knew it was empty when he walked in.
"Scout's honor," Ian grinned, eager to hear what happened.
"Shit. They somehow got their hands on a load of cow crap and coated every surface with it."
"Dude," Ian whistled, at the same time impressed and grossed out.
"I don't know what I am going to do with them, I'm almost at my limit." Coach Johnson sighed, thinking ruefully over his too few options. "By the way, odd request, I know you sell knick-knacks and stuff, but do you have any whistles? My last one went kaput at practice today, I think I cracked it somehow."
Ian paused, uncertain. While he didn't have any whistles on the floor to sell, he did have a very special whistle that he had just finished crafting. Even though he liked the man, he wasn't all to certain he could trust him, however he had been in this game far too long to not know how it worked. Ian was what's known as an enchanter, he crafted magical items that perform certain tasks, and he'd been doing it for over fifty years, though he had told Tim that he had just turned thirty. He'll admit he had designed the whistle with the coach in mind, driving him to imbue it with some hot fantasy he had in mind while solving the coach's problems, but never imagine the universe would actually decide that the coach should be the owner of the whistle, he didn't even mean to make it that powerful. You see, the way an enchanter works is that they typically create only minor artifacts that they can use to assist them in their day to day lives, protecting themselves from danger, or just doing important tasks. However, if they make an object powerful enough, it becomes a major artifact, and the universe or artifact picks a person who is meant to wield it for whatever reason. Coach Johnson asking him if he had a whistle was a major sign that he was to be the true owner of the whistle.
"Let me check in back," Ian managed to get out, hurrying to his workshop to double check his hunch. Grabbing the whistle, he whirled back around and slowly marched back to the coach, watching for any sign that the whistle belonged to him. Just as he opened back up the door to the storefront, he saw a brief, nearly imperceptible flash to most normal people's eyes, but to Ian it was like a comet flying right in front of his face, it was so bright. Without a doubt, the whistle belonged to the coach.
Ian hesitated for a moment after he came back out to the floor, unsure if he could really trust the man with such a powerful object, but the universe always had its reasons. "Here," he said, handing over the ordinary looking silver whistle to Tim, "On the house."
"You sure? It would really be no trouble at all to pay for it." Tim asked, mistaking Ian's hesitance for giving him the whistle for free.
"I'm sure," Ian affirmed, giving him a solid nod as he convinced himself that it was alright. A sly smile crept across his face. "Just be warned, it might just make your team too obedient."
"That'll be the day!" Tim said, giving a deep bellied laugh at the absurd thought. Grabbing his coffee he waved goodbye to Ian as he stepped out into the parking lot, looking over to the grocery store as he trotted over to his car. He could clearly see his boy through the front windows of the store, patiently waiting in line at one of the only two checkout counters open along with what looked like half the city. Tim smiled ruefully as he unlocked and got into the driver's seat of the car to wait for his son, musing why grocery stores never seemed to have enough registers open.
After Sean got into the car, they took off for home, Coach Johnson forgetting all about the whistle until the next morning when he saw it on his dresser. He figured his wife must have checked the pockets of all the pants in the hamper when she started a load earlier that morning; she always nagged him about taking stuff out of the pockets, separating his underwear from his shorts or pants, and turning stuff right side out after he took them off. Coach Johnson put the whistle around his neck before he began searching for the tests he graded last night for the AP Calculus course he taught.
Finding the notes under what looked like piles of paper for Sean's unfinished report on the French Revolution, he got the rest of his stuff together before marshalling his son out the door so they could make it to school on time. So began the long grueling day of trying to explain the basic principles of algebraic equations to remedial math students, a majority of them who were mush-brained athletes still taking the class as seniors, expecting that they would still manage to be able to graduate in the coming spring as they were still taking middle school level math. If the damned principal had his way, they all probably would, even if they failed his class. The highlight of his day was going over the exams in the Calculus class, which only consisted of eight students, who though the cream of the crop at their school, Coach Johnson knew they would be in for one hell of a shock when they met their college cohort, where they would just be considered of slightly above average intelligence.
After the final bell rang he sighed, as he somehow managed to muster up enough motivation to tread off to the locker room and somehow whip his team into shape. Luckily yesterday's message seemed to have taken, as even Jason was getting into his gear without much fanfare. Coach Johnson went and sat in his office soaking in the rare moment of tranquility, though he kept a careful eye on his team so nothing did start. Of course, that peace didn't last long.
The door to the baseball team's locker room slammed open as their short-stop Javier Gutierrez, a sturdy senior whose family moved here from Guatemala when he was ten, stormed in with a murderous look.
"Dinaldi!" He shouted, whipping his head from left to right in search of the source of his wrath before spotting him standing amongst a group of his buddies standing shell shocked at the sudden display, where moments before they had been joking around. "You fucking stay away from my girl before I pound your face in!"
Everyone in the locker room held a collective breath knowing trouble was about to really break as a smug smirk crept up Jason Dinaldi's face moments before he opened up his mouth in retort.
"You should be saying that to your girl. She was the one begging me to pound her harder because you don't know how to even give it to her right."
Before anyone had even seen movement, Javier had already tackled Jason to the floor as they grappled each other for dominance. It was evident Javier was out for blood and it was fortunate he hadn't been thinking too clearly when he tackled Jason, as only now was he trying to unsuccessfully wrap his hands around his rival's neck and wring it. Coach Johnson was out of his office in a flash and in the main room, grabbing his new whistle and bringing it to his lips in order to shock them apart before he would have to try and forcefully separate them.
Time seemed to stand still as a shrill unnatural sound burst forth sharp, clear, and demanding from the whistle. Coach Johnson felt it as his body rippled, healing itself as it was restored to how it was in its peak condition before going even beyond that. He felt years slough off his shoulders, and witnessed in a nearby mirror as he transformed to an Adonis version of himself that appeared to be in his late twenties. A flip seemed to switch in his brain as he gained more confidence than he had ever had, his shoulders straightened and he stood taller as he felt his personality become more assertive and dominant, and he knew without a doubt that all those who called him Coach and heard the whistle were his boys to control and do as he wished with.
The whole locker room stood still as the echoes of the whistle reverberated, every player seemingly stunned as they instinctively felt the change within their universe, yet unable to put a finger on what was truly different. To the Coach, it seemed as if they were waiting for orders, and he knew just what to say to them.
"Everyone, drop what you're doing and line up now!" He barked out, eyeballing every single one of them and just daring one of his boys to even give him flack. All the players immediately snapped to attention, even Dinaldi and Gutierrez, their spat forgotten as they joined the ranks of their teammates, breathing heavily with excitement in their eyes. Coach Johnson grinned as he saw them in their various states of dress, each one of them with a throbbing erection that was also standing at attention.
"All right, boys," He started, placing extra stress on the word boy as if to remind them that he was the only man among them, "I have had it to here with your shit and things are going to change from here on out. We are going to establish some ground rules, and you all are going to follow them, you got that?"
All of them at least nodded in affirmation, with most of them talking over each saying variations of yes.
"First off, is whatever I say goes, whether that be on or off the field. I am tired of your bullshit attitudes and not listening when I tell you to do something in a game," He said as he began marching up and down the line, staring at every single one of his players. "Second, you're all gonna double your effort in classes and put your best foot forward. No excuses, no whining." Here he poked one of the players in his remedial algebra course in the chest. "You immediately go home after practice to finish homework or study if you have a test coming up. I want to see all of your grades improve, C's and lower aren't going to cut it. Third, start spending time together as teammates and friends off the diamond in your free time. Cut back on hanging out with your old friends and girlfriends. We're going to make ourselves one cohesive unit. Finally, and this one is my favorite rule, no getting off or unless I say so. I don't want any you knocking up your girlfriends, and building up your testosterone should amp up your game." Coach Johnson's grin grew even wider as he marched to the end of the line where Jason Dinaldi was, delivering this last rule as if it was specifically made for him, staring him dead in the eye.
"Team Manager."
"Yes, Coach?" The pipsqueak said, shyly ducking his head down.
"Go ask Coach Anderson to keep an eye on the team for me out there. Tell him I have a discipline issue I have to iron out and I want the boys split into groups to do catching and sliding drills."
"Got it," he said as he ducked out the door in a dash.
"Dinaldi, Gutierrez, my office, now. As for the rest of you, get your uniforms on and get out to the field on the double. Diaz, make sure the last one out there has to run five laps first."
"Yes coach," Diaz said as he led the rush out into the diamond, no one wanting to have to run extra laps.
Jason and Javier followed Coach Johnson into his office, under the effects of the whistle they were fearful and at the same time excited, curious to discover their fates once Coach had them to himself. Luckily they didn't have to wait long once they were situated in the small room, Coach Johnson had them stand at attention in front of his desk before stepping behind them to close the blinds of the windows looking out to the locker room and fields as well as shutting and locking the door, isolating the two trouble makers.
"Strip," was the only word he said, issued as a non-negotiable command as he stood almost bored waiting for them to comply, eyeballing the two studs like they were common fare.
Desperate to follow the command, Jason and Javier pulled off their shirts, kicked off their shoes, and shucked their pants, leaving them standing in front of Coach clothed only in their jockstraps. Jason stood with his crotch lightly thrust forward, trying to draw Coach's attention to his very impressive bulge, however Coach instead continued to stand behind them, admiring their athletic asses.
Walking over from his position, Coach gave a good slap to each of their pert asses, watching them juggle while muttering unheard compliments about them to his players, who if possible got even harder erections at the rough treatment. Jason was starting to get desperate for attention trying to reach a hand towards his crotch in order to rub his aching dick before Coach smacked it away with a wordless warning. He never had the need to wait when he was trying to make it with a girl, they always went at his pace and until he was satisfied, so this denial of immediate access to his own pleasure was all at the same time new, frustrating, and exciting. Javier gave a smirk as he saw Dinaldi's eyes fade from giving off a sexy, bedroom look to desperate, pleading glances much like a puppy would give to its master for a bone.
Coach Johnson witnessed both Javier's smirk and the control he had over Jason, pleased at his newfound ability to keep all of his players in line on anything he wanted. However, his own impressive erection was starting to throb at the thought of the power he had over these studs in front of him, and he wanted attention on his dick and he wanted it now. Without comment he dropped trou and whipped out his straight, thick eleven incher over his jockstrap, lightly jacking it as he passed between the two boys so that he could lean against his desk.
"Suck it," he said, the words barely out of his mouth before both boys leaped on their Coach's cock, Jason moving faster and lightly shoving Javier out of his way so that he could impale his mouth on the monster treat he craved, taking almost five inches before he started retching at the sudden invader he was unaccustomed to having. Javier began licking at every exposed surface of Coach's dick and balls that his surprisingly long tongue could reach, while Coach grabbed the back of Dinaldi's head, committed to making him and accomplished deep-throat able cocksucker before practice was to finish.
Coach Johnson began lightly fucking the Italian stud's mouth, groaning at the feeling of having two desperate, whoring mouths working on his tool, a sensation he had only experience a couple of times during his heyday in college when sorority sluts would do anything to fuck a campus athlete. He had to admit though, the exhilarating thrill of power he had over these two boys, as well as the fact that there were men too and knew all the right buttons to press, made the experience a hell of a lot hotter.
After a few minutes, Coach was rougher in his fucking of Jason Dinaldi's face, forcing eight of his inches into the mouth hole the athlete provided, Jason reduced to a tear and snot stained mess as his inexperience and what felt like a sensitive gag reflex made it a less than stellar performance on his part. Jason was starting to get angry at himself for not being able to properly taking the throat fucking like the man he was, desperate to prove himself as the cock slut Coach wanted right now. His heart broke a little as Coach forced his mouth of his dick so that he could feed it to Javier, jealous that he had to share even a little of the Coach's monster cock with someone, especially someone he considered as his on-team rival.
Javier, for his part, was ecstatic to get the chance to show up Jason and prove to Coach that he was the better cock slut, gobbling up seven inches into his mouth and throat like a nympho who had a hoover vacuum implanted in place of a mouth. Instead of gagging at the invader, Javier moaned, grabbing Coach's hands to put on his head, using both of their hands to force himself down on the dick he was craving. In almost a surreal moment, Coach and Jason watched Javier take the whole thing down to its root, proving himself to be a natural born cocksucker with latent talents being exposed for the first time as he began his path to learning how to become the sluttiest cocksucker possible for his Coach.
Coach Johnson, who had been holding back from slipping over the edge could no longer control himself as he orgasmed, spraying what felt like buckets of cum straight into Javier's throat and stomach. Desperate to know what it tasted like, Javier slid his throat off the Coach's cock until only the head was in his mouth, allowing the cum to splatter directly onto his tongue so he could delight in the flavor of the sperm-filled nectar. Swallowing it down only brought brief relief to his straining mouth, as shot after shot started filling it before he could start its journey down his throat, unable to keep up with the demand of such a load. Cum began leaking out around the seal his lips had made around the Coach's dick, Jason making quick work of any flow over he found.
After the last shot of sperm, Javier released the cock with a satisfying plop, before turning towards Jason to share the spoils of his victory. For two people who hated each other, they had no qualms about locking lips, their tongues sparring in each other's mouths as they searched for any remnants of the delicious reward. Coach Johnson watched in a mildly satisfied bliss, smiling as both of his star players moaned as their make-out session intensified. However he was not finished with punishing both of them, needing to firmly establish their places. He also wanted to reward Javier for doing an excellent job at taking his dick. Coach felt a wicked smile creep onto his face as the perfect plan hatched in his brain, so that he was able to reward Javier and show them both where they were in regards to him at the same time, his dick immediately recovering to another powerful erection at the hot thought. He cleared his throat in order to get them to stop making out and to get the two horny player sluts of his attention.
"Alright. Now the real fun can begin. Who's ready to be fucked?"