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“Oh, Tucker, your hands are so supple…umm, that feels so good!” cooed the lithe, blonde gymnast, whose legs were being massaged by yours truly.

So, how did it come to pass that I, Tucker H., would find myself giving a trainer’s rubdown to a blonde goddess, petite woman on campus, the star of the state school’s vaunted women’s gymnastics team?

Well, it all started after the Civil Rights Act of the mid-1960’s. Title IX (title ‘nine’) was a direct off-shoot of that. It laid down the law, telling any institute of learning that receives Federal funding (including all state schools) that they had to equalize funding between women’s and men’s programs. It was unrealistic on its face, as men’s football at Michigan or Florida drew more at ONE GAME than the entire year of all woman’s teams’ attendance combined. That called for artificial ‘justice’, where revenues unearned by one side had to be compensated by the other.

An indirect effect of all these changes was employment. If you haven’t noticed, (men’s) football teams are replete with woman trainers, assistant trainers, and aides. Some of that was voluntary, some a trick to attract players who wouldn’t be offended by women in the locker room (who’s kidding whom; no man in history has ever been offended by the presence of a pretty woman regardless of his state of dress).

Then something else happened. Someone brought suit, saying that if the law is fair and justice blind, then men should have the same rights and access for employment. Oddly enough, the strong advocates for fair employment on the woman’s side all of a sudden changed their tune, fighting bitterly against this ‘equality.’ It seemed that women, unlike men, were very very squeamish about having men around when THEY were in a condition of undress. But, God bless the courts, it was decided that fair is fair, women’s teams had to hire qualified male applicants, end of story. Those that did not would incur the same sanctions as the male ‘chauvinists’ on the other side.

As an experienced athletic trainer in high school (a good choice for non-athletes; I highly suggest it), I got a scholarship and was trainer for the state football team. I remained upon graduation for six years. Now, at 26, I applied to replace the retiring trainer of the women’s gymnastics team. With a degree in sports medicine and 13 quality work years, my resume was far greater than any female applicants, including the one that the coach desperately tried to hire instead of me. It took the university’s legal advisor to step in, ordering my hiring lest the weight of Title Nine come and wreak havoc.

The day came and I was introduced to the team. There was Angela, Pam, Natalia, and Meg, among a few others. Fortunately for me, they were all 18 or above. Some teams had ‘true freshmen’ who often were 16 or 17. That might have caused a problem, but it was moot on our team.

It is always the case, without fail, with women’s gymnastics teams. The team is made up of some competent, but imperfect, performing young women, with one performer who is not only the best performer, but virtually always the ablest and most attractive one. That was true with Cathy Rigby, Kathie Johnson, Courtney Kupets and Shannon Miller. Of course, this rule seemed to apply overseas too, what with Nadia Comaneci and Olga Korbut being the first perfect ‘tens’ in scoring and in beauty. Well, this ‘rule’ applied to our team also, where Angela was the most striking looking and best performing member of the team. In fact, I had her in hand at that very moment.

With all the power that my hands could generate, I stroked her powerful thigh muscles. It was amazing that from the fans’ seat, or on TV, Angela’s legs looked normal, if incredibly smooth, silky, sexy, and fit. Under hand, however, they were almost other worldly. They were as firm as cold forged steel, resistant to my most powerful exertion. It took 15 minutes for me to massage deep enough to penetrate Angela’s muscle mass and reached her comfort level. It was a difficult job, but someone had to do it.

We had quite a mishap within one month of my starting my job. The spotter for the vault was paying no attention at all, lulled into complacency by 100’s of safe vaults. Unfortunately, Meg’s hands slipped and she had a nasty fall almost directly head first. The few degrees from 90 degrees (perpendicular to the floor) were enough to make the fall harmful but not deadly. I rushed to the mat in seconds and had my cellphone out for an (ambulance) unit from the very competent university hospital in less than half a minute. Spinal injury requires suppression of damage, usually by application of cooling and numbing agents, but time was incredibly crucial. My work was lauded as Meg pulled thru. It took 9 months of therapy, but she regained 100% of her functions; she never would return to competition, though.

After that day, the other women on the team who had treated me like the man foisted upon them by Title 9, started ‘defrosting’. Whereas before, law illegal bahis or no law, they had bitterly and successfully protested to their coach about my presence anywhere near them when dressing or undressing, after my turn as ‘hero’, they stopped complaining. Sensing a new era, I walked thru the locker room when all of them were ‘decent’ with only one without a blouse on. No comments.

Eventually, I fit in so quietly that I could walk by the shower room, while it was being used, with no one taking notice. You can only imagine what it was like to walk thru a locker room with the fittest, sexiest women on campus, all in a state of dress or undress. Blondes, brunettes, and one redhead, it was awesome. I got very good at controlling my eyes. When I was young, if a ‘babe’ entered a room, my eyes would betray me, and I would be staring at her choicest assets with little regard that people would notice. With this new job, I learned to keep eyes straight ahead. It was tough, though, and some of the girls knew that. Most demurely turned away as I walked thru, but Natalia, a foxy brunette originally from Romania, would always start drying her incredibly sexy legs at that moment.

With her tiny but perfect little foot on the bench on demure tiptoes, that towel swept up the length of her spectacular leg. When that happened, I had to screw my eyes tight and just zoom by. As it was, I had to wear two sets of Jockey brand down below just so ‘nothing ever showed’. With a sexy bitch like Natalia flaunting her fantastic figure in my face, drying her silky thighs or pert bum, it wasn’t easy (I almost wrote it ‘was hard’.) It came to a head one day, when the eastern European comedian in chief said that, “Tucker, you better be careful, you work too hard” or even cornier, “Tucker, I hear they fire you, then change mind, they will let you stick it out for the rest of the year.” After those hilarious quips, I never approached her again unless she had a specific request.

Someone once said that if nudity was the norm, if clothes were optional, we would lose our sense of ‘titillation’, our thrill at seeing someone in the buff. Well, I cannot state this as a new scientific finding, but as for me at least, this was true. Whereas at first I have to confess a sophomoric thrill at seeing these nubile beauties in various states of undress, eventually it became so mundane that neither I nor the women took any notice of their nudity. It was the same distant, cool, professional attitude that all doctors are supposed to have, though not all of them do.

The one player in this production I have not mentioned at length was the coach, Hilda. She was like many of the coaches of women’s gymnastics. A former performer herself, she had a granite-like exterior with an ice cold persona. These older women were almost universally fit for their age, attractive, but off-putting to any man who was interested. Of course, many of them were already married, but some were devoted to the team and the sport and avoided men religiously. That was our coach, Hilda.

There were rumors that she had been secretly married and divorced, but from my perspective, she was a 42 year old ‘ice queen’. She had lobbied against my presence during my application and even afterward. When the girls persisted in protest about locker room rules, she continued her 100% support of those opposed to me. She was a glacier that never defrosted, as far as I was concerned. I learned it was hopeless with her, so I just stayed as far away as possible.

Relations with Hilda did not improve when the embarrassing incident occurred. Angela had had a really bad landing after practicing on the balance beam. All of the other young women had gone home while I was still administering freezing spray and then various Ace bandages to the area. For perfectly valid trainer reasons, I told her that a massage of the entire area would greatly reduce swelling. Well, it did reduce HER swelling, but for the 1st time in months, I got rock hard as I caressed the beautiful foot, slender ankle, perfect calves, and shapely tanned legs of the ‘goddess’ of our team.

My steely exterior was starting to rust and come apart. Angela, for her part, was breathing heavily too. Her powerful hands took my upper (left) hand and placed it squarely on top of her mound. I was thunderstruck. I had worked so long and hard (sorry about that) in controlling my urges that this brief interruption was confusing me. This was all academic, though. We both were startled when a certain person coughed as she stared at this ‘passion play’.

Angela sprung up from the table and I turned, with dread. Yes, it was HER! The worst witness possible to my indiscretion, Hilda! To say that I was toast was an understatement. She glared, stared, smiled with a devilish (“Now, I’ve got you by the balls”) look. Then, to my astonishment, she said, “Sorry to interrupt…carry on”.

The door slammed and we could hear her footsteps fade and the outer door slam. Angela looked at me and said, “I am SO sorry!” she kissed me lightly. I gave her a kiss back that let loose 100’s of restrained moments illegal bahis siteleri seeing those lithe bedroom athletes going thru their paces. I knew we dare not do anything more, but God, I wanted her. I would have walked thru Chernobyl if I knew she was on the other side.

I braced myself that Monday for a call from the athletic director’s office. I was computing my severance pay. Well, Monday passed, no call. So did Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, etc. I guessed then that Hilda reported us to a department head who didn’t care, or she didn’t report it, or, most likely, she decided to hold it back so that she had my balls in her pocket.

We were having a big meet with the state school from that much bigger state to our west. They seemed to grow their gymnasts out there; all of these gorgeous blonds, about the same height and ability, as if they were factory produced. Every year, they were champions or close to it. We were relying on Angela as our champ, in the ‘all arounds’, but were underserved by the lesser girls who didn’t pull their weight.

An incident occurred just when we were struggling to fight back against a score deficit. Pam was on the uneven parallel bars when she slipped. Again, the spotter was less than diligent. She fell face first onto the mat, knocking her out. She was carried into the trainer’s room where a doctor attended her until she revived. Her responses indicated she had no concussion, so he departed.

She lay recuperating under the sheet of the training table, her leotard pushed down to her midriff to allow examination. She had no concussion but was still disoriented. Pam sprung up to a sitting position, the covers falling off of her incredible upper body. Unlike the other young women, she and Angela were the only ones with complete hour glass figures (the other ones totally flat). Pam, woozy and utterly nude up top, grabbed me for moral support. I had to withstand her powerful bear-like hug, in the nude, as I wanted to give her quiet reinforcement.

I don’t have to add who chose to arrive then…yes, it was coach Hilda. Seeing me cutting up with another one of the athletes, after we had lost in the regionals to that other school again, ticked her off. “Well, I was holding the other incident in my dossier on you, but this completes the picture. I think I’m going to the AD(athletic director) office and be done with you, once and for all. OH, and have a nice day.”

I was called to the AD office that very day. I asked Angela if she could come into the trainer’s room. I was almost tearful and certainly fearful. I told her that I was probably leaving, that of all the girls, she was not only the best, but also the prettiest and sweetest. She stared at me with laser-like probes; she said, “I sense that you are sincere, even terrified. I don’t know what’s going on, but I promise you this. You won’t be prepared for what you encounter at the AD office, for better or worse. Good luck!” She kissed me warmly, which really DID make it all worthwhile.

All of this time, I had deluded myself. I was not a bad looking sort by any means; I was in great shape as long as you are not compared to gymnasts who live on another world when it comes to fitness. But, the delusion; Angela was always going with a football star and had no interest in me outside of a professional relationship. Or, did she?

Walking the mile or so to the AD’s office in the big ivy covered building dedicated to some rich old coot who subsidized its construction, I arrived for my execution. There, right on time and on cue, sat the AD, legal counsel, and coach Hilda. I was about to announce my resignation in order to forestall their tirade, but I figured I’d wait. Legal counsel began instead.

Robert, legal advisor to university president Deacon, opened, “We called you in to give testimony. As you may have heard, we are investigating coach Hilda. It was shown to us by a journalist that she accepted money, travel, and other compensation from that famous apparel company Spikey. There was nothing illegal or wrong on their part, but we have strict guidelines against that for our coaching staff. Do you have anything to say in this regard, about the apparel, or coach Hilda?”

I was stunned. What I thought would be my lynching at the hands of the AD with Hilda holding the rope instead was a lynching of that same Hilda. Now was my golden moment. What would *I* do to her?

“Sir, from my viewpoint, she has been a real professional. She has never spoken about that apparel line to me or any of the girls. I have nothing but high praise for her behavior and professional demeanor.”

Now it was HER turn to be stunned. Hilda’s mouth went agape. (they didn’t see it) Although she should have been relieved at this unexpected salvation, she looked even more dour than before. I bet she thought that her moral hold over me was broken, now that I had proven to be a ‘bigger person’ than her, one without petty grievances. The investigation died there, that day.

Two months later, our season ended. We never did win any major meets, (those damn factory fresh blonde canlı bahis siteleri robots from that western state again!) but Angela did win ‘all arounds’. And, as was often the case, as she reached her senior year, age 21, her figure became complete, and she went from cute to ravishing. Networks knew this for years; no men watch men’s gymnastics, but if there is a ‘babe’ on the women’s team, you will see lots of coverage. Or, did you not notice the show after show with Shannon Miller performing, or the hour long special with Nadia Comaneci and Bart Connor? Angela was a minor TV celebrity now. We had a party for her, as she would next be an Olympic star and then, who knows?

She had had a fight with her ‘boyfriend’ and was supposedly unencumbered when I saw her for perhaps the last time at that party. It was invitation only, with just the girls of the team, including our old friend Meg who had had to retire. Hilda was there too, just to put a damper on things. For some reason, due perhaps to the testimony at the AD’s office, Hilda looked at me with dread now, feared me, and kept a tangible distance. When I arrived, she said she had to leave. The girls gathered around her, including Angela, whispering like a bee hive. She left the room. All eyes turned to me. The bar was open and all of the girls seemed pre-occupied in seeing that ‘I wet my whistle’. I don’t normally drink, so gin and tonic (a nasty concoction because it sneaks up on you) was the call of the day. After just three of them, I was very mellow. The girls did a real ‘truth or dare’ on me, asking me all the questions that they had held back, knowing that I would only give PC answers.

Question: Did you ever get hard from just being around us?

Answer: God, yes! Natalie in particular was a damn prick tease. Seeing her wipe the dripping soapy froth from her fantastic legs got me as stiff as a board!!

Question: While we are on the subject, just how big are you!?

Answer: (proving I really was drunk) why don’t you find out yourselves?

To my amazement, like rabid raccoons, they pulled down my expensive wool slacks, the double undies I wore to conceal any excitement, and keyholed my Johnson. They made gentle-person’s bets on the side, with the over/under being seven inches. When I reached ten, they all applauded. Natalia, being drunker than I, pushed Meg (the keyholer in chief) aside and applied old fashioned eastern Euro suction to the matter. As my cockhead swelled with an impending orgasm, she noticed that Pam, Meg and Angela were all within an inch or two of each other, watching right in front of me. Natalia pulled her vacuuming mouth off the huge spout and aimed it squarely at them. Before they could ask what was happening, my powerful tool swelled to double its size, almost breaking free of her grasp. It reared up, and then shot a sheet of come over all of them. It was very fitting; they had turned me on so G-d-damn much, what with their lithe, incredible figures. Those gyrations that we call gymnastics, their fertile mounds hitting that uneven parallel bar with titanic force, the tumbles…oh…

Even in my semi-drunk haze, I was so proud that my manhood had expressed in one mighty orgasm how I felt about these bedroom athletes, these goddesses of the floor mat. They all were dripping in my potent white goo. Two of them ran to the sink to clean off. Oddly, the third licked the goo as if it were icing that was running. She even turned her back to us, bent down slightly, and put a palmful of my potent seed deep inside her most cherished entrance. Months later, I heard that she had had a little boy, her college sweetheart proud and delighted. I always wondered…

Angela spoke to Natalia after she returned, refreshed and clean after running to clean herself. They both laughed and Angela left the room. Only Natalia and I were left. She came up to me. She said, “You have been wonderful to the team, making sure that no one was seriously injured, replacing all of the spotters for real diligent ones, using a new Romanian training regimen to double our oxygen peak performance. We know there was something missing in your life, as you’re single and yet obviously a man in every way. We know you need it, badly, and that you spoke to us often enough about OUR futures, and OUR family prospects, to know that YOU were the one that needed a family as much as anyone. In the bedroom around the corner is the girl of your dreams. And, the girls have prevailed upon her to agree to forego her career, for a while, if necessary, to have your baby. Now, if you aren’t too drunk, you can go there now!”

Drunk or not, my just spent cock re-fired to iron hardness. My balls were never known for more than one fireworks display, at least with 8 hours or more to rebuild. But with the stakes this high, my testes were resupplied to overflowing. By the time I smiled at Natalia and brushed her shoulder as I walked by, my balls were the size of oranges, drooping ever so slightly, heavy with seed. My cock was at least its full ten inches and so hard that it was painful to walk as it adhered to my flat abs. I got to the door, marked (real cute) with a bra hanging from the knob. I went in and it was pitch black. An interior room with no windows, it was hermetically sealed. I would have to find someplace to put my duds and then grope for Angela in the dark.

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