Description Seven-eleven isn’t just his height—everything about this football giant is up to 11, including his libido.
|Updated||01 Jul 2002|
Even though this story's been told and over, it's never been told right.
You've certainly seen 7-11 for yourself by now, whether on the football nets or even on the porn sites. Nowadays, no porn site is complete unless they have a clip of some actor's face morphed onto 7-11's body. He has had a fan club and fan web sites since he was 16 when he joined the WNFL, and is just about the hottest digital matrix (what was called a hot body when I was his age) on the Net. He modeled for a line of underwear (which means, of course, that they morphed his body into the underwear image).
7-11 and I have had a fairly stormy history on the team. Before he started, I was the assistant trainer for the team, and he was assigned to me along with some other guys. We took a liking to one another, to our mutual surprise. To me, not only was he not just one more guy in the same locker room I've worked in for years, because he was white (the marketing consultants had made him white, changing their minds at the last minute).
Anyway, when he joined the team (on his 18th birthday), 7-11 already had a rep as a “discipline problem.” Now jocks with “discipline problems” could be into anything from trashing hotel rooms on up, but with his background (a rather shadowy early childhood featuring genetic engineers, sports marketing consultants and committee-selected parents, all encrypted by lawyers) it was hard to scope out. And the team has a policy against any kind of strong personal loyalty formation, so we were ordered to cool it. I was reassigned; he got the senior team trainer.
I was pissed but kept my mouth shut. 7-11 was pissed and did something about it. 7-11 got his nickname the day his height was measured as a high school freshman for the WNFL farm team statistical package. Even though it's in feet and inches, the nickname stuck. Anyway, he does not take frustration internally. Especially a guy whose hormones apparently got boosted along with everything else in his body.
And make no mistake: when 7-11 gets physical it is no secret, as his team learned the day of his tryout. 7-11 had intercepted a pass at the twenty yard line and returned it—walking through the entire team who bounced off him trying to stop or slow him down, three and four grabbing him at once but only being dragged along as he calmly carried the ball under one arm and with the other grabbed one player after the other and crushed their breath out of their bodies with one great squeeze. One of them told me that having 7-11's arm around you was like being under a car when the jack slipped. When he walked into the end zone, he spiked the ball into the ground so hard it disappeared into the astroturf. Psyched and pumped, he trotted over to the goal post and hugged it. In one heave the post was uprooted out of the stadium floor until its concrete base, as big as 7-11's own torso, swayed in his arms and the aluminum goal post was waved back and forth like a flagpole.
“Wanna go out for a pass?” he asked. There were no takers.
After he joined the team for real, all learned that manhandling 200 kilo opponents on Sunday still left him healthy and horny the other six. The first object of his attention was a running back who had started a fuck-buddy relationship the moment the coach had turned his back. At 220 kilos he was a little light for 7-11, but I don't think he minded much as long as he didn't expect the guy to keep up with him in bed. The day after I got reassigned away from him, a scheduled massage/blowjob escalated courtesy of 7-11 into a five hour marathon session, 7-11 on top, that almost jackhammered the guy through the slats of the hotel's bed. He was on the disabled list for a month; the main office just said he had “suffered a training injury.”
It wasn't until after the episode in the shower with the quarterback that I was re-assigned to him for good. He had approached the team's quarterback (who was straight six days a week) and with his characteristic subtlety, snuck behind his back to grab the guy, sliding his sixteen-inch cock between his legs to forklift his 180 kilogram teammate right up in the air under the showerhead, hugging his torso in one arm, grabbing the QB's semierect dick in his other paw, and whispering into his ear, “Wanna get it on?” The quarterback, remembering the length of time the running back had spent on the disabled list after studying the playbook with 7-11, asked the coach to put me back on my job.
That afternoon, getting up on a stool to stand eye-to-eye with him, I reached towards the release snaps of his helmet. Gingerly (because that helmet is worth about a million dollars, with the video monitors and cameras), I snapped its locks off from his uniform.
“Here we go” I called, to warn him, and pulled the 20-kilo helmet off his head. I watched his brown eyes blinking in the first normal light he had seen in hours, and he shook his head after the weight of the helmet was off his neck. Short thick black hair in a dense tangled mass, matted with a heavy spicy sweat, glistened. Next were the kevlar/plasteel shoulder pads, which he had to help me peel up and over his head; between them and the other pads that 7-11 hauls across the field, it adds up to 50 kilograms.
“Why do I have to wear this stuff?” he asked. “I mean, nobody's gonna hurt my shoulders.” That was probably true. The pads probably protect the other side from getting bruised or at having bones broken by bouncing off of 7-11's body. That left the skin-tight shirt with the seams split across his shoulders, and where his chest had pumped up during the game. He tore the shredded shirt off of his body as if it was paper, the heavy fabric ripping under his fingers.
At last he was naked from the waist up, except for the medical monitor on his pec, a quarter-sized circle that made 7-11 look like he had a third nipple. I carefully peeled it off of his plate of muscle. As usual, he shyly smiled and reached up, his paw holding my hand on his muscle when I rubbed the spot where it had been glued to his body.
“Good strong game” I murmured, as he shook his head back, forth, up and down. It's part of our ritual after each game; I'm his third (and longest) trainer/coach, and I learned first thing that this kid does not like certain kinds of surprises. So I knew he wouldn't mind next when I slipped my hands down to his skin-tight trunks. After several tugs I could get my fingers between the thick fabric and granite muscles of his belly and hips. Pulling it down over the great tree-trunks of his upper legs, I was hit instantly by a hot odor of come and sweat from his groin protector. I looked up and knew I would find him smiling and blushing, a combination of shyness and conquest.
One of 7-11's trademarks (though you sure as hell won't hear about it on ESPN5) is the way he sacks quarterbacks. In his freshman (first and last) year of college, he liked to pull the protective cup away from the sacked quarterback's basket, crush it like a Styrofoam cup in one quick squeeze, and let it drop back into place under the uniform, especially if he was on the bottom of a pile and the cameras couldn't catch him.
In the WNFL, he loved to spook a quarterback he had just nailed by delivering some long, heavy dry humps into either his butt or basket if they were on the bottom of a pile; often 7-11 blew his load into his protector then and there. You can't see it on camera because of the uniform, but 7-11 told me that the quarterback sure as hell know what 7-11 had done. “One or two, they don't mind at all. Well, yeah, they mind, like, but they're not really freaked out. Having it done to them in public, that pisses them off. Shit, once or twice they call me after the game but they can't get through. Last week the guy tried to grab my goods to taste it but he couldn't get his fingers in there in time, you know?”
Today I could tell that 7-11 had gotten lucky at least once, probably more; a heavy strong smell and streaking white leakage smeared by his tights over his pubes, belly and upper thighs, and even down into his legs. While 7-11 opened up a ten-liter jug of protein juice and swilled it down, I tugged away and finally snapped off his jock and the kevlar cup, pulling down the come-soaked fabric and plastic, to say hello to about a foot (soft) of cut veined boner, with two orange-sized caked balls cuddled over his thighs. Shaking my head (and 7-11 chuckling), I took my time pulling the jockstrap and cup down his long, wide legs. I even watched the company logos on his cup cycle back and forth from one to the other, their timing dictated in 7-11's contract.
Having just chugged down ten liters of nutrient, I watched the tight, locked muscles of his belly ripple under his tanned skin as he pulled open another. When you're over 200 kilos (or over 400 pounds, for you rubes out there), that's a snack. While I was tugging down his smeared jock, he tore the top off of a third jug and casually began pouring it down in one fell swoop. I watched the swallowing down his pumping broad neck into huge traps, and I could imagine the protein being burned directly into muscle into his chest, the trees of his thighs and peaking biceps without even making it into his stomach.
He belched and hit his own belly, a loud dull thunk of fist on muscle. Like hitting the front tire of your car, except your care tire is probably softer than 7-11's abs.
“Could we hit the steam?” he asked.
“No prob, my man” I answered, unbuckling my belt without his help. At least 7- 11 lets me do some of the work. We walked into the steam room (his, by contract), me watching the sweaty planes and mounds of his broad lats grind into each other under flawless skin, my eyes level with the middle of his back. His butt was smooth curves of bunching muscle, not like the striations and grooves on the ass of professional bodybuilders. It's a “bubble” butt that you could break a baseball bat on.
“How's your shoulder healing?” I asked, professionally. He had dislocated his shoulder three games back; he had re-set it himself after the game by wedging his shoulder into a doorway and twisting. His shoulder had snapped back into place. The door frame had snapped in two. “Healed” he purred, reaching with one great arm around me to clamp over my bare torso and lifted my 100 kilos without even straining the dense muscles of his arm and lats. We walked into the steam this way, me carried by 7-11 in one arm. We sat side by side in the dim steam, a light tree trunk of thigh against my smaller dark leg. He left his heavy arm around my shoulder and I felt my right bicep vanish under the fingers of his huge right hand.
He was fascinated with my tats, old gang stuff from the last century. His palm almost completely wrapped around my muscle, a thumb exploring the pattern on my inked skin. I was careful not to flex my bicep in his hand; he gets excited fast and could clamp down, snapping my bone, even under the muscle.
“Wow, man, they did that with needles back then?” 7-11 asked, his thumb nail cautiously tracing the gang letters of my bicep. I never had them lasered off like most people do. The tats are thirty years old, but I'm not ashamed of why I had them. They're better than the rodmans the basketball pros have to wear, logo tattoos of advertisers who buy career leases on their own skin by the square centimeter.
“Lean back and arch your neck” I said, watching him continue to work out some kind of cramp in his neck. Reaching down I cradled in my hand one of his heavy balls laying on top of a hairless thigh. Gripping it, I squeezed as hard as I could. On a normal guy, I could crush them; but 7-11's heavy meat was a cannonball, hot and hard. He treated me like a dog when you pet its belly; he just purred and arched his back to rub his head against the wall of the steam.
Casually as his head bobbed back and forth, his great arm gently and without effort scooped me up in the air. Thick fingers clamped around my hips and swung me over and around so we were face to face; then he let me down until only until only his arching cock kept me from sliding down to the floor, my hardening dick bumping down across his abs.
I reached out to begin massaging his chest, stroking lightly around the nipples with only my fingernails. Each pec was a two-handed job, and mine couldn't even begin to cover it all. He flexed each pec once at a time, the muscle yielding under my fingers one moment, as tight as a statute the next. His great cock felt like a hot steam pipe under the cheeks of my ass, 7-11's pulse echoing in my butt. In the dim steam, his eyes were closed and you could barely see the attempt at a fu-manchu moustache trail across his lips and chin. A teenager grows one to reassure himself that his hormones will start working someday. His hard cock contentedly supporting my 100 kilos, so hard that the skin along it had no slack, I didn't think 7-11 had much to worry along the hormone front.
“Hey, man, did you remember what I told you about swallowing it?” 7-11 asked. In college, he told me that he had “hacked his own DNA” and discovered that his own cum could boost the muscles of whoever swallowed it. I thought it was superstitious bullshit, even if I had started to have trouble fitting into my shirts. His paw massaged my bicep, gauging its size. “I still think you're growing, but you gotta take more of my loads.”
I saw him calculating with his eyes. There was no way to take the stream of that firehose all at once, and we knew it. Last week, I choked on it and a shot from his cock flew across the steam room and knocked open the door.
“I got the idea!” With that he stood and stalked out of the steam into the locker room, his cock swinging slightly in the mist. A minute later he returned, with an old-style football helmet in one hand, the kind with holes in the side for hearing and a metal grid over the front for seeing. He kneeled in front of me and shoved his cock into the helmet and held it there with one hand while curling his other arm around me, lifting me up while he swallowed my cock in one swoop.
Floating helplessly in one of his arms I started to lose it almost at once and he started to hump his cock inside the football helmet. After only about thirty seconds I began to blow, wriggling helplessly in his arm. Easily taking my load in his mouth, I heard the helmet's plastic creaking in 7-11's hand as his hips began to pump back and forth. I heard his breath become random and with a sharp gasp and a loud moan that echoed in the room even around my still hard cock, 7- 11 began to shoot into the football helmet. For what felt like minutes he held me in the air in his hand, a tongue slashing across the underside of my cock.
He put me back on the hot sauna steps and brought up the football helmet. My mouth snapped open as I could see his pole in the steam, a dipstick smeared to its base with cum. In his hand I could see the helmet bottom up, a thick white mass filling it up to the earholes.
“Okay, man, let's lie back” 7-11 ordered, snaking one hot arm across my shoulders to hold my neck and head in a vice. I was pulled back until I was almost flat on my back, his arm clamping my head in place. A few inches in front of my nose I saw the helmet filled with his cum, held carefully to keep every drop inside. He put the hot plastic of the helmet against my lower lip, gently opening my mouth and then tilted carefully and my mouth filled instantly. “Come on, man, take it all” he started to chant in the heat and mist. As I chugged mouthful after mouthful down I could barely see him over me, a huge hard shape in the mist holding me down and filling my belly. I couldn't even focus on the helmet anymore so I kept choking it down blindly. Only the changing tilt of the helmet against my mouth could tell me how much was left.
I heard a sharp crackle over my head and felt on my lips the shudders of the helmet's reinforced plastic begin to break in 7-11's hand, his thick fingers crumpling the helmet as it emptied down my throat and into my guts. My mind was almost gone, as I tasted only the thick column of come from my mouth down my throat into my stomach stretched full with his load and felt the hot slick oak of 7-11's arm holding my head in place.
At last my mouth gasped on air and not 7-11's load and he pulled the crushed helmet away from my gaping mouth, replacing it with his lips which brushed my own. I heard far away the crumpled helmet drop to the floor and felt his huge palm pat my distended belly, by now stretched around the product of 7-11's great balls. He traced my distended abs with his fingertips and I saw the sharp white of his teeth grin in the steam.
By now you're asking: was I in love with him? It was a weird mix of protective mothering instinct, professional interest (I was his trainer, after all), father-son vintage pride and let's not forget ballcracking lust. Even if this year is 2020, I'm still closing on fifty. To 7-11, it doesn't matter. “Why” he asked, when I talked about it, “why do you think you have to do something about it? You're healthy, right? And you look fine to me” he would add. That's surprising enough, but when we started talking about my tattoos he convinced me of one last thing: he didn't understand racism. Not at all. He looked at color like whether you were right-handed or left- handed. With his design and development (if it had been done by his parents and not genetic engineers, I'd call it upbringing). Naive and, when I first met him, innocent. John F. Kennedy? A president (but he wasn't sure). Malcom X? Denzel Washington before he got into politics. He had learned more about how to read the screen in his helmet than about the world and his size and muscles had given him the strength to start asking questions about himself.
He was eager to learn. I was eager to teach.