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No Extra Charge by Jack

I was standing barefoot on the damp, concrete floor, stripped to the waist, when this not so delicate voice interrupted our locker room banter. “So, gentlemen, by my calculations, seven thirty was twenty-five minutes ago.” The bill of the baseball cap edged up toward the dingy, drop ceiling revealing a very stern face fixed on this large clock hovering above. Keith slid his jammer up his long legs and over his unbelievably, muscular thighs while I continued ransacking through my gym bag, feverishly looking for mine. This big hand squeezed my bicep. “What’s yer name?”

“Me?” My eyes wandered up, “Jeff, Jeff Wilkinson.”

“Yer with me, Wilkinson.”

I tucked the hair that had fallen across my forehead behind my ears before stepping out of my jeans, “um, sweet. And, you are?”

“The guy you’re gonna spend eight hours a day with fer the next two weeks.”

“OH-K. Umm, cool.” I looked at Keith and shrugged my shoulders.

Resolutely, the man beneath the baseball cap aimed his index finger toward my current college roommate and best friend in the world, “yer with Murphy. Far side a the pool, last two lanes. Shower’s over there.” His cleft chin directed Keith to the right. “Gedda move on.”

Keith forced a smile as he pointed over at me then back at himself a couple of times, “um, we were supposed to be together.”

“Yeah. And you were supposta be here at seven thirty. Shower and git out there. And loose the suit. Murphy’ll gecha whacha need.” He carefully scrutinized me, as Keith hesitantly struggled out of the jammer he had just put on. “Finish undressin’, Wilkinson, then grab yer gear and come with me.”

I watched over my shoulder as Keith’s near perfect butt disappeared into the showers then I followed my extremely, insistent escort past endless rows of grey, metal lockers and generic, cinderblock walls, “so, um, where we headed, dude?”

“Marcetti. Coach.” With that definitely established, we marched through this labyrinth of contiguous corridors in complete silence until we reached an incredibly, long row of floor to ceiling windows. This awesome, fifty-meter pool stretched almost indeterminately beyond the glass wall. As I was whisked by wondering why no one, not even Keith who was supposed to be in the last two lanes was there, he flagrantly broke the code of silence. “This is my pool, eight lanes, eight guys, that’s it.”

Figuring I was supposed to be impressed, I raised an eyebrow, then we quickly zigzagged through the last narrow passageway, finally making our way into an open space. Once my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight spilling in from the generous skylights, they bounced around the rest of the room trying to take it all in. This was the kind of place where the snotty spa crowd hung out, enjoying the hi-powered hair dryers and super expensive, scented shave creams. I strolled over to the slick granite countertop and counted easily, a dozen different kinds of hair products, gels, mousses, sprays, anything you could want, then, not so indiscreetly, ran some texture cream through my dried out hair. It gave it this wild sheen and even managed to calm down the fried ends that curled up just below my lobes.

Marcetti, Coach swatted the back of my head coaxing me back to reality. As I spun around to face him, he insolently yanked his cap off revealing this very efficient haircut, somewhere between a crewcut and a super close flattop. Absolutely no need for hair products there. One of his big hands grazed over the top of his head while the other impatiently gestured, “find an empty locker and stow your s**t, Wilkinson.”

Okay, so my eyes probably lingered a little longer than they should have. I don’t know why, but for some weird reason, I was both way turned on and way, way intimidated by his radically short hair. When he started peeling off his tee shirt and his head suddenly disappeared, I anxiously waited for it to pop back out so I could get a better look at the almost shaved back and sides. Once the pumped up pecs burst forth, however, it became increasingly more difficult to decide where I wanted to focus my attention. One thing was for damm sure, there was way more hair on his heroic chest than there was on his head.

Completely impervious, he strutted past the sleek, walnut paneled lockers like some puffed up Texas wrangler showing off his big, burly upper body before sticking his thumbs inside the waistband of his warm-up pants. “Loaded, capitalists f***ers cough up a lotta dinero to send their stuck-up brats here to work with, ME.” Those same thumbs pointed up at his smug face, “and ev’ry one a their sorry asses goes on t’win the big-time medals.” With what appeared to be great forethought, he stopped dead in his tracks and posed right in front of me, one foot decisively lodged into the luxurious leather, covering the designer bench that separated us. His curious demeanor made me wonder whether, “A”, he was deliberately trying to turn me on, “B”, he was way too self-absorbed to even notice that I was already way turned on, or C, didn’t give a f***. Regardless, he went on, “ev`ry once in a while, I keep one lane open for, hmm, somebody like you, Wilkinson,” his tone suddenly went from arrogant to condescending, “no extra charge, kinda like my contribution t’charity.” The deep, dark eyes stared right into mine, “don’t make me regret it.” After hesitating ever so slightly, my hot, new “bud” slowly eased out of his warm-up pants leaving only these black, boxer-style trunks that hugged his ass pretty effortlessly. I glanced down at my dick relieved that it was still limp.

“You are one lucky f***, Wilkinson.” He took the time to adjust his balls before slamming the locker shut, “I increase speeds by at least five percent, hands down. Your friend, he’ll be lucky to be up by one with Murphy. Five percent, Wilkinson, that’s ev’ry guy I work with. Guaranteed.” While still droning on, he planted one of his thick forearms firmly against the locker next to mine, “and I don’t want any light weight f***in’ it up.” The bigger than life body moved a step closer, “got it?”

“Right, um, sure,” gulp, “got it.”

When I looked up, the guy was almost on top of me, “no excuses, no whiney ass cryin’ like some wimpy ass, lit’l baby, no f***in’ off.” The dark shadow of hair on the top of his head glowed as he moved right in for the kill, “anya need t`do it my way. NO negotiatin’. MY WAY, all the time, cuz that’s how I git results.” He backed off ever so slightly, “whadaya think, Wilkinson?” There was almost a smile, “you in er out?”

I took another look at that counter and all those fancy hair products and thought about that awesome pool, and about how I’d whip Keith’s butt and totally rule the squad, “IN, Coach,” then I glanced over at his chest and up at that hot haircut, “I am definitely IN.”

Again he took a step back but only far enough to comfortably secure a substantial clump of curls from the side of my head and yank on them, “but, I git ridda yer lazy ass if I don’t see BIG results by the middle a the week, deal?”

A succinct nod assured him of my unqualified commitment. He moved in front of the sparking, tiled walls where these towering stainless steel shelves were stacked almost to the ceiling with thick, thirsty, perfectly folded white towels and hurled one at my crotch then motioned for me to follow him again. Down yet another corridor we made our way, me still following closely behind, not saying word one. The showers were on the right, a closed door on the left. Once he pushed the door open he barreled through, flicked the light on and looked back at me, “take a seat, Wilkinson, this’ll jiss take a couple a minutes.”

Reluctantly, I edged inside and looked around the tiny, claustrophobic, closet of a room. There was this decrepit bar stool shoved against the wall keeping company with a slop sink, a pile of cleaning supplies and an enormous floor waxer. My supposed benefactor slid the stool toward me. “Let’s go! Move!”

My head spun around to see his furrowed brow directed toward the still empty chair. I sat down. “So, um, Coach, why me? Not that I’m not totally ecstatic and way up for the challenge, but why did you pick me, not the guy I came in with, not one of the other guys? There must have been at least fifty who signed up for this thing, and you’ve never, really even seen me swim.”

A strange, metal object rested on my forehead as his deep voice resonated, “the pretty blonde hair and the super hot bod.” He kicked the door shut then pinched my nipple. Within a nanno second the aforementioned object ripped across the top of my head. Pretty blonde hair scattered around me.

“What the f*** are you doing?”

The big hand lowered my struggling body back onto the unassuming perch, “no negotiatin’, remember? My way.” More pretty blonde hair scattered in front of me. “Relax.” This time the big hand caressed my knee and moved up my thigh finally resting on my hard dick, “this skinhead’s gonna make a huge diff’rinse in the water, man, trust me.


“All the way down.” The clippers kept up a smooth, even pace, passing up, over, and around, happily exposing more and more of my pale scalp. Soon the last of the pretty blonde hair scattered to the floor. Again I felt the big hand, not on my dick, but running across the top of my head. “Nice. Yeah. Feels good, don’t it?”

Only my dick responded. Expeditiously my head was covered in shave cream, probably the same fancy stuff I had been eyeing just a few, short minutes before, and a safety razor was clearing it away and dumping the remnants into the humble sink passively sitting next to me. “Nuttin’ like a fresh baldie t’git the juices flowin’ huh, Wilkinson.” One more time the big hand reached between my legs.

Standing in front of the long, granite counter staring, first, in the mirror at my “fresh baldie”, then down at the over-the-top mass of hair products made the bitter pill all the more difficult to swallow. I turned one of the hi-powered hair dryers on and pointed it at my face imagining it was a loaded gun. Intermittently, the other seven swimmers began filtering through; they all had hair, they were all wearing brand new, bright orange suits with the letters

M-A-R-C-E-T-T-I emblazoned across their butts, and they all took plenty of time to gawk at my shiny baldhead before edging out to their very own lane in the totally awesome fifty-meter pool.

I staggered toward the showers. My new barber was waiting there, impatiently dangling a bright orange speedo and a pair of goggles, “the other guys got swim caps, too, but,” his wide, impish grin completed the sentence. Not so casually he watched me adjust the water before shoving my long, lean body out of the way and plunging his much more imposing frame under the hearty spray. With the water gushing across his extremely short hair he secured my baldhead and lodged it under his oversized bicep. The sensation, when he began stroking it, was pretty wild. When he emphatically announced that he was “gonna shave it nice ‘n close, ev’ry mornin’ fer the next two weeks, or, fer as long as my sorry ass lasted”, I squirted all over the snug, black, boxer-style trunks that I had already managed to slide half way down his blissfully thick thighs.

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