Dazzled By The Light

Tristan is about to turn eighteen. He has his whole life ahead of him. He has one more baseball game before the end of the season and his graduation. A lucky punch from a fellow team mate pits him against his Coach who does not tolerate fighting of any kind. Can he persuade Coach Blake to keep him in the team for the last, most important game of the season?

Tristan Gillman is quite possibly the best pitcher Carl Blake has ever coached. The star pitcher is about to become more than just Carl's student though. Will they cope with the fall out of this fatal attraction or will they be Dazzled By The Light?


1. Coach Blake

Tristan picked himself up off the locker room floor.  His face felt like it was about to explode where the asshole Captain Dickhead of his baseball team had gotten a lucky punch.  He pulled himself into the bathroom and leaned against the sink as he examined the rapidly colouring bruise in the mirror.  He groaned running his fingers through his dark hair.  Coach Blake was gonna freak.  He hated fighting and made any antagonists sit out games as punishment.  As a result there were rarely any fights amongst the team but there was tension: always tension.  Ever since Tristan had come out three years ago there was a small knot of team members who had a big problem having a gay member on their baseball team no matter how good a pitcher he was.


Tristan had gotten into some fights over it and avoided some fights over it.  Mostly he was left alone now, because quite frankly he almost always won the fights.  He gave as good as he got and the guys that had a problem with his sexual preferences were mostly the type that only picked on those who couldn’t or wouldn’t fight back: those that were weaker and smaller.  Tristan was neither weak nor small.  He was almost six foot by the time he was sixteen, and at seventeen he had filled out and probably wasn’t far off that height now.  Most of the school bullies had realised or found out the hard way that he was no push over and therefore wasn’t worth the beating he could give them.


Once in a while however he was caught off guard and this was one of those times.  He was usually careful about who he flirted with.  There were a few guys on the team that were fine with his flirty comments and a few who had even taken him up on the offers.  Colin Walters: a.k.a Captain Dickhead, was probably not the best guy to pass suggestive comments to, especially when he was bending down in the shower, and it had probably been a big mistake to smack him playfully on the ass.  Tristan knew he had quite likely signed his own death warrant when he had seen the blind fury in the guy’s eyes.  He had made a quick getaway, leaving his gym kit, planning on returning for it later when the coast was clear.


He had returned, just after school ended but the coast hadn’t been clear.  Colin had been waiting for him and had cornered him against the lockers, punched him in the stomach and then in the face as he had doubled up, winded.  Colin had warned him it would happen again if he made any more perverted suggestions then had left Tristan to lick his wounds.  The guy was at least three inches taller than him and about a hundred pounds heavier and had taken him by surprise.  It was a lucky punch.  One consolation was that he knew Colin’s fights were always over quickly and just as quickly forgotten, that didn’t stop it hurting like hell though.


He gingerly touched the rapidly colouring bruise again, wincing as it hurt.  At least there was no blood: no broken nose.  He rubbed his stomach where Colin had punched him first, there would probably be a bruise there as well, but that was easier to hide than a swollen, bruised cheek.  If Coach Blake saw it he would be insisting on him sitting on the bench for the next game.  Tristan smiled despite his impending suspension; at least Colin would get some shit from the rest of the team for effectively losing them their best pitcher for the most important game of the season.


Even that didn’t have to happen if he could get home and get some ice on his cheek.  Maybe he could use some stage make up to cover the bruise and no one need know any better.  Especially not Coach Blake, whom Tristan hated being on the wrong side of.  He glanced at himself in the mirror as he thought about the dark haired, dark eyed Gym Coach.  The pupils of his deep blue eyes dilated.  Carl Blake was probably about twenty eight, tall and gorgeous.  Tristan and about half the school had a crush on him.  He was not the main reason he was in the baseball team, he was a good pitcher after, but Coach Blake was one of the main reasons he stayed in the team when he could have quit after three years of shit from the homophobe bullies.


Tristan walked back out into the locker room and began packing his kit into his gym bag,


“Gillman, what are you doing here so late?” a voice called from the Coach’s office.  Tristan groaned but kept his back to Coach Blake; a few more minutes and he could have been home and safe.  He hoped Blake wouldn’t bother coming out of his office but he was shocked to hear the Coach’s next question from directly behind him, “I asked you a question, Gillman.” He said sounding pissed off that Tristan was apparently ignoring him.


Slowly Tristan turned to face him.  His blue eyes locked with Blake’s dark brown orbs for a millisecond then he looked away because that was all he could stand before his heart began beating so fast he thought it would burst.  He took a deep breath trying to hide the fact that his breathing had quickened at the thought of being alone in the locker room with Coach Blake, the hottest teacher in the school and all round nice guy; except when his team members were fighting.  There was no way Blake wasn’t going to see the swollen bruise on his cheek now though.  He did see it and gasped.  Instead of anger, or frustration in the man’s eyes, though, there was concern, which for some reason was much more disconcerting than if the guy had just exploded and called him out for fighting,


“Oh my god Tristan, what the hell happened?  Were you in a fight?” he asked, reaching out to touch the bruise then lowering his hand as if thinking better of it.  He took a step backwards and the look of concern was suddenly replaced with one of stern anger, “You know how I feel about fighting, Gillman.”


Tristan nodded dumbly, his blue eyes searching Coach Blake’s face.  He hadn’t imagined it had he?  That look of concern in the man's dark eyes hadn’t been a figment of his imagination, and he had called him by his first name?  Coach Blake never called anyone by their first name,


“Would you step into my office, please, Gillman?” Blake asked with a sigh, turning away.  Tristan found his voice as he followed Blake into his office,


“I c’n explain, Coach,” he began as he walked through the door but Blake cut him off,


“Were you or were you not fighting in my locker room?” he asked sternly.


Tristan hung his head and shuffled his feet.  He didn’t want to get Colin a game suspension too, ahead of an important game, he was their best hitter, but he also wanted to explain that this was not his doing.  He desperately wanted to stay in Blake’s good books,


“I wasn’t fightin’, Coach, someone did hit me though.” Blake indicated that he should sit and took his own seat behind his desk,


“Who hit you?” He asked quietly, the sternness gone from his voice, replaced once more with the concern that had been there before as he leaned forward on his desk.  Tristan sat down but did not answer the question, “Okay, if you won’t say I can only assume that it was someone else from the team.” He paused to give Tristan a chance to agree or disagree, he still said nothing, “Did you hit him back?” Blake asked and Tristan shook his head adamantly.  His eyes widened as Blake stood and walked around the desk to sit on the corner of it, facing Tristan,


“Tristan, do you have anything you wanna tell me?” he asked.


Blake ran his fingers through his thick dark hair regarding Tristan with his dark brown eyes and the young man was suddenly struck with an urge to tell him everything.  He wanted to tell him that he and half the school had a massive crush on him; he wanted to tell him that when he ran his fingers through his hair like that it made him want to go find somewhere private to touch himself and wish it was his fingers working their way through that great hair.  He also wanted to tell him that he woke up at nights in a cold sweat having just dreamt about having Blake's hands all over him making him…. Tristan shook his head instead,


“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about sir.” He said in as innocent a tone as he could muster under the circumstances,


“Someone hit you, Tristan.” Blake explained himself, “Did you give them cause to hit you?  Or were they just in a bad mood?”  Was Coach being charming, flirting even?  Tristan could feel his heart beat quicken again, after just getting it under control.  He wasn’t a stranger to flirting, hell he was the biggest flirt he knew, but a teacher flirting with him, a hot teacher at that, now that was a different matter altogether.  He managed a nervous laugh as he nodded in answer to Blake’s questions,


“He was in a bad mood, sir, and I put him into it.” Tristan confessed,


“You flirt with the wrong guy this time?” Blake asked casually,


“Coach?” Tristan asked, surprised that a teacher would mention his sexual preferences at all.  He wasn’t aware that any of the teachers really knew or even cared that he was Gay,


“You should be careful, you know.” Blake went on, sounding casual but shuffling his feet nervously, the action making Tristan feel a little nervous himself.  Coach looked suddenly a little vulnerable, “I know you can take care of yourself, but you might just meet your match one day.” Tristan snorted,


“This ain’t the first time I’ve been hit, and it probably won’t be the last.  And you’re right about me bein’ able to take care o’ myself, Coach.  Colin jus’ got a lucky punch, that’s all.” He gasped and bit his lip at the slip.  Blake looked up sharply,


“Colin Walters did this to you?” he asked, touching his fingers gently to Tristan’s bruised and swollen cheek.  Tristan closed his eyes and leaned just a little too much into the contact.  Blake’s eyes widened and he withdrew his hand quickly,


“That bullying asshole.” Blake spat, standing up suddenly, making Tristan jump.  He couldn’t ever recall Coach Blake swearing, even when they had played their very worst game ever,


“Coach Blake!” Tristan exclaimed in surprise, laughing, in spite of the gravity of the situation,


“Colin Walters is the one I should be thinking of suspending, Tristan, not you.”


“Colin is the Captain o’ the team an’ our best hitter, Coach.  If you suspend him because of me then how do you think the rest o’ the team is gonna react?” Tristan asked in dismay,


“You are our best pitcher, Tristan.  How can I suspend you before the most important game of the season?”


“You could just pretend you didn’t see me, and forget that this happened.” Tristan suggested.  The compliment from Blake made him feel good, and suddenly confident.


He gave Blake his best puppy dog look, his deep blue eyes wide and his eye lids flickering showing off his thick dark lashes.  It was a look he reserved for special occasions.  The effect was not lost on Coach Blake, who, to Tristan’s immense surprise and pleasure, blushed furiously, unable to look Tristan in the eye,


“Maybe.  I could do that, but you might have to do something for me in return.” Blake’s suggestion was perhaps innocent even if he did say it breathlessly, but Tristan took it very differently as he stood and traced his hand gently over Blake’s T Shirt, feeling the firm muscles of his chest twitch slightly at the contact,


“You must know I’d do anythin’ fer you, Coach.” He said, softly, bringing his mouth so close to Blake’s that each could feel the other’s breath on their lips.  Blake’s breath hitched in his throat and he tried to take a step backwards but he was caught between Tristan and his desk.  Tristan pressed his advantage, and pushed himself up against Blake,


“Tristan.” Blake croaked, clearing his throat, “What exactly are you doing?”


“I don’t know, Coach.” He murmured seductively, “Comin’ on to you: flirtin’ with the wrong guy: flirtin’ with the right guy: take yer pick.”


“This is definitely you flirting with the wrong guy, Tristan.  I am your teacher.” Blake warned him, but Tristan was very aware that, despite his words, Blake had snaked an arm around Tristan’s waist and was pulling him closer.


Their bodies pressed together and Blake was pushed further back against his desk.  Tristan claimed his lips and pushed his tongue against his teeth, demanding entrance.  Blake was suddenly helpless to stop him, unable to resist.  Tristan pressed his advantage, feeling helpless himself: helpless to stop the momentum he'd created.


He hitched one leg up onto the desk as he bent Blake further backwards.  He was almost lying on the desk with Tristan on top of him, all the time kissing him with such passion and need it took his breath away.  Tristan could feel his erection throbbing against his pants now, and there was a similar, pleasingly hard bulge in Blake’s.  Their lips parted and a moan of protest escaped from Blake’s mouth,


“What do you want me to do, Coach?” Tristan asked, his voice almost a whisper.  Blake moaned again as Tristan’s hips pushed against his,


“Oh my God, Tristan, we shouldn’t be doing this at all.” Blake gulped,


“We ain’t doin’ anything I don’t wanna do, Coach Blake.” Tristan reassured him, “An’ I’m a consentin’ adult, just like you.  We c’n stop if you want though.” His lips brushed against Blake’s again and he moaned a third time, “What was that, Coach Blake?  I didn’t quite catch it.”


“God help me I don’t want to stop, Tristan, and please stop calling me Coach, my name is Carl.”  Tristan leaned closer still, his teeth catching hold of Carl’s ear making him gasp with pain and pleasure,


“Ok, Carl,” Tristan whispered the name into his ear sending shivers down the man’s spine straight to his groin, “You gonna tell me what you want?” he asked, “Or should I tell you what I want?”  Carl moaned again and his hand moved to the back of Tristan’s neck.  He pulled at his hair, pulling his head back so that he could plant his lips on Tristan’s neck and then his ear, nibbling the lobe.  This time Tristan gasped and moaned,


“Why don’t you tell me, Tristan?  Because I’m all yours now.” Carl whispered,


“In that case,” Tristan sat up on the desk, straddling Carl and beginning to undo his belt and jean fastenings.  Carl gasped as Tristan’s hand slipped inside his jeans, his fingers brushing the tip of his hard, leaking cock.  He bucked his hips into the caress and Tristan bent to kiss him again, whispering against his lips,


“Carl,” he whispered,


“What.” He breathed back,


“I want you to fuck me.”











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