The team lined the benches in front of the lockers, watching Christian pace back and forth as he spoke to us. Either he was a natural leader, or his speech was really well-rehearsed.

"The Vulcans. That's more than just the title of our school mascot. That's us. We're the Vulcans. Do any of you really know what that title means?"

Bradley, ever the smartass, held up his hand in the split-fingered Star Trek salute. Christian pointed at him and said, "And I think we all know I don't mean THAT kind of Vulcan." A few of us started to laugh, but Christian's stern look held us at bay. Bradley dropped his arm and held his hand behind his back, muttering a quick apology.

"Vulcan was the forge of the gods. A celestial blacksmith, who created not only tools and magical machines--but whose hammer and tongs could create the very thunderbolts themselves. If each of us is a Vulcan, then each of us has within him the power to forge his own thunderbolt inside himself. A force of pure power, bristling with energy we can send forth. We have the power to forge our own destiny. It'll take hard work, intense pounding and hammering to mold ourselves into the shape we want--and it'll take sweat." Christian stopped pacing and turned to look at us. Newcomer or not, he had our undivided attention.

"It's time to take a more aggressive approach to your training in order to get you up to the level of proficiency you need to be champions.", Assistant Coach Haydensen said. It was a little jarring for him to start his first official day in charge like this, but so far there were no objection either to his words or his enthusiasm. He wheeled out one of the smaller laundry carts and leaned over to reach inside. "We'll start with these."

Right then he began walking around the locker room, tossing out these black bundles, one to a player. They looked like boat tarps or something, all rolled up into a tight package. "We need to change they way we think about the game, gentlemen", he said. "We need to start changing the way we think about how we train." He kept right on tossing these little bundles to each guy as he walked and talked. "And most importantly, we need to change the way we think about each other."

We all sat there, not quite sure what to make of his speech, or our little bundles. He inclined his head forward, eyebrows raised. "Well? Go ahead, unroll 'em."

We did. What unrolled in each player's hands was a full-length, trim rubber bodysuit. My mouth hung open when I laid eyes on it. It was beautiful. All black and shiny, so smooth beneath my fingers. It was like a dream come true. Was the a.c. actually ordering me to combine the two greatest loves of my life? I was elated.

But not everyone was. "What the hell is this shit?", snarled Zerkowitz. "What are we supposed to do with these, go deep sea diving?" His remark got a few laughs, a few muttered agreements.

The a.c. didn't let it throw him. He walked into the equipment room as if he hadn't heard the snide comment, and came out with an armload of what looked at first like black hi-top running shoes. They weren't. As he started passing them around, checking to make sure everyone had the correct shoe size, I could see they were very snug, 16" tall rubber boots with soles not unlike track shoes. I let my suit fall into my lap to hide my erection. In the locker room, surrounded by fellow athletes, being handed rubber outfits by a hot young assistant coach. It was almost too much.

"When was the last time you really sweat during a workout, men?", Haydensen asked. A few of the guys shot him dirty looks and some looked as if they were about to challenge his remark, appearing offended by the implication that they didn't work hard enough. The a.c. saw it coming and cut them off. "Not the usual, strenuous outpouring of sweat you get from running and straining your muscles. Not like happens each time you hit the field. I mean really, really sweat?"

The guys suddenly went from pissed to puzzled. Now they had no idea what he was talking about, but they were no longer offended. Haydensen put one foot on the bench and leaned forward to speak. "We need to flush out the poor performances that have become associated with this team. We need to rid ourselves of the low scores, the fouls, the mistakes, the lapses in teamwork. And we're going to do it through sweat. We are literally going to sweat the deficiencies out of our system." What he was saying didn't make a whole lot of sense, but he was bristling with charisma. There was a firm tone of conviction in his voice. And as he gazed out across the locker room, his vibrant eyes locked briefly with each and every one of us. And boy, did he ever have beautiful eyes.

These are going to be your new workout clothes. Your sweatsuits. Every time you come here for practice, you will suit up in these sweatsuits. You will run drills in these sweatsuits. You will plan strategies in these sweatsuits. And I promise you, you will become a team of champions in these sweatsuits."

That was all I needed to hear. Quietly, and as unobtrusively as possible, I reached behind me into my locker and retrieved my talcum powder from my shower kit. I slipped the bottle into the neck of my rubber sweatsuit and squeezed in several puffs of talc. I wanted this thing on my body so bad I could practically taste it.

No one was paying any attention to what I was doing or what I wanted. "You expect us to train in these things?", said Zerkowitz, incredulous. "No fucking way! I ain't puttin' this thing on, forget it!"

Christian focused his eyes on Zerk, but his expression didn't change. He didn't seem to be getting mad--just more focused.

Cartes chimed in. "I mean, look at these things! These wetsuits--"

"Sweatsuits", corrected the a.c.

"--sweatsuits, whatever, are gonna be, like, skin tight. How are we supposed to get our pads on under 'em?"

"The pads go on over them. Your sweatsuits are always put on first."

"Well, what are we supposed to wear under 'em??"

"Nothing", I said. Everyone turned to look at me. I had stood up, and my shirt was already off. I kicked off my shoes and started to unbuckle my belt and unzip my pants.

Bradley, who was sitting closest to me, jumped up off the bench. "Cody, what the fuck?"

"Put your pants back on!", Zerk shouted, as I dropped my trousers.

"I think I know where the a.c. is going with this", I said. "And if this thing is really supposed to be made to make us sweat like crazy, we can't have anything on underneath 'em." After yanking off my socks and boxers, I stepped my legs into the suit as quickly as possible, making sure to flap the sleeves around in front of me as if I didn't know what I was doing, when in fact I was moving deliberately to hide my hard-on.

I stuffed my arms into the sleeves and forced my hands out the cuffs. I turned around and said to Bradley, "Dude, zip me up." Bradley just sat there, staring, right along with everybody else. "C'mon, man, just do it."

"This is too fucking weird", he mumbled, zipping up my suit from behind.

"Thanks", I said over my shoulder, as I was sitting back down to pull on my boots, or running shoes, or whatever the hell they were. I hadn't powdered the footwear, so it took some tugging to get the damn things on, but once I got my feet inside, they fit like a glove. Comfortable, cushioning. I stood up, the whole darn suit fit like a glove. Seeing me in it also got everyone in the room laughing. I looked to Assistant Coach Haydensen, who had stood up himself, and had a curious look on his face somewhere between pleasure and surprise. Guess my response to his idea pleasantly surprised him.

I held up my hand, trying to get the guys to cool it. I wasn't really successful, so I raised my voice instead. "Lissen up, guys. We have busted our asses season after season. You know that nobody works harder than we do at practice. But every season we go out on that field and get our heads handed to us. Every damn time." The room quieted down. Their team captain in the funny rubber suit had hit a nerve. This was not a laughing matter.

Now that I had their attention, I didn't want to lose it. "We are a good team. But we never seem to be good enough. We're doing something wrong, and damned if we can nail down what it is. If our new a.c. here has some kind of method that will help us reach our potential, I say we pull together, follow his lead, and try it. He didn't get to be three-time champion on his college varsity team because he has his head up his ass." I quickly turned to Christian. "Sorry." He waved the gaff away. "I say we wear the suits. If it doesn't help, at least we gave it a shot.", I said. "Hell, at this point, I'd wear a frickin' tutu if I thought it'd help."

Christian stepped over to the center of the room. "You heard your captain. You can go on with your undeserved losing streak if you like, or you can start down the road to realize your rightful place as champions. The choice is yours. We're going to try a lot of new things that may seem strange to you, but I assure you they have been tried, tested, and they work."

"Well, what are you waiting for?", I said. "Suit up!"

With a few grumbles here and there, the guys started to undress and unroll their rubber suits. "Swear to God I draw the line at wearin' a tutu", muttered Zerk.

A.C. Haydensen started handing out bottles of talcum powder. "Coat the inside with this. It'll slip on easier." Everyone got their own talc. He handed one to me when he was done. "In the future use this, Cody. It's formulated to be used with rubber workout gear."

"Yessir."

Christian gave me a pat on the arm and walked off. I felt a brief tingle where he made contact, and I couldn't suppress a smile. He was adorable. I searched the room for Tad and saw him in his rubber sweatsuit, hopping on one foot, pulling on his boot. If I thought he looked gorgeous before...

Powers tapped me on the shoulder. "Okay, man, zip me up." He turned his back to me and I zipped his suit closed. "You better know what the hell you're doing, goin' along with this, Cody." He rotated his arms and did a couple quick deep knee bends. "Hey. This thing is way more comfortable than I thought it would be. It's all soft and stuff. Spongy shoes. Feels pretty okay." He looked down, remarking, "I can see you really like it."

I looked down, too. My erection was showing very clearly from within the snug suit. I blushed with embarrassment. "Yeah, well, like you said, they're pretty comfortable." Powers just shook his head and grinned. We filed out with the rest of team for the first set of drills in our new training regimen.

Calisthenics had never been so invigorating. Every stretch, every movement was heightened by the feeling of the taut rubber suit stretched over my body, conforming to my every muscle and contour, moving with me, pressing against me. And every motion seemed to help pull the rubber crotch tighter over my rigid cock, pressing it firmly against my abs. The more I moved, the more it was like the suit was playing with me--fondling me in reward for every effort I made. As a result, I put a lot of effort into warm-ups that day.

The practice was a thorough pounding of the basics. Block, pass, tackle, kick, run. We usually worked up quite a sweat during practice, but today it was like we were all sweating buckets. The sun beat down on our gleaming black rubber sweatsuits and we perspired like cold water pipes on the 4th of July. Plenty of Gatorade was on hand, and we must have guzzled down a gallon apiece.

But there was something about the feel of these hot, sticky, slightly confining suits. Something almost--intoxicating. And I could tell that I wasn't the only one who felt it. The movement of the sweat-slicked rubber on our bodies as we ran, pushed, and played felt strangely erotic. We weren't doing anything other than practicing ball, but the fact that we were doing it clad in skintight rubber (and that we were all dressed identically) made it seem somehow sensual. Players stayed atop one another for a bit longer than necessary during tackles, since the feel of muscular bodies crushed against one another through the rubber felt wonderful. All moves calling for physical contact were engaged with relish, as the impact of one rubbered body against another sent ripples of moist pleasure through each player's frame.

Practice ran longer than had been scheduled, but I don't think anyone cared. I know I didn't. By the end, we found we had pushed harder here in practice than we had at our previous year's Homecoming game. We leaned against one another for support, or collapsed exhausted onto the grass. Those of us who could still stand sloshed a bit when we walked, due to the excess of sweat that had puddled into our boots.

I was doubly spent, as I had remained hard during the entire practice. My ball's buzzing, my entire body trembling from the sensation of being wrapped in rubber, I leaned back against the fence to steady myself. I watched Tad as he sat upon the field, feet stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his elbows, panting. I watched as the slick rubber across his chest rose and fell with each gasp, the flecks of grass and dirt there often drown out by tiny sunbursts as his suit caught the light. And as I let my eyes drop down farther than his chest, I saw I wasn't the only player sporting an erection.

We all staggered back into the locker room feeling both exhilarated and exhausted. We peeled off our pads and helmets, and dropped them about the room haphazardly, too tired to put them away just yet. Christian was congratulating us on embracing our new routine and putting forth an honest effort. "There's just one more thing I want you gentlemen to sit through before I let you hit the showers.", he informed us.

"Ohh, man", Zerkowitz moaned, "I'm so bushed I can barely think. What we doin' now?"

"Just follow me", Christian instructed. We did, all of us still in our rubber sweatsuits, whether it was because we all enjoyed the feel--like me--or because we lacked the strength to peel them off, the end result was the same. Christian led us through the locker room and down the hallway to the auditorium. He gestured that we should take a seat. "I figured after that workout you could appreciate something better than gym bleachers to sit on."

No one argued with that. We filed into the rows and plopped down into the slightly overstuffed cushioned rocker seats. I could hear sighs of relief as rubbered butts landed into soft, welcoming chairs and the weight was taken off of booted feet.

Christian announced that he was going to play some video footage of our work from the previous season. He was very adamant about us keeping our eyes on the screen, and concentrating on what he was saying. All I could concentrate on was my fellow teammates. I had purposely taken a seat in a row behind most of the other guys, so I could get a good look at them all from behind. Just about all the guys were in fine shape. Big weightlifter's builds, some tight and trim, or somewhere in between, I was in heaven--despite my exhaustion--just watching these guys I'd known (and let's face it, occasionally fantasized about) for so long, lowering their rubbered selves into the seats all around me.

Christian dimmed the lights and used a laser pointer to indicate things he wanted us to observe on the video screen. He urged us again to listen close and keep a sharp eye, but I just kept peeking to my left and right, taking in the beautiful sight of the rubber-covered hardbodies who sat close enough to touch. I didn't even pick up on Christian's flat monotone as he spoke until I caught some of the guys nodding off.

Bradley was two seats over on my left, and his eyes were glazing over fast. I guess the combo of the rigorous practice followed by dim lights and comfortable chairs was wiping him out. Bradley's head began to nod and it sure looked like he was falling asleep.

"Psst! Dude!", I whispered to him. "Bradley, man, you're gonna get in trouble. Wake up!" But Bradley was too far gone. His head slumped forward and his chest rose and fell rhythmically to indicate he was already pretty deeply asleep.

I considered getting up to move over and shake him awake, but as I started to rise, I noticed that Bradley was by no means alone. Every head in the auditorium was slumped forward in exactly the same way. I looked up and saw that as Christian continued his flat, toneless speech--apparently unaware that everyone in the room had zonked out on him--he kept flashing his laser pointer at the screen. But he was flashing it too rapidly to be indicating anything in particular. He was flashing it in a repeated pattern, over and over.

Christian continued talking, but began to scan the room, nodding to himself at the team of sleeping rubberboys he saw before him. I had no clue what was up, but I plopped myself back down in my chair fast as I could and slumped my head. It was only then, with my head down and my eyes closed, that I really heard what he had been saying all along.

"That's right, men. Breathing deeply, feeling very relaxed, very spent. This practice was one of the best you've ever had. This team's lineup is one of the best you've ever had. And it's only going to get better. And you know what made it so good? What's going to make it better and better? The rubber, men. You, in rubber. Breathing deeply, in and out. In, and out."

This was more than a post-practice wind-down. He was programming us. My heart rate jumped up a notch and I kept listening in silence. This had quickly gone from sexually exciting to just plain scary. What was Christian doing to us?

"Let yourself sink down, deeper and deeper. Feel the soft, soft chair beneath you, sink down into it, into your rubber suit. The rubber that feels so good, the rubber that is becoming a part of you. It feels so good, so soft, so arousing. Your rubber excites you."

I couldn't help it. I was getting hard as a rock, listening to what he was saying, feeling the moist rubber all over my body. I opened one eye a bit and saw Bradley was sprouting a serious erection, too. Is this what Christian wanted? Did he want a whole team of guys seriously into rubber?

Christian's talk went on for several more minutes, I don't know how long. And even though I wasn't as deeply under as the rest of the guys, I was getting pretty relaxed and increasingly turned on despite my fears. I had almost fallen asleep for real when Christian started prompting responses from us. "And repeat, men. I love the game, I love my rubber suit, I love my teammates."

Like a group of immobilized zombies, every boy in the room responded as ordered. "I love the game, I love my rubber suit, I love my teammates."

Christian had them saying it several times, reinforcing it. "And again, men. Say it and know that it's true. Feel deep within you that you speak the truth. I love the game, I love my rubber suit, I love my teammates."

Everyone repeated the phrase, dutifully. The last couple times I even caught myself doing it, though I think I was the only one aware of what I was saying. And the thing is, I really did believe what I was saying was true. I mean, I would've regardless. Christian's little hypnotic exercise may have been subversive...but was it bad?

Within another few moments, the lights were back up and the guys were blinking their eyes and stretching. Christian commented that further review of the old game footage had better wait until a time when the guys were more alert and attentive.

We were dismissed to the showers and then home. The guys seemed really happy with the day's practice. There was a lot of back slapping and high fives, and compliments flew left and right about the new sweatsuits.

"Man! Feel like I could take on the world in this thing!" "We gotta work out in these things another day." "Hell, every day, I'm saying!"

Some players entered the locker room arm-in-arm, acting as if that were the most natural thing in the world.. A few of the guys actually shared hugs. There was more laughing and joking in the showers than I would have expected after such a draining day's work. Meanwhile, Christian went about his own tasks, as if everything was perfectly normal.

The next day in the locker room, there were far fewer grumbles about suiting up in our rubber outfits. I was still a bit dazed by all the muscular boys steeping into rubber, so it wasn't until we actually went out onto the field that I realized I had absently poured my own talcum powder into the suit to help slide it on. I'd have to use the other stuff next time, I supposed.

Like the day before, practice went great. There was an energy, a positive aggression in the air between each player that charged us up and egged us on. We sweat like crazy, relished our moments of physical contact (or at least I did), and put away our share of Gatorade again. For some reason, no one seemed to get as tired as quickly.

Afterward, we were herded, sweaty rubber suits and all, back into the auditorium. Once again Assistant Coach Haydensen requested we sit through a video of our old plays, but this time with the added footage of some instructional plays and strategies. No one seemed to object to sitting through a mini-seminar after such a strenuous workout. As the lights dimmed, I settled into my chair and watched the room as much as the screen.

Again, Christian added his own monotone narration. Again, he flashed his laser pointer. Again, every head in the place began to nod forward in response to the stimuli. The rubberclad players, now suddenly sluggish and mesmerized, repeated their mantras as dictated. I mimicked their responses, more than a little uneasy that I was the only one--apart from Christian--who appeared to know consciously what was going on.

"We love our rubber suits. We love the game. We love each other." Dull, emotionless voices filled the auditorium, and despite my growing fear, I felt myself getting an erection. All these rubberboys, under the command of one man (a really hot man at that), being made to profess their love for each other, even in a teammate's capacity, was incredibly erotic to me.

This session lasted considerably longer than before. In it, the boys and I were called to study images on the screen of handsome young football players giving it their all on the field. But there was also footage of some beautiful boys helping one another into their spandex UnderArmor, and into their pads. Christian spoke of caring, or teamwork, of support for one another, as on the screen, adorable young men tenderly suited one another up for their favorite sport.

We recited over and over how much we cared for each other, how much we loved playing together, how much we loved, wanted, even needed our rubber suits. With each repetition, I could hear the conviction, if not pride, grow in each player's voice. As the spoken repetitions built, I could feel something brushing against my fingers. I glanced to see that the player next to me was reaching out his hand to me, over the armrest, fingers extending to touch mine. It was Powers, and his head was still slumped forward, looking sound asleep. His fingers intertwined with mine, and I could feel Cartes's hand, to my right, interlacing the fingers of my other hand as well.

Soon, I was holding the hands of the guys on either side of me, and a quick glance confirmed that every row had all the boys connected hand-to-hand as we recited our mantra, our oath. "I love the game, I love my rubber suit, I love my teammates."

Over and over, we said the words. After a few minutes, Christian prompted us with new additions.

"Very good, men. As you speak the words and hold the hands of your teammates, you can feel how true this is, how right, how natural. Now repeat after me--I truly, deeply love my fellow teammates. I can feel it, I cannot deny it. It burns within me, held inside the rubber. Gentlemen?"

And like robots--very happy, contented robots maybe, but robots nonetheless--everyone recited back, " I truly, deeply love my fellow teammates. I can feel it, I cannot deny it. It burns within me, held inside the rubber." Where the hell was he going with this? Wherever it was, it required us repeating that last one nearly a dozen times.

Then, Christian added, "I love the game, I love the rubber, it's true, it's good, it's right." Another dozen repetitions of that. Then, the real kicker that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

"Let all that you've said sink in, now. You can feel deep down how true every word is. It makes you feel good to know you're part of this team, to be surrounded by such good and reliable friends in rubber like yourself." I sat there, holding the hands of two other guys, waiting for the final bombshell. It wasn't long in coming. "Rest now as you repeat your final lesson. "I love my teammate, I love my teammate, I love my teammate."

All around me, sleepy voices responded as ordered. All sounding contented, happy, even fulfilled. "I love my teammate, I love my teammate, I love my teammate."

Teammate?? When had it become singular? Which teammate were we supposed to love? My brains overrode my concern, and I played along so I wouldn't be discovered as the only one not following the recitation. I too said the words in time with everyone else, "I love my teammate, I love my teammate, I love my teammate."

Unbidden, one thought came to my mind. I saw Tad. He stood before me, dressed in his rubber bodysuit, his sweatsuit, hair matted down with the sweat of a hard practice, a stiff bulge or arousal in his rubber pants. Without realizing it, I was still repeating the words. "I love my teammate, I love my teammate, I love my teammate." In my mind, Tad stepped toward me, one hand casually swiping back his moist hair. He walked right up to me until our chests were touching. I could feel my rock-hard erection pressed tight to his. His eyes were so beautiful as they looked not at me but into me. Gently, he cradled my face in his hands, and leaned in to kiss me. I closed my eyes, more than willing to surrender to his kiss. I opened my mouth and felt his soft lips make contact with mine--

"Annnnd feeling fine!" Christian's voice snapped me out of my reverie. I looked over to my right side and there sat Tad, his hand holding mine, a sly grin on his face. It split into a bright smile and he winked at me. I yanked my hand back and shook my head to clear it. When I opened my eyes again, it was Cartes who was beside me, as it had been all along. Cartes's gaze was fixed straight ahead. I turned to see what he was looking at and saw Christian addressing the group.

"So you can see how just that little bit more discipline--not necessarily a lot more--but just a littttle bit more can make all the difference. And mental conditioning is just as important as physical training. Take time every night before you hit the sack and relax yourself and run the things we talked about here through your head. And don't get all flustered if you can't remember it all, we covered a lot. Just relax your mind and let go--it'll come back to you. Okay then!" And he clapped his hands together and then pointed both index fingers toward the door. "Showers!"

Everyone filed out with a spring in his step. Smiles and laughter abounded, arms went around fellow player's shoulders, and a few even traded slaps on the ass. A single thought kept running through the back of my mind. The one that Christian had put there. "I love my teammate, I love my teammate, I love my teammate." Each time I thought it, I felt a connection to Tad. What the fuck was Christian doing to us?

Back at my locker, I was repacking my shower kit and I saw the bottle of hypno powder. The one I hadn't used yet. Was that the only reason I didn't go under with the rest of the group? And why I could still remember what had happened afterward? I held the bottle in my hands and decided then and there never to use the stuff. I surreptitiously slipped the powder into my backpack along with my own talc. That night at home, I would switch the contents of the bottles after giving the emptied hypno powder bottle a thorough scrubbing out to clear away any remnants of the medicated stuff. Anyone watching me would see me pour on gobs of powder from the hypno bottle at every practice not knowing that I would be the only player unaffected.

The rubber practices, followed by the video "instruction" sessions went on every day for the next couple weeks. We hit the field hard every day, ran, kicked, passed, blocked, tackled, sweat like pigs. Then we'd go into the auditorium, heads slumped forward, and professed our love for the game, our rubber suits, and each other. I played along, more conscious of what was going on than anyone else on the team, yet I still walked away every time with a strong feeling of connection to the game, to the uniforms, and especially to the guys. To say nothing of my growing attraction to Tad.

I wanted to say something, but who would I say it to? And besides, we really were playing better than we had before. Way better. And after all, what had Christian done? Made us love and cherish the integrity of the game--not winning, but the game itself. We loved the suits, which were clearly helping us, or we thought they were, which amounts to the same thing. And we loved each other. As teammates. Friends. Brothers. More than brothers... And I felt somehow grateful to Christian for all this. Hornier than hell all the time, but grateful too. I opted to wait a little longer.

And after those couple weeks, the video sessions in the auditorium stopped. I felt a sense of relief about that at first. But then things started to get really weird.