jocks – Mansploitation

The Fat Jock

Davy is the biggest linebacker on the football team, and he’s too big for most women… That means he’s just perfect for Bart! Bart loves big bellies, big guys and big meat! Can Davy satisfy his expansive needs?

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“C’mon, man…” Zack pleaded. His dimples were maddening though. Davy Mitchell hated Zack’s dimples and his handsome face. Every moment he was near Zack, he got angrier. He wanted to punch Zack into the dirt.
Of course he couldn’t do that. But he had other plans that would feel almost as good, he thought.
Zack Beauchamp was a freshman and a backup lineman. He would be taking Davy’s place when Davy graduated this year. Zack was younger than Davy. He was smaller, more handsome, cleaner, smarter, more articulate and more charismatic. He had a normal voice. He was majoring in a real subject, math, and he did all of his own work.
In contrast, Davy had an Asian nerd do his homework, even the ultra-simple coursework from his communications-major classes — he could do that. Communications assignments tended to be things like “find a YouTube video of a person communicating and write four sentences about it” — dummy work. Davy could do that. He was not a retard.
But football practice took so much time. How did Zack find the time to go to practice and learn math? Davy felt like he didn’t have enough time to write four sentences about a YouTube video. Hell, Davy felt like there weren’t enough hours in the day to shower and shave and eat eight thousand calories.
And Zack did math?!?!?!
Davy did need help for some of his academic work, because he wasn’t a good student. Math was hard. English was easy, but writing essays took forever. History was too much memorization. Science was hard, plus you had to go to labs and that took a lot of time. Davy was glad no one took attendance for him, and his Asian tutor was prompt and reliable.
But he had noticed and been hurt by the fact that his coaches never once asked if Davy could do the work on his own — they simply assumed he needed a tutor to cheat for him. They didn’t even think he could do communications on his own, and that was just basic speaking and writing. A smart parrot could earn a communications degree.
Ultra-handsome Zack could probably earn a communications degree in a weekend.
Zack was good at math; he actually liked math. Davy thought that was preposterous. He had thought it was a joke when Zack said it. He didn’t even really realize it was allowed for a football player to take real classes and do the work.
How the fuck do you enjoy math? It’s just numbers!
Davy hated Zack, who always had a girlfriend even though he was Christian and didn’t have sex. He was blond and he had blue eyes, and girls loved him. He didn’t even have a very big dick — it wasn’t small enough that Davy could really make fun of him for it, but it was hardly large, not like Davy’s horse-like slab of meat, which would have reached his knees if Davy were an average height. Zack was just a perfect specimen of man, seemingly constructed to please women — the opposite of Davy, who was also a perfect specimen of man in his own way, a way that turned women off and sent them running… into Zack’s well-toned — but not bulky — arms.
“No way, get down on your knees,” Davy said. He crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating his plump pectoral muscles.
Zack blushed as the other seniors laughed. They played along because Davy was a senior like them, but they all liked Zack. They felt sorry for him. Davy didn’t. Zack sunk to his knees in front of Davy, who wore only a jockstrap — everyone in the room wore only their jockstrap, because they were hazing the freshmen.
Davy’s ball-hairs barely fit in the jockstrap, and they jutted out, making him look like a sasquatch who had been stuffed into some ill-fitting human underwear. He didn’t wear the fashionable, colored jockstrap that some of his teammates wore — including Zack, who had a pink jockstrap on — pink — that’s right, pink — and apparently the girls liked it for some reason; pink had become fashionable and no one told Davy, who had teased Zack for his jockstrap a month ago only for his teammates to tell him that rappers wore pink underwear now. “It’s a thing these days,” they said.
Davy had scowled. He’d been looking for a chance to humiliate Zack since then. He wished he was from an earlier era, he thought, when masculinity was more simple.
Zack wanted to come to the Kappa Kappa Pi party tonight, but it was only for upperclassmen. Zack said he was in love with a girl who would be there. Davy hated him so much. Team tradition dictated that any player, including Davy, could veto a freshman’s party invitation. Even if Zack were cool, Davy might have refused an invite for Zack, as that way the party would have a better ratio of females to males. It made sense to reduce the cock-count.
But Davy knew he wasn’t going to get laid regardless. The girls would squeal at his size and laugh at his jokes and say he was so cool, but then they’d all go upstairs with the handsome players. Davy was fun to tease, but not to fuck.
“I… I promise I won’t flirt with any girl, Davy. I swear. I have a girlfriend.” He sniffled. “Please, c’mon, man.”
Davy shook his head. “No way, bitch. You wanna come to the party? Get ready for tea!”
His teammates laughed and clapped to cover up their anxiety when Davy dropped his jockstrap. His foot-long dick flopped out, and those massive balls dangled. Davy jogged in place a little, making his cock and balls jiggle right in front of Zack’s face.
“Lean your head back and open up-“
“Ew, c’mon… at least take a shower first,” Zack said, his cheeks turning bright red.
Davy blushed too, because his teammates laughed at his naked body. They showered together all the time, of course, it wasn’t abnormal to see each other’s dick. It was unusual, however, for only one of them to be naked at a time though, and anywhere other than the locker room. That didn’t happen a lot.
But Davy decided to lean into it. That was what he had always done when people teased him. He pretended it didn’t bother him, that he was deliberately cultivating it. He hadn’t showered today. He stretched like he was going to work out, jogging in place with a big goofy grin. “Gotta get myself nice and sweaty,” he said as he jogged.
As he moved around and stretched, Davy turned around and bent over, pretending to be stretching his legs and his back. It had the effect of making his big hairy asscheeks spread right in front of Zack’s face.
“Ah, nasty!”
“Stick ya tongue in there, Zack!”
The teammates roared their laughter, applauding and shoving Zack’s face towards Davy’s ass. His thick kinky black hairs were plastered to his flesh. He was so tall that he had to lower his ass quite a bit, kneeling awkwardly, to get his cheeks right in front of Zack’s face.
Zack blushed and looked away. He looked like he was considering leaving — he didn’t need to do this, after all. But his girlfriend wanted to come to this party, and he had promised her an invite.
Blushing intensely, Zack nodded. He closed his eyes. He thought this wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t looking. He also didn’t want to admit how big Davy’s cock was. He winced as he felt Davy’s massive body approaching. Zack snuck a peak just in time to see those low-hanging balls drop right into his open mouth.
“Ew, nasty!”
“Teabag him!”
“Drink that ball-sweat, freshman!”
The other seniors laughed and slapped Davy’s asscheeks because that made more sweat trickle down into Zack’s throat. They all winced when they touched him because they were intimidated by his size, and a little grossed out by the sweat dripping from his hairy ass. Zack cringed and wiggled like he was trying to escape. There seemed to be an infinite amount of scrotum flesh filling up his mouth. It coated his tongue with hairy, salty sweat, and it made him gag loudly. He retched. His stomach twisted. Above his face, Davy’s strapping muscles all tensed at once as he wiggled his dick, making it drag over Zack’s nose.
“Ah, shit…” Davy was still soft, of course, but he moaned as though he was about ready to cum. He even gave his dick one long strong to make sure everyone on the team knew how big it was. It was the one aspect of his big body that he could really show off — not to girls, of course, but at least he could ensure his teammates knew he had a bigger dick than any of them.
His cock and balls flopped over Zack’s retching face. Davy took a deep breath. “Lick my balls, punk!” He guffawed, his big barrel voice echoing against the walls.
Then, at last, Davy pulled away. He cackled and danced around the room, his heaviness making the floor creak and the shelves vibrate until an empty beer bottle toppled over. His cock jiggled up and down along with his belly, which shifted like a sac of potatoes dangling in front of his chest.
For some reason, Davy pulling his balls out of Zack’s mouth made the taste worse. A gritty salty texture coated Zack’s tongue. He thought he might never taste anything else again. He gagged furiously, his face bright red.
“Zack’s a bitch now-“
“How’s them balls taste, boy? You wanna taste some more?”
“Zack’s the new team ball-boy!”
Zack blushed. He had always been the sexiest guy in high school, the one all the girls had a crush on. He was more popular than the quarterback. He hadn’t taken well to being a mere freshman and a second-stringer, especially while a big dumb loser like Davy was a star. He wasn’t used to being teased or hazed — he was always on the other side of that equation. Zack’s blood boiled.
“Hey, fuck you, dumbass! You’re a fucking retard, Davy. There’s no reason for you to go to the party cuz no girls will ever mess with you and your hairy ass!” Zack said, his face turning red.
The laughter and jeers stopped. The fun hazing atmosphere of the room died. Davy glared at Zack.
“What’d you say to me, you little punk?!” Davy shouted. His voice was so deep it rattled the windows and made everyone in the house, even the freshmen downstairs, fall quiet. Davy grabbed his horse-dick and waved it in Zack’s direction.
Before either of them could say anything else, however, the quarterback Jimmy (and team captain) stepped in between them. “Zack!” he barked. “Get downstairs! You have to respect the seniors, freshman. That’s a rule. Davy might be an ugly sonofabitch, but he’s still a senior.” He paused. “And you’re not allowed to call anyone retarded, except actual retards — I mean, not anyone, not even them. That’s a rule. You can get kicked out of the whole university-“
“Fine, fuck you! I don’t need your stupid party!” Zack screamed. He stormed out of the room and out of the house, cursing himself — why had he gone through with it if he was just going to stay away from the party anyway? He had only licked Davy’s balls because that was the price of going to the party.
The room was quiet for a moment. Everyone looked at Davy, who blushed. He didn’t want to be naked right now, but he didn’t want to look vulnerable by putting his jockstrap back on. The fact that he was the only one in the room with a lot of chest hair — which had gone well over into his back now, since he stopped shaving his chest and there was no one in his life who would help him shave his back — and the only one who didn’t have a six-pack seemed glaringly obvious right now.
“I do get laid,” Davy said. He didn’t intend to sound defensive, but he winced as the other seniors snickered. They must have been more aware than Davy thought that he didn’t have sex very often. Davy frowned. “Look… Girls do dig me. He don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Yeah, sure, Davy, we know,” Jimmy said with that charming grin of his. “Zack’s not allowed to be disrespectful like that anyway. He’s a little puke.”
“Yeah, you’re a tough guy, Davy, we know girls aren’t so into that-“
“We should get Davy laid! Hey, remember that fat chick at the Wendy’s? Who’s got her number? She had a nice ass, and she was like six and a half feet tall-“
The door opened, and Bart walked into the Kappa Kappa Pi house. The seniors in their jockstraps all furrowed their brow. None of them had ever seen Bart before. Davy smiled at him.
The others were all shocked that Davy was naked and seemingly unembarrassed about it. Bart smirked and waved his limp-wristed hand at Davy.
“Who’re you?”
“Hey, man, uh, sir, this is… How’d you get in the house? Who are you?” Jimmy was the team captain, and the “responsible” one, so he addressed Bart.
“I teleported in,” Bart said with a giggle. He gently pushed Jimmy out of the way with his limp wrist. He approached Davy. “I’m here to service this amazing slab of manhood. Evidently the girls around here don’t know what to do with him. You’d think college girls would be smarter than that, but I guess they don’t teach classes in manhandling meat. I blame the liberals.” Bart glanced at Jimmy’s crotch as he walked by. “You’ve got a nice dick, Jimmy. But it’s a little small for me.” The other players chuckled as Jimmy blushed. Bart grabbed Davy’s thick meat and stroked it. “This is more like it.”
Davy put his arms on his waist and sniffled. “Yeah, man, y’all don’t even know. Real men get their dick wet, y’know, and-“
The other players erupted in laughter. Someone slapped Davy’s ass. He blushed intensely and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was going to get off with another man, especially in front of his teammates. But Bart had appeared at the perfect moment — no one would remember the freshman being a moron and calling Davy out on being poor with women; they would only remember how the guy said Bart’s dick was too small for him and said that only Davy was horse-cocked enough.
And he wasn’t even going to have to deal with Zack at the party either.
“Holy shit, is he doing it?”
“Davy! Davy! Do the Gravy-Boat, man!”
The Gravy-Boat was a dance that Davy did in the endzone sometimes — he didn’t score often, so it didn’t happen too much. He blushed as Bart dropped to his knees in front of him and nodded. Bart had seen the Gravy-Boat before, but he enjoyed the idea of watching it from up close and personal.
Davy blushed. He had never intended for the “Gravy-Boat” to be a thing. He was just trying to impress a girl when he came up with it, though she had only laughed at him — why was it, he thought, that when a dimpled man dances in the endzone, girls think it’s sexy? When Davy did it, girls thought it was hilarious, not sexy, while those very same hot dudes made jokes about Davy causing an earthquake.
It was barely even a dance. He just leaned forward and wiggled his ass, then leaned back and wiggled his ass, then back and forth a few more times. Since he was naked and Bart was right in front of him, Davy waggled his sweaty cock and balls in front of Bart’s face, then turned around and shook his hairy ass in front of his face. Bart watched studiously as though it was an informative documentary.
“Gravy-Boat! Gravy-Boat!”
The other players laughed more loudly than was really appropriate — they were nervous about the stranger seemingly ready to jack Davy off. A few of them even left the room, not wanting to watch; the remainder told themselves and each other they didn’t want to watch, but didn’t want to seem so squeamish as to leave.
Davy stopped dancing, too embarrassed to continue. His face was like a hairy, stupid-looking cranberry, which made Bart laugh. The room fell silent and awkward, and Bart was about to swallow Davy’s dick in front of all these jocks.
But then George Hill pushed through — he was a wide receiver, and he also had a huge cock like Davy’s. He had his jockstrap down just enough to bare his dick, which was uncut and fleshy. He flopped it between his fingers, running past Bart.
“Dicktap!” he screamed.
He thwacked his dick against Davy’s shaft and his balls, hard enough to make Davy oomph and pull away. Davy cried out, “shit, man, ow!” He said more but the team erupted in laughter and applause, drowning out Davy’s breathless howls of pain. They clapped George on the shoulder as he stepped back.
This was a game that had become popular at GHU over the last couple years, among the athletes, especially on the football team. It was called Dicktap. The “game” was to simply hit someone else’s cock and balls (mainly the balls, since it hurt) with your own cock. It wasn’t really much of a game, but Bart enjoyed watching it as the other players all started trying to get a dicktap on George, who danced away and out of the room. It was traditional to only dicktap the person who had previously dicktapped you (so Bart didn’t know how the tradition had begun in the first place).
“C’m’ere, George, I’ll knock your dick clean off!”
“George’s dick really hurts, that’s not fair!”
Bart took advantage of the confusion to get started. Davy loomed overhead, momentarily distracted by the fading pain in his balls and by the commotion from the other players. Bart took his dick in hand and stroked it. Again Davy didn’t seem to notice, not right away. A lot was going on all at once, and his teammates kept bumping into him as they chased George out of the room.
Then Bart swallowed his dick, and Davy couldn’t help but notice that. He grunted. He didn’t mean to be loud, but that voice like an idling eighteen-wheeler made it so loud that everyone fell silent.
The remaining players (a dozen or so) all turned to face Davy, whose face remained a bright red though he tried to look confident and not nervous. His dick was limp still, but throbbing. Bart could sense the erection bubbling up inside him.
“Shit, he’s really doing it…”
“Davy’s crazy!”
“That’s so nasty!”
Davy grumbled. His mouth creaked open amid an assortment of sarcastic snickers and patronizing chuckles. His cock twitched and jerked in Bart’s mouth. Bart wanted to impress the others, so now that they were paying close attention, he slammed his head all the way down. He deep-throated Davy in one smooth motion.
A spine-tingling moan filled the air. Davy leaned against the wall and gripped it tightly, his fingers turning white. He closed his eyes once more, then thought that made him look weak. He shouldn’t look embarrassed, he decided, he should look like this was no big deal and he did this all the time, like it was the others who were weird for not having ever done it.
“Fuck, that’s nasty! He’s deep-throating Davy!”
“He’s doing it!”
His cock was rock-hard now, and its size couldn’t be ignored. None of the players mentioned how big it was though, because none of them wanted to acknowledge that it was bigger than their own dicks. Even when they played Dicktap, no one ever acknowledged differences in cock-size. It was an unwritten rule of jock life: pretend you’ve never looked at anyone’s cock before.
Precum flowed down Davy’s shaft and coated Bart’s face and tongue. He kept deep-throating, even as his lungs cried out for oxygen and his stomach churned. His nose nestled in Davy’s unkempt pubic bush, while Bart’s soft hands stroked his hairy balls and taint.
“Is he doing the Gravy-Boat again?” The other players giggled. Davy wasn’t trying to do his dance, but he was shaking because his dick felt so good, and he was trying to avoid making a lot of noise — he thought that would lead to more teasing — so it rather looked like he was trying to do the Gravy-Boat without removing his dick from Bart’s mouth. His assflesh trembled and his muscles all flexed at once.
“Goddamn, Davy…”
But Davy’s desire to avoid making too much noise backfired. He snorted and sniffled, which made him sound like a tired horse as his muscles sweated and he began to plow down Bart’s throat. Then he grabbed the back of Bart’s head and rammed his dick in, swaying his hips from side to side as though trying to plow into every inch of Bart’s face.
Bart’s hands flailed. He grabbed Davy’s asscheek with one hand, while his other hand tried to reach Davy’s nipples — Davy was too tall, so Bart just teased the lower edge of his sweaty pecs.
“You ever done this before, Davy? You look like you’s an expert. You gonna stick him in the ass next?”
Davy shook his head. He said no, but all that came out of his mouth was a creaky grunt. He had to focus to say anything articulately. “No, no way, man,” he said, sounding like he was already on the verge of orgasm. “Jackin’ off so much ain’t right, it’s unbiblical.” Davy wasn’t really Christian, or at least not seriously Christian, but it was the only objectively reasonable excuse he could think of. A part of him did want to plow into Bart’s butt, but that seemed too gross and off-putting; he certainly wouldn’t do it in front of his teammates anyway.
His sac slapped against Bart’s chin so violently ballsweat dripped down his body. Bart was good at keeping his mouth open and loose, so Davy could just ram his dick in and out.
“Ew, Davy’s gonna nut!”
“That’s Davy’s O-face, man, looks like a caveman holding in a fart.” The other players snickered and pinched Davy’s hairy ass to tease him.
“Holy shit, he does-“
“I bet he does fart when he cums-“
They all began imitating Davy’s supposed orgasm-sounds. They hooted like a cumming gibbon and slapped their own thighs to make a loud, fleshy rippling noise. They guffawed while Davy blushed, both in arousal and embarrassment.
He howled and panted like a wolf when he finally came. Davy used both of his paw-like hands to hold Bart’s face in place, as Davy ignored his friends teasing and poking him. Cum poured down Bart’s throat.
It was salty and sweet, and it was a huge load, even more than Bart had gotten out of him the last time. The flavor was intense, sunny and grassy; it tasted like a football field, he thought, he could even taste the plastic padding of a uniform and sweat-stained cotton fabric of Davy’s too-small jockstrap.
“Ew, he’s swallowing it!”
“Davy’s cumming!”
“Dicktap!” Someone tried to get a Dicktap on Davy as he came, which prompted laughter even though it didn’t work — Davy’s entire dick was in Bart’s mouth, and his balls were inaccessible. So he just flopped his dick over Bart’s face and the root of Davy’s dick.
Bart was dizzy, about to pass out from lack of oxygen. Davy firmly kept him place until every last drop of cum had escaped from his balls, filling Bart up with so much fluid he felt full. He couldn’t believe Davy had shot so much — it was those massive baseball-sized balls, he thought, pumping him until the cum piled up in his throat and slipped out, coating his chin and plopping onto the floor. He was groggy as Davy finally pulled away and sighed.
“Davy! Davy!”
“Do the Gravy-Boat!”
As the last pangs of his orgasm coursed through him, Davy managed to do a Gravy-Boat. He shook his limpening dick over Bart’s face, then spread his asscheeks and wiped his sweaty crack over Bart’s nose. Davy cackled as his friends slapped his hairy cheeks, then jokingly wiped their hands off on each other.
“Ew, ass-sweat-“
“You gonna smell like a gravy boat, man…”
Bart laid back and sighed, satisfied as a smug kitten. Davy started drinking, still stark-naked — the girls weren’t supposed to come over for a few more hours, so there was no reason to put clothes on yet. That meant Bart still had plenty of time to worship every inch of his raunchy linebacker body.

The Football Jock

Rob loves football jocks and their sweat-soaked gear, so he hangs out in the college locker room during games. When one studly athlete is ejected from the game, only Rob can alleviate his manly urges… Or can he?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob Winthrop was in the locker room of the GHU Titans. The team was out on the field. He could have gone out there. He paid for the team’s parties and special, not college-approved events — like the stripper parties — so the team allowed him to do whatever he wanted as long as it didn’t disrupt the team. Rob was fine with that; he had no desire to disrupt the team.
He was a major supporter of the GHU athletic department, and he had been for years. He loved locker rooms, and football was his favorite sport — at least at the moment — so he could think of no place he would rather be than right here. He loved the smell and the way it permeated everything. When Rob left here, the smell would linger in his nostrils. It smelled like sweat, but it had a certain quality that Rob thought of as the smell of football itself — not the ball, the sport. It smelled of grass-stains and grease-paint, tackles, sweat-stained jockstraps and stale beer.
They had left some of their gear behind. Of course, the game was going on, so they had most of their gear out there — all their pads and such, their cleats, that kind of thing. But Rob had plenty to play with anyway. Everything reeked of sweat, salty and fragrant, zesty, musky like a fine cologne before it was ruined with floral additions.
One thing he loved was those little half-shirts they wore during practice — football-cut, they call that. The shirts usually became utterly sweat-logged. Rob found three and sniffed them aggressively, licking up all the salt left behind when the sweat evaporated from the fabric. The aroma was intoxicating, heady, grassy, potent like a slap to the face, and it made Rob want to swoon into a football jock’s powerful arms.
The crowd roared, and Rob’s ears pricked up. Somebody must have scored a touchdown. He had no desire to go out there though. The game of football was of little interest to him.
Soon he was too turned on to just smell those stretched cotton swathes of half-shirts, sopping wet and tangy just from the aura of football-sweat clinging to them. He dropped to his ass on the cold linoleum floor, and he dropped his shorts. He flopped his dick on the half-shirts and humped them, moaning as he imagined himself playing the sport with the team.
Rob wished he could play with the team. He had only done so once — and it wasn’t a real game, of course, it was only an unofficial and unapproved scrimmage. Rob was much too small and weak to play on a level like with these muscle-bound behemoths.
But the team thought it was hilarious and agreed (in exchange for gas money for a road trip). They did it after practice so Coach Marshall wouldn’t know. Rob had been right there in the middle of the huddle as his team — the shirts — came up with their plays. Rob didn’t know enough about football plays to participate in that part, so he just stroked their muscles and licked the sweat off their bicep as they huddled.
The part that Rob had really enjoyed, however, was the tackle. That was the part he had been looking most forward to, and it was the part that turned out the best. He had dove onto Tuck McCarraher, the left tackle who volunteered to be on the bottom of this particular dogpile.
Tuck wore one of those half-shirts — quite possibly one of the ones Rob was currently humping in the locker room, since the team shared those — and it had ridden up on his back when Rob jumped onto him, high enough that Rob’s face pressed against his naked neck. Rob was much too light to bring Tuck down, so he had bit back of a moan of desire as he clutched Tuck’s broad, sweaty back.
He would never have been able to hold on for long because the sun had been baking Tuck’s tan shoulders, and they were slick with sweat. Rob began slipping as soon as he held on. He didn’t mind. He rubbed his face against the writhing muscles of Tuck’s back, and he let himself slide.
“Uh-!”
“Agh-!”
“Uh-uh!”
“Yuuuuh!”
It lasted only a few seconds before they were both on the ground, tackled by what felt like a ton of man, jock after jock piling atop Rob’s delicate little back. Somebody’s muscles pressed down on his lithe body. Rob oomphed onto Tuck’s back, his erect cock rubbing over Tuck’s asscheek, cradled by his workout shorts. That was why Rob had asked for a volunteer for him to try being tackled — he knew perfectly well he was going to get aroused and maybe even cum. Tuck had said he was fine with that — well, maybe not “fine with” but tolerant of it anyway.
Tuck laughed nervously as football players piled on Rob’s back. Rob couldn’t breathe due to the hundreds of pounds of man-meat pressing on him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t mean to hump Tuck’s asscrack, but that was exactly what happened. He moved and swayed, trying to breathe, and as a result, his cock — already rock-hard — rubbed between Tuck’s toned cheeks.
Like most college athletes, Tuck had an exquisite body, and when his ass tensed up, it was like humping two warm, fleshy rocks. Rob panted and felt precum soaking into the dingy gray shorts Tuck wore.
But even hotter than that was the man on top of Rob — he couldn’t see who — whose bare chest rubbed over Rob’s back. Whoever it was was so thickly built that Rob was lost in the valley between his pectorals, shrouded in sweat, feeling the man’s own cock and balls cradled by his jockstrap and rubbing against the small of Rob’s back.
Did that man have a hardon? For just a moment, it felt like it. Maybe he did — or maybe he just had such a huge, girthy cock that it always felt hard.
There was another jockstrap resting on his hand. Someone had done that deliberately, he was pretty sure. His hand stuck out from the tackle and someone had dipped his balls onto Rob’s hand, like he was getting checked for a hernia. Rob stroked the ballsac on his hand, groaned and orgasmed right then and there. Moisture filled his crotch and coated Tuck’s back muscles.
“Aw, brah, he’s totally nuttin’, he’s goin’, ah… shit!”
Rob had told them it might happen. That was why they had had a long conversation about who was going to be on the bottom. Tuck had agreed, and he closed his eyes, moaning a little when he felt hot cum spurting over his back.
The whole tackle only took maybe two minutes, a little longer than a tackle in a game. Rob didn’t even need the whole two minutes. He was already turned on before it began, and then before he knew it, he swam in a sea of jockhood and shot his salty cum all over Tuck’s ass. Pleasure exploded within Rob, who moaned out loud, though nobody could hear over the carrying on of the players. Rob’s whole body writhed, ensconced in football jock meat, as exquisite bliss coursed through his veins.
Then it was over. Tuck jumped up and laughed good-naturedly, blushing, ripping those workout shorts off though he was careful at the same time to only hold the elastic waistband of them — he didn’t think any cum had gotten up that high.
“Tuck, damn, you got nutted on-“
“Oh shit, you got cornholed, buddy-“
Tuck blushed and roared. “Man, shut the fuck up, he ain’t stick it in-!” He blushed again as he realized his little half-shirt was cummy too, which meant some of the cum had probably hit his elastic, so he had touched it with his fingers. He took off the little half-shirt, tossed it on the grass and ran into the locker room, wearing nothing but his jockstrap. Rob watched his well-tanned, juicy ass shaking, framed by his jockstrap.
Tuck didn’t mind getting cummed on because being laidback was part of his image. While most of his fellow football players presented themselves as ladysmen who messed with the prettiest, nicest girls on campus, Tuck had little use for that. He didn’t like the plasticy cheerleadery type.
He liked his girls rebellious, alternative, dirty, raunchy even — he liked punks, Goths, weird girls, the kind of girl who would think it a turn-off if he was squeamish about other men. He had calculated that brushing off the cum on his back would pay dividends in getting those kinds of girls to give him the time of day.
So he wasn’t upset about it — he liked having a reputation as the team raunchhog, the Dirty Fucker (a nickname his teammates, and even his coach, sometimes used). Tuck was tall even for a football player, at well over six feet tall, and broad-shouldered like a mack truck. He had long stringy hair like a heavy-metal guitarist too, which was one of the things that made girls like him so much. They ran their fingers through that hair, styled it in an updo, in cornrows, in a ponytail, and Tuck always played along.
Of course, when he was alone, he just left his hair alone. He didn’t care about his long hair except inasmuch as it helped him get laid.
But he did take exception to it when a player on the opposing team said he looked like a “prettyboy” with his long hair. Tuck was the opposite of a prettyboy, his image had never been pretty. He spoke like a hillbilly, covered his chest in amateurish tats and let his chest hair grow out (the rest of the team shaved it because the cheerleaders liked their men smooth).
So he had thrown a punch, right in the middle of that game. The ref saw it, blew his whistle, and Tuck tried to defend himself.
The next minute or two were an angry blur. Later, Tuck was relieved he hadn’t lost control and punched that ref’s lights out, but at the time, all he thought about was how that player had called him a prettyboy.
So he was ejected from the field, and he stalked away from the booing crowd and the judgmental stares of his coaches. The ref didn’t blow the whistle to resume play until Tuck was gone from the stadium entirely.
He entered the locker room just a few minutes after Rob blew his wad all over the half-shirt that Tuck had worn during his warm-up before the game. Rob’s salty load mixed with Tuck’s salty sweat, and it dripped through Rob’s fingers onto the locker-room bench below.
Tuck was so worked up though from the fight that he didn’t smell the cum or notice Rob when he walked into the locker room. In his mind, he was going to go right to the showers and leave — he didn’t want to still be here when the game was over.
But he was so pissed off, he just roared, punched the palm of his own hand and paced. He didn’t take off his pads or even his cleats.
He only stopped to notice Rob when Rob stood and approached him. Rob could hear the game’s announcer through the loudspeaker, so he was aware Tuck had been ejected, but he had been focused on jacking off, so it hadn’t sunk in what he had heard until he saw Tuck’s furious face and his mind backed up to figure out what had transpired to cause this. He remembered then that he heard over the loudspeaker Tuck was ejected from the game.
His shoulder-pads loomed high above Rob, who quaked a little in fear because Tuck was so red-faced and blusteringly angry. Tuck growled at him, too worked up to notice that Rob had just cum onto the pile of half-shirts and workout gear.
“Hey!” Tuck snapped, wishing he could think of a reason to aim his anger at Rob. “You… You fucking…”
“Sorry you got in trouble,” Rob said, blushing. When Tuck didn’t respond, Rob hugged him. Tuck was so tall that Rob wrapped his arms around his jersey and rubbed his face against his flat belly. Tuck’s broad muscles were firm as rock beneath Rob’s grasp, and his heart pounded audibly through his chest. His skin was slick with sweat, which Rob slurped up. Tuck was so upset he didn’t even notice, and Rob grew bolder and bolder about savoring the sweat that clung to Tuck’s muscles.
His dick twitched. It was barely noticeable because it was imprisoned by an athletic supporter jockstrap. His cock and balls hung heavily between his legs, bulging from those leggings.
Tuck grunted. His chest heaved. He couldn’t think about anything but punching that goddamn ref.
And sex.
His girlfriend had promised to fuck him after tonight’s game — she said he could tap that ass — but she made a point of saying it wasn’t “for” this game. She was too “alternative” to support a sport like football. It was a “patriarchal sport”.
Tuck wanted to get his nut off. He narrowed his eyes to slits. Could he dick down Rob? He was sure the answer to that was yes. The questionable part was could he ask? It would be embarrassing, he thought.
“You want me to get you off, baby?” Rob asked for him, because he sensed that Tuck wanted it but was too straight and macho to ask. Tuck nodded and wrinkled his nostrils.
Rob sunk to his knees and pulled down those leggings. He started his attention before he took Tuck’s jockstrap off. He just started licking on the twitchy, throbbing bulge right away, and it soon firmed up. He stopped Tuck from removing the jockstrap just yet though.
First he licked a trail up under that jersey, which Tuck took off to reveal his compression shirt. They called it a “skin” because it tightly hugged his own skin, making his pecs look massive and perfectly formed. Those pecs rippled when Rob touched him.
“You taste so good, baby…” Rob murmured. He sensed that Tuck needed to be bucked up, so he kept saying that over and over, repeating how handsome Tuck was. One of Rob’s hands stroked up Tuck’s chest, under his skin and teased his muscles. He tweaked each nipple, making those mountainous pecs flex and bounce. Rob’s other hand slipped into his jockstrap.
It was sweaty and humid, like reaching into a jungle. Rob didn’t mean to drop his jockstrap yet, but Tuck’s dick was so big and firm in his hand that the jockstrap was forced down anyway. Rob stroked it gently with one hand.
“Damn, shit-” Tuck grunted and flexed his hips involuntarily. He closed his eyes as his cock slid in and out of Rob’s grip.
He still had his pads on when he sat on the bench in the locker room. That gave Rob easier access to his chest. He tried to take the pads off — so he could get that skin off — now that he wasn’t playing, it felt sweaty and gross to keep that stuff on — but Rob’s hands and tongue were in the way, and Tuck gave up.
The ref was gone from his mind. All he could think about now was his cock, throbbing and begging to cum. “C’mon, put it in your mouth,” Tuck said, his barrel-chested voice ringing out in Rob’s ear.
Rob’s heart thrummed as shivers of anticipation rocked his body, and he leaned in to kiss Tuck on the neck, slurping up some of the sweat that clung to his stubble. The smell of the grease-paint on Tuck’s cheek was intoxicating when he was this close.
Rob dropped to his knees, and slammed his own head deep onto Tuck’s cock. He surprised him with a sudden deep-throat, so sudden that Tuck was still leaning forward and Rob had to bury himself in his hairy, meaty crotch.
“Ah, shit, shit!” Tuck grunted and groaned. He gasped, leaning back so Rob could eagerly deep-throat him to the root.
No girl had ever deep-throated him quite like this. Tuck was astonished that someone could do so — he had thought his dick was too big to swallow completely. Tuck howled, gyrating his hips up to slam his dick into Rob’s throat, as Rob’s nose became squashed in the wild untamedness of Tuck’s crotch
He took off his pads and compression shirt finally, glad to bare his chest in the relatively cool air of the locker room. It was actually warm and humid in here, but he was still overheated from the game, so it felt good to take the last of his clothes off. His bare skin prickled and his cock tobbed in Rob’s mouth.
Now he wore only his athletic socks and a pair of cleats, plus his elbow- and knee-pads that he had never taken off. He didn’t want to lay all the way back on the bench, but the more Rob swallowed, the more he couldn’t resist.
He found himself on his back, barely balanced on the narrow bench. Sweat tricked down his face but was stopped by the grease-paint he still wore. He gripped Rob’s head and held on tight, even lifting his trunk-like thighs up to pin Rob in place.
“Shit, baby, swallow it, goddamn!” Tuck exclaimed.
When Rob pulled off, he had to tap Tuck on the belly to get his attention and let go with his legs. Rob stood next to him on the bench, stroking his cock on the verge of orgasm with both hands. Tuck gasped and panted.
“C’mon, man, keep goin’, whatchoo doin’? Swallow it, okay? Don’t spit, please? Please-?”
“Sssssh, baby, you can cum wherever you want. If you wanna cum in my throat, go ahead,” Rob said, his voice a soft purr that made Tuck’s heart skip a beat. He leaned over slowly and slurped up some more sweat off Tuck’s shoulder, in the area newly opened up by the removal of his pads. Rob smiled. “But first consider this: You wanna stick it in my ass?”
Tuck’s eyes opened wide. That seemed too wild, he thought, intellectually. But his cock was already demanding he go through with it. He nodded. Again, the intellectual part of his mind said to do this in the most manly way he could think of — bending Rob over and pounding away from behind.
But Rob had other plans in mind, and Tuck was too aroused to care that much about the details. Rob spread his tiny legs wide enough to straddle Tuck’s body, and he plopped his ass on that cock as it stuck straight up from his crotch.
“Oh god-!” Tuck bucked and nearly slipped off the bench as he writhed. It felt so good it hurt, and it was awkward because he couldn’t reach for Rob’s tits like he would have when he let a girl ride him like this. Spasms of pleasure wracked Tuck’s body, making each of his muscles ripple.
Rob had already cum once, not that Tuck knew that, so his cock had been slow to get erect again. Tuck closed his eyes when he saw Rob jacking off, facing him as he slid down on Tuck’s manhood.
If he had been setting this up beforehand, Tuck thought, he’d have never agreed to this position — or probably any position — and he’d have at least made Rob turn around so Tuck didn’t have to look at Rob’s flopping, precum-glistening cock.
But he didn’t want to even stop long enough to make Rob face the other way; Tuck was too turned on to do more than murmur, “goddamn, boy, do it, shit, ride that cock, boy-!” and groan in a mixture of over-intense pleasure and pained panting. He thwacked his own head back on the bench hard enough to groan in pain.
Rob had trouble balancing when he was all the way down on Tuck’s cock. He ground himself left and right, making that incredible cock press against his prostate and send wave after wave of bliss through his veins.
They stayed like that for what they both thought was just a few minutes. But they ended only just as half-time was about to begin, and Tuck groaned in shock — they’d been going at it for more than a full quarter of the game.
“C’mon, man, we gotta hide-” Tuck bit his lip, blushing, as he got up. The faint but growing sound of a bevy of football players could beard emanating into the lokcer room.
He didn’t take his cock out of Rob’s ass. This felt too good to even think about that, and Rob was small and light and pliable and willing to do whatever it took to get cornholed, so Tuck just lifted him up in his powerful, sweat-dappled arms and dragged him away.
They made it into the supply closet only moments before the locker room filled with Tuck’s teammates. They all snickered because it smelled like cum in here, but they assumed that was from Rob jacking off over the pile of jockstraps in the corner — they always piled up their sweatiest jockstraps for Rob to play with — and they were, in part, correct.
“We’re gonna demolish those bitches!”
“They won’t score a single goddamn point, the pussies-“
“Where’d Tuck go? Prolly off fucking some slut with a mohawk and a tattooed lip-“
“Ah, remember that crazy one with the blue hair?”
Tuck wanted to go out there and tell them off for talking about him behind his back — that crazy one with the blue hair was utterly beautiful, for one thing, and she only had blue hair on Halloween — but his body was an autopilot now. He had Rob on the ground, wrapped up in his arms so he didn’t accidentally make too much noise.
But Tuck made plenty of noise, rutting and whinnying like a horse as he slammed into Rob’s ass. Rob gripped the football helmet beneath him, holding on for dear life with one hand while his other hand stroked himself off, and his ass strained to accept every inch of Tuck’s cock.
Finally, that was it. Tuck stopped for a single clarion moment, and then he pumped one more time. He sighed, moaning into Rob’s ear and even nibbling on his earlobe until Tuck remembered he wasn’t with a girl. He put Rob in a loose chokehold so he wouldn’t move or cry out loud, and Rob bit the meat of Tuck’s forearm to muffle himself.
“Shit, boy-” Tuck groaned into his ear.
Cum spurted into him, great creamy gobs of it that filled Rob up. It kept on flowing, unrelenting, wad after wad spraying into him and spreading throughout his body.
“Aaaaaah…” Rob sighed until Tuck hissed at him to shut up, even though Tuck’s heavy breathing and heaving was much louder. Rob wriggled underneath him.
But Tuck ignored that, and rested, his cock limpening in the soupy mess of Rob’s ass. He had no intention of leaving this supply closet until halftime was over, so his teammates wouldn’t see him. He did let his cock plop out of Rob’s ass though, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell of cum and ass-juice that filled the closet.
He laid back, too tired to do anything else, or even to worry about it when he realized his bare ass sat in the puddle of Rob’s cum. He’d already gotten Rob’s cum on his ass once before, and that had been fine, so he just ignored it this time.
He closed his eyes and slept while Rob licked his chest and cock clean, slurping off his own assjuice. The closet was filled with football gear, which was just fine for Rob — when he had licked Tuck clean, he played with the helmets, pads, jockstraps and footballs that covered the closet floor.
By the time the players went back out on the field, Tuck was sound asleep, and Rob curled up on his chest to sleep too.

Massaging the Football Player

Tupou is a Tongan exchange student playing football in Dallas, so when he gets an inconvenient stiffy, it’s up to the masseur Avery to help him out. Can Tupou get his needs met?

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Tupou Moala had been going along to get along since he arrived in America. He smiled a lot, and he nodded whenever he thought it appropriate. He agreed with whatever anyone suggested.
That’s because he was from Tonga, and while he had grown up speaking English alongside Tongan, he had trouble understanding nearly everything that happened in America. It wasn’t just the language — his English was good — it was everything about the culture. People spoke of television shows he didn’t know, hashtags he had never tweeted about. It might as well have been a completely different world. He felt like an old man angry about technology, even though he was only nineteen.
He had come to GHU to play football. Before he got here, he was only vaguely aware he was supposed to take classes at the same time. They had said that, but they minimized it. They said not to worry about the university part of university football. The only part that mattered was the football.
Now he struggled to get through his coursework, and didn’t even understand how to get tutoring — much less getting nerds to take his tests for him, which he also could have done if he had known that was an option — nobody had told him that because they assumed all jocks knew it. A lot of things in America were not explicit. Churches were racially segregated, for example, which nobody would acknowledge. It was impossible to know which churches were for white people or for black people except by going there and looking at the people going inside. Everybody assumed Tupou knew that nerds would do his homework if he asked them to. No one back in Tonga did homework for the rugby and cricket jocks who dominated the sports scene there. Those were the sports Tupou came up playing, and when he wasn’t busy with practices, he continued playing rugby with a local amateur team. Nobody here played cricket.
A lot of the people here didn’t speak English as he had learned it. There were a group of players from Florida who had spoken what Tupou was certain was a foreign language before finally learning it was, in fact, a peculiar dialect of English. He didn’t understand the black people who talked like rappers. He didn’t understand Coach Marshall at all, and they said he spoke proper American English. He needed to see a doctor every month and the medical system here was incomprehensible to Tupou — every time he went there, they said he was doing it wrong, signing in incorrectly, handing over the wrong cards, sitting in the wrong place. Every time, he did it differently, handed over a different card with his name on it, stood out of the way rather than sit, and still, they always said he was doing it wrong. It was a minefield too, because he’d found that he kept getting surprise bills in the mail, for medical appointments that he’d been told would be free. He assumed it was because he was doing things wrong, yet no one could tell him the correct way to do it.
But despite all that, Tupou really enjoyed America. The people were friendly, and the parties were fun. It was scary: there were so many people here, and none of them knew each other, it was so big, you could get lost in the woods here for years. It was cold most of the time too, which Tupou actually liked — he was big enough that he was normally overheated, so the cold was enjoyable.
Yet it was very very much unlike Tonga. There was not even any ocean for hundreds of miles in any direction. Tupou did not know how to take that. It wasn’t something that occurred to him until he had been in Dallas for some time, and then the thought of it gave him a claustrophobic feeling. Even though he could see for miles in every direction — Texas was very flat — he still felt penned in, cooped up and isolated.
Tupou was more than seven feet tall, and he had a full head of thick, wavy black hair. Men here did not have long hair, and many Americans made a big to-do about his hair. They thought it was either funny or gorgeous or weird or just plain interesting. Many men in Tonga have long hair. Many people in America liked touching Tupou’s hair.
He enjoyed American football. It wasn’t as much fun as rugby, but it was fun enough, even though Americans took it too seriously. He couldn’t believe they paid for him to come here and go to school just so he could play football.
It was because there were so many people. It took Tupou an embarrassingly long time to realize that was why. In Tonga, every single person would have to pay to see many games and buy many jerseys just to produce as much money as the university football league Tupou played in, and that was not even the main league! The National Football League was many times more popular than that, and a dozen or so minor leagues were also scattered around the country. And of course there were unpaid amateur leagues as well.
The city of Dallas had thirteen times the population of the entire country of Tonga. That was why there were many professional athletes in America, and virtually none in Tonga. Even their national rugby team mostly had side careers, and that was the most popular team in the country. In America, even minor sports have semi-professional leagues.
But the university sports team Tupou played for was very professional, and Tupou was expected to attend many practices, strategy sessions, weightlifting and cardio events, as well as massages from Mister Avery. He was an assistant coach who mainly taught gymnastics, not football, but he did provide massages for all of the football players. He was a very smart man indeed. He had an office near the showers in the locker room.
But Tupou had never gotten a “full massage” from Mister Avery. The others on Tupou’s team did speak of a “full massage” from Mister Avery, without specifying what it was.
Again, Americans love to not say things out loud.
Mister Avery had massaged his shoulders a few times and his leg once when he was limping in practice, and he had bandaged Tupou when he sprained a wrist during a match. But Tupou had never spent time alone with Mister Avery before he summoned him to his office one day.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked when his teammates told him he was to go see Mister Avery for a “full massage”.
His teammates had moved on to sharing stories of girls, and they ignored him. Tupou didn’t understand why he was supposed to see Mister Avery, or why his teammates were looking at him like he had done something wrong.
“Nah, you ain’t in trouble,” said George Hill — wide receiver — with a chuckle when he saw that Tupou was confused.
“Oh. What is it? What do I need?” Tupou said, and the others snickered. Tupou smiled as if he was in on the joke, but he did not know why he must now go see Mister Avery.
Perhaps, he thought, it was related to the hardon that struck Tupou the other day in the locker room. He was talking about a woman who he was to see that weekend, and when he told his teammates about her, his dick got hard. He was not the only one to get “boners”, as the Americans did say.
And Tupou had gathered that yet another thing Americans did not say was that those athletes who got an inconvenient boner went to go see Mister Avery. So perhaps that was why he was summoned to Mister Avery’s office.
“He’s prolly gonna jack you off. Do you do that in Tonga?”
“He’s gonna taste ya coconuts, Tupou.” That was Tuck McCarraher, one of those rednecks whose accents Tupou did not understand. He had long hair like Tupou but somehow it was always greasy, even right after he shampooed it. Tupou saw him shampoo it in the shower, and yet he came out greasy and hairy like a tired pig.
Tupou laughed along with the others, though he didn’t quite get it. It sounded like they were saying that Mister Avery would give him a handjob. But that, he assumed, couldn’t be right.
Still, the more he stood there, the more sure he was. That was why they hooted and made masturbation gestures.
The other players all assumed Tupou would freak out. That was why they made a big deal out of it. They more or less assumed that anyone who wasn’t from a Western country was probably from a pretty homophobic place.
But Tonga was one exception. Everyone hooted and laughed and pantomimed ramming Tupou in the ass — since Tupou towered over everyone, they just pretended to hump his thighs.
“He will wank me off?” Tupou asked.
The others laughed and said yes. They all thought it was funny that Tupou didn’t know it already. They had been talking about it all year. Tupou just hadn’t been listening or understanding well enough to pick it up.
But it was true. Mister Avery was known for giving out handjobs to any athlete who wanted it. They all thought it was better to go to him than to try to train with a stiff dick and blue balls. That was an idea Tupou well understood. Tongan men did something similar. Tupou was the son of a chief, and he was given a man to jack him off as soon as he turned eighteen.
Why did Americans not simply say so? They treat their women as fragile wisps, that was why, he decided. They did not want women to find out what men did behind closed doors.
“Will he let me ram him?” Tupou asked, his eyes opened wide. “In the bottom?”
That made the rest of the team fall quiet. Mister Avery handed out handjobs and swallowed their loads if they wanted that, but no one did anal. That, they all thought, was a step too far. No one here wanted to do that, no one on the football team at least.
“Prolly will, you big lug…” someone said, and everyone laughed. “He’ll love you…”
“Tupou’s crazy…”
“Mister Avery is small. Tupou will split him in half!”
They all burst into hysterical laughter over that. They all pretended they were talking about Tupou being tall — which he was, at nearly seven-feet — and heavy — which he was, being so thick and beefy he didn’t even fit in any standard-size jersey — and not his cock size. No one was willing to admit they checked out each other’s cock sizes in the shower.
But that was, in fact, what they were all talking about. Tupou had a gigantic dick, and Mister Avery was not a large man.
Tupou hurried off to Mister Avery’s office. He was ready to do it. That girl he hung out with this weekend had refused to have sex with him. A lot of the girls around here were like that, he had noticed, they talked about how cute he was and they played with his muscles and they rode his back like a horse, but they didn’t like the idea of actually getting fucked by the seven-foot-tall Tongan with a body like a shaved bear and a foot-long cock. They liked flirting with him and that was about it.
“Come in, Tupou,” Mister Avery said when Tupou knocked on his door.
Tupou walked in. He wore nothing but his jockstrap, cradling his sweaty balls and cock that barely fit in the pouch. He smiled at Mister Avery, wondering if those confused glances had been because athletes weren’t supposed to walk around in their jockstraps. No one had told him that either. But he shrugged it off for now. “Yes, Mister Avery. I will-“
“Did you talk to the Student Foreign Aid people? About the State Department?”
“What?” Tupou grunted.
Mister Avery sighed. “Of course you didn’t. You have to do what he says, Tupou, he’s been emailing you. He said the State Department needs an interview with you. It’s for your visa.”
“Oh.” Tupou grunted. He frowned. Were those other players wrong? Maybe Mister Avery was not planning on giving him a handjob after all.
“Is something wrong? He said it’s not a big deal. They just need to talk to you.”
“Oh.” Tupou grabbed his dick through his jockstrap. He wondered if his teammates were playing a prank on him. “Will you… Can I ram you?”
Mister Avery always took everything in stride, but that was sudden enough to shock him. He assumed Tupou was worried he’d be deported.
A long pause came between them, as both men froze like they had done something wrong. Mister Avery cleared his throat. His eyes bugged out. “Uh… Tupou…”
“The other players, they say that you jack them off. They say that you-“
“Tupou, I invited you in here to tell you about your visa, so you wouldn’t get deported. I don’t-“
“You don’t jerk players off? I want that.” Tupou crossed his arms over his chest. “I will do the visa, fine. I want-“
“I don’t just jerk players off.” Mister Avery wrinkled his nose. “That’s inappropriate.” He paused, and a sly smile crept on his face. “Sometimes… Men have urges, Tupou. Sometimes those urges lead to actions. It doesn’t mean anything happened, not really. It just means men are sometimes overcome by urges. They do things by instinct. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” It didn’t look like he understood. In truth, Tupou didn’t really care. He was waiting for Mister Avery to say either yes or no.
Mister Avery stood up and walked behind Tupou. He placed both hands on his broad shoulders. “I’ll just give you a massage. We’ll see what happens from there. If you need a hand at some point… I’d be glad to help out.”
Tupou smiled. He nodded. He could tell what was going to happen, and he enjoyed the massage — Mister Avery was really very good at it. He sighed, the stresses of dealing with a foreign country flowing away from him as he sunk down in the chair at Mister Avery’s desk.
His stiffness diminished slowly at first, then quickly. Tupou sat stiff until he took a big long breath, and he realized for sure that he was not in trouble. He had not done something wrong. Mister Avery was going to jack him off after all, and for now, the massage eased away the aches in his shoulders, then his back and his arms.
Soon enough, his muscles were big and soft now, relaxed, like liquefied meat beneath Mister Avery’s soft fingers. Tupou had to fight off the urge to kiss Mister Avery on the lips.
Somehow, Tupou ended up on the couch on one side of Mister Avery’s office. He just lay there, lounging, while Mister Avery kneaded his thick flesh. His jockstrap was off now, his massive uncut cock dangling over the side. Tupou couldn’t remembered if he had taken it off, or if Mister Avery had.
At last, it was happening. Tupou let out a baritone moan that echoed in the tiny cement-walled office. His cock throbbed, instantly running to full erection in Mister Avery’s hand. Tupou was uncut, well more than a foot long, his dick flopping at first before it was as hard as iron.
Mister Avery stroked it slowly, teasing him, his other hand continuing to caress Tupou’s chest and shoulders. Tupou licked his lips. He wanted to demand that Mister Avery start jerking him off — the other players had implied it was allowed, after all — but he had a feeling it would be better to not say it out loud. It seemed a lot of Americans were more willing to do things like this as long as they never had to admit they had done them.
Indeed, his teammates only communicated about Mister Avery’s “full massages” through sarcasm, jokes, accusations, etc. Nobody admitted clearly that they themselves had done so. Americans never say what they mean.
“Hmmm… You were tense, Tupou. You must have been stressed out about moving to America,” Mister Avery said softly. He leaned over and sucked a few beads of sweat off in the valley between Tupou’s powerful pecs.
“Yes.” Tupou’s voice rumbled and resonated, the sound booming in Mister Avery’s ears because he was still bent over, licking his chest, so the sound was close to his head. He sucked on both nipples.
Avery’s head moved lower, his kisses and his soft lips making a trail down Tupou’s belly to his crotch. Tupou closed his eyes as his dick disappeared down Mister Avery’s throat. A wave of soft, blissful pleasure enveloped him, and Tupou stretched his arms and legs like he was just waking up.
“Eeeeehhhh…” Tupou groaned. His whole muscular body rippled from head to toe.
It had been a long time since Tupou had gotten jerked off by a man, the last time he did it was back in Tonga. He wasn’t even aware how horny he was until he finally felt a warm mouth encircle his dick once more. He moaned, his pitching island accent shining through in the sound as it resonated in the office.
For the first time, Mister Avery felt like he was being seduced by a player instead of the other way around. They often came to him wanting handjobs, but they never outright asked for it, and they certainly never asked for it. Instead, the other players usually just let themselves get hard while he massaged their shoulders or refused to take their jockstraps off because of an erection, and Mister Avery would “convince” them to let him help out. When they wanted to bust a nut, they just stood there hemming and hawing, refusing to either lay down or leave, until Mister Avery took the initiative to get on his knees.
But Tupou was different. He guided Mister Avery’s head in place, and he made sweet love to his throat like no football player ever had. Mister Avery tasted the sweet and fresh flavor of Tupou’s cock, which tasted of sunlight and ocean waves. He moaned and guzzled it down deep.
Salty precum flowed. Tupou was young and virile, already nearing orgasm though Mister Avery suspected he would last longer than most men his age. His dick was slick with fluids, which Mister Avery guzzled down.
The dome didn’t last long. Tupou was too large — both overall and in his cock specifically — and too enthusiastic. He gripped Mister Avery’s head and rolled around with him on the couch, like he might find an alternate throat in there big enough for Tupou’s entire cock. He plowed in and out with all his might, but somehow it didn’t come across like a violent throating. It was more of a plain and pleasant love-making session, and it made Mister Avery swoon with desire, hands roaming all over Tupou’s powerful thighs and thunderous asscheeks.
Eventually Mister Avery pulled off his dick, leaving thin tendrils of saliva collecting his lips to Tupou’s shaft. Tupou gasped with desire and wiped up all that spit and precum on his shaft, wiping it off on Mister Avery’s chin.
He was used to his men laying there, maybe pretending to be asleep or to think that his love-making was a form of massage. But Tupou took charge and made love to Mister Avery’s mouth.
And then, all in one smooth motion, he had Mister Avery bent over the couch. Tupou towered over him, flexing his chest muscles and gently but firmly forcing his cock into Mister Avery’s tight ass.
“Damn.” Mister Avery muttered through gritted teeth. He rarely got it up the ass — he enjoyed it, it was just a step too far for most of his players, so he didn’t do it very often. He grimaced as Tupou’s cock invaded his ass.
It was tight and pinching. Mister Avery sucked in his breath. Tupou wrapped Mister Avery’s tiny body up in his massive arms, plowing in inexorably though not cruelly. Just like when he had lovingly rammed his dick in and out of Mister Avery’s throat, Tupou had a way of plowing that was both aggressive and soft, sensitive yet hard and difficult and strugglesome in all the right ways. Mister Avery cried out for more.
The pain turned very quickly into pleasure, and when Tupou’s uncut dickhead hit his prostate, a jolt of pleasure wracked Mister Avery’s body, and a shiver of mind-numbing sensations ran up his spine. It felt so good he literally drooled and had to wipe the fluids off his lips, which still tasted of Tupou’s precum.
The couch strained to support them both as Tupou rammed his cock in and out. Tupou was gigantic and he plowed in an animated way, rocking the couch to its foundations and even making the floor creak. Somehow the rickety old office couch held despite its creaking and wheezing.
Mister Avery was shocked at how easy it was to take. For him, Tupou’s massive size was a challenge he wanted to rise to meet. Tupou was not used to that because the university girls he had been with since coming to America (and most of the Tongan girls back home) found his size a turn-off. Tupou was well-practiced in using his dick as gently as he could, so he managed to get it all in without too much difficulty, much to his surprise.
So they both moaned as they plowed hard. Mister Avery barely needed to jack himself off, which was good because Tupou plowed so hard he barely could. Mister Avery cried out, grunting and groaning loud enough that he was sure anyone outside the office could hear.
Hopefully, he thought, no one was there.
An orgasm ripped through Mister Avery’s body, and he shot his wad onto the couch. As he experienced the most incredible climax of his life, Tupou reached his own orgasm. He shot a huge load that filled Mister Avery’s tight ass.
It soaked into his flesh. They both sighed, and Tupou grunted something in Tongan. The indecipherable words rang out in Mister Avery’s ears as cum flowed through him, and the creamy, sticky texture of it coated Mister Avery’s body.
They both moaned together. “Oh god, yes, Tupou…” Mister Avery murmured. Every time he thought it was over, more cum filled into him, great gobs of it, more and more with every passing moment. Was that because he was so big? Mister Avery wondered, or maybe it was because he was a young and virile man? Or was it that he was a little — or a lot — socially inept and hadn’t had a girlfriend since coming to America? Maybe a little of all those things, Mister Avery thought, or maybe Tupou simply had overfull balls.
In any case, Mister Avery accepted every drop, letting it flow into him and seep into his flesh. There was so much cum in his body Mister Avery imagined he could taste its salty flavor.
Mister Avery laid limp on the couch, while Tupou groaned and humped his hips a few more times. When he was satisfied that every drop of cum had escaped his dick, he sighed and leaned back. Then he was motionless for a moment. At last he grunted again, and twisted his hips as though his post-orgasmic bliss felt so good it hurt. His cock popped out.
Mister Avery took a deep, relieved breath. He turned his head to smile at Tupou and gently rubbed his shoulders. “Good job, Tupou. I hope you feel better now.”
“I do, Mister Avery.” Tupou’s big goofy grin spread over his face. “If I need another massage, can I come see you again?”
“You can come see me anytime,” Mister Avery said with a smile.

The Basketball Team

Lance is teaching financial literacy to some basketball players when they have trouble concentrating… they need someone to service their manly needs, and Lance is eager to help out. Can Lance keep their attention long enough to finish his presentation?

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Read the whole thing here!

“Okay, guys, I know this isn’t fun,” Lance said. “But it is important. You won’t be able to play basketball your whole lives, so the money you make now needs to work for you for a long time to come.”
The team sat in front of him in the locker room. Lance would have rather done this in a more formal environment, but Coach Thickman had said that if you take the players somewhere else, like Lance’s office, after the game, a lot of them will sneak away. ‘You gotta git ’em when they still in the locker room’, Coach Thickman had said.
“Alright, before we talk about your options, let’s go over some terminology,” Lance said. “First off, risk. I’m sure you all use the word risk, but in finance it’s a very important concept. All investment is about balancing risk, and-” Once he got into the flow, he could tune out any distractions. He had perfect tunnel vision for this presentation. After having given this exact spiel plenty of times, he had it more or less memorized.
But he was mid-monologue when he realized most of the team wasn’t paying attention. They were either on their phones or chatting with each other, and one was distractedly rolling a joint as though it required all his concentration. None of them even seemed aware that they were supposed to be paying attention to Lance, like they thought he just came here to monologue about finance in an empty locker room and was willing to do it around them. Lance’s voice trailed off.
“Hey, gentlemen, shut up!” Coach Thickman barked, his voice weary and glowering. He jumped in front of Lance and meanmugged at the players. They did shut up, but they glared at Coach Thickman, whose broad, bare chest gleamed as he stared his team down. “This is an important presentation, and y’all gots to hear e’ry word of it.”
A long pause followed. Lance wasn’t sure if this was normal, or if the players were seriously challenging Coach Thickman’s authority. Thickman furrowed his brow in expectation of utter obedience and furrowed it deeper when the players looked at him like a crazy person for telling them what to do. A few rebellious snickers underhushed, and someone muttered, “Shut that ol’ nigga up.”
“Get’cha butts in the sauna!” Thickman said. “Now!”
The players groaned but stood. They clucked their tongues against their teeth as they sauntered away. More than a few glared at Coach Thickman and licked their teeth, punching fists into the palms of theit other hands, but they all did as told.
They didn’t move quickly though. They sort of sauntered in, all except for the one white player on the team, who hurried in first. Lance wondered if this meant his presentation was over.
When Thickman barked at the others, they hustled into top gear. “I ain’t say mosey into the sauna like sleepy glaciers, did I? I said get’cha booties in the sauna right now, pissheads!” They darted into the sauna, and all conversation stopped.
Lance blushed and bristled. Was that it? Did Coach Thickman think Lance was so useless as to make the presentation irrelevant? Lance was surprised how little of a chance he got. He hadn’t grabbed their attention in the first thirty seconds, and Coach Thickman had just given right up? That didn’t seem fair.
Then Coach Thickman’s hefty hand clasped Lance’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, hoss, they don’t wanna pay attention to nobody. You can give your spiel in a sauna, right?”
“Uh… in a sauna?”
“They’ll be naked, you comfortable wit’ that? You ain’t gotta be naked too. I mean… you can’t really go in there in a suit, you gonna get heat stroke fo’ real. But you can go in there in yo’ drawers,” Thickman said, walking away. “They won’t listen anywhere else. Too many distractions.”
Lance’s heart started pounding. He certainly didn’t mind hanging out in a sauna with a bunch of naked basketball players — Lance was a keen admirer of the male form, so he would enjoy that very much. He’d never given his financial-risk spiel in his underwear though. Would they mind if he was in there with them? What if he got a hardon?
The boisterous chatting of the players made it easy for him to find the sauna, which was at the far end of the locker room. Lance folded his clothes and left them on the bench outside the sauna. He kept his boxer shorts and a t-shirt on, since he knew his body would look pitiful in comparison to the players’s. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he was skinny and short by comparison.
“Yo, Coach, where dat white man at? My balls is stickin’, nigga! I gots bitches beggin’ me to come over, man! Let’s hurry dis shit up!”
When Lance walked in, one of the players — Trent Wyatt, a power forward — was standing right in front of the door, stark-naked, pantomiming aggressive action, he must have been who was bragging about bitches through the closed door. He bucked his hips into an imaginary woman, his thick cock flopping with every thrust of his body. His toned ass was dappled with sweat from the humid air of the sauna.
They all stopped laughing at Trent and looked at Lance. Everyone was quiet for a second.
Then Trent said, “So I told her it’s s’posed to hurt, you s’posed to bring along a girlfriend to lick yo’ pussy at the same time. Ain’t mah fault women hate you too much to get on that girl-girl trip wit’ cha.” That made his team burst into laughter all over again.
It finally died down after a minute or two, and the men all looked to Lance. He blushed, both from embarrassment and from overheating in the crowded, steamy sauna. Trent moved out of the way so Lance could address the whole team. Lance’s bare chest gleamed with sweat.
“Okay, guys, this is really important,” Lance said. “I know it feels like you’re gonna have this income forever, but you won’t. You can’t play until you’re old men. You-“
“But we’s gonna have sponsorship deals and shit, right?”
“Uh, well, some of you probably will, but not all of you, and that won’t pay like-“
They all cheered and clapped their hands as if that ended it. Lance waited until they were done before speaking again.
“That won’t last as long as you think, guys. Unless your name is Michael Jordan-“
But they weren’t listening again. They were talking over his words, bragging about what they intended to do with the money when they finally got it. They spoke of buying islands, of mansions around the world, servants by the fleet and yachts by the flotilla.
“Hey! Hey! Hey, guys!” Lance yelled until he had their attention again. “Please, y’all, let me get through this. You’ll make enough to retire as long as that money is wisely invested. Not in boats or tropical islands, but in income-generating assets. Who knows-“
“I got some income-generatin’ assets waitin’ for me back at the crib,” said one of the players. He chuckled a deep, raspy laugh, and the others joined in with him. “She about this tall, and she got a ass that ain’t nevuh quit.”
The door to the sauna opened. Coach Thickman barged in. The players all fell silent at once. Their eyes were downcast, avoiding contact with either Lance or Coach Thickman. Thickman wore his sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, and his shirt became soaked in sweat from the steamy sauna.
“Hey, you goddamn shitwads, shut yo’ fuckholes and listen up! Cuz I know from personal experience that at least a half-dozen of you gonna call me in the next year, and be all ‘oh Coach Thickman, I spent all my money at a casino in Vegas and buying high-class whores fo’ mah niggas and now I needs you to pay mah child support or else I’s goin’ to jail and can’t play next month.’ And I ain’t havin’ that. Not even a li’l bit, nah,” Coach Thickman said. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “Put yo’ jockstraps on anyway. Mr. Williams here don’t wanna look at yo’ wingwangs.”
“Reckon he does…” someone said.
Lance didn’t see who said that, but it was obvious that someone had guessed he was into that. It was hard to hide his interest surrounded by jocks. Lance had managed to avoid getting a hardon, but it must have been apparent from the expression on his face and his body language that he enjoyed the physiques of the men around him.
“Hey! Nah!” Coach Thickman barked. “Don’t accuse the nice white man of nothin’.” When some of the players nodded their agreement, Thickman paused. He looked at Lance and raised his eyebrows. Lance blushed. The players hooted. Thickman frowned. “Okay, well, maybe, but still, you best shut yo’ mouths til he finishes his talk.”
“C’mon, old nigga, we got this,” Trent said. He stood up and wagged his dick, swaying his hips to make it slap against each thigh in turn. “Y’old man…”
Lance’s eyes were drawn to Trent’s massive cock. It was nearly a foot long and thicker than Lance’s forearm, and it was moist from the humid air, so it gleamed, the dark skin of Trent’s shaft practically glowing in the well-lit sauna.
“Hey all y’all shut the hell up,” Thickman said. “The league says you gotta listen to this white man’s speech. You gotta have financial advisement, fellas. Tomorrow I gotta fill out a little piece of paper and send it to the league. It’s gonna have the name of every nigga here — and you, Dirk — every nigga who listen up about finances. Whichever motherfucker ain’t on that list, ain’t gonna be playin’ till next season. Got it?” No one spoke, not even Dirk, the token white guy. Then Coach Thickman cleared his throat and opened the door. “So all you niggas best shut the hell up. And you too, Dirk. Listen good.”
“Thanks for rememberin’ me, Coach,” Dirk said with a laugh as the door shut.
For a moment all was silent. Lance was nervous. He felt like a bad substitute teacher who needed the teacher from the classroom next door to keep his students in line. Everyone looked at him.
The heat had begun to get to him as well. His underwear and shirt were plastered to his skin with sweat. Lance cleared his throat. “Okay, well… I’m going to assume that you guys know absolutely nothing about financial investing. That’s probably not true, but I don’t know what you do know, so-“
“Yo, math nerd!” Trent called out. “Nobody gives a shit. We all know what to invest in.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” Trent said. “I gots a recording studio, man. I got-“
“You have a recording studio? Does it make a profit?”
Trent paused. “I mean… I got an idea for a recording studio. Alright?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a place you record-“
“No, I know what a recording studio is. What’s your idea for one?”
“Gonna record all the rappers in town, man, all of ’em. I got connects with everyone around here, man. Ain’t gonna be Crips-only or Bloods-only, gonna get ’em all.”
“No you won’t,” Lance said. The sauna was silent for the first time since he had walked in. “You won’t get a single one. Recording studios are one of the riskiest businesses out there. The major record companies can offer multiyear, multimillion-dollar guarantees. You won’t be able to match that, and in any case, recorded music is barely profitable to begin with. Even if you win, you’ll lose money,” Lance said. “You know you’ll have to hire a dozen sound engineers to run that properly right?”
“I can do that.”
“Cuz your multimillion dollar salary from the league is paid out over a couple years,” Lance said. “Those sound engineers are gonna start costin’ you thousands a month on day one — they aren’t cheap. They demand salaries. They demand a guarantee of a job — they won’t move from here for some basketball player’s month-long whim. You’re gonna have to guarantee them a job, one that pays as much as your job is gonna pay. And you know what? They won’t sign up a single rapper. In addition to spending all your money opening a studio and spending all your time hiring sound engineers, you’re gonna have to spend all your time signing those rappers. Oh, and I almost forgot, your professional basketball career will take up essentially all of your time,” Lance said. “I’ve seen hundreds of athletes try to open up a recording studio. You know how many have made a profit?” He paused for effect. “Wait… fuck that, you know how many actually built a functioning recording studio that created at least one actual commercial recording? Zero. Not a single one. Fact is, it’ll take like a third of your salary over the next ten years just to build the recording studio, that’s before you buy any equipment for it, hire anyone to work it or start recording a single song. Again, there’s no money in recorded music anyway. You’d be better off opening a bar that books live acts.” Lance paused. “But don’t do that! Bars are an awful investment!”
There was a long pause. Everyone looked at Trent, whose eyes were downcast. Lance blushed. He hadn’t meant to go off on a rant like that. Every athlete he spoke to these days wanted to open a recording studio, and it was a dismal failure every single time.
“I’m sorry,” Lance said. “But really, I want you guys to succeed. You will be making enough money that you can retire. You can have fun in a recording studio. You can give money to your friends. You can buy jerseys for the little kids in your old neighborhood. But first you have to learn about mutual funds, not fantasize about glamor businesses. The most profitable businesses are boring, behind the scenes things, companies you’ve never heard of.”
Lance cleared his throat. He had their attentions now, but now he was so sweaty — and a bit horny — that he had trouble remembering his spiel. He closed his eyes and went over the beginning again in his mind.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about a few words you should know. Who can tell me what inflation is?”
“Yo, I’m too horny fo’ this right now,” said one of the players, a light-skinned man with a handsome face and bouncing dreadlocks. “Trent was talkin’ ’bout his bitches ‘fore you walked in, and now I can’t stop thinkin’ ’bout ’em.”
Another player jumped in. “Plus you made me think about girls. Who’s gonna see that new Sally Anne Whitaker joint, huh? I’s ’bout to bust mah nut just thinkin’ ’bout that bitch. She gimme stiffies for real.”
That caused another bout of laughter and boasting from the players. This didn’t last very long, however, before Trent yelled for silence.
“Hey, y’all niggas shut the hell up. If we let ‘im finish, we can all go fuck our bitches,” Trent said.
“Let’s just ram ‘im, he obviously wants it,” said a player. Lance couldn’t tell who it was who said that, but as soon as he did, Lance shuddered a little. Then he smiled as they all laughed — it was obvious Lance wanted it. That comment helped to shatter the awkwardness of the situation.
Everyone fell silent, waiting for Lance to respond. Lance couldn’t think of anything to say at all, he couldn’t bring himself to get on his knees and start servicing them all, even if that’s what he wanted to do, and he couldn’t remember how to continue his presentation. He was utterly dumbfounded, couldn’t agree, couldn’t disagree, couldn’t do anything but stand there in his boxers like a nerd.
“Alright, well let’s do it,” Trent said. He jumped to his feet and approached with his cock in hand. He gave it a stroke. His team chittered, as though they thought he was all-talk.
Lance dropped to his knees. He had a feeling this was going to turn out to be a big prank, like Trent was going to throw a cream pie in his face instead of his cock, but he couldn’t just decline.
“Go’n nigga, damn!”
“Throat the honky down, Trent!”
The other players oohed and aahed, which turned into whooping and hollering when Trent fed his dick down Lance’s throat. He had a cocky smile on his face like he was glad to be the most adventurous player on the team.
The taste of sweaty cockmeat overwhelmed Lance. This was all happening so quick that he gagged on the flavor, then began excitedly deep-throating. Trent’s cock was only just starting to firm up, but he swallowed it as deep as he could get it, making the other players cheer and laugh. He nestled his nose in Trent’s thick pubic bush.
“Lemme in there, nigga,” said one of the other players. He thwacked his cock against Lance’s cheek. Trent grumbled, but he didn’t say no, not even when their cocks glancingly touched each other, which made both men wince and look away. Both looked like they would have objected, but nobody wanted to get called out as squeamish by the others.
Lance moved from Trent to the next player, Jashwan, a tall and lean thug who sneered at Lance. He gripped Lance by both ears and began plowing his face. “Take it, bitch, you little nerd, damn…”
“Force it down that bitch’s throat!”
“Lemme in there-“
“-feels like a shallow pussy-“
“Damn, honky got throat, yo!”
They were in a circle around Lance now, and they laughed as they passed his head between them. Each person grabbed him by the ear, pushed their dick into his throat until he gagged, then passed him onto whoever was next.
“Damn,” that Jashwan Mitchell said, “I ain’t nevuh had a whiteboy on mah dick ‘cept a prison bitch. They actually handle a dick pretty good when you ain’t forcin’ it.”
His teammtes all laughed, but stopped just a moment later when someone shot his load already. It was a burly, mustachioed black man named Deontay, who appeared to be embarrassed at cumming so soon. He sprayed his load right over Lance’s face and a little even got on Trent’s cockshaft before he pulled away.
“Yo, I oughtta beat yo’ ass fo’ that, nigga! You got yo’ cum on me!”
“Damn, that nigga lasted about three minutes…”
Trent’s anger vanished as the rest of the team laughed at Deontay, who stroked his limpening cock like he didn’t notice them guffawing at him. His creamy cum dripped into Lance’s mouth as Lance licked every drop off.
“Taste sum white meat now, honky!” said Dirk, the team’s only white player, causing a burst of hilarious laughter from the others. He rammed his dick in Lance’s mouth. Lance got the distinct impression that this was Dirk’s first time with a man, and that he wouldn’t have agreed except everyone else did and he didn’t want to be left out. His dick was soft, but it jerked to full attention once Lance started working on it.
Soon enough Dirk was in the same circle as the others, laughing as they pulled Lance from cock to cock. Precum coated Lance’s tongue, the salty flavor combining with the general air of sweatiness in the cramped sauna. He loved that taste, and he licked the sweat off their heavy scrotums.
“Hey, let’s bukkake the math nerd!”
It was Trent’s idea, but everyone was into it. They thought the idea was hilarious, and no one asked Lance if it was okay with him. It was, of course, but it would have been nice to be asked. Also, Lance wasn’t a math nerd. He was a business nerd, and he used to work as a merchant marine and even a lumberjack, but it didn’t feel like a good moment to bring that up, and his mouth was full of dickmeat.
“Oh, nasty! This sauna gonna get real gross real quick!”
He loved it when guys painted cum all over his face. That was precisely what center Khyree Pankhurst did just a moment after they agreed to bukkake. He grabbed Lance by the forehead and sprayed cum all over Lance’s face.
It dripped over his body as Lance jerked Khyree’s dick until it was totally limp and had no more cum dripping off the tip. He thought that was it, that no one would touch his face now that it had cum all over it, but the next player to go was Lamar, the one they call a prettyboy cuz he had Nickelodeon dimples and few tattoos. Despite his prettyboy face, he had no compunctions about smearing jizz over Lance’s nose and cheeks with his dick, which he then jacked off into Lance’s mouth. When he came, he pulled out to spray his nut all over Lance’s already cream-coated face.
“Damn, that nigga touched that cummy face! Fuckin’ gross!”
“Buncha little babies,” Lamar grumbled as he stepped away. “How y’all ever gangbang a bitch if’n you ’boutta explode every time you get a little nut on ya?” He wiped semen from his fingers onto Lance’s shoulder.
After Lamar, the men burst one after another in quick succession. They cared less and less with every passing second about touching each other’s cum. Two of them even shot at the same time then, both big pulsating shafts resting on Lance’s face as he stroked them off with both hands. Their fleshy cocktips touched as they sprayed salty seed over Lance’s face.
“Nigguz make a mess, damn!”
Then came Dirk, who blushed as he approached. He definitely avoided touching Lance’s face, right up until he actually orgasmed. He closed his eyes and his dick twitched until it touched Lance’s lips. A big ball of sticky cum dripped there, touching Dirk’s finger and cocktip.
That made him shudder in disgust. Even with his eyes closed, Dirk could tell what was happening, that his cock was touching other men’s cum. His discomfort made it obvious to the other players as well, and they laughed away the awkwardness.
“White man gettin’ nasty too, nice!”
It was Trent who approached with his cock, still rock-hard since he had been saving himself to go last, and wrapped one arm around Dirk’s still-orgasming shoulders. “Come on, whiteboi,” he said. “Don’t tell me you never gangbanged a bitch befo’?”
Then Trent put his limp cock on Lance’s face right next to Dirk’s throbbing white member. Dirk blushed and gagged in disgust but didn’t complain, even as Trent’s ropy muscles left a layer of sweat over his body and Dirk’s cock dribbled the last of his cum all over Trent’s cockshaft.
“Lookit that whiteboi blush, he ain’t nevuh jousted dicks befo’, huh?”
A part of Lance felt bad about making Dirk uncomfortable — the rest of the team acted as though no man had ever become an adult without jousting cocks in someone’s mouth — but Lance was so aroused he couldn’t resist. He took both cocktips in his mouth at once, mashed them both together and flickered his tongue in both pissholes.
“He’e it cums, white man, you gonna taste this fo’ real…”
Before Dirk could pull away, Trent had his own orgasm. He sprayed his load all over Lance’s tongue and teeth, and Lance kept his mouth moving so the entire wad of nut coated Dirk’s limpening cockshaft. Lance sucked it up, then spat it out over both Dirk’s and Trent’s dicks then sucked it up, then spat it out, and he only stopped when they both pulled away.
Lance sat there for a moment, savoring the feel of cum covering his face. He barely even noticed that he was masturbating himself, not until that moment, when he shot his own load onto the floor.
“Ew, nasty-ass pervert, gettin’ his own nut e’rywhere!”
Pleasure undulated through his body, along with a potent sense of shame as the team laughed at him. He blushed and looked down, embarrassed even as an incredible orgasm washed over him. He laughed with the others though, as they swatted dicks and flicked jizz at each other.
At last it was all over. Lance slowly licked all the cum off his face as the players wiped their dicks clean, breathing heavily and speaking quietly — their boisterousness was mostly gone now.
Lance rose to his feet. “Uh, okay…” The men all laughed at his awkwardness.
“Go on, man,” Trent said. the whole team fell quiet. “We need to know this shit. What is inflation anyway?”
“Yeah. When you’re done, can we do that again? I’ll be ready to get hard again,” said Lamar.
Lance blushed and smiled. He gathered his breath. “Absolutely,” he said to throngs of cheering. “And if you want… every time you come to my office to talk about your options, I’ll jerk you off again.”

Jockstrap Raid!

The football team at GHU did a panty raid, which means the gymnast team is allowed to turn the tables… The jocks get their jockstraps raided, resulting in a massive-athlete multiple-man locker room showdown both teams will never forget!

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Read the whole thing here!

Last year, the football team had done a panty raid on the cheerleaders in the locker room. They stormed in there half-naked and shouted ‘Panty Raid!’ over and over as they grabbed used and clean panties from the girls. It was a big scandal at GHU afterwards. The cheerleaders themselves called it an enjoyable prank, but the feminist groups on campus were less enthused.
But now this year, Avery and the other gymnasts marched into the men’s locker room a few minutes after football practice ended. His heart pounded as he and the other gymnasts chanted, “Jockstrap Raid! Jockstrap Raid! Jockstrap Raid!”
That was because the gymnastics team had won the state championship this year, the first GHU team to win a championship in years. The football team had had a dismal season, so Coach Marshall told the gymnasts to come on in and go to town on the football jocks.
The players were sullen, sweaty beasts, angry with each other for having lost the season badly and having had a disappointing practice today. They stood and sat on benches in the locker room, dressed mainly in their jockstraps, though a few were naked, crotches covered by their hands as they watched the gymnasts file into the locker room.
“Jockstrap Raid! Jockstrap Raid! Jockstrap Raid!”
Avery blushed. He wasn’t used to being this forward. It was normal for athletes to be so horny they couldn’t resist stealing girls’s panties. But he and his fellow gymnasts just didn’t do that kind of thing.
“Give us your jockstraps, men!”
The gymnasts clapped and hooted as they spread out. Someone even turned the lights off, so the locker room was dimly illuminated only by the emergency lighting. That made it significantly easier for Avery, who didn’t feel like he was about to be beat up as he approached Jimmy.
Jimmy was the quarterback and team captain, and he had the most well-sculpted ass that Avery had ever seen. Once a few months ago, Avery walked past the men’s locker room and caught a glimpse into the door as it swung shut. Jimmy was there, wearing a jockstrap and nothing else, flicking a wet towel. His muscled back was covered in either sweat or shower water, Avery couldn’t tell which. There was a sink area near the door, so Jimmy’s presence near enough that Avery could see him from outside suggested that Jimmy and the team were engaging in horseplay there in the lockers. Avery had shuddered at the sight of Jimmy’s plump asscheeks cradled by a soaked jockstrap.
Now he went up to Jimmy’s shadowy body. He stood with one foot on the bench, mid-conversation with a linebacker when the gymnasts filed in. He remained right there, balls overflowing from his jock pouch where it dangled between his open legs. His broad muscles were bare, his crotch unblocked from view, cuz Jimmy was shameless like that. When he spoke, his balls jiggled in the pouch of his jockstrap.
“Give up the jockstraps, gentlemen!” shouted the gymnastics team captain, Fred. He was the most flamboyant and feminine of the gymnasts, and as he spoke, he shook his ass in his trackpants in front of the tight end Charlie Smitkowski, who giggled like he was watching his first stripper give him a lapdance.
“This is weird, Jimmy.”
“Don’t be fuckin’ squeamish, man. Ain’t a big deal. We told the cheerleaders it weren’t a big deal, so it can’t be a big deal now-” Whoever that was — Avery didn’t see in the darkness — squealed then, and there was an explosion of movement.
“Damn, whoever that was, that’s too much, you can’t stick your finger in my ass!”
Avery ignored the nervous laughter of the football players. He steeled his own nerves and reached out for Jimmy’s broad, strapping chest muscles. Jimmy must not have realized it was going to happen, because he yelped in surprise and his muscles all tensed at once.
That rolling undulation of his powerful muscles was enough for Avery to get dizzy and overheated. Jimmy dripped with sweat, and his pectoral muscles were like overinflated soccer balls, hard and unyielding yet soft and inviting at the same time. Avery leaned in and licked the sweat off his nipples as Jimmy joined the other teammates in laughter.
“Oh yeah, nasty!”
“Lick it up, boys! Lick it up!”
They laughed cockily as though they enjoyed being the object of attention from a bunch of flamboyant gymnasts, but they were all distinctly nervous. Their muscles remained tensed as the gymnasts explored their football jock bodies.
“Jockstrap Raid! Jockstrap Raid!”
Meanwhile Avery’s hands roamed down Jimmy’s body. Jimmy stood there, flat on both feet now like a soldier at attention. His muscles quaked like he was slightly ticklish or just plain nervous at Avery’s hands on the straps of his jock.
A part of Avery wanted to keep going and stroke Jimmy off, but he didn’t — nobody else was, and he didn’t think Jimmy would allow that. Coach Marshall hadn’t said they could do it (though he hadn’t say they couldn’t either). And the football players hadn’t had sex with the cheerleaders after the panty raid — or had they? Now Avery wasn’t sure. He knew he heard once that the football players had all eaten out a cheerleader’s pussy at the same, and they had switched girls as a competition to see who was best.
That seemed gross and unsanitary to Avery, but, he could hardly complain. Once he pulled down Jimmy’s jockstrap and had it in his hand, he shoved the entire thing in his mouth. He suckled on it, trying to get every drop of salty moisture.
“Oh damn, I ain’t think they was gonna lick on ’em!”
“That’s is fuckin’ nasty. We ain’t suck on the panties.”
“Raython did.”
“Fuck you, I did not! I licked one panty-“
“You brought it back to the dorm afterwards though-“
“I ain’t suck on it!”
A fight broke out. In the dark, Avery couldn’t see who was involved. There was a flurry of punches, shouts of ‘come at me, then!’ and ‘try me, bro!’ but soon enough it was done. Avery couldn’t even tell who fought — Raython exchanged punches with someone, but that only lasted a moment and was more friendly than a real fight. But the players bumped into each other, sparking a real fight. Avery was right there in the melee. His heart raced. In the dark, fists flew willy-nilly, and more than one gigantic hulking linebacker rammed into him accidentally.
Yet Avery didn’t want to find his way out of the crowd. Everywhere he looked and everyplace he flailed his hands, all he gripped was sweat-dripping muscles, hairy flesh and jockstraps that Avery was desperate to get his hands on.
“Come at me, then bro!” someone shouted, as a brief fight erupted.
“Fuck you, man, no fighting in the locker room!” Jimmy shouted as the other shadowy player got up and stalked off towards the showers. Jimmy wagged his fat cock in that player’s direction. He scoffed. As the team captain, it was up to him to make sure they didn’t fight in the locker room. He sighed and glared at his teammates.
The remaining players were crammed in so close together that Avery could barely breathe. He was short, especially for a gymnast, so on most of the football players, Avery’s face was even with their nipple lines or even lower than that. Since the players were crammed into a tiny part of the locker room, Avery was pinned between their slabs of sweaty meat. He stuck his tongue out and everywhere he turned, he lapped up a fresh batch of freshly sweat-dappled muscle.
“Fuck you, Jimmy! You thought we would win! You promised it-“
“Oh grow up, Tony! I’m the team captain, of course I said we would win if we worked hard and played our best,” Jimmy said. “What kinduva team captain would say anything else?” He put his hands on his hips. Avery managed to squeeze through the players until he was behind Jimmy, whose sweaty back pressed against Avery’s face. Without thinking about it, Avery’s hand began loosely caressing the light blond hairs of the small of Jimmy’s back. When Jimmy didn’t protest, his fingers moved lower, playing with the moist funk of Jimmy’s asscrack.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be our team captain anymore!”
“After the season is over?! There’s not even any point to having a team captain anymore. There’s no more games,” Jimmy said.
“The cheerleaders are going to the basketball team party. The basketball team barely did any better than we did, and they’re all gonna get blowjobs-“
“We were invited to the same party,” Jimmy said. “Come on, guys-” Jimmy bristled and tensed up as Avery’s finger brushed over his asshole, his tight, dark, funky hole. His voice cut off and broke.
“We can get you off!” Fred shouted, and the other gymnasts all cheered.
The football players exchanged odd glances in the dark. It looked like some of them had forgotten the gymnasts were here. Avery realized only just now that more than a few of his fellow gymnasts were stroking off the football players in the dimly-lit locker room. A few of the football players let out some nervous laughter. One of them walked away, shaking his head as he headed to the showers.
But most of the team remained. Avery couldn’t believe this was happening. His hand roamed from Jimmy’s ass to his crotch. Avery’s heart skipped a beat as he gripped that thick shaft.
“Uh… Is this… okay?” Jimmy asked, directing the question at his teammates. There was a chorus of sharp breaths as the football players gasped. They looked at each other, raising their eyebrows, questioning who was going to give in to this and who was going to go take a shower.
No one actually answered Jimmy, but since no one — including Jimmy himself — walked away, the answer was apparently yes, at least for those jocks who hadn’t already left (a few had). Someone let out a long, low groan that provoked laughter in the other players.
“Who was that? Huh? Someone really likes it!”
“That was Raython, I’m sure of it.”
“Guess again, motherfucker. It was Tuck.”
“No it wasn’t. The guy on my dick ain’t even do it very good, nothing personal.” That was Tuck, the left tackle, who gasped then as the gymnast on his dick fell to his knees and swallowed his dick all the way down to the root.
“Ah, shit they doin’ it now! They doin’ it!”
One by one, the football players each said it was no big deal. Even Jimmy said it, though his voice quavered and his body tensed like he didn’t entire believe that. Or maybe he was so horny that his body tensed beneath Avery’s grasp. His dick throbbed.
Either one drop of precum escaped from Jimmy’s cock, or maybe it was a droplet of sweat. Regardless, Avery felt it coat Jimmy’s shaft and Avery’s fingers, lubing his hand up.
Something had changed then. Avery sensed it, and he knew everyone else had sensed it too — this jockstrap raid had become a circlejerk. The jockstraps themselves tumbled to the floor, forgotten. Someone was already getting someone else off, Avery could hear the moist suckling sounds.
“Ah, goddamn, it’s true what they say about men throating better than females… fuck…”
Avery dropped to his knees to start throating as well He was so short that when he went all the way to the ground as he usually would, he was too short. He could have crawled like that between Jimmy’s legs and Jimmy’s balls wouldn’t have dragged on Avery’s back — Jimmy was just too tall.
So Avery had to stretch his head upright, on his knees in front of Jimmy. He still had to strain to reach Jimmy’s cock, which was just slightly hard. It twitched as though trying to run away from Avery’s mouth when he kissed it on the tip.
“Oh, damn, my guy is makin’ out with it,” Jimmy said, with one muscled arm covering his eyes even though he was in a darkened locker room so he couldn’t see anyway. He giggled nervously like a little boy. The other players were reacting similarly — all except Raython, who reacted like he did this all the time.
“C’mon,” Raython said, “Go deeper…” He groaned and moaned as he did so. Avery couldn’t tell who was licking Raython’s shaft, but whoever it was gurgled as Raython’s cock rammed down his throat.
But Jimmy was too ginger about this to do anything like that. He flailed his hands above Avery’s head as though he wanted to start guiding him but didn’t want to touch him, like Avery’s short hair would remind him that the person tasting his cock was not a girl.
By now Jimmy’s cock was hard as stone. It throbbed and pulsated in Avery’s mouth, and it twitched as though it had a mind of its own. It communicated its desire to Avery through its vibrations in Avery’s hungry throat.
“Holy hell…”
“I was not expectin’ practice to end like this…”
Even in the dark, Avery could tell that Jimmy was red-faced, his chest and neck ruddy as pleasure wafted through his body. He suspected that Jimmy would have never agreed if the lights weren’t off in the locker room.
One of Avery’s hands snaked out without him thinking about it and grabbed the muscular booty of one of the players standing nearby. Avery moaned as he felt another pair of sweaty asscheeks, which twitched nervously beneath his touch.
He moved down to Jimmy’s balls, which were heavy and low-hanging. They smelled rank with sweat right now, though that scent was mostly indistinguishable from the locker room itself. Avery made as much noise as he could because it made the football players laugh — a deep, boisterous chorus of laughter that echoed in the locker room — and the other gymnasts joined in.
“Ah fuck, he slurpin’ on my balls now,” Jimmy murmured. Some of the other jocks laughed at his shocked tone.
Soon the locker room was filled with the deafening roar of loud suckling, moist bubbling sounds and wet choking as the gymnasts sputtered on massive jock cockmeat sliding down their throat. More than a few of the football players made plenty of noise too, moaning softly, cutting themselves off because no one — save Raython, who was shameless — wanted to seem like they were really into this.
But the sharp gasps and hyperventilating made it clear how enjoyable this was for the players, including Jimmy, who felt up his own nipples now.
Avery guided Jimmy’s hand from his chest to Avery’s own head. Jimmy instinctively gripped him tight and slammed his dick all the way down. They both groaned, but then Jimmy pulled away like he hadn’t meant to do that.
“Damn, why couldn’t you have long hair like a girl?”
Avery wanted to explain why, but his mouth was full of ballsack. He had had long hair in high school, but it made him look like a girl from behind and the football jocks had teased him so much he cut his hair. It wasn’t conducive to serious gymnastics either.
He gargled on the balls in his mouth, making a loud, somewhat nasty sound that caused the football players to all laugh. Only Jimmy didn’t laugh, because he threw his head back and moaned.
He wasn’t paying attention, which was perfect for Avery’s new plan. He took ahold of Jimmy’s hand again. Before, he had guided it to his head so Jimmy could really get it down his throat, though Jimmy had been uncomfortable with that. This time, however, Jimmy was busy moaning as his sensitive balls bounced and dripped sweat into Avery’s mouth.
So Avery guided Jimmy’s hand to his buddy, who was the dark-haired wide receiver George. Jimmy didn’t seem to notice as he clutched his teammate’s muscled back, and his hand was guided down to George’s ass.
Both Jimmy and George realized what was happening at the same moment. They both yelped and jumped. Jimmy drew his hand away, and Avery giggled.
Avery kept his mouth in position beneath Jimmy’s juicy balls, but then he moved his tongue back as he slid between Jimmy’s legs. Avery’s tongue ran along Jimmy’s sensitive taint, causing a shudder to run up his spine.
“Ah, damn, that tickles…”
The sweat here was fresh. It was salty and grimy, and it made Avery’s own cock pulsate in his hands. He writhed and Jimmy must have felt similarly, because his knees buckled and he nearly fell over.
But Avery didn’t stop there. He continued licking Jimmy’s taint as though he wanted to lick right through the skin. Then he slipped through Jimmy’s legs and came up, tongue-first on the other side.
That meant his face dived between Jimmy’s asscheeks. Jimmy wasn’t a very hairy jock overall, but his ass had plenty of fine blond fur. As soon as his tongue ran over Jimmy’s sensitive asshole, Jimmy bent over and moaned. His teammates laughed at him, but no one could quite see what was happening so they didn’t know that Avery was giving a rimjob.
Jimmy had clearly never had anyone lick his ass before. He gasped in shock with every lap of Avery’s tongue on that sensitive hole, and he writhed as though it hurt when Avery finally entered his ass. He backed his hips up, penetrating himself with Avery’s tongue.
The sweaty ass-funk of Jimmy’s unwashed body coated Avery’s mouth. He loved licking a big macho straight man’s asshole because it always tasted so nasty in a perfect way — it tasted like pure manhood, like Avery had taken all of the things that make a man manly and put them in a blender, then chugged it by the mouthful.
“I don’t know ’bout y’all,” Raython said with a groan. He loudly smacked his gymnast’s ass. “But I’m gonna stick this guy in the ass. That okay wit’ you, queer?” He laughed.
“What?!”
“You serious, Raython?”
In the darkness, Avery couldn’t see, but it sounded like Raython wasn’t waiting for the approval of his teammates. A moist slapping sound filled the air, and Avery could tell that it was Raython’s uncut cock sliding into someone’s ass.
“Hell yeah, I’s serious,” Raython said. “Real men don’t care what they stick it in, y’know. When yo’ balls is full, you gotta drain ’em somewhere.”
“No way!”
“Uh-huh.”
Raython cackled. “What ’bout you, Jimmy? You a real man or what?” The laughter vanished. Avery stuck his tongue deep in Jimmy’s ass as he reached around to stroke Jimmy’s cock. Jimmy bristled and his spine arched. Avery got the impression that Raython was Jimmy’s chief rival for the team captaincy next year, so this was just the most recent of Raython’s attempts to degrade Jimmy’s manhood.
“Fuck you, Raython, I ain’t squeamish. You know that. I took sloppy ninths on that fat chick, remember-?”
“Yeah, that ain’t nothin’, Jimmy.”
“Nothin’?! There was cum oozing out of her, man! It was dripping off my balls in clumps!”
“You drew the short straw!”
“Yeah, I know, but if I was squeamish I would’ve backed out. And I am gonna stick my guy in the ass. He been beggin’ me for it,” Jimmy said. He roared and pulled his ass away from Avery’s face. Before Avery even realized what was happening, he was bent over the thin bench between the lockers, and Jimmy began to shove his dick in.
Avery was focused on two things — first, he needed to relax his ass so Jimmy could get really deep inside him in it. Second, he needed to balance himself on the narrow bench, at one end of which sat a player, the wide receiver George. He faced away from Avery as he allowed some gymnast to get him off.
Since Avery was behind George, every time Jimmy slammed his dick into Avery’s ass, that forced Avery’s face forward. The motion planted Avery’s entire head in the meaty asscrack of George’s body, which was hairier and thicker than Jimmy’s.
He stuck his tongue out. He would have tried to lick George’s ass, maybe even given him a rimjob while Jimmy rammed his cock into Avery’s ass, but Jimmy pounded so hard Avery couldn’t keep still. All he could do was leave his tongue poking out so as he moved he covered George’s asscheeks and his lower back in his spit. He wasn’t even sure if George noticed — the players and the gymnasts were still crammed into a small area, so hands and tongues and muscled bodies bumped into each other all over the place.
“Yeah, ram it in that ass!”
Then the sensations grew so intense Avery couldn’t even keep his tongue out anymore. Jimmy pounded into him, his gingerness diminishing with every thrust of his hips. He used one thick-fingered hand to keep Avery’s head low, and his other elevated Avery’s hips so they were at the perfect height.
Jimmy’s big throbbing cock slid in and out. The precum flowed like frothy champagne, rivulets of it dripping into and out of Avery’s ass. Jimmy slammed his cock over and over, grunting — his reluctance had switched to aggressive lust now that he needed to prove something to Raython, who pounded even harder.
“Ugh, I smell that…”
The smell of cum and santorum filled the air. Was that Raython? George? Someone else? Avery couldn’t tell. Someone shot a huge, ripe load that smelled so tasty Avery licked at the air, succeeding only in getting a tongue-load of George’s ass instead.
After that first person — whoever it was — came, the others followed suit quickly. It seemed no one had wanted to be first, but no one wanted to be last either. They sprayed their loads over their bottoms’s faces and down their throats, moaning and flexing their muscles as they did. More than a few of them even slapped hands with each other while orgasming and filling their bottoms up with cum.
“Yeah, take that shit! Swallow it!”
“Open up!’
“Gonna fill yo’ guts, boi. Gonna fill ’em up real good.”
The loudest was Raython, whose roaring and pounding on his chest could be heard over the satisfied gurgling of the others. He grunted as he sprayed his load inside his bottom’s hole, coating his guts in cum that dripped out and onto the floor.
The smell of cum seemed to trigger Jimmy, who moaned in disgust, then in pleasure as he ran headlong into his own orgasm. His dick tingled and quivered, sending waves of pleasure up from Avery’s prostate.
He and Jimmy both came then at once, Avery shooting his load onto the floor and into his own hand, while Jimmy filled him up. “Ah, damn…” For the first time, Jimmy stopped gingerly avoiding touching Jimmy’s body. His knees buckled, and he leaned forward until his massive chest rested on Avery’s bare back.
If Avery weren’t mid-orgasm, it would have been painful because Jimmy was so big. His quarterback muscles pressed down on Avery, which forced Jimmy’s dick in so deep Avery tried to howl at the intense waves of sensations wracking his body — he couldn’t howl, however, because he couldn’t take a deep breath.
“Yeah, take it… Take it all…”
The cum flowed into him like water from a hose. He and Jimmy both moaned. Jimmy’s chest rattled where it dragged against Avery’s back, and Avery could hear Jimmy’s orgasmic grunt through his fleshy chest in addition to through his ears.
Jimmy lowered his head as he came, and he either didn’t notice or didn’t care that his face was planted in George’s muscled back. Finally Jimmy’s cock twitched one last time, sending a final wave of bliss through Avery’s body.
Then Jimmy pulled off. His cock plopped out with an audible moist sound that made Avery shake with desire.
“Well, uh-” Jimmy’s voice was cut off by the lights flickering back on.
For a moment, both teams were visible. The football jocks were standing and seating, while the gymnasts were on the floor, hunched over, bent down, kneeling, groaning, writhing as they swallowed the cum that had just been sprayed over them.
“Hey!” Coach Marshall stood there, his face red. He blew his whistle. “Hey! Gymnasts, get outta here! I told you could come in and steal their jockstraps! I ain’t say you could steal their virtue! Get the fuck out!”
Avery felt a surge of fear, like he was going to get in trouble — he had always been a good student. He wasn’t used to being in trouble. But he saw that his teammates weren’t getting worked up. They slowly cleaned themselves and headed towards the door behind Coach Marshall.
“Football players! Get in the shower! Now! On the double!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, so loud spittle dripped from his lips. “We’re having a team meeting in the shower, and I’m turning the hot water off!”
The players grumbled, but they jumped into action. They were all naked already, so they hurried towards the shower, where a few of their teammates were already cleaning themselves off. The shower area was still steamy for now, because Marshall hadn’t yet turned the hot water off.
Avery and the other gymnasts just giggled and headed towards the door. As Avery passed Coach Marshall, he tickled his crotch and felt his middle-aged cock twitch underneath his own jockstrap. Avery had thought Marshall was intensely arousing since the first moment he laid eyes on him.
“Hey! I ain’t part of the jockstrap raid!” Coach Marshall said. Avery and his fellow gymnasts giggled. Coach Marshall’s authoritarian, drill-sergeant-vibe vanished like he didn’t know how to interact with non-jock men. “You had better not do this without permission, again, boys. I give permission for all jockstrap raids. Only me.”
“Well, when do we get to do it again?”
“Yeah, what about the wrestling team?”
Coach Marshall opened his mouth as though to bark out some orders. Then he nodded his head thoughtfully. “Yeah. Fine. If the wrestling team loses next weekend, you can do a jockstrap raid on them. And the baseball finals are the week after that…”
The gymnasts cheered over Coach Marshall’s recitation of the sports teams at GHU and their final matches, and Avery smiled. He thought he was going to enjoy his freshman year.

The Fat Jock Bottoms

A lot of rugby jocks are six-packed hunks with perfect physiques… Orson Gammond is not one of them. He’s desperate for a woman to pay attention to him, so when some cheerleaders dare him to let their twinky buddy ride him like a pony, Orson is eager to agree!

But can Orson bend over and take it long enough to put on a good show for the ladies he craves?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

The cheerleading squad consisted of fourteen girls and Bart Dazzle — he was the only man on the squad. They were best friends, and Bart spent all his time with them. Bart always felt more comfortable with women, but he did appreciate the male form. The cheerleaders attracted some pretty appealing exemplars of the male physique, and they got Bart invited to all the coolest parties and get-togethers at Goldendale Hills University.
At first Bart enjoyed watching the cheerleaders take turns sucking off Raython, the football player, but soon it became old hat. He watched them take turns “reverse-gangbanging” the captains of the football team, and then the captains of the basketball, rugby and soccer teams. Not every cheerleader participated, but most of them did. They thought it was hilarious, which Bart had to admit it kind of was. But it was hot too. Bart enjoyed watching sex more than joining in.
One of the few players they didn’t think was sexy was Orson Gammond. He was a prop on the GHU rugby team, and like most props, he was huge. He wasn’t fat, but he hardly had a perfect body either. He was one of those men who was too muscular to have a six-pack. His belly jutted out with the sheer power of his oversized frame. He was goofy, with a big round face, a perpetually uncombed shock of thick black hair, and an awkward sprinkling of tufts of hair over his strapping chest. He had an ass that just didn’t quit — too plump to be a “bubble-butt” but plenty round and thick and inviting. Bart just wanted to spend hours covering it in whipped cream and licking it clean.
At a giggley late-night drinking session on Saturday, Bart and the girls had rated the members of the rugby team. The discrepancy over Orson’s ranking was tremendous — Bart rated him highly, while the girls uniformly put him on the bottom of the list.
That was what had sparked the girls to come up with this plan, which Bart had raced to agree to.
“Hey, so we’re having a sauna, Orson, and you can come in if you want…” said Lisa Anne, poking her head out of the sauna and into the locker room. The other cheerleaders giggled behind her.
Orson’s eyes opened wide. Everyone else in the locker room fell silent. They usually did when one of the girls came in. Orson had never been invited into the sauna with the cheerleaders before.
He grinned like a goofy bastard, and he even did a little dance there in front of Lisa Anne before going into the sauna. That made his jockstrap bounce and his pecs shake. Lisa Anne squealed because of his big caveman-like face leering at her. She blushed.
“Hell yeah, are you gonna jerk Orson off? Hey!”
“Can I come too?”
The other players were both surprised and annoyed that they didn’t get to come. The cheerleaders usually only took one player into the sauna at a time — reverse-gangbanging jocks was a cheerleading tradition here at GHU. Bart had come in and watched a few times, and he got to very briefly taste Raython Lake’s cock once. He had thought Raython wanted some dome from him as he ate cheerleader pussy, but it turned out Raython wanted a blowjob and simply hadn’t noticed who was on his cock at the time.
The sex was exaggerated though. It was more of a prank than anything else. Usually the entire cheerleader squad would bring one player in, and they’d tease him, dancing, laughing, maybe give him a massage and a lapdance, and then either suck his dick or fuck him. Sometimes they’d all do it. They’d usually all pretend to join in — at least touching him — so they could say it was an orgy. But Bart had never seen any man have actual sex with more than two girls in the sauna. Usually they’d make a big deal out of it, but then only the sluttiest girls on the squad did anything, while the rest giggled and teased. The athletes at GHU were usually too testosterone-charged to fuck a dozen girls before cumming.
He had also never seen Orson in there.
Orson was so huge — nearly seven feet tall — that he seemed to fill up the sauna. As soon as he strode in, the girls all fell silent. Orson blushed. He had a big dick that barely fit in his dingy jockstrap. His body heat turned the sauna even warmer.
“Hi, uh, girls.” Orson chuckled, his deep voice resonating in the wooden-ceilinged sauna. He blushed deeper every time he caught a glimpse of a naked girl through the steam.
“Hi, Orson…” said Lisa Anne, who grinned at him. “So… don’t get too excited, we didn’t invite you here because we want to fuck you.”
They all laughed because Orson looked crestfallen. Bart felt bad for him and got up. He wrapped one hand around Orson’s waist, hugging him close. “Oh, you poor baby…”
“Man…” Orson lifted his nose. “Why’d you invite me in here then?” He completely ignored Bart, who nuzzled his belly and even touched his asscheeks. Bart’s delicate arms reached all the way around Orson’s wideness, and Bart nuzzled the sweat-dappled flesh of his torso.
“Oh, sorry, sweetheart… you’re so nice, baby…”
“We just love you so much, Orson!”
“You’re so cool! Really, so so cool!” The cheerleaders squealed and cooed. Their tits jiggled, which was what Orson’s eyes followed.
Only then did Bart tweak Orson’s nipples, which finally got his attention. Orson looked at Bart’s petite body wrapped around him, as Bart licked a trail down his belly.
Orson frowned. That frown turned into a scowl, though he didn’t seem annoyed by Bart touching him. It seemed like he scowled just because that was what he thought guys should do, or maybe he thought he needed to in order to communicate that he wanted to mess with the girls in here, not Bart. Or maybe he was just a scowler.
In any case, his dick was hard. His belly was in the way, so the girls didn’t see, but Bart could tell. Orson might not have even realized he was hard. His eyes were hypnotized by the enchanting jiggle of their tits.
Lisa Anne touched Orson right on the navel, and she giggled — all the girls were giggling, that was their natural state — but Lisa Anne’s giggles intensified when she touched Orson’s belly. His bellyfat jiggled like her tits. Lisa Anne didn’t touch men with bellyfat. Her last boyfriend was Raython the football player, who had a six-pack like a movie star. She had never dated a man who didn’t have a six-pack, and Orson had never even seen his ribcage.
Bart could feel his ribcage though. Orson watched her finger explore up his body to his powerful chest. Orson’s muscles rippled under his torso fat when Lisa Anne traced her finger back down his belly, then scampered away like a Japanese photographer before Godzilla. Orson wasn’t touched by girls often, so that made him shudder and shake.
“So, we didn’t invite you in here so we could fuck you,” Lisa Anne said. The girls all laughed. Orson — who had a reputation as a dummy — just stared at her blankly. Lisa Anne patted him on the side. “I would like to propose a trade. You get to do whatever you want with someone on this squad, and then someone on this squad gets to do whatever they want with you.”
“Okay.” His baritone voice rumbled. He blurted out his answer without taking any time to think. It was obvious he hadn’t figured out where this was going.
Lisa Anne giggled. “I didn’t tell you who yet.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care, you’re all beautiful.” He blushed again as they all oohed and aahed at him. He wiggled his body and even covered up his jockstrap as he felt momentarily vulnerable. He seemed to have forgotten it was Bart stroking his asscheeks and his muscled thighs. Bart slurped up the sweat clinging to his flesh.
“Thank you so much, sweetie,” Lisa Anne said. She blushed too. She wasn’t usually this forward with men, but it was obvious Orson wouldn’t catch anything that wasn’t made very explicit. Lisa Anne cleared her throat. “Okay, you have to let Bart here ram you up the ass. And then we’ll-“
Orson looked down at Bart, who still clutched his torso. It took a moment to sink in, then Orson grunted and stepped away. It looked like he might leave the sauna. He covered his jockstrap with both hands, as though he just now noticed he was naked in front of a gaggle of girls plus Bart.
“What? He ain’t a girl.”
Lisa Anne and the other cheerleaders giggled. “Well, yeah, we know that. We just think it’d be so hot, baby. We wanna watch-“
Orson jumped between his feet a couple times. He was too nervous to stand still. He cleared his throat. “Yo, girls, come on… Come on…”
“You can say no, Orson.”
“Yeah, we’ll just mess with each other instead. We can have an all-girls day, y’know, if you don’t want to do anything…”
“Ooh, we should do that while Orson gets it up the ass! That way he’ll have something to watch!” Lisa Anne squealed, and the other cheerleaders all agreed that that was a good idea. They sometimes made out or even ate each other’s pussies for the benefit of the players, so that part wasn’t so strange for them.
They all reacted as though that settled it, and Orson had said yes. He hadn’t, but he hadn’t left either. A part of him knew he was going to do it even as he tried to bargain with the girls.
“How about I let him just jerk me off or whatever? That’s not too weird.” Orson’s big round cheeks were red as cherries.
“We’ve seen that, baby. We’ve seen Bart jerk off all kinds of guys,” Lisa Anne said. That made Bart giggle — it was true, they, or at least a couple of them, had done that before. Men would do anything Lisa Anne said. “Besides, he can’t bottom all the time-“
“He’s a bottom, I can tell by lookin’ at him!” Orson shouted.
“Oh, you don’t know, you can’t tell how much of a bottom someone is by looking at him,” Lisa Anne said. She crossed her arms over her chest. Orson sighed and nodded. Then, just to help make this easier for Orson, she kissed another cheerleader right on the lips.
Orson watched the girls making out like his life depended on catching every detail. Bart came back to hugging him close, just to see how comfortable he was so far. Bart’s hand moved down to his crotch and handled his fat erection. Orson twitched but he didn’t respond. Bart kissed him on the belly, then climbed onto the sauna bench to kiss up his chest. Orson was totally stiff, unmoving, staring straight at the girls as they made out.
His muscles were hard as rock. Since Orson didn’t have a perfect body and he was usually pretty low-key, his muscles were never really this firm. It was like touching a stone statue. He seemed to be going for pretending it wasn’t happening.
“Ooh, Orson, that’s so hot…”
“We love you, baby!”
Orson grunted at them. Bart knelt in front of him and put his mouth on Orson’s cock, just long enough to make it hard. Orson had a deliciously greasy flavor, full of machismo and unwashed manhood.
But instead he sat down and spread his legs. Bart couldn’t help but giggle — he couldn’t believe he was really doing this. The sight of girls fingering themselves and each other was strange too, something Bart never really had seen before, not like this.
Even when the girls told him to put his mouth on Bart’s dick, Orson didn’t stop watching them eat each other’s pussies. He knelt in front of Bart, blushing intensely. He opened his mouth and winced even before Bart’s dick passed his lips. He scrunched his eyes shut.
“Swallow it!”
“Oh my god, that’s so hot! You’ve never been sexier, Orson!”
Bart couldn’t tell if they were telling the truth, teasing Orson or exaggerating to make him feel more comfortable — Bart had won a bet with the girls, that was why they agreed to make Orson do this. Plus they probably wanted to see how much they could make a frustrated and horny fat guy do. So they hooted and flashed their tits at Orson as cringingly brought his mouth closer and closer to Bart’s manhood.
As soon as Bart’s dick touched his tongue, Orson gagged so violently Bart didn’t think this was going to happen. Orson retched and spat up a big wad of saliva onto the floor of the sauna. His now-open eyes looked dourly on towards the girls, who all giggled as they watched, having removed their tops now entirely. When Orson caught sight of their breasts, he again was hyponotized them. His cock twitched, and Bart stroked it with one hand the best he could — Orson was so tall that it was difficult for him to stoop low enough to put his mouth on Bart’s dick, and when he did, that placed his crotch nearly out of reach for Bart’s hand.
He opened his mouth and gagged again when he took Bart’s dick past his lips. His gags made his bellyfat and his thunderous thighs wobble and made the muscle under his meat flex and ripple. Bart explored those jiggling muscles as his dick jabbed and roped around on Orson’s face — Bart didn’t focus on getting it straight in Orson’s mouth, because that made Orson gag and spit it out, and Orson was more focused on the girls and their catalogue of tits. That meant Bart and his hands could roam over every inch of Orson’s face and chest and even his ass. Orson was a big man with a big mouth, and he tried to take Bart’s dick without actually touching it any more than he could help it — he tried to take his dick in his mouth without letting it touch his tongue or the sides of his mouth.
And he was big enough, he could sort of do it. His mouth was cavernous, and Bart got his entire dick in there before he felt Orson’s tongue finally batter his shaft.
“Oooh, baby, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen…” The girls moaned, their giggles turning to quiet titters so Orson wouldn’t feel they were laughing at him. They were, of course, or some of them were, holding back hysterical laughs so hard their cheeks were turning red like Orson’s. Orson did not notice.
When Bart’s dick got to be too much for Orson, he closed his eyes, only to open them when he realized that meant he couldn’t see the cheerleaders. With some effort, he managed to keep his tongue on Bart’s cock. He was surprised to find that the taste wasn’t so bad. He had gagged initially because he was humiliated and worried about how gross it would be.
But it actually tasted just like pussy, he thought. A lot of girls refused to fuck him, they just let him lick their pussies — because he had a nice big tongue but his dick was too big for them, and they didn’t like having to cram beneath his massive body — so Orson was an experienced pussy-eater. He had tasted a lot of vaginas, and this cock tasted just like one.
He wasn’t sure if that was because all cocks rather tasted like pussies, which seemed logical if disconcerting, or if Bart specifically tasted like a girl. That option had a certain logic to it, since Bart was effeminate.
Regardless, once he got started, Orson thought it wasn’t so bad. He had to watch the girls out of the corner of his eyes, but that was enough to see them, and as long as he thought about that, he wasn’t too embarrassed at the cock drilling down his throat. He could almost ignore it.
Bart didn’t mind the awkwardness of it. He was a bottom by habit and by nature, so he rarely got jerked off like this, and he had certainly never been jerked off by a massive rugby jock who outweighed him by like two hundred pounds. He forced his dick down Orson’s throat, and the more Orson got into it, the less he gagged and the more he could keep an intent stare at the naked chicks in front of him.
It was almost too awkward and nerve-wracking to really be enjoyable. For a moment Bart wasn’t sure this would go anywhere. It was the worst dome of his life, objectively speaking, but when he felt that tongue slather spit on his shaft, and Bart touched the sweat-dappled muscles of Orson’s back, a shiver of pleasure ran up his spine.
Bart moaned. Precum flowed onto Orson’s tongue, enough to spark another torrent of gagging. That made the girls giggle, but they didn’t stop. Orson just arranged his body so he could get a better look. More and more precum spewed forth, as Bart was overcome by throes of passion and an intense desire to blow his wad. He tried to hold back though.
Finally, when Bart thought he was about to cum, he pulled out. He bent over and kissed Orson on the lips before Orson could say anything else.
The girls cheered him on. Orson wrinkled his nose and didn’t kiss back, but he didn’t stop Bart. Bart’s tongue plunged into his mouth. Orson sighed but endured it, while Bart’s hands roamed all over his body.
Bart very nearly sat on his lap as they kissed, out of pure instinct and habit — he loved taking it up the ass like that, sitting on his alpha’s lap. But instead he reversed it, sitting on that bench and motioning for Orson to sit on his cock.
“Oh.” Orson hung his head. He had hoped maybe Bart would cum just from the blowjob. But there were so many naked girls all around him that Orson couldn’t bear to say no. He wanted this more than anything. Orson would have found it difficult to say no to any number of naked girls for any reason.
The position was awkward, but Bart loved it — he feel of Orson’s fat body twisting into position made the whole thing sexier. Bart held onto Orson’s hefty ass and back as though he could help support him, while Orson lowered himself onto Bart’s crotch.
“Do it! Do it!” The girls squealed and squirmed in each other’s arms. They must really be enjoying the sight of Orson getting it up the ass, Bart thought. He was glad. He wondered if they could do this again.
Then Orson let out a deep-chested howl as Bart’s cock slipped in. For a moment, Orson thought something was wrong. This hurt too much; it wasn’t supposed to be like that; something, he thought, had gone wrong.
His muscles all tensed, and he stopped moving with just the tip of Bart’s dick in his ass. His hole clenched, making Bart gasp, already on the verge of orgasm.
It was lucky that the discrepancy in size made this position difficult, because Bart was so turned on he would have blown his load right away if it was easy. He gripped Orson’s massive asscheeks, each one of them seemingly bigger than Bart’s whole body, and he guided Orson down.
The girls slowly stopped making out to watch. Orson gasped and heaved, his face turning redder and redder with every bit of Bart’s cockmeat sliding into him. He fumed and stopped a few times, resuming only when he looked up and saw the tits and pussies surrounding him.
“Oh, shit, man,” Orson said, his voice breathless and weak.
“That is so hot! Oh my god!”
The girls all agreed. Hoping to buck up Orson, they took turns kissing him on the lips while he focused on letting Bart’s entire cock fill up his ass. Bart moaned, his voice breaking and wavering.
Finally, he was in. Bart was overwhelmed by both the pressure and the arousal. He reached up to massage Orson’s back, which stretched above Bart’s head, deliciously imperfect with a few scars and marks, along with a mat of body hair stretching over his shoulders from his chest.
Orson held himself on Bart’s cock. He couldn’t bring himself to move, so Bart pumped his hips upward, plowing Orson’s tight asshole.
“You have such a nice ass,” Bart said. “Goddamn…” That made the girls giggle. Bart reached around Orson’s body. He managed to grab his dick, which was limp. Bart intended to give him a reacharound, but Orson was totally soft, so, Bart thought, that wouldn’t happen.
Just as he was about to let go, however, Bart felt his dick twitch and Orson’s ass loosen. Bart could plow harder now, and Orson seemed to be in less pain. Soon his cock was rock-hard, throbbing in Bart’s grip.
Orson was barely aware of that happening. He could tell that the pain had diminished, and there was a strange, offputting sort of pleasure building up in his ass. He had never experienced anything like it. It wasn’t unambiguously blissful, there was a certain agonizing quality to it, like when you removed a cast and the skin felt good but was so sensitive it hurt at the same time.
That pleasure grew more intense with every passing moment. Orson’s deep moans resonated in the sauna, and his voice was so low and rumbling that it seemed impossibly loud to the girls. He sucked on his lip as he realized he was getting a reacharound and liking it.
He hoped it wasn’t obvious how much he was enjoying this. The pain was still there, but it wasn’t so important. It seemed irrelevant right now, like he couldn’t possibly worry about his sore asshole when his prostate sent wave after wave of inexhaustible pleasure through his veins.
“Oh god, stick him!” The girls squealed and clutched each other.
Bart struggled to reach Orson’s dick. His body was so big it was tough to do, especially with Bart taking the lead in plowing Orson’s ass too. His balls slapped into Orson’s hairy cheeks, while he stroked that massive uncut cock. He had to use both hands to keep spreading the voluminous flesh of Orson’s cheeks.
And then at last, they both finished. Bart orgasmed first, and while he moaned into the meat of Orson’s back and filled his ass up with cream, he was able to speed up his handjob. That sent Orson over the edge at the same time, so he sprayed jets of cum onto the sauna floor.
Bart’s spurting cumloads lasted for what felt like forever. Bart didn’t mind, as he was wracked by spasms of pleasure like golden chords striking throughout his slim body. Though he struggled to accommodate Orson’s hefty frame above himself, Bart didn’t mind at all. He had been hoping to mess around with Orson for awhile. He massaged every inch of those rugby-toned muscles, while pumping his last few drops of cum into Orson’s hairy ass.
Finally, Orson slid off him. He was too exhausted now to sit, so he laid down, glad to see that Lisa Anne sat next to his head. She patted him on the cheek.
“Oh my god, Orson, that was so hot…” Lisa Anne said with a giggle. The other girls all rushed to agree.
Bart took a deep breath. The girls were swarming Orson, who beamed — despite his embarrassment, he was glad to have done it because girls had never given him attention like this before. He had already cum but Orson was desperate to go again as long as it was with a girl this time.
So by the time Bart was on his feet again, Orson was smiling as one of the cheerleaders sat on his face. He snarled like a wolf, making her laugh, and then pounced on her pussy, ramming his tongue right in.
“Oh god, Orson!”
Bart was tired. He hung around for a few more minutes. Orson let him suck on his balls a bit, but eventually the girls were too involved for Bart to find a way in. He was done anyway. There was a linebacker Bart wanted to check out, and he just might have an in with one of GHU’s chunkier coaches too. The campus was full of thick-bodied alpha men, and Bart was on a mission to worship every one of their bodies.