All Male Fiction: Rocks for Jocks

By: Natty Soltesz

I was taking a summer physics course to bone up on my skills and pass some time. The campus was pretty deserted in the summer and the mood was nice — quiet and serene. There was this one guy who always sat in the front row, not that it did him much good, educationally speaking. Nick Anthony was what you might call an oaf: a big, dumb jock with a thick neck and an even thicker skull, and a prime candidate for "Rocks for Jocks" — which is how the rest of us referred to the Mickey Mouse science prerequisite typically snatched up by athletes and underachievers.

But 'Intro to Physics' was where he'd somehow ended up, an unwitting cog in the tyranny that was a liberal arts education, trying to wrap his head around Newtonian mechanics and kinetic theory when I suspected he'd rather focus on the trajectory of a football sailing through the air. He was trying so hard, intently taking notes as our professor explained equations on the board. But you could tell it wasn't getting through.

I stared as much as I dared. He always wore athletic gear — thin white t-shirts that hugged his buff and beefy body, and blue silky track pants with buttons going down the sides. A few times he wore a sleeveless Texas Longhorns shirt. His arms were so tan and toned. I lived for the days when he came in wearing his mesh basketball shorts, his ass flexing as he walked, his package flopping up front — Jesus! He had short dark hair and a stubbly face with sensuous lips. I'm sure he had no trouble getting laid on a Saturday night, but physics just wasn't his forte.

The prof and I had become friendly by the third week of the course. He asked me if I'd consider tutoring Nick and racking up some extra credit in the process. I didn't need the credit, but I enjoyed tutoring, regardless of whether I was fantasizing about the pupil sitting on my face, so I said yes.

We were formally introduced one day after class. Nick shook my hand, smiling. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy, and we walked out of class together. I offered to meet with him that night.

"Well, tonight, I got this girl I'm supposed to see…"

"Oh. No worries," I replied. "If you got a girl, we'll do it some other time."

He said tomorrow worked better for him, and I figured some lucky girl was going to be freshly fucked by then.

Thirty hours later, Nick pulled up to my off campus apartment. He couldn't have dressed any better — that goddamn sleeveless Longhorns shirt and the mesh shorts. I was dying.

I offered him a cold drink, and we sat down at the kitchen table. I guess I was a bit older and wiser than Nick, but only by a couple of years. That said, I never planned to seduce him — at least, not at first.

We started on some equations. He wasn't getting it and began to get frustrated. My place was hot and I didn't have AC, so after a half hour I suggested we take a break and try to catch a breeze on my balcony. Nick sat in my patio chair and downed the rest of his drink.

"So," I said, "you went out with your girl last night?"

"Yeah… well, we didn't really go out, y'know?" Nick said, smirking at me to see if I got the gist.

I laughed. "And you'd rather do that than work equations? Unreal," I joked.

Nick laughed and then sighed. "Man, I really hate this stuff. I dunno why it's supposed to be important."

"Well, you'll probably never use it again. But it's a requirement, right?"

"Yeah. Coach says I have to get at least a C. I dunno why I suck so bad."

"You'll get it. Besides, it's not that important in the grand scheme of things. I'm sure there's other stuff you're much better at."

"Yeah, you could say that," he said, giving me a sly lift of his eyebrows.

Fuck it, I thought. "So you're a real stud, huh?"

"Yeah," he answered, chuckling.

"I'm not surprised. You've got a really hot body," I said.

"Yeah, I do," he replied cockily.

I decided to go for it, put the moves on him. What's the worst he could do? Freak out, try to hit me? If that's how he reacted, I'd simply apologize, tell him I just admired his body, that no matter how much I tried to build up my muscles, I couldn't get a body like his. I felt I had nothing to lose, and possibly a big cock to gain, so I leaned forward and put my hand on his beefy thigh.

He didn't stop me.

All Male Fiction: On the Mat

By: Unknown Author & Ryan Michaels

It was a grueling practice. The coach had worked us hard, trying to get us ready for the meet that was coming up against our rival school. Their wrestling team always beat us, but this year Coach was determined that we would win. So he was always on our butts, pushing us harder and harder, regularly keeping one of us after practice for extra coaching. A lot of guys on the team would grumble in the locker room about how hard the coach would work us during practice, but not me. I enjoyed the hard, sweaty workouts with the team. It gave us some team spirit, not to mention a common "enemy" - Coach Meyer.

One thing you gotta say for Coach, he knew his business. He was the top in his weight class in college, and here he was, not two years later, coaching our team. He kept himself in great shape, too, always working out in the weight room, keeping his body hard and tight, never deviating much from his 177lb wrestling weight. Broad, muscular shoulders, defined pecs, narrow waist and hips - a great body for a wrestler.

We were in the same weight class, and my body was pretty good, too. I worked out for it, trying to keep up with Coach, and did pretty well, too. I was just a bit smaller in the shoulders, but otherwise we were pretty evenly matched, body wise.

Not to say that any of us on the team were slackers. We all kept up as best we could with Coach. Kind of a pride thing. First thing we did before practice was meet in the weight room for a workout. Coach was always in there before us, and worked with us almost like a personal trainer, pushing us to go harder. Then we'd go into the wrestling room, pairing up and testing each other, trying new holds, sweating up a storm.

This day, all the guys were exhausted after practice. We all hit the showers, but there was none of the usual horsing around. We all just wanted to get out of the gym to nurse our sore muscles.

And most of us did. I wasn't so lucky. I was one of the last in the showers, and so was one of the last to be in the locker room, drying off, when Coach walked in.

"Tim," he said, "I'm not happy with your workout today. You weren't taking care of business out there. Get back into your singlet. We've got some work to do."

"Ok, Coach," I said. But it wasn't ok. I had just showered, and now had to get back into my sweaty uniform, not to mention my only jock, which was also damp with sweat, only to have to shower again later. But Coach seemed pretty insistent, and I was the only one left who had yet to go through some additional one-on-one coaching after practice, so I didn't really have much of a choice.

When I came out of the locker room, I found Coach standing on the mat, waiting for me, his hands on his hips, still in his singlet.

"You ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be," I answered. "What was I doing wrong?"

"You weren't pushing for the pin like I told you. The only way you're gonna win at wrestling is to go for the pin, all else be damned."

"Yeah, but Coach..."

"No buts, Tim. Let me show you how to do it."

He hunkered down in wrestling position, ready to lock up with me. I did the same. We approached each other, got our hands on each other's shoulders, he slipped his hand behind my neck, and we started to circle each other. He shot his hand out, catching me behind my knee, and pulled up, toppling me back. He landed on top of me, swung around, catching me in a deep crotch hold, trying to cradle me up into a fast pin. But I managed to bridge back, preventing him from getting my shoulders down. As I did this, I felt his hand slip through my legs, until it rested on the pouch of my singlet. I thought I felt his hand give it a slight squeeze, but I was sure I was mistaken.

I got my arm around his neck, slipped my arm through his legs, and rolled him over on his back. Now I was close to pinning him, but he rolled through, and away from me. He stood up, ready to lock up again.

This time, I managed to get my arms around his chest in a bear hug, lifting him off the mat, and slamming him down, with me on top. He wrapped his legs around me in a body scissors and held me there. We were chest to chest, crotch to crotch. I grabbed his wrists to pin them over his head, when he broke his scissors, and bridged up. I was on top of him, feeling the pressure of my dick pushing down on his, and noticed that he had thrown a rod. The feeling of his dick against mine caused a reaction in my own crotch, and I started to get boned up, too.

We wrestled like that for about fifteen minutes. I could partially see some of his cock outlined as it stretched the material of his singlet. My full-on hard-on was even more obvious in my singlet, but that didn't stop us. Guys always get hard-ons when they wrestle, it's natural.

Finally we broke off for a short rest. We were both soaked with sweat and panting from the exertion. We both lay on our backs, trying to get some air into our lungs, when Coach turned to me. "Not bad, Tim," he said. "I knew if I pushed you, you'd do ok."

"Thanks, Coach. You do pretty well yourself."

He laughed, and punched me in the arm. I did the same to him. He hit me again. Pretty soon, we were rolling around with each other, play-wrestling. He landed on top of me, getting me in a tight bear hug, trying to pin me down. Suddenly we both stopped, realizing that our crotches were mashed together. Coach rolled off me and stood up.

"This singlet is too wet to wrestle in," Coach said and then began to peel himself out of it. "Yours is soaked with sweat, too. Strip it off, Tim," Coach Meyer said as he tossed his singlet to the floor and stood looking down at me, hands on hips, in just his jockstrap.

All Male Fiction: I Spy (Part 2)

By: Unknown Author

Read Part 1

Eric stumbled out of Coach Anson's equipment locker, nearly falling on the cement floor before his arms grabbed Coach Anson's desk chair. Alex and Coach Anson looked over in disbelief. Alex turned around so that his ass was against the Coach's desk, as he groped quickly for his pants and belt. Coach Anson slid his track pants quickly up to his waist and turned toward Eric.

For at least two seconds, no one said a word. Eric's heart was racing as Coach Anson finally spoke. "Eric Larson, what the hell are you doing in here?"

Coach Anson stared at Eric, who began to tremble. Eric backed up toward the Coach's equipment locker, hoping he could simply crawl back inside. Alex rushed toward Eric, but Coach Anson stopped him from grabbing Eric's shirt.

"All right, Diego. I've had my fill of you today. Get outta here. I'll handle this," Coach Anson ordered.

Alex stared Eric down before turning to exit the Coach's office. Eric couldn't help but stare at Alex's muscled ass, crisply defined by his slacks, as Alex walked through the door.

Coach Anson caught Eric staring. "So, Eric, you get your little stiffy all worked up watching grown men play?"

Eric remained silent, his mind trying to think of a good explanation, and a way to get out of the locker room in one piece. Coach Anson became even more ticked off and approached Eric for an answer. Coach Anson swaggered closer to Eric - so close that Eric could feel his hot breath on his shoulder and the Coach's thick, meaty legs pushed up against Eric's inner thighs.

Coach Anson again questioned, "So, you think you know what you saw. But there are still a couple of things you should know. You should know that no one will believe you. And you should know that you will have to pay a price to keep this piece of information."

Eric finally found a voice to reply. "What are you talking about? I'm not going to tell anyone."

Coach Anson got closer to Eric's face, so close the Coach could've kissed him. "Oh, I know you won't tell anyone what you saw, but I have to think of a way to guarantee it... to my satisfaction."

All Male Fiction: I Spy (Part 1)

By: Unknown Author & Ryan Michaels

 

 

 

Eric slipped into Coach Anson's office at the back of the boys' high school locker room. Eric, who was five-nine, weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds, with dark hair, and brown eyes, and who was muscular and fit and had a bubble butt was one of Southfield High's up-and-coming athletes. He had just turned eighteen and, like most guys his age, was horny all the time. Which is why he was in Coach Anson's office snooping around. He was looking for the key to the Coach's desk. Rumors abounded that the Coach kept porno magazines locked in the bottom drawer, and Eric desperately needed to get off right then and wanted to go into a stall and pump out a load of sperm while looking at porn.

Before he had managed to locate the key, though, Eric suddenly heard voices entering the locker room. It sounded like two voices - a man and a woman – and as the voices got closer, with no way to escape without being seen, Eric ducked inside a locker housed inside Coach Anson's office that held the Coach's clothes as well as some personal hygiene products on the top shelf.

Looking through the slats in the locker door, Eric recognized Mr. Diego, along with a sexy young brunette woman he hadn't ever seen before as they entered Coach Anson's office.

Mr. Diego was Eric's geometry teacher, but to everyone else, he was "Alex." Alex was in his mid-twenties and made all the girls at Southfield swoon. He was Hispanic and handsome, stood five foot eleven, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a muscular frame that rippled when he walked. The cut of his pants showed off every finely sculpted muscle of his ass, and his arms and chest popped out of his short-sleeved polo shirts.

As Alex and the young woman entered Coach Anson's office, Alex's hand was wrapped around the young woman's ass. They were laughing and hanging on each other. Then Alex spoke. "We'll have some privacy in here."

The young woman replied with a smile and her hand reached around Alex's sturdy torso and cupped his luscious ass firmly. Her hand then darted back to the front of Alex's pants and began unbuckling his belt. Eric watched as they began to undress, standing only ten feet away from his hideout in the locker.

Alex's pants dropped to the floor. He was not wearing any underwear, and his cock, which was fat and uncut, was semi-aroused already, jutting out slightly. She handled Alex's cock as he reached to unzip her skirt, and Alex's cock became harder and thicker as she played with it, and got rock hard in no time. Alex's cock wasn't only thick, it was also pretty long. It had to be at least eight inches.

Alex hiked up her skirt over her abdomen and turned her around and bent her over Coach Anson's desk. She was now facing away from the locker, but Alex blocked her view from Eric when he came up close behind her. His ass cheeks faced Eric; they were hairless and bronzed. They hung like cantaloupes, tight and bouncy at the same time.

The next thing Eric witnessed from his hiding spot was Alex entering the young woman from behind. Alex slipped inside skillfully and began to buck faster and faster, holding onto her shoulders for support. He then grabbed her hips and fucked her harder and harder.

Alex's bucking quickened and then he withdrew as he began to cum. Eric soon saw Alex's cum running down her leg. Alex stepped aside and trailed his finger through the little rivers of cum, drawing his finger upwards, and then inserted his cum-coated finger into her mouth. He smiled and whispered, "Just want to leave you something to remember me by."

With that, Alex and the young woman quickly dressed and moved towards the door of Coach Anson's office. They were both stunned when they realized Coach Anson had been standing there quietly for several minutes, observing their fuck session. Eric had been so involved in watching Alex and the woman fucking that he hadn't heard or noticed the Coach come up to the door, either.

Alex, the woman, and Eric all stood silently looking at the coach, wondering what was going to happen next as he eyed both of them.

After an awkward pause, Alex spoke first. "Hey, Coach, didn't see you standing there."

Coach Anson motioned for the young woman to leave, and she scrambled through the door, but his arm moved across the doorframe and blocked Alex's path when he moved to follow her out.

Coach Anson was in his mid-thirties, with dark blond hair and brown eyes, stood five-ten, and weighed about one hundred and ninety pounds. He was fit and built; his hairy muscular forearms stretching the arms of his light-colored t-shirt, his bulging pecs straining the thin t-shirt across his chest. Coach Anson's ass was a muscular silhouette filling out his navy track pants. He was pumped like he'd just completed a strenuous workout.

Coach Anson retorted, "That's because you were too busy banging that chick. How many times do I have to come in here to find you slamming your meat into one of the substitute teachers?"

"Just trying to make her feel welcome," Alex joked trying to break the tension, moving backward as Coach Anson stepped forward.

Coach Anson followed as Alex backed toward his desk and spoke sternly, "I already caught you in here once this week, and once a couple of weeks ago." He then asked, "What did I say, Diego?" as the back of Alex's legs bumped into Coach Anson's desk.

Alex thought for a moment, his face showing a thought crossing his mind. He didn't say a word.

Coach Anson followed up. "I said, I would teach you to keep your dick in your pants, and I guess that's what it's come down to."

Eric watched in awe as Coach Anson swiftly grabbed Alex's left hand and twisted it behind Alex's muscled back. Alex tried to squirm away but was trapped. Coach Anson wrenched Alex's hand tighter against his back until Eric could see the pain visible on his face.

Alex winced and breathed in quickly, whispering, "What do you want, Coach?"

Coach Anson kept Alex's left hand pinned while his free hand reached around Alex's waist and undid Alex's belt. With one swift move, Alex's pants fell to the ground again, exposing his soft cock and naked ass.

All Male Fiction: Bob Has a Visitor (Part 4)

By: amtibbs

 

 

 

Read Part 3 

 

Bob's heart was beating fast. He was sitting in his dorm room and it was now a quarter past nine. Nick, the lacrosse player that had caused him so much confusion and apprehension in the past twenty-four hours, was late. He was supposed to be there at nine to explain his actions at the party the night before.

 

Bob kept running the events through his mind and the waiting was making things worse. Had he done something to signal that he'd welcome Nick's sexual advances? If so, it must be so repressed that he couldn't imagine it. Regardless, why did he let Nick continue? He was certainly no match for Nick physically, but he could have left. He could have said "No thanks." He didn't believe Nick would have forced him.

Finally, there came a knock at the door. Bob stood up and immediately felt like he might pass out. He made it to the door, opened it, and there stood Nick. Bob held on to the door and looked up into the face of the four-inch taller man. Nick broke the silence by quietly asking if he could come in and get out of the hallway. Bob opened the door further and took a step back allowing Nick to enter and then shut the door behind him.

Nick looked around. It was a typical two-person dorm room with two beds, two chest of drawers, two desks, and two chairs. The beds, which could be bunked, were unstacked with one on each side wall. Bob motioned for Nick to sit down on his bed and then grabbed his desk chair and sat facing him.

Nick was beginning to worry again. Bob did not seem to be handling it well. Nick decided that honesty would be the best course of action. He might be able to bullshit a girl but he knew that Bob would see through it. He needed Bob to keep his mouth shut.

Bob had yet to say anything and was just sort of staring at Nick.

Nick cleared his throat and began, "Bob. You're a good guy. Everybody on the team likes you."

Bob sat motionless.

"I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have pulled you into my room, and I shouldn't have touched you."

Bob continued to sit motionless.

Nick was feeling queasy in his stomach but continued anyway. "I've never done anything like that here at college and it would destroy me if you told anyone." Nick thought he saw Bob's face twitch. Nick stopped talking and looked down at his feet.

Finally, Bob spoke and asked, "Are you gay? Why did you do it?"

Still looking down, Nick responded, "No, I don't think I'm gay. When I saw you in the hallway I just suddenly wanted to watch you have sex with Julie. Then when you took off your clothes and I saw your dick... you started to get hard... it had been so long since I touched one... had... had one in my mouth..." Nick's voice faded.

Bob looked hard at Nick and asked, "So you've sucked dick before?"

Nick nodded and finally looked up. "I had a buddy in High School. When we weren't getting any from any girls we'd help each other out. I guess I got to like it. There's something about a man's body... But don't get me wrong. I still like the ladies."

Bob began to understand. He knew firsthand about sexual urges and how they could be difficult to resist. "Why did you pick me?" Bob asked.

Nick paused and then said, "Opportunity. I had just fucked Julie and she was pretty wasted. I ran into you in the hall. No one was around. I figured she wouldn't remember anything in the morning. Asking you to nail her would just be me sharing... completely straight... but then I lost control."

"You didn't think I was gay or something?" asked Bob.

Nick's face brightened as he looked Bob in the face and inquired, "Are you?"

Bob sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Finally he replied, "No. I like having sex with girls."

Nick found something about his feet interesting again.

But Bob hadn't finished. "I'll keep this a secret if you'll promise to keep what I'm about to say secret, also."

Nick looked at him and nodded while replying, "Of course." Here it was. The best he could hope for, a deal.

Bob took his time and chose his words carefully. "I like watching you jocks undress and pull on your straps and uniforms, and I like watching you come back in the locker room and stripping out of them and showering and horsing around. I think I've always liked a man's body too, though I've never touched one or anything."

Nick smiled. "That's cool. That's how I feel. I won't tell anybody."

"I should thank you for sharing Julie last night. I was really horny and the girl I hoped to nail disappeared. I was looking for her when I ran into you," Bob said. "I guess I should also thank you for the blowjob. It's been a while since I got one."

Nick was looking more at ease now and his stomach was feeling better. "Did you like it?" he asked.

"It was nice, but you weren't in the best position. You had me bent too far."

"Sorry 'bout that," replied Nick quickly. "When the idea struck me I wasn't even sure I could get my head between you and the bed. I thought I was doing it pretty badly at first. You didn't even notice. It wasn't until you stopped and looked down that I realized I had made a mistake."

Bob looked at Nick as he had never looked at a guy before. Nick the lacrosse player. Nick the ladies' man. Nick the good looking guy with a great athletic body. "I wouldn't say you made a mistake. I just wasn't prepared for it. I didn't understand what was happening. I didn't understand... myself."

Neither spoke for a while. Then Nick asked, "Is it okay for me to say you have a very nice cock?"

Bob smiled. "Thanks. But I'd guess you're at least an inch bigger… though I didn't get a very good look in your room last night."

Nick grinned and then offered, "I'm about seven-and-a-half hard. Would you like to see?"

All Male Fiction: Bob and the Day After (Part 3)

By: amtibbs

 

 

 

Read Part 2

 

The next day, Bob couldn't keep his mind on his job, his mind still going back to the night before, and it was almost time for the lacrosse team practice and there were still things to do to prepare the locker room. Though not really part of his job description, Bob helped the team manager and his assistants lay out the gear each player would need for the practice that day. Piles of shirts, shorts, socks and jockstraps had to be distributed to each player's locker so when they arrived they could immediately get changed and visit the trainer if necessary. There was a list that mapped locker to player and player to size, but this late into the season Bob had it committed to memory.

That day, Bob was pushing the cart filled with jockstraps and cups. As he reached each locker he'd grab the proper size jock, insert a sanitized cup and lay it neatly folded in the locker.

As his mind wandered, he recalled that one of the first things he learned working in the locker room was that the colored stripes on a jockstrap waistband indicated its size. "Shit!" he thought. "I can't remember anything from my classes this morning. Why did I think about that?"

Bob still had ten lockers to go when the first of the lacrosse players arrived. He wondered what was wrong with him; why was it taking him so long. None of the staff liked to be seen handling the guys' jocks and the razzing that came with it. Other staff had received comments like "Bet you'd rather be handing that jock with me in it" while the player grabbed their pouch and "Hey, mine has a hole in the back!" as they bent over and spread their ass cheeks. Bob had never gotten caught doing this part of the job and he waited for the comments to fly.

He hurriedly finished the job not looking around to see who might be watching. As he headed back with the cart, he finally glanced up and noticed a couple of the players standing together watching him but he got no ribbing.

After returning the cart, Bob made a straight line back to his office. He had almost gotten there when a hand grabbed his shoulder. He stopped quickly and spun around to find Nick standing there with concern on his face. He quietly asked Bob if everything was alright. A number of answers ran through Bob's mind. He decided that "Hell no and it's all your fault!" was not the appropriate answer and just replied that he was feeling confused but okay. Nick asked to meet him later to explain. Bob mumbled a reply before turning and walking on.

All Male Fiction: Bob and the Lacrosse Team (Part 2)

By: amtibbs

 

 

Note: This chapter contains bisexual sex, however, being that the main theme of this multi-part story is all-male, I have listed this as such to keep all parts in the same category.

 

Read Part 1 

 

Spring was a tricky time for Bob. Many sports schedules overlapped, and the soccer and lacrosse teams shared the same locker room. Between practice times and games the locker room was very busy. Some days the ventilation system couldn't keep up and the smell of ripe athletes permeated the room. Bob scheduled his classes so he could work the locker room on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He'd also worked either Saturday or Sunday or both if really needed.

Bob liked the lacrosse team and the lacrosse team liked Bob. They were a bunch of fun-loving guys. Bob still likes to refer to them as the "Double-A J's" (All-American Jocks). Even when faced with do-or-die situations they managed to stay loose.

The lacrosse team players were not shy dudes in the locker room. They would come in early before a game and strip naked or pull on just a jockstrap and sit around and bullshit and share the latest music they'd discovered and talk about the girls they'd fucked. They'd grab and hold or push and shove each other around with a surprising amount of body contact for hetero guys. As the season progressed there would be more and more flashes from cameras as some of the players took photos to document the experience, or perhaps, if I was a cynic, for blackmail at a later date.

The players, or at least most of them, didn't seem to mind being photographed naked. Bob thought that it actually emboldened them to behave sillier. After all, they could brush it off as just acting for the camera. A number of times guys would bring in sets of photos and pass them around the locker room and the team would gather and laugh and razz their teammates shown in each photo.

More than once, some of these photos were left behind in the locker room - photos that could cause problems for the lacrosse players, photos that Bob carefully picked up and kept safe. After all, unlike the soccer team, who as Bob felt, got what they deserved, he liked these guys, thought of them as his friends, and would never let those photos be seen all over the Internet.

Never during the season did Bob let the team's actions in the locker room come back to embarrass them, and they knew it. They liked Bob. Sure they'd mess up the locker room when upset or raging, but they knew they caused extra work for Bob – and they tried to make up for it. They invited Bob to a number of their off-campus private parties during the season. We've all heard about the Duke Lacrosse team and their infamous party and that was mild compared to Bob's stories.

The lacrosse team parties were always wild with the music loud, the alcohol flowing and the women very, very hot and loose. It was at one of those parties that Bob's eyes were opened to possibilities he had not imagined.

The party that night was held at a house rented by four of the lacrosse team players. It was a four-bedroom house so each guy could have his own room. The party was winding down and the girl that Bob had hoped to take home that night had disappeared. Bob thought she might have gone to the bathroom and headed off in that direction.

 

As he approached, the bathroom door opened and Nick, a midfielder on the team, walked out wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Bob rated Nick in the top third of the team in terms of looks. He was 6'2", lean and muscular. Bob's most vivid memory was that he had a naturally smooth body with a light brown happy trail that led to an above-average size cock and low hanging nuts.

When Nick saw Bob, he said, "Bob! I need your help! Get in here." The somewhat inebriated Nick didn't give him time to move and grabbed, then pushed the smaller Bob through his slightly ajar bedroom door.

All Male Fiction: Bob and the Soccer Team (Part 1)

By: amtibbs

 

 

 

Bob was angry. He wasn't a towel boy. He was a student manager at the college gym. More specifically, Bob managed the locker room used by many of the college's men's teams. Sure, the football and basketball teams were important enough to rate their own dedicated locker rooms, but when it came to the second tier sports like soccer, if you were on the team and wanted a clean towel, you came to Bob. Well, perhaps the towel was a bad example - he did much more than hand out towels.

I should probably first tell you a bit about Bob. I didn't meet him until after he had graduated from college. I've seen college photos of him and I would describe him as an average guy. He's currently about 5'10" and 160 pounds with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Back in college he was too busy with classes and working as a student manager at the college gym to work out on a regular basis. Nevertheless, he still had a toned, if not muscular, body and wouldn't be embarrassed to take off his shirt at the beach.

Bob grew up in a home where school was more important than sports. Consequently, while he played baseball, shot baskets and threw around a football with other kids in the neighborhood, he never played on a school team and his family didn't watch sports on TV. To this day, if you ask him sports trivia, like who played on some championship baseball team, he's at a total loss. His brain just wasn't wired to remember that stuff as he grew up.

Now you're probably wondering about Bob's sexuality. If you ask Bob, he'll tell you it's none of your damn business. I think you need to know a bit more to understand Bob. In my opinion, Bob is seventy to eighty percent heterosexual. I know he only dates women now, but I also know that Bob doesn't mind a bit of male on male body contact either. I was kidding him about being around all those naked guys in the locker room and he said he didn't think he could have worked there if he was gay. When I asked him why, he said "it would be like a diabetic working in a candy store" or something like that. On the other hand, Bob said the fact that he had always admired the body of a good looking guy made going to work at a place where he could observe them a pleasant experience, despite the crap that came with the job.

Bob didn't lose his virginity until he was a sophomore in college. He was shy in those days and his right hand was his best friend until the semester he took an evening class and met this girl. He told me he'd walk her to her car after class and they'd stand there and talk, sometimes for an hour or more. Then she would drive off and he'd walk back to his dorm. One cool, fall night they got into the back seat of her car to talk and, well, you probably don't want to hear about that.

Bob never really had a steady girlfriend while in college. His parents continually drilled the importance of studying over everything else and, since they were paying, he felt obligated to bring home the grades. But that wasn't all bad, and while Bob didn't get all the sex he wanted, "even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while" he jokes today.

Now that you know a little bit about Bob, let's continue.

It was Bob's second and last season managing the locker room for the soccer team. Bob hated soccer season. The 'pretty' boys on the soccer team seemed to thrive on harassing him. For players of a second tier sport at the college, they thought their dirty jockstraps didn't stink. But they did stink, especially when they'd grab him and pull their sweaty jocks over his head. Bob dreamed of payback. Unfortunately, every idea he came up with would result in him losing his job, his recommendation or getting beaten to a pulp.

Towards the end of the season, and after being thrown in the shower for the third time in his clothes, Bob decided that his best course of action would be something that the players might not even find out about but would follow them for the rest of their lives.

All Male Fiction: Spokes & Strokes

By: Unknown Author

 

 

 

One by one, my four buddies dropped out. Other commitments, they claimed. One couldn't get time off from work. One had a family emergency, one just wimped out, and one decided he'd rather spend Saturday night judging a drag competition.

So, that left me alone with four thousand other bikers, facing a two-day, one hundred and fifty-mile cycling trip, not knowing a soul. But hell, I'd paid my registration fee and looked forward to this outing all summer. With or without my buddies, I was going.

They let us through the starting gate in groups of one hundred at 6:30am. I was in the third group. The sun was just creeping over the horizon as we lined up our bikes. I ran a quick, last-minute check over my new black Fuji and made sure my pair of water bottles were full, and then scanned my fellow bikers.

Let me tell you, there was some prime meat there, and all of it stuffed into tight Spandex. It's hard to hide your equipment in biker shorts. Serious cyclists are almost always in such great shape, too; great leg muscles, hard rounded asses and flat bellies. I felt my cock begin to stiffen as I looked around.

Down boy, I thought as I looked down at my crotch. It's probably all straight meat.

I was waiting impatiently for the go flag when I spied him. He was about three bikes further back in the pack, standing with a big silver Cannondale between his legs, looking really relaxed. He hadn't put his helmet on yet, and the wind stirred his thick black hair. There was a hard, handsome angle to his sun-bronzed face, and he had the kind of piercing blue eyes you only read about in books. His short-sleeved jersey was zipped to the neck, but I could see the clear outline of his well-developed pectorals underneath and the clean definition of his biceps and forearms.

Suddenly, he looked my way, and I turned around quickly and pretended to adjust the strap on the back of one of my gloves. I didn't want him to think I was staring. Slowly, though, I turned around again. He was drinking from his water bottle with his head tipped back, his throat muscles working as he swallowed.

The flag came down. The pack surged forward, a rippling sea of colorful helmets and jerseys and bikes as the riders stepped onto their pedals and took off. There was a big archway of bright balloons to pass under, and the families and friends of all the riders stood at the sides applauding and yelling.

My heart hammered with excitement. I'd done these rides before, though never without at least one partner. We turned out onto Highway 50, one lane of which had been marked and set aside for the tour riders. I shifted up onto the big wheel immediately and tore down the pavement. Riding in a pack can be dangerous if a lot of bikes are too close together, so I always like to get up front and away from the others as fast as possible.

Cars whisked by in the left-hand lane. Little kids pressed their faces to windows, wide-eyed and excited by all the bikes. Drivers waved to us out of rolled-down windows, just as excited, but with a more adult demeanor. Some cars pulled off onto the shoulder and parked to watch us go by.

One had a sign taped to the back bumper that said, "Go all the way, Becky!"

Yeah, there were a few women on this ride, too. Becky's friends stood by their car with cameras and camcorders, screaming and yelling.

I'd had a new aero-bar installed on my handlebars. That's a kind of sharply bent, U-shaped bar that extends out in front of your normal bars. You can lie down almost flat, reach out, and really pedal like hell. It cuts down on wind drag, too, so I was going all out.

Ten miles down the highway, I braked and pulled into the first rest stop. Depending on the terrain, there were rest stops positioned every six to ten miles on the tour. I parked my Fuji, took off my gloves, walked over to several tables under a big tent, and helped myself to an orange wedge.

There were lots of bikers gathered around from the first two packs, riders who hadn't pushed on yet. From this point on, the packs would begin to string out and mingle into one long line of bikers.

As I swallowed a bite of orange, he pulled in. His face gleamed with sweat. Beads of it rolled off the tip of his nose as he unstrapped his helmet and leaned back on his bike seat. Slowly, he got off, peeled off his jersey, stuffed it into a tiny ball, and shoved it into the small pack under his seat.

I just about choked on my orange. His nipples were brown and erect, large as half-dollars. His chest was absolutely smooth, his belly ridged with hard muscle. A tiny patch of black hair extended from just below his navel down into the top of his black biker shorts.

He pulled his water bottle from its rack and poured it over his head. The water ran in streams through his hair, down his face, in beads over that chest and into his shorts. Then he carried the empty bottle over to one of several tanks and proceeded to refill it.

"Good ride isn't it?" he said to me as he passed by on his way back to his Cannondale.

I was too startled to answer immediately.

"It gets harder from here on out," I answered, but he was already gone, astride his bike, where he busied himself over his cyclometer.

The sun was moving higher into the sky now, and the morning was getting warm. With two water bottles on my bike, I had enough to get me to the next rest stop, so I hopped back into the saddle and took off.

We were on country roads now, and the pavement rolled along through farm country over gentle, sloping hills. Volunteers with orange flags waved us in the proper direction at intersections, and farmers and their families sat out on their porches to watch us go by.

I glanced over my shoulder to measure my progress against the other riders. My bare-chested friend was right behind me, pedaling with efficient, relaxed energy. I bent down on my aero-bar again and rushed ahead. Though I loved passing people, I hated to be passed, even by bare-chested, dark-haired hunks like the one who was riding my ass.

I reached the second rest stop about four minutes before he did, and took the time to down a full bottle of water. There was cherry yogurt to eat this time, as well as orange wedges and peanut butter sandwiches. I scooped the yogurt down, refilled my water bottle, and headed back to my bike. Before I took off, I looked around.

He was leaning against a tree, enjoying some shade while he ate his own cup of yogurt. Our gazes met briefly, and I swallowed. In his Spandex shorts, I could see the outline of his thick, soft cock.

I shot off like a rocket down the highway, putting that image out of my mind. This was a bike tour, not a cruise.

Concentrate on your time and speed, and on the distance. There's a long way to go, I silently told myself.

My jersey was soaked with sweat by now. Without slowing, I grabbed one of my water bottles and took a drink. Then I gave myself a squirt in the face to cool myself off. As I pushed the bottle back into its rack, I glanced back. My dark-haired friend was just coming over the summit of a hill about an eighth of a mile back, coming hard.

Well, he wasn't going to catch me. No way. I bent low and settled in for some serious pedaling. The road swept by in a blur beneath my wheels. The wind sang in my ears. I laughed a little because I loved it so much. My body felt like a perfectly functioning machine. I'd trained hard for this ride, honed my muscles, and this was the payoff. This thrill! So what if my buddies had chickened out, who needed them?

I was closing on a pair of riders ahead of me. One of them had a really nice ass wrapped in bright blue Spandex and all stuck up in the air as he worked his pedals. One thing you had to say about these country rides: the scenery was always fantastic. He was obviously in the wrong gear, though, not getting the most reward for his effort, as I surged past, my eye on another string of riders ahead.

Looking down at the cyclometer on my handlebars, I saw I'd come twenty-three miles in well under an hour, which made me feel pretty good.

Then disaster struck. The last rider in the string ahead lost control of his bike and slid sideways. He rolled into the left lane while his fallen bike blocked the right. There was no way I could slow down in time, so I steered desperately for the narrow grassy shoulder. There was about a four-inch drop-off between the pavement and the grass and then a steep ditch. My Fuji pitched forward, and I flew over the handlebars.

A sharp pain exploded in the front of my left shin, and then I hit the ground, the wind knocked out of me, stars bursting inside my skull. The Fuji skidded around and fell beside me in the ditch. Instead of biker gear, the kid who had fallen off his bike wore cutoffs and tennis shoes. A damned beginner and he didn't even seem to be scratched. He stood above me on the pavement, hands on his knees as he stared down at me wide-eyed.

"Hey, you all right, man?" he called. "I hit some gravel and just lost it."

I couldn't answer right away. The wind was still knocked out of me. A lot of bikers were slowing down or pulling over to see what had happened. Then my dark-haired friend pulled up. He parked his Cannondale, whipped off his helmet, threw it down by his bike, and then scrambled down the grassy embankment.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a concerned voice. "I'm a doctor."

All Male Fiction: The Wrestler

By: MrCreamJeans & Ryan Michaels

 

Rich was at that age. His biological clock had reached the time in a guy's life when his cock stands to attention at the least provocation. He had never paid much attention to his cock before, except to notice in the school locker room that the other guys had all sprouted hair long before he finally did. His health class textbooks called him a "late bloomer" and tried to reassure him on things about which no boy his age is ever sure.

But one thing he was sure of, his cock had a mind of its own when it came to getting hard. All his life he had dressed UP, that is, he wore his cock pointing up inside his briefs. It never bothered him before, but now, with his prick's newfound sensitivity, it was a cause of some real problems. It was a vicious cycle - His cock would get hard, swelling his fly and poking against his underwear, then as it would (finally!) go soft, its extra weight would cause it to fall off to one side as he walked. It would get caught in his shorts, and he would reach down and give it the quick tug it needed to bring it upright.

But even that little extra stimulation would make it get hard again. As a result, he spent a lot of time adjusting his crotch and walking around school with a tent in his pants. And what a tent! His hard-on was exceptionally large for a guy his age, and made quite a bulge.

His buddies, most of who had already outgrown this stage, took the opportunity to poke fun at Rich quite frequently. They eventually came to know that even if Rich didn't have a boner, if they started talking to him about it, he would soon get one. Then they could laugh and point at the embarrassed Rich as he tried (usually in vain) to conceal his big, throbbing hard-on from their gaze. Of course, some of them would occasionally "lose control" and get hard, too, despite themselves. They were usually the ones making the most noise about Rich. Only one, Johnny, was ever caught, much to Rich's relief at the time.

But there didn't seem to be any long-term relief in sight for Rich. Part of the problem was his parents - strict religious types who warned him about the dangers of "touching yourself down there," and who forced him to sleep with his bedroom door open. Frightened by their tales of what happened to wicked boys, Rich had never jacked off, and his only relief was through wet dreams. Rich loved the feeling of waking up with his hips grinding into the bed and feeling his hot semen running and gushing into his briefs. He would always clean up very thoroughly afterward and hope his mom didn't spot the stains on his briefs. However, he always relished the relief he felt afterward, even if he wasn't fully sure why.

Rich had joined the wrestling team before this problem started. Several of the guys on the team were now his chief tormentors, and among them was Johnny.

Johnny wasn't particularly large or strong, but he was very good-looking and was known for his pranks and his way with the girls. It was Johnny who once announced to the other team members in the locker room that Rich had worn his jock all day in an attempt to restrain his boner. (Johnny had also done that but would never admit it, of course.) It was the last time Rich would try that.

And on this day, it was Johnny that the coach picked to wrestle against Rich in practice. The other boys on the team were paired off and the coach signaled them to take their positions. Rich went down on all fours at once, tacitly recognizing Johnny's dominant role, knowing it would end up this way even if he protested.

Johnny reached around Rich's waist and asked him, in a mocking tone, "You gonna pop a rod while we're wrestling, Richie?"

Rich's only response was, "Shut up," but just the question began his heart thumping. A tremor of near panic swept through him - wrestling class was the one place he had never gotten hard. Now that the thought had been planted, would he be able to restrain himself? He winced as, seconds before the coach blew his whistle for them to begin wrestling, his cock began to tingle. No, not NOW! he thought. He knew his wrestling tights would conceal nothing if he lost control.

"Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeee," the coach's whistle blew.

Before Rich knew what hit him, Johnny had flipped him over on his back. But rather than trying to pin his shoulders, which he should have been doing, Johnny had one leg planted between Rich's legs with his thigh pressing right into his dick.

"Ummmph," Rich grunted as he wriggled out of the ineffective hold. It may have been ineffective as a wrestling hold, but it was having another kind of effect that Rich definitely wanted to avoid. Seconds later, however, Johnny had him in another hold, this one a bit trickier to get out of, and one which allowed Johnny to grab Rich's balls from behind. Rich realized that Johnny was being very careful not to hurt him, and also suddenly realized that his cock was undeniably growing hard in his jock!

Rich quickly broke free and managed to flip Johnny over and loop one arm behind Johnny's knee. The position had Rich laying with his pelvis on the mat, and as Johnny struggled, the shifting weight of Rich's body massaged his rapidly stiffening prick into the mat. Johnny broke free, and during the ensuing struggles, he managed to plant a hand firmly in Rich's crotch. His hard-on had been discovered!

Both boys froze. Rich looked into Johnny's face and saw a smirk of recognition. Johnny wrapped his hand around Rich's boner and gave it a squeeze. Rich's heart sank, expecting his partner to stand up and announce his condition. Instead, Johnny went back to wrestling. Rich, not knowing what to expect anymore, followed suit.

Johnny's strategy soon became clear, however. He was rubbing Rich's cock at every opportunity. His holds always seemed to include some sort of pressure against the trapped, throbbing boner Rich so fervently wished would subside.

But soon, Rich was wishing for even more self-control as a certain tingle warned him of something potentially more embarrassing than just getting a hard-on. That feeling he got when he was lucky enough to wake up from a wet dream just before he began to shoot, that feeling of his balls contracting, his prick jumping, the tightness in his lower abdomen, all that was starting to happen.

Now Rich was wrestling with a new strategy, to keep his cock out of the reach of Johnny. He flipped over on his stomach but immediately regretted the move. Johnny pounced on him, looping one arm under his, and the other in between his legs. Rich expected to be flipped over from this hold, but instead, Johnny was holding him on his stomach and grabbing his balls.

Rich was in a panic. He didn't want to have an accident right there on the mat, but his ability to hold back his semen was weakening. He suddenly remembered that his last wet dream had been several weeks ago.

He managed to grunt through clenched teeth, "Cut it out!"

Johnny paid no attention. Rich held himself stock-still, realizing that it would only take one move to trigger the explosion waiting to take place in his balls.

Just then, the coach blew his whistle, yelled, "Hit the showers!" and walked out of the gym.

Rich breathed a sigh of relief as he felt Johnny remove his hand and start to rise. His first priority was to get the pressure off his bucking hard-on. He tentatively lifted his body onto all fours, as in the original wrestling position. He was keenly aware of the feeling of his jock pouch straining to hold back his throbbing hard-on. While he debated with himself about standing up with a terribly obvious lump in his wrestling tights, suddenly Johnny was back on top of him, assuming the referee's wrestling position! But there was a difference. The arm wrapped around Rich's waist reached all the way around to his cock!

Johnny stroked the boner a couple of times and breathed in Rich's ear, "Ready to go again, Richie?" Then he laughed and stood up.

For Rich, it was all over. When Johnny stroked his cock, the first squirt of sperm came shooting out of his cockhead, right into his jock and tight wrestling gear. Unable to restrain himself, he emitted soft sobbing noises as his overheated rod released huge globs of jism. The hot white goo was shooting out in such copious amounts that it was soaking through the pouch of Rich's jock, through the spandex of his wrestling tights, and was dripping down onto the mat, making a milky puddle.

Johnny watched in amazement. He shouted, "Hey guys! Check this out! Rich is creaming in his gear!"

Soon he was surrounded by the whole team. They taunted Rich as they watched him, down on all fours, with cum dripping on the mat underneath him.

All Male Fiction: The Other Football

By: Tommyhawk1

 

 

 

I was with a classmate in the front yard of the frat house, the two of us doing one of our practice exercises. Our footballs (soccer balls that is) were stationary between our feet, and he and I were hopping, alternating our feet on the top of the football, and trying not to move it in the process. It's a very necessary practice in controlling the ball, but of course, Cody and his buddies thought it was hilarious when they came running out of the house tossing their American football back and forth.

Cody was big, blond-haired, and was wearing some of his old high-school American football clothes, the jersey and pants without padding, perfect for a friendly game of football with the guys. Not that he needed the padding; he had muscles enough to fill out that jersey all by himself.

"Hey, Perry!" he called out. "What is this shit?"

"Just practicing football," I said. I was used to Cody.

"You look like a couple of marionettes dancing on strings," he chortled. His buddies laughed.

"You think it's easy, you come try it," I challenged.

"Nah, my sport is football," he said.

"This is football," I pointed out.

We weren't talking at cross-purposes here; it was more like a running gag. His sport was American football, and I played what was called "football" everywhere in the world except North America. I was born in the USA, but had grown up with my mother's family in Italy, so a football - okay, I'll call it "soccer" from here on out - had been under my feet almost from the day I was born. When I had first met Cody and he asked me, naturally enough, what my sport was - it was a sports fraternity after all - I had absent-mindedly said, "Football."

"Great, me too!" he said. "What position do you play?"

"I'm a halfback," I said, still not spotting my error in terminology.

"Me, too!" he said. "Left or right?"

"Left or right what?" I asked.

"Halfback!" he said. "Do you usually play left or right?"

"Center, usually," I said, mystified.

"Center?" Now he was puzzled.

I'll spare you the rest, but it gradually dawned on me. "Oh!" I said when I realized. "You're talking about American football! I was talking about regular football!" I think you can see how saying this to an American football player was a mistake. A bit of his all-American pride got injured, though you can see I was innocent of intending to offend him.

"I play regular football!" he declared.

"You play American-style football," I pointed out. "I play what you call soccer, but the rest of the world calls it football."

"Well, you're in America, so you'll have to call it soccer!" he announced.

I don't want you to think we were becoming blood enemies with all of this, we were actually laughing and having fun at this point; we liked each other right off.

"I don't have to do any such thing!" I said. "I grew up calling it football. I'll just call what you do American football."

"And I'll call what you play shit!" he said.

"It's pronounced soccer," I mock-clarified. "Can't you even get that right?"

"Shit soccer!" he declared. "A sissy game... real men play football."

"That they do!" I affirmed. "I'm just glad that you can admit it."

This went on for quite a long time more, both of us scoring pretty good points in the conversation and becoming friends in the process, and it had continued more-or-less right through to the present day.

When in our sophomore year, the seniors of the frat house had graduated and moved out and it was time to upgrade our accommodations. Cody and I ended up sharing one of the newly-available bigger rooms, which was only natural; we were pals by then. Except for this little mock disagreement on what the game of "football" was!

"Hey, Perry, can we play here?" one of the other guys asked.

"Sure!" I said. "We'll go around to the side." It was a reasonable request; the front yard was big and flat, the side yard was only some ten feet wide, but plenty big enough for our practice.

"Ah, just stay where you are," Cody declared. "You two can be one of our goalposts."

I have to admit, we were situated for it, right near one side of the yard as we were. "Alright," I said. "I can give you all a good look at how to play football."

The guys just laughed; our mock-feud was well-known by all.

I should have realized I had set myself up when he didn't respond, for my friend and I continued our exercises, me feeling that the background noise would help us work on our concentration when Cody came chasing a friend of his my way and timed it so that when he tackled him, he rammed the guy right into me. I was off-balance (of course) and went over with an "oof!"

"You bastard!" I said, getting up and dusting at my shorts. I had landed on my ass, only my pride was injured.

"Hey, watch our goalposts!" Cody said to his friend. "The score is now six to nothing, our favor."

"We'd better go around to the side," my teammate said.

"I think you're right!" I said, glaring at Cody. I wasn't really mad, but I was pretending to be. Well, maybe I was a little mad, at that.

"Aw, come on," Cody said. "I'm sorry. You guys go ahead. We'll be more careful."

"You fouled me," I said. "You can't tackle in football, you know!"

"Says you. Okay, so what's the penalty in that sissy sport of yours?" he said, standing there arrogant and proud-looking.

"I get a free kick at the goal," I said.

He looked surprised and then laughed. "Okay, I'll be the goal for you. You go downfield and we'll see how good you are!"

I went across the yard ("downfield") with my soccer ball and turned, and Cody was standing there with his arms up, making a goal... American-football-style goal, of course.

"Okay, let's see you put it between the bars," he said. "Only way to score a goal in football."

Now, in soccer, the goal is down on the ground, but I had done enough high kicks to figure I could make this "goal" at such a short-range, especially with no goalie trying to block my kick. So I just sized him up, made a run, and kicked the ball, but I wasn't used to trying for altitude, not with a ball on the ground, anyway. So I muffed it, and instead of it going between his arms, I got him right where it hurts. Unintentionally, honest!

"Hey, you got your goal!" my teammate said. "Right down the middle!"

But Cody was dropped to the ground and yowling.

"Damn, man, I'm sorry!" I said as I ran up. "Did you get hit that hard?"

"Yeah! Ow!" he groaned. "Help me back up to the room, okay?"

I took his arm around my shoulders, smelling the powerful raunch of his body and clothes. He kept his body clean, but he'd been sweating today and he smelled pretty rich. He limped back up the front stairs into the house. We lived on the third floor, but there was an elevator mostly used for hauling big stuff or by jocks injured in play, and we took that.

I got him back to the room and he said, "Man, it feels like I'm bleeding."

"Bleeding?" I was surprised. A soccer ball isn't that hard, but I didn't see any reason to disbelieve Cody.

"Yeah, man," he groaned. "Can you check it out and see if I'm bleeding anywhere?"

"Check you out?" I asked.

"Come on, man!" he begged. "I can't put a mirror on the floor and squat over it. Take a look and see if I'm broken open anywhere."

Only a roommate you'd had for a while could be asked to do that. "Well, okay," I said. "But you tell the guys and I'll give you a real sock-er in the balls."

"I'm not going to tell them anything," he said. "Come on, man, take a look, quick."

"Unfasten yourself," I said.

I watched him fight the tie he had at the fly, a ridiculous amount of lacing up the front of those pants, and he was wincing. "Ah fuck," he groaned as he winced some more, "can you do it?"

I nodded and reached my hand for the laces. He stood a little straighter, holding onto the desktop with one hand, while I fumbled the laces open, pulling at the strings to get them loose.

"Don't you wear a cup with these things?"

"On the field, yeah," he said. "Ow! Not for a friendly game."

"Well, you'll remember it next time," I said. I had the fly unlaced. "Now what, do I yank them down?"

"Please," he said. "Every move I make hurts."

Boy, I thought, I had messed him up! I grasped his pants around the waist and tugged them down. No underwear. He didn't have even a jock on, just the pants down and suddenly he was wagging free.

"Damn!" I said. "I don't see any blood. Maybe you felt some sweat dripping."

"Lift it up," he said. "I think it's underneath."

I didn't really think about it. Although no one knew, I was gay, so touching his cock didn't bother me in the least. Plus, his prick was so long that it did obscure his balls entirely. I grabbed it and lifted his balls up and free of his body.

"Ow, ow!" he said as they moved.

I knelt down, leaned under, and peered at the scrotum, the balls were large nuts dangling down, but the scrotum itself began to tighten up as I looked at it.

"I don't see any blood. Nor any bruises," I said, shifting my hand on his cock to get a better grip. It was moving on me, too.

I was concentrating on looking for injuries, so this went pretty far before I realized what was happening. I looked up and found that I had a hold of my roommate's rampant erection, standing fully out from his body, seven uncut inches of hard cock, and I had a hold of it.