The Male Athlete

His face said it all as his opponent's hand slid between his legs. He looked to his wrestling coach with pure fear, but it was too late. His opponent pushed two fingers deep into his asshole while the heel of his hand applied crushing pressure to his taint. Slowly, he could feel something happening—a horrifying mix of shame and stimulation—and his cock started to get hard. His opponent used the moment to his advantage, effortlessly pinning him. Humiliated, he had to stand for the final announcement while his opponent's hand was raised by the ref and his own rigid boner was raised, a clear and obscene tent under his thin singlet for the entire crowd to see.

He was completely clueless that the news station's weather camera, pointed at the ocean, also provided a crystal-clear view of the outdoor showers. He was always so careful, looking around before pulling his shorts off, foolishly believing the wall of the showers prevented anyone from seeing him fully nude. But viewers could access the camera feed online 24/7, and his buddy, knowing his routine of dropping his shorts to wash the sand off after surfing, made sure to capture and share the video. Soon, everyone had a clip of him washing the sand off, his cock in full, glorious view for anyone who cared to look.

Billy hated it. His roommate was fucking him, pumping a fresh, hot load of jizz into his stretched and battered asshole. Afterward, Billy would be forced to pull up his jockstrap and shorts and head straight to the gym for his workout. The problem was, keeping his sore asshole clenched tight while lifting was virtually impossible. He'd leave wet, glistening cum stains on every seat of every piece of equipment he used. Others would see it, and they'd definitely see the dark, spreading wet spot on the back of his shorts when he worked legs, squatting and pushing his ass out to a gym full of guys who all knew damn well that Billy had a fresh load fucked up his asshole. It was utterly humiliating, but what could Billy do? He was paying his roommate for the workout program, and his roommate insisted that a morning load of "brotein" was what he needed to get size, claiming that protein up the asshole allowed it to be absorbed quickly and most efficiently. But Billy wasn't sure the painful buttfucking and constant, public humiliation was worth the gains.

Billy stripped out of his jockstrap, leaving it crumpled in a pile of his sweat-soaked gear on the floor. When he returned from his shower, a mountain of a man was holding the jockstrap to his face as he inhaled the musky scent. "That's mine," Billy squeaked, a tremor of fear in his voice. With a predatory grin, the man replied "It smells like a dirty boy," he growled, "and dirty boys get cleaned." He didn't just pull Billy back to the showers; he dragged, throwing him onto the slick, wet tiles. The "washing" was brutal, the man's thick, soapy fingers violating Billy's asshole, twisting and plunging as Billy begged. "I'll wash it! I promise I'll keep it clean!" he sobbed. The man laughed, a deep, menacing sound, and then Billy felt it. The man's massive cockhead slammed against his clenched hole, forcing its way in. He didn't just fuck Billy, he impaled him, driving Billy into the tile with every brutal thrust, using his ass like a cheap fleshlight. With a final, guttural roar, the man unloaded what felt like a gallon of hot cum deep into Billy's asshole. He pulled out with a wet, sucking pop, and without a backward glance, scooped Billy's soiled jockstrap from the floor, wiped his filthy cock on it, and walked away.

David couldn't understand why he'd developed such a dedicated fan following. Sure, his jockstrap leg straps were always visible under his tight white pants, but all men wear a jock, a fact the fans seemed to adore. His fans gave him a nickname, when he ran onto the field, they would chant, or holde up signs that read "GO STRAP-ON!" When they asked for selfies or autographs, they'd call him by the name without fail. David just smiled, thinking it was a simple, funny joke about his visible straps. He had no idea that to everyone else, "The Strap-On" was a direct and humiliating reference to him being a bottom who loved to get fucked.

The soldier had a caked-up bubble-butt and a bit of a cocky ego, so his sergeant purposely adjusted his pant size down two sizes in the SEAM (Soldier Equipping & Asset Management) system. Now, with his bubble butt, the seam of his uniform pants gets sucked up between his cheeks. With every step, the seam of his pants rubbed his asshole. At first, it was uncomfortable, but now it's a pleasant hug, a constant friction that reminds him of the existence of his asshole, something he had previously never thought about.

The coach pulled his pitcher aside. "Fastball, low... need you to do a cup check for me." The pitcher nodded and fired a 92 mph fastball, striking his catcher low and square in the bulging crotch. The dumb catcher immediately rolled around on the dirt, clutching his poor balls and gasping for air. The coach walked over, leaning down over his writhing catcher and said, "Cup check. I've told you many times, men wear a jock and cup. Now ice your nuts and get a cup."