The Male Athlete

He had a pair of enormous balls, so heavy and full they were clearly visible under the thin fabric of his singlet, creating a distinct, pendulous bulge that swung with every move. His coach finally pulled him aside, his voice a low growl. "Son, you can't wrestle with a set of loaded nuts like that. You're slow, you're distracted. You need to empty them before a match, one way or another." The wrestler, clueless, just nodded. But the fans had already noticed, and a crude chant started "EMPTY YOUR NUTS! EMPTY YOUR NUTS!" They roared with laughter as he adjusted his singlet....the only thing bigger than his balls was his desperate need to drain them.

The NDSU baseball player had a compulsive habit, constantly digging his fingers under the edge of his cup and pushing his nuts back up into it. It was a nervous twitch he did on the field, in the dugout, even while standing for the national anthem. Fans started to notice, and the nickname "Nut-Stuffer" quickly spread through the stands. They would cheer it when he walked up to bat, and the opposing teams took to yelling, "Hey, Nut-Stuffer, lose your balls again?" He was too dumb to realize they were mocking him.

"Know what I'm thinking right now? I'm thinking about how you moaned when I bred you after our last match... Oh oh, you're boning up... Ha ha ha." The words echoed in his head, his blue singlet was straining, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the rigid cock now tenting obscenely for all the fans to see. A group of drunk men in the front row noticed immediately, their jeers turning into predatory grins. They grabbed him as he tried to leave the mat, pulling him under the bleachers into the darkness. They yanked his singlet down, and one of them shoved him against a cold support beam, fucking him hard while berating him. "Look at this, a fuckin' whore," one grunted in his ear. He stayed quiet, biting his lip to not draw more attention as they took turns, each one seeding his ass until he was a leaking, used mess, the victory he'd just won completely forgotten

That cowboy was dumb as dirt, strutting around the honky-tonk in his tight Wrangler jeans, thinking every woman in the place was drooling over the confident bulge in his jeans. He had no idea that the real gawking was from the men at the bar, their eyes locked onto the perfect, high-and-tight curve of his ass he so proudly displayed. He'd lean over the pool table, giving the room a perfect view, completely oblivious that half the guys there wanted to ride his ass.

My roommate had this infuriating habit of stripping down to just his jockstrap the second he was home, parading around like he owned the place. When I finally asked him about it, he just grunted that "real men wear jocks," claiming it let his junk breathe without being indecent. It was torture. I couldn't stop staring at the way the pouch strained to contain him, a dark, wiry forest of pubic hair escaping from the sides. I wasn't into dudes, it was just morbid curiosity, but my eyes were constantly glued to the heavy, swinging weight of it, wondering just how much cock was packed in there. I'd catch myself imagining what it looked like soft, what it looked like hard, and I'd have to adjust myself. It's normal for guys to compare, right?

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.