#tcnebris

Michael came home from a day of classes, tossing his bag down onto the ground. He was nervous to head out with his new friend riding shotgun, but he couldn't skip school forever. So he'd gone, attending classes, and pretended to pay attention. The scarab burrowed into his back hadn't done anything outrageous. Just commented annoyingly on the guys in his class. Which ones were likely into the things Michael liked. Almost like it was feeding him dating profiles of his classmates.

"Home sweet home," Michael said, looking over his room. It was pretty much okay, except for the pile of laundry on the floor. He sighed, deciding to handle it now. Otherwise his AI would likely spend all afternoon telling him he should handle it.

So the latin boy walked to his big pile of laundry on the ground: socks, shirts, and underwear mostly. Michael tended to repeat his pants and shorts. He scooped big handfuls into his arms, carrying them to the waste basket.

To the scarab, the micro-signs of arousal would spike. Michael's nostrils would flare to take in more scent particles. His blood pressure would spike, and the surface of his skin would go up about 2 degrees. No hard-on, no semen production...yet.

Then Michael would drop the laundry in, squish it all down, and grab the handles to start carrying the laundry down to the machines in the dorm basement...

“—Mind if I take a look at your ceiling? I could use a ladder.” He said, fixing up his belt around his nude waist.

“Hey. Here’s an idea.” Finn blocked Diego's way. He smiled as he locked eyes with him and began to exert his influence. “Why don’t you skip the shower and buy me coffee instead?”

That was what Bear liked to hear. “What was that, love? Couldn’t quite hear you with that pretty voice of yours so hushed,” he purrs, teasing Brody’s puckered asshole with the tip of his cock, the friction incredibly arousing to the Aussie. “C’mon, what do you want me to do you boy, hmm? Cause my cock is aching for you right now...”

thomas is a very giving person, he figures what’s the point in having such wealth if he doesn’t share it with other’s or help other people. not really one to spoil himself and preferring to spoil the likes of a sugar baby instead. this led the meeting of thomas and brody. the latter of the two being in a tough money situation when they met, thomas was more than willing to assist brody in any way needed when it came to money, so long as brody was willing to repay the older man sexually. having invited brody to spend the night with him in his penthouse, thomas woke up before his sugar baby and decided he’d sneak into the shower before brody woke up.

Fucking relief. It took everything in Michael not to groan as he emptied his bladder into the bottle. It had been four fucking hours and he had emptied two gallon sized jugs of water into his system for weight hydration. But of course, if you leave the room you get disqualified for the upcoming season because you might be doping or cheating or some shit. So no going to the bathroom. It was torture.

And sure, he could've just rode whatever weight he was without loading up on water, but he didn't wanna wrestle 215. That felt like giving up. He would push down into 185, maybe even 170 if he was hydrated enough. Figuring out how to piss in a singlet was too hard, so as Michael tucked Diogo's water bottle back in the net pocket of his backpack, his singlet straps were hanging down his thighs, top half naked so he had been able to just sneak the bottle down his pants. He was kind of stunned nobody seemed to notice. Then again, Michael wasn't the jacked bodybuilder wrestler everybody was staring at.

He would've felt bad, but Diogo hadn't drank from his bottle in like an hour. He probably wouldn't even think about it till they were on the ride home and Michael could warn-

"Oh, fuck," he said softly, watching his buddy turn around and stride back towards Michael and the now piss-filled water bottle. 'Just don't be thirsty, don't be thirsty' Michael hummed to himself as his best friend waltzed over.

"You get tested yet?" He asked, even though he knew the answer. Martinez would've gone before Mendoza, and Michael was still waiting.

Ales woke up, and the first thing he noticed was the intense pain in the back of his head. He opened his eyes to a dark room, and even still his eyes felt like everything was too bright. Concussion, he surmised. Or a serious bump to the head. He blinked his eyes a few times, and muttered a low "Oooow."

Or at least he tried to.

Something was shoved into his mouth, forcing it open. He tried to shut his mouth, and felt steel bite into the corners of his lips, keeping his mouth spread wide. "Huh ha huck?" he burbled as best as he could, and tried to bring his hands to the gag to remove it. He couldn't. His arms slid into some kind of restraining brace, keeping them pinned at his sides inside a tight box. He could feel the edges of the box on both sides. He moved his foot, and his toes could touch the edge there, too.

He began to panic then, his breath hitching and catching as he had images of being buried alive. Most of his body was confined, but his head was sticking out of the ground and could see something large and white above his head, and a TV screen sitting darkly in the corner. There was a smoke detector with a blinking light staring down at him. "Ehho? AY! EHH!" he began to shout and wiggle as best as he could...which wasn't much.