Tag: shorts (Page 2 of 2)

Gym Slut

The type of classic gym slut shit Mark wears. Only, the shorts are usually a little bit shorter.

He’s either responding to some gushing comments on his FortheFans, or he’s setting up a sesh with one of his fuck buddies. Probably not in Sparta. Mark has built his sexual bunker in the gym, but he’s not so silly as to limit where he finds his boys.

A couple of young bros pass by, and one of them wolf-whistles. Mark checks them out. He lightly taps his ass. “Thanks, man,” he says, fully earnest and easy-going. Mark lives to be objectified by men. The two guys chuckle and head away.

He watches them go, eyes fixed on the pig who whistled. He’s shorter and smaller than Mark – not his typical type – but his body-shape is beautiful; a perfect downward triangle. With his football jersey it’s hard to see, but Mark can tell he’s exactingly lean. Sharp abs, snatched waist. He has a surprising amount of ass for a bro so lean. His black, hi-styled sweatpants sway back and forth as he and his buddy head for the drinks machine.

Mark makes up his mind.

Thirty minutes later, that young man is sitting on one of the gym toilets as Mark slams his pussy up and down on his rock cock. He’s already cum. Twice. But Mark’s not stopping.

He knew he was onto a winner when the guy blew his first load hands free while Mark was giving him a lap dance. Mark knows he’s taking this guy’s gay virginity, his anal virginity, and hell, maybe just his virginity.

Mark doesn’t go easy on him though. Mark wants to spoil this guy for the rest of his life. To fool him into thinking that whores like Mark are a dime a dozen. To make him lie awake at night tossing and turning, dreaming of Mark’s ass. For Mark’s unrelenting, perfectly snatched hole to be the best piece of pussy this kid ever has.

And he achieves that. Mark sucks the third load from him with his ass, pulls up his shorts, and leaves with just one slutty wink. His prey is totaled on the toilet; his dick red raw and painful from Mark’s anal abuse. He’s scrambling to get Mark’s details, but my boi’s already gone.

Always leave ’em wanting more. That’s what a gym slut does best.

Mark and all his Gym Bros

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The Message

Clayton is one of Mark’s regular lays. He’s come to expect blowjobs on demand. He just gives Mark a look – a piercing, masculine gaze – and Mark gets down. He doesn’t need to say anything. Mark gets the message.

Mark wrote the message.

This is what Mark wants. For his sexual services to be so normal that he can just do it. No questions asked. No tedious homophobic defenses necessary.

It only goes down like this when Clayton is scrambling to reclaim the power. Usually, he’s so beholden to Mark’s abilities that he melts like putty in Mark’s presence. All it takes is a cheeky wink from Mark, and Clayton chubs up. His thoughts divert from weight lifting to dick sucking. On the one hand, that’s not hard. These bros are sex-ready with nowhere to go. On the other hand… Clayton’s straight.

Or

He pretends to be. Fuck knows. It’s not really Mark’s business. But clayton had been a hard nut to crack. It took weeks of flirting and cajoling before Clay finally gave in. Once he did, though, the floodgates came down. He bust his load in Mark’s mouth, ran away, and was back two days later for a second go. That was faster than most of the bros.

And now he’ll take a blowie as often as he can. From what Mark can tell – cause all his gym bros get very vulnerable with him once he’s taken their dick for the tenth time – Clay has stopped fucking his girl. The head is too good. He doesn’t need her to get off now.

And of course, Mark loves that.

The message is clear – Mark is always ready to serve. So don’t be shy. Use him good, use him hard, use him often. That’s what he’s there for.

Mark and all his Gym Bros

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Boys Will Be Boys

“Come on, bro. And don’t pussy out.”

The jocks at the frat are punching each other in the stomach. Just cause. They needed a game to play, and somehow this is what they fell into. Boys will be boys. It’s difficult to grasp why young, immature men who are filled with testosterone make choices. Especially when their dicks are locked nice and snug, as the jocks’ are.

Coach watches them in the camera. He has all his habitats under constant surveillance. The jocks need watched 24/7. It’s important to ensure compliance to masculine orthodoxy. Coach watches the boys punch each other in the gut – some inane pissing contest – and he jacks his huge dick.

Coach understands why they’re doing it. They’re doing it because they’re boys. And boys will be boys. And this pleases Coach greatly. The more his jocks conform to unthinking masculinity and groupthink, the better they will be as both a Team and as jocks, on and off the field.

He imagines they’ll start wrestling soon. They usually do. Whatever it takes to get them tuckered out for sleep. You’d think the 2 hours in the gym and 3 hours of sports they get daily would be enough, but these are ultra high-T alphas whose minds are surrendered to groupthink. It takes a lot to wear them out.

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By Example

Coach teaches by example. That’s why you’ll find him in the gym twice a day, everyday, and wearing appropriate attire. The jocks have gotta learn.

It’s hard for the boys to imagine their Coach as anything other than the masculine stalwart he is. Forty-odd, fifty-odd; huge, rugged, strong; the authoritative patriarch; sexually unassailable. But he was young once, he was a jock once. All coaches start as jocks. That time when they were spry and youthful and full of a boy’s mischief and charm.

Coach Schmidt was one of those jocks who knew from an early age that he was gonna go on to form his own tribe. He wanted to be a coach. He looked up to his own coach with intense awe. Once he graduated from his coach’s program and became a full-fledged jock, he went to the military. He needed to be in an ultra-masculine space; the sort of space that made him hot and excited, yet safe and happy. The military honed his machismo further and gave him command of a group of young men. When he returned to civilian life, he was ready to become a coach.

And so he got set-up at a college far from his own coach so as not to have conflict, then got to work building his Team of jocks. Just as his own coach did.

And now there’s over fifty people in his tribe; assistant coaches, jocks, bulls, cheerbois and runts. He’s rich and prosperous; his program is perfect; he has endless access to cocky jocks and beautiful cheerbois to keep his dick wet. But this empire takes work and determination to keep. That’s reflected in his body. A coach’s body is his empire, symbolically. He must be the biggest and strongest jock on the squad. He must lead by example.

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Ruggered

Rugby is for bulls. Coach needs to give his big boys something to do to keep them busy between naps, meals, lifts and ruts. Where jocks are more cut and refined, bulls are fully ruggered. Having them attack each other on the field in brutal plays is the perfect thing. Imagine, one 300lb titan crashing up against another. Hot shit. And football’s not enough. Too much armor, not enough skin-to-skin contact.

Bulls are aggressive with each other by nature. One bull is another’s natural competitor, his only competitor. If the food and hole is plenty, the bulls are chill. But as soon as the spectre of competition over a piece of food or a piece of pussy raises its head, the bulls get testy. They sometimes come to blows, beating the shit out of each other for reasons they’re too dumb to understand.

Coach will allow this to a certain degree. Bulls are the highest-T men in the world and Coach means to keep it that way. He’s happy to let nature take its course. But bulls are assets – cash cows he rents out to couples looking for an ultra-alpha to give them an alpha son. He can’t afford them getting seriously hurt. So better to give them a pitch to vent all their aggression in a controlled way with rules and limits; to let them get ruggered. Plus, he gets to dress them in rugger shorts and enjoy the masculine thrill of softcore porn masquerading as a sport.

The jocks look on with lolling tongues and tingling loins whenever they watch their bull brothers play. The jocks will never reach the masculine grandeur of the bulls, but it’s good to have idols.

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Dumb Jocks

The dumb jocks are talking politics while they pass the ball. It’s like hearing a bunch of kiddie-leaguers discuss astrophysics. These jockbois have lost their minds to the spiral, but they like to pretend they still have intellect, opinions, ethics and the like. It’s a form of mimicry, like how children mimic their native language before they’re actually able to speak it. They intone it, first. The jocks intone the discussions of people who still have the capacity for thinking beyond lifting, sports, sex, fun and bros. It’s funny. Cute, even. Who knows what silly shit they’re gonna spout next about taxes, healthcare, or fucking road signs.

Coach Schmidt doesn’t care. So long as they look hot and throw like men, they can talk about whatever they want. But, some part of the old man looks on at these conversations and worries. The jock files – those nightly spiraling hypno-tapes that keep the jocks in line and turned on – are designed to wear down a jock’s capacity for other-thought. Coach’s tribe is built on masculine orthodoxy and jock groupthink, both he strictly controls. Politics – like literature, history, science and the like – are not relevant to this orthodoxy, and they actually fly in the face of jock groupthink. Jocks should have their minds on the ball, on their cocks, on each other’s cocks, on pussy, on porn, on the gym, on their diet. While these topics are intellectually meager for most adults, for dumb jocks they should be more than enough to keep them stimulated. When the bros ape depth with their attempt at polemic, they undermine groupthink. Coach doesn’t intervene because they’re all doing it. They’re all playing into and feeding the charade. In this, it is a part of jock groupthink. The groupthink that suggests they should be thinking about something deeper than cock and football.

Only it fails. It’s only ever an aping, never the real thing. The orthodox mind-fuck is too powerful, the groupthink too omnipresent, the desire to be a dumb jock too demanding for his boys to ever actually surrender to the lust for poignancy. Life is too short for poignancy, especially for men like this; young, dumb and full of cum.

Coach has nothing to worry about.

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