Jockboi decided to walk back to the frat in the pissing rain. They lost the match, and he blames himself. Coach didn’t tell him to do this; it’s something he feels he has to do. He let the side down, he let his boys down, he let coach down, he let himself down. The lonely, cold walk will help enforce how he can never let it happen again.
Jocks excel. Jocks win. It’s that simple. If he’s not winning, he’s not a jock. And he can never accept that life.
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Coach got his whole team of jocks at the farm and things got a little out of control. Which is just how coach likes it. Coach is so proud of all his jocked boys. To think, most of them used to be skinny little closeted losers. They’re so lucky to have found the program.
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Jockboi’s getting ready to listen to today’s jock-file so he has to get into uniform. Which means he flips his cap back. He’s either in his football gear, or already dressed permanently for the gym. What other clothes are there, dude?
He’ll spend the next hour zoned out while Coach’s voice instils jock values into his ever-slowing brain. He’ll wake up with a painful dripping boner, which he’ll satisfy while watching some Coach-approved porn. Today, it’s some locker room scene where two guys flipflop and just call each other dude over and over again.
Then it’s time for a hearty meal of steak, potatoes and broccoli, washed down with coach’s special “jock juice” protein shake, before heading for his evening sesh at the gym with Joey and Gabe and Zach and Hiro and Jordan and Noah and Rory and…
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The jocks won their latest game. Against who? Fuck knows. What sport were they playing? No one remembers. Coach was damn happy with their performance, so he unlocked their dicks and left them to it in the locker room. When he came back two hours later, the smell alone nearly knocked him cold.
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Coach gave his jocks the weekend off from their program. No gym, no chastity, no jock-files, no Team practice, no jock bonding, nothing. They had two whole days of freedom.
But what does freedom mean to a jock who has been successfully programmed? He could go to a party, or zone out to some video games, or hook up with anyone who’d have him, or just goon out to porn. But none of that comes to mind. Jockboi isn’t following the program because Coach has him in chains. He does it because he can’t imagine not doing it. Jockboi uses his two days off to go to the gym, listen to his jock-files, have intimate bonding sessions with his jock brothers, and practice his throwing.
This weekend was a test, and a test the jocks pass perfectly. If they had chosen, of their own free will, to pursue an agenda not related to their jockification, then Coach would have seen that as a personal failure. A failure he would remedy through a more intense program and harsh spankings. But he had nothing to fear. The jocks chose their jocklife. They didn’t have to think about it. So well programmed they are that as soon as jockboi woke up, he ate his Coach-approved breakfast, drank his jock juice, grabbed his bag and hit the gym. And then he was out on the pitch with his bros, cap back, passing the ball. Why the fuck would a jock wanna be anywhere else, thinks jockboi. Two whole days of freedom mean nothing in the face of his perfect conditioning.
Jockboi is a slave to the program. And in his slavery, he has found true freedom.
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You felt so privileged to be one of coach’s cheerleaders. A dream come true. The jocks and bulls all treated you like their younger brother. They watched out for you, protected you, covered for you.
You loved going out to lunch with them – the bulls stuffing back six burgers with extra fries, the jocks with their large portions of chicken, rice and broccoli, you and your cheer brothers with your salad and grilled chicken – and knowing without asking that they were gonna pay for you. You’d sit on one of the bull’s laps while they told dirty stories and laugh along as he casually slipped his hand in your slutty shorts and fondled your puffy pussy.
Or you loved being invited to the frat for a jock night in. The boys getting drunk and high, having burping competitions and playing Mario Kart, while you and the cheerbois served food and drinks and kept morale up by decrying how great and manly your jock brothers were. Sometimes, a jock would just pick you up and slam you on the sofa, or else bend you over a chair. Their dicks are locked away, so they can’t fuck, but they’re all tops, and they all want your pussy, and so they go through the motions of fucking you. And though you’re sad they can’t actually rut you, you love them for wanting to.
You always thought they felt a bit sorry for you. Like, you must be upset you couldn’t measure up to their masculine greatness. But you didn’t think that way at all. You felt profoundly happy to be at the service of these jocks and bulls: to be an available and generous bottom for them to play with. You especially loved the bulls. Total tops, aggressive, toxic, but deeply affectionate towards you. To be a sexual outlet for one of their daily milkings was a dream come true.
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