Freshman Year Breakthrough

This story’s a short one: about how and why I first started getting so totally into guys wearing jockstraps and doing them—or letting them do me—with nothing on except for our tight elastic jockstraps. It’s about how I—and bunch of guys I met my freshman year—spent almost three years beating off or sucking each other off with white (or black) swathes of loose cotton stretching against our cocks, balls or skin. I fucking totally got into it, came to totally love it. It was awesome.

By graduation I was almost totally addicted to getting off with some dude, or group of dudes, with everyone usually totally nude except for the tactical pulling and stretching of fabric against our exposed skin;. It was hard, hot, even frantic, totally down to business; just muscles, skin and cocks:college dudes shooting into and onto each other in their jocks in the gym, dorm restroom, or backseat at a drive-in movie.

I started off hating the damn things. In high school we were all issued these uncomfortable hard elastic things that cost three bucks apiece (which we had to bring from home in cash) and were unceremoniosuly commanded to wear them, all of us, like some kind of army boot camp drill--with a sinister gay twist for benefit of some aging macho tops who spent *way* too much time enforcing their fascist underwear code.

rom the first day of P.E., everyone got a combination lock and a less than comfortable jock strap we had to wear under our ill-fitting standard issue uniforms. The only advantage was that if you got pantsed on the field, only your butt got exposed, which was bad enough. They were either too loose or too tight. Mine cut a little too hard into my still-baby fat cheeks and left a little red mark that showed up in the showers. I hated them.

* * *

By senior year, my body was different—almost everyone’s was. It was all I could do not to pop a boner in the locker room. Athletic dudes—trim, taut, swaggering with chiseled, tapered frames—wandered tantalizingly about in their jocks as they prepared to shower.

I watched the white elastic straps cinch and clamp the exposed globes of their muscular bubble butts, pink and smooth, sometimes slightly flexed, as they sauntered or stood in front of their full length lockers—glanced surreptitiously at their bulging pouches and banded abdomens. They were loose and cavalier, a little too cocky—overcompensating for their previous shyness with over-aggressive, posturing jockish-ness and bravado. It made me think I had a photographic memory for almost six months—or at least the start of one.

Every night, I’d whack my now seven and half inch cock to the memorized details of this one or that one—shooting load after load before I could even think about going to sleep.

My Own Private Locker Room

I saw them every night. Parker, Whyte, Burns, Josh—all of them. It was my own private locker room. Every night, the hard-bodied jocks of Elsmore High stood or paraded before me:: sliding their tight white jockstraps down their thighs, over their butts. Pulling away the lined fabric pouches from their bulging dicks and—in Parker’s case—neatly trimmed pubes. They’d let them fall to the floor—or they’d lean over and down to pull the small white side bands from their feet, their tight asses bent and exposed as if inviting a good long involuntary stare—or a rapid helpless and desperate spasm of involuntary rabid fucking.

That was the start of it, anyway—the gentle, subtle beginning. It began with extended jack off sessions to the exposed bodies of the other guys at my school or soccer team. Sometime it was about the thin skimpy industrial gym towels, pulled miraculously tight about their waists as they prepared to become naked beneath the long line of showers—side by side, soapy and grazing against each other. But mostly it was about naked group sex with the guys of my school, an endless overlapping orgy that invariably started with them all in their jocks at their lockers and ended with everyone hard as rock and shooting all over the place—on chests, into the air, against straining and splayed legs, or onto their half-ripped away jocks.

Secret Sex

My freshman year in college I started sneaking out to a local park and getting it on with guys in the woods or restroom. For weeks I worked my nerve up, reading the graffiti in the stalls and beating off by myself before daring to come back at the advertised times for more.

The first time I ever went at night, some dude came in within minutes and exposed his cock through a hole someone had cut into the stall wall—pulling down his pants and standing about a foot away with a giant hard on and slowly stroking it until it was obvious I was watching. He stuck it through the hole and let it throb in the air. He moaned as my hand encircled the shaft and squeezed—thrust it forward into my grip and said “Suck it, dude. Come on and suck my cock.”

And I did—for almost half a minute, anyway--shooting all over the floor as he shoved it into my mouth and blew his load. I was stunned for days; reeled with the body memory of it, feeling forever different—and lewd—as I stood in line at the cafeteria or bookstore.

My world was forever different, filled with a new and endless parade of prey. I don’t really know to this day whether it was a vibe, the way I looked—something—but I began to notice that some of them stared back, stared back in the same way.

It was less than a week later that I was back—with plans.

Midnight Playground

One night, it was nearly 80 degrees into the late evening—still, hot, and dry—until well after 11PM. That was when the local football field lights automatically clicked off for the night. Most summers, you’d see guys out running until late, just kind of hanging out on the periphery until the light snapped off.

Darkness fell suddenly over the field and parking lot like an announcement and—within minutes—they’d start to move in, sauntering into the dim yellow light for drink from the waist high playground fountains or striding straight into the small cinder block restroom that divided the lot from the gate.

I sat in the bleachers, loose tank top and open nylon shorts hanging open in the breezeless night. I sat, hunched forward, legs open, feeling the cool aluminum against my legs and ass. I was horny.

I waited, rubbed my half swollen cock with my hand in slow grazing strokes—intermittent, occasional—teasing it to a nearly full boner as I waited and watched. Across the field, the weak yellow light of the restroom spilled weakly over the painted cinderblock walls. The entryways were black; deep angular shadows cut backwards across the roofline. I was used to watching their silhouettes as they slid furtively in and out.

I rubbed my cock a little more; felt the head mushroom and expand as I became harder, stiffening against the nylon. I took off my tank top and let it hang across the back of my neck as I leaned forward over my now exposed cock, hunching over it as I waited—and watched.

After Hours Romper Room

They would come from out of nowhere from all angles, sliding in out of the dark like they knew somebody was watching, milling around and trying to act casual, play-acting in the worst and most obvious ways. Fact is, anyone who entered the restroom and remained for more than a minute was there to get off.

Inside, for all the timidity and pussy-footing around, these dudes would go all out—shoving or showing their hard college boners within seconds or sucking and fucking in the open, sometimes in groups. And they were all young, all buff, and all completely horned up from the minute they walked in.

Sometimes it was the night was moonless and dark, a faint yellow wash from the vents spilling weakly from the ceiling, just enough to grope your way to the interior. That usually meant some dude was naked in the stalls or already jacking off at the urinals with his shirt hiked back around his neck and jeans around his ankles. Other times, some dude would be standing there hard with the lights on.

How it Usually Happens

You come in through the door from the darkness and the light shocks your system and eyes. Squinting, disoriented, hard—blinded and exposed. Ambushed. Some Dude is already there at the urinal, naked except for his jockstrap. He turns before you even have a second to fake going to the gleaming urinals, tripping over his discarded clothes. He just faces you and lets his hands fall down his body, bulging black pouch standing forward and open.

Maybe you fumble with your belt. He’s hardening in front of you, cock enlarging upward and outward against the fabric as you begin to unbutton your Levis—or pull down the elastic of your nylon running shorts until they scrape slightly over the top of your pubes. Suddenly your skin is pressing against his and your hands begin to touch each other—or grasp each others expanding, pulsing dicks.

Or you’re just standing there with your cock in hand when he walks straight up to your side, letting the stall door bang. He slides the elastic down his muscular hips to reveal his shaved pubes as he stands next to you, eight inch cock jutting into the air—bobbing slightly as the blood courses rhythmically through the engorged shaft.

You touch it—gently squeezing as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder and he pulls you face to face. There’s no pretending. In seconds you’re both clutching and licking, naked, tongues flitting across each others’ nipples and necks and—you’re on your knees, or he is, and someone’s cock is in someone’s mouth and sucking furiously. Slobbery wet, warm gushes of saliva spill down his taut white thigh or yours as the pumping starts—and moaning. “Yeah, dude, suck my fucking cock…Suck me off before someone comes…”

The hot jock

I sat and stroked myself on the bleachers, edging my rock hard dick to the brink of coming. He appeared out of nowhere as I pressed the head outside my open short tightly against my leg.

He was bare-chested, glistening, and practically naked except for his running shorts and thick tennis shoes. He walked loosely, extending his legs as if he’d just finished a long run. I hunched forward, laid my tank top over my leg to conceal my jutting cock and looked casually forward, settling on his increasingly light body as he strayed toward the base of the steps and stopped. He stared back for a moment, looked slowly around before starting up the steps.

He stopped as he reached my row. The last sliver of moon spilled over our bodies—barely enough to see, enough to illumine our bodies. “It’s gotta still be 80 degrees or so,” he said. I watched his hand open and come to rest across his flattened stomach, then pull back slowly to his waist. His thumb crooked casually into the elastic band, pulled it slightly outward. He let it relax slowly back against his skin.

“Yeah,” I said. It was all I could mutter. I felt weak, overcome by his perfect body and defenseless, hard, speechless.

Dude was just too hot—23 or 24—with chiseled hairless chest and stomach flowing together in subtle curves and lines that led my eyes involuntarily to the smooth expanse of skin above his waistband, above his pubes. I was still hard as rock, cock straining from my open loose shorts and throbbing against the fabric of my tank top.

"Mind if I sit down for a minute?” he asked. I barely managed a nod, pretended to look at him but didn’t dare. He moved slow, tentative—hovered above me, waist inches from my head, then abruptly sat. It was like something had been decided. He leaned back, legs opening, shifting reflexively forward as the cool aluminum hit his back. We stared forward into the darkness for what seemed like minutes. I could feel him looking... My head barely tilted from a another long, wordless stare into the dark field. He leaned back against the metal again, locking eyes as I glanced back over my moonlit shoulder. “I guess this is one way to cool off,” he said.

He began absently caressing his chest—first rubbing the nipple, then pinching—holding it firm and flat against the moonlit skin. I gawked, mesmerized by his flat and muscular chest. I think my mouth opened slightly as I stared. And then, staring back, he just pushed down his shorts, sliding them over his knees in a single motion and letting them fall noiselessly to the ground.

I felt my cock harden; felt a warm sense of pleasurable panic congeal in my stomach and begin rising upward and inexorably into my chest. I stared forward into the dark field as I heard him reposition himself, flattening the checks of his ass against the cool metal. I heard the sound of a gentle, unmistakable snap: elastic waistband against skin. “Fuck yeah,” he said. “That feels awesome—really cool.”

And then I looked. Dude just smiled as he leaned back and spread his legs, clutched his hands behind his neck in the dim wash of moonlight to reveal his full body—and tightly packed jockstrap, straining and black, already angling and extending conspicuously to the left with his huge and growing dick. He smiled—then stared. I felt his leg against mine. His hands uncoupled, fell down his slides to his legs. He pulled the cotton edges gently into the air as if to let himself breathe. And then he turned, pushing me slowly and deliberately backward against the bench.

I stared dumbly at the soft round cheeks of his ass as he stood, the black bands of his jock cupping each mound before joining and disappearing into the gentle clean cleft between them. He paused, then pivoted slowly, moving his legs between mine and pressing them apart—inching inward, between and against them—staring downward into my eyes as my tank top slid away and my throbbing cock slid outward and upward into the faint light.

I don’t even remember how my shorts disappeared. They were just suddenly gone and I was totally naked except for my shoes. Dude stood closer, towering above me and caressing his nipples as I stroked my shaft in long slow strokes. He thrust his hips, pushing the stretched cotton mound of his pouch forward toward my face. His hips swayed; he shifted his weight slowly from side to side as I stared, rapt, and began to quicken my strokes. He pulled my hand from my cock and brought it to his side, placed it squarely on his hips below the thick waistband above his bulging dick.

He ground it into my hand—then over it—forcing my hand into the tight space below his balls, clamping down to trap it as he once again jut his hips and thrust himself forward, this time into my face, warm cotton sliding against my cheeks, then withdrawing, centering the cotton encased head against my lips. I sucked down against the flimsy fabric and felt the tip press tightly into my parted mouth. He never took it off, just pushed me flat on my back and pulled it loose.

His huge dick, bigger than mine, sprang forward from the tight trimmed V of his pubes—balls loose and encircled by the tight cotton sack that twisted beside and below them. I was wet with pre-cum as he took me into his mouth, sucking slowly and firmly as his mammoth cock head pressed downward against my lips and hung there. The huge spongy head slid slowly into my mouth.

And then suddenly the whole tip was in, slick with saliva and pushing into the back of my throat. His fingers cupped my balls as he sucked me hard, then relaxed—again and again—loosening and tightening the shaft in rhythmic pulls. His tongue extended down my shaft and then lapped, tempo increasing as his own cock pushed further against the back of my mouth. We began to sweat, moistening skin clamping and pressing together as we clenched and sucked each other’s cocks. I forgot we were exposed, defenseless.

I could smell him—clean, freshly showered, his scent emerging as the air between our bodies became humid, the faint smell of skin deepening into a growing scent of sex an musk. I licked his skin, encircled and swabbed his nipples with my tongue, each lap wetter and saltier. My fingers clenched his ass, hands sliding behind the elastic bands of his jock and squeezing into his pliant, firm flesh as I sucked down on the huge gooey head of his jutting, rock hard cock. He pulled back and pressed forward again. Below, I felt his fingers slide down my perineum to press firmly into my ass, probing and pushing wetly against my exposed sphincter as he sucked down hard and long. I felt a soft round finger tip nudge its way into the ring and hold tight—then press down.

And suddenly I was cumming—shooting forcefully in spastic contractions, blowing pulse after pulse of cum. He sucked down hard—let it fill his mouth. I convulsed, clamped my legs together against his head—throbbing, shooting dick spurting wildly as his cock re-entered my gaping mouth, hard, and then froze.

I was still shooting when his first massive load exploded into my mouth, spilling onto my face and lips as he pulled it back and ground it into my face.

The sprinklers began hissing in the darkness. The sound rose, gyrating up and down the length of the field, as we sat, still hard, and wiped the cum from our stomachs and legs.

I ran into him again about two weeks later. We both wore jockstraps.