New Tutoring a Senior Jock After Class Turned Into a Wild Fuckfest

My name’s Ming Yang, 21, junior in college, 5’7”, 120 pounds, pale skin, slim but toned. This semester’s class load is a joke—barely anything to do—so I figured, why not pick up a side gig? Landed a tutoring job, heading to a student’s place every night to coach them through their homework. It was a Wednesday, 6 p.m., when I slung my backpack over my shoulder and strolled into this kinda rundown apartment complex. Looked up at the lit window on the sixth floor, already scheming how to level up this senior’s game. College entrance exams are a pressure cooker, and I’ve gotta bring my A-game or their parents’ll think I’m just coasting.

The doorbell buzzed twice before the door swung open. This dude—easily a head taller than me—stood there in a loose black tee and gray basketball shorts, dark skin, muscles flexing under the fabric like he’s about to flex on the court. I froze for a sec. This guy doesn’t look like a high schooler—more like a college hoops star. He flashed a grin, teeth gleaming white: “You’re Teacher Ming, right? Come on in, my mom told me to wait for ya.” His voice was low, gravelly, and I nodded, trailing him inside. My sneakers squeaked faintly on the hardwood.

His name’s Ben Xu, 18, senior, 6’1”, 175 pounds, pure jock vibes. In the living room, his mom poked her head out from the kitchen, hollering over the sizzle of pans, “Hey, Little Teacher Ming, sit down, make yourself at home! Ben’s grades are decent, but his math’s trash—help him clutch it for the big test, yeah?” I flashed a polite smile, took the warm water she handed me, but inside I’m sweating bullets. This dude’s built like a tank—can a scrawny college kid like me even keep him in check? Ben sprawled on the sofa’s edge, arm slung over the back, biceps popping like he could deadlift me without breaking a sweat. I snuck a glance and thought, If he doesn’t listen in class, I’m screwed—I’d probably choke trying to yell at him.

We set up in his room. Small, tidy spot—desk stacked with textbooks and practice sheets, walls plastered with basketball posters, a worn-out orange ball chilling by the bed. He dragged a chair over for me, then flopped onto the bed, legs spread wide, shorts riding up with every shift. I cracked open the textbook, ready to dive into functions, when—holy shit—my peripheral vision caught something that made my heart slam into my ribcage. No boxers. That massive outline just chilling in the loose shorts, soft but still obnoxiously obvious, veins faintly pulsing under the skin like it’s daring me to stare. My face lit up like a furnace, fingers clutching the pen so tight my knuckles went white.

“Yo, bro, you gonna teach or what? I’m all ears.” His voice drawled, lazy as hell. I glanced up—he’s smirking, eyes glinting like he’s clocked my freakout. I cleared my throat, faking chill, and started, “So, the domain of this function is…” But my brain’s a mess, replaying that glimpse on loop, heart pounding like a damn drumline. Ben actually paid attention, nodding along, tossing out questions like, “How do you solve this?” or “Why’d you skip that step?”—his deep voice scratching my eardrums in a way that’s way too distracting. I tried to focus, but every time he shifted, those shorts swayed, and I’m fighting the urge to sneak another peek. That thing’s taunting me—does he know? It’s hot as hell out, but dude, no undies? He’s begging to flash someone.

First session wrapped, and his mom shoved a bag of apples into my hands. “Little Teacher Ming, you worked hard—see you next time!” I hauled the fruit home, but my brain’s stuck on those shorts. Showering that night, I stood under the spray, steam fogging the mirror, watching water trail down my pale chest. My 5.5-inch buddy twitched under the heat. How big is his? Soft, it’s already that thick—hard, it’d be a freaking monster. I shook my head—I’m losing it, obsessing after one damn meeting—but my hand moved anyway, mind flooded with that outline, steam turning my face redder than the apples.

Next night, I’m back at his door. Ben’s still rocking those gray shorts, swapped the black tee for a white one, sleeves rolled up to show off those jacked arms. He waved me in, plopped onto the bed, legs splayed again, shorts teasing me with every move. My pulse spiked, but I buried my nose in the textbook—focus, Ming—though my eyes kept drifting to his crotch like it’s got a damn gravitational pull. He seemed chill tonight, leaning against the headboard, arms resting on his knees, muscles glowing under the lamp like he’s sculpted from granite.

Halfway through the lesson, my voice stalled, pen scratching blank lines on the page. He raised an eyebrow. “Bro, why you keep pausing? You’re killing it—I’m locked in.” My face burned, and I mumbled, “Uh, just… thirsty.” He chuckled, grabbed me a glass of water, and as he walked over, those shorts shifted again. I stared at that thicc outline, brain short-circuiting. He handed me the glass, fingers brushing mine—scalding—and grinned. “Bro, your face is red again. AC not cutting it?”

I gulped the water, hiding my panic, but he wasn’t letting it slide. Sitting back down, legs spread wider, he locked eyes with me. “You keep eyeballing my shorts—what’s up? Curious about something?” I choked, nearly spitting, and stammered, “N-no, just… your posture.” He laughed, voice dripping with swagger. “My posture? Alright, get a good look then.” He shifted on purpose, making it impossible to miss, like he’s flexing his junk for clout. My brain buzzed, pen clattering onto the desk.

His gaze sharpened, something darker flickering in it. Low and rough, he said, “Bro, you into my package or what?” Before I could process, he snatched my hand and slammed it onto his crotch. I hit that warm, hefty mound—soft but heavy as hell—and my fingers twitched, mind blanking out. Heat radiated through the thin fabric; I could feel the shape, thick and alive. I tried to yank back, but his grip was iron, pinning me there as he leaned in, voice husky: “So, bro, big enough for ya?”

Ben’s hand was massive, locking my wrist in place. The second I touched him, my heart nearly yeeted out my throat. That soft, meaty heat pulsed under my fingers—thick, heavy, ready to grow. My face turned shrimp-cocktail red, and I sputtered, “W-what the hell are you doing?” He grinned, letting go, but my hand lingered like it’s magnetized, trembling as I brushed it again. He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve already copped a feel—why play shy now?”

I jerked my hand back, fumbling with the textbook, heart hammering like a jackhammer. The leftover warmth clung to my fingers, scorching. I wanted to cuss him out—shameless prick—but my throat was sandpaper. He didn’t push, just went back to the lesson, but the air’s different now—charged. I stumbled through the math, voice barely a whisper; he’d cut in with, “How’s that step work?” or “Slow down, bro, I missed that,” his tone laced with a teasing edge that’s messing with me hard.

Session over, he walked me to the door, dropping his voice: “Bro, see you tomorrow? I vibe with your teaching.” I nodded, bolting like I’d just dodged a bullet. All the way home, his smirk and that outline haunted me, pulse refusing to chill. Back in my dorm, I tossed and turned, eyes shut but seeing him sprawled on that bed, legs wide, that “big enough” line looping in my head like a cursed track.

Third night, I’m a wreck showing up. Hands sweaty as I knocked, Ben opened the door—same gray shorts, blue tee with a basketball graphic stretched across his chest. His mom’s on the couch, TV blaring, yelling, “Little Teacher Ming’s here—Ben, study hard!” I mumbled a reply, followed him in, and the second that door clicked shut, it’s just us. He flopped onto the bed, legs parted, shorts loose as ever. I swallowed hard, testing the waters: “You… never wear boxers?” He blinked, then cracked up. “Nah, I do—forgot today. It’s hot as balls out.” My face flared; he smirked, eyes glinting mischief. “Bro, you wanna scope it out more?”

I ducked my head, doodling on the textbook, heart pounding. He leaned over, bracing on my chair’s back, voice low: “Your hands are soft as hell—how’d it feel touching me earlier?” I nearly jumped out my skin, stammering, “Don’t say that…” He laughed harder, grabbing my hand again, planting it back on his crotch. I didn’t pull away this time; he stared me down, voice rough: “Go ahead, feel it—I know you’re dying to.” My brain’s a scrambled mess, fingers twitching as I rubbed through the fabric. It swelled under my touch, tenting the shorts; he groaned low, leaning closer, breath hot on my ear: “Bro, keep that up, and I’m rock solid.”

I flinched, trying to pull back, but he held firm, sliding his hand to my lap. My 5.5-incher’s already betraying me, stiff as hell; he grazed it, and I gasped. His playful glint turned hungry, fingers tracing me through my pants. “Bro, you’re hard quick—nice.” I wanted to die of shame, but my body leaned into him. We fumbled like that, hands on each other—his monster thickening in my grip, my head spinning with filthy flashes.

He panted, pinching my waist, growling, “Harder, bro—I’m losing it.” I squeezed, face flaming; he bucked with a grunt, nearly losing it right there. In a haze, I muttered, “Not… not here.” He paused, grinning wickedly. “What, scared I’ll bust in my shorts?” I didn’t answer; he grabbed my head, voice thick: “Suck me off, just a taste.” I froze as he yanked his shorts down—19 freaking centimeters sprang free, veiny, glistening, a faint sweaty tang hitting me. I swallowed hard, mind blank, and leaned in, lips wrapping around it. He growled, fingers tangling in my hair: “Fuck, bro, your mouth’s fire—deeper.” I fumbled, tongue clumsy, his groans guiding me as he pinched his own nipple, sweat rolling down his neck.

I glanced up—his eyes blazed, voice wrecked: “Keep sucking, bro—I’m gonna blow.” I didn’t stop; he shuddered, barely holding back. Panting, he pulled me off: “Enough for now, or I’m done for.” My face burned, hands shaky as I packed up. From then on, every session started with a locked door and his hands on me—I went from flustered to hooked, craving his rough grip.

Ever since that first time I went down on Ben Xu, shit got real twisted. Tutoring’s just a cover now—every night I step into his place, my heart’s doing double-time. His mom still plays the same script, shoving fruit or snacks my way, beaming, “Teacher Ming, you’re a champ—Ben’s counting on you!” I nod, guilt gnawing at me. If she knew her son’s groping me the second that door locks, she’d yeet me out the window.

It was a Saturday, his folks out running errands, not back till late. Just us in the house. I walked into his room; he locked the door and flashed that wolfish grin: “Bro, we’ve got hours today—let’s switch it up.” Before I could blink, he yanked a USB from his desk drawer and plugged it into his beat-up laptop, screen all yellowed and sketchy. One glance at what popped up, and my face went lava mode—straight-up porn, dude and chick tangled up, shaky cam, low moans hitting my eardrums like a freight train.

He kicked back against the headboard, legs splayed, that familiar bulge popping in those gray shorts. Patted the bed beside him: “Yo, Ming, park it here—watch with me.” I hesitated, frowning. “This ain’t right, man—you should be studying…” He smirked, voice dipping dangerous: “You don’t watch, I don’t learn. Your call.” I shot him a look; he’s already rubbing himself through the shorts, eyes daring me. Screw it. I sat, staring at the sheets, but those moans—gruff growls and breathy whines—wormed into my skull.

The flick’s a mess of groans and slapping skin, screen flickering like a fever dream. I snuck a peek at Ben—he’s glued to it, Adam’s apple bobbing, hand working faster. I swallowed hard, muttering, “You… ever done that?” He blinked, turned, and grinned all sleazy. “Nah, fam’s strict—no dating. But this? Gets me going. You?” I fumbled, “Me neither…” He laughed, leaning in, breath hot on my face: “Bro, why you blushing? Never smashed, but you’ve thought about it, huh?” I clammed up, gripping my pants; he stared, then killed the video. “This is weak—let’s crank it up.”

Before I could protest, he’s typing, pulling up a guy-on-guy clip. Two dudes—buff Black guy, lean white twink—going at it hard, muscles crashing, grunts echoing. The big one’s pounding, bed creaking, raw as hell. I glanced at Ben—eyes wide, lit with hype, hand diving into his shorts, tenting them with that 19cm beast. He muttered, “Fuck, this works too?” Shock and thirst mixed in his voice, but his body’s all in. My head’s spinning; I whispered, “Stop watching…” He turned, eyes blazing, voice rough: “Bro, you’re hard, aren’t ya?” Didn’t wait for a no—grabbed my hand, slammed it onto his junk. It’s iron-hot through the fabric, pulsing; I flinched, he panted, “Help me bust, Ming—I’m dying here.”

Face flaming, I tugged his shorts down, went for it. That thick rod filled my mouth, sweaty tang hitting me; I licked sloppy, he growled, fingers yanking my hair: “Bro, you suck like a pro—deeper.” I pushed, his gasps ragged, hips twitching. Looked up—pure lust in his eyes, voice wrecked: “Keep going, I’m close.” I didn’t quit; he shook, barely holding it. Then he shoved my shoulders, flipped me onto the bed. I’m dazed—he’s on me, lips crashing, rough and wet, tasting like gym sweat and cigs. He kissed like a starved animal, tongue everywhere, hands clawing under my shirt, pinching till I’m tingling. I gasped, “Slow down…” He chuckled low: “Can’t, bro—been pent up for days.”

He yanked my pants off, fingers probing; I jolted, he stared, voice thick: “Bro, can I go in?” Brain blank, face red, I nodded. He grabbed lube from the drawer, slicked me up—cold fingers sliding in. I clenched, biting back pain; he kissed me, muttering, “Relax, Ming—I’ll go easy.” He pushed in slow, sweat dripping, me gripping sheets, eyes watering. First time’s a clumsy mess—pain, then numbness, then my body’s chasing him. He growled, picking up speed: “You’re so hot inside, bro.” I bit my lip, silent; he grinned wicked, nibbling my ear: “Moan for me—I’d nut harder.” I shook my head; he thrust deeper, forcing a whimper out.

After, he flopped beside me, panting, arm over my waist: “Bro, you’re tight as hell—blew my mind.” I’m too flushed to talk, his heat still on me. We went twice that day—second round smoother, him hugging me, whispering mid-thrust, “Call out more, I’m obsessed.” I muffled myself; he pried my hands off, kissed harder.

Locked doors became our thing. Every time I stepped in, click—he’s on me, groping, kissing. Sometimes he’d sit me on his lap, fondling while I lectured, then pin me mid-sentence for a quickie. Dude’s a horny beast—left me sore every time. I went from resisting to craving his rough hands. He’s loud, crude, but softens up sometimes. Once, I griped about my shoulder after a session; he kneaded it, chuckling, “Too skinny, bro—eat more or I’ll break ya.” I glared; he pinched my waist, laughing. Another night, I was late—pitch black out—he’s waiting by the court, tossing me a water: “Thirsty, bro?” Our fingers brushed, and my pulse tripped.

Beyond the lust, I’m hooked on him being there. He’d hug me post-round, tracing my back: “Your skin’s so pale, softer than my sis.” I snapped, “Don’t compare me to her.” He grinned, pulling me tighter, breath on my neck. One night, his folks home, he locked us in, tugged me onto his lap, hand in my pants: “Quiet, bro—don’t let ‘em hear.” I tried refusing; he rubbed harder, whispering, “You’re cute when you hold it in.” Mid-session, his mom knocked: “Ben, how’s studying?” I froze—he kept going, yelling back, “Learning functions, Mom—chill!” She left; he smirked, “You clenched so tight just now—hot.”

I cursed him, “You’re insane—what if we’re caught?” He shrugged, pinching me: “Locked door, bro—safe.” Then he went harder, sweat on my face, me biting back moans, torn between fear and thrill.

Exams loomed, tension thick. His room’s a textbook fortress, but his horniness? Unstoppable. Nightly “warm-ups” left me wrecked—sometimes he’d barely touch me before I’m flat on the bed. One night, folks home, he’s on me fast: “Gotta save brainpower for math, bro—quick one.” I bit my lip as he worked me, whispering, “So cute holding it.” After, he hugged me: “You’re skinnier—am I too rough?” I shoved him, “I’m just slim.” He grinned, handed me an apple: “Eat up, bro.”

But he started cracking—once, he zoned out over a problem. I nudged him: “You listening?” He snapped, “Bro, I’m stressed—brain’s fried.” I softened, but he pulled me close, begging, “Let me fuck you—I need it.” I couldn’t say no—he’s on me, rougher than ever, sweat dripping. I winced; he slowed, “Sorry, bro—too much.” I stayed quiet, wondering—am I just his stress toy?

That doubt festered. One night, post-round, I shoved him off: “Ben, am I just a tool to you?” He froze, hand on my waist, eyes panicked. I glared, voice shaky: “You wear me out—I’m done.” He went quiet, then soft: “Bro, I fucked up—don’t be mad.” I turned to leave; he grabbed me: “I don’t mean it like that—I need you here.” I stopped; he hugged me tight: “You calm me down, bro—not just sex. I like you, more than you think.” My anger melted; he held me, tracing my back: “Stay—I’ll chill out.”

He softened after that. Listened in lessons, doodled me smileys: “You’re dope, bro.” Post-sex, he’d chat—ball stories, future plans. I saw the spark in him, the care. Exam day, I’m pacing my dorm, phone buzzing at 10 p.m.: “Bro, done—nailed it.” I typed “Congrats”; he shot back, “Tomorrow, my place—party time.”

Next night, his folks out, he yanked me in, locked the door, hoisted me up: “Been dying for you, bro—let’s celebrate.” He pinned me, kissing wild, hands everywhere. I gasped, “Slow down…” He growled, “Can’t—missed you.” He went feral—positions flipped, sweat on me, grinning, “Scream louder, bro—love it.” I muffled; he pulled my hands, kissed deep. After, he hugged me: “Applied to your school, bro—close to home, close to you.” I blinked; he smirked, “Gonna fuck you daily—no escape.”

He aced it, joined my uni. Move-in day, he’s waving: “Bro, haul my bags!” I ran over; he hugged me tight: “You’re mine now.” We got a “shared” apartment—code for shacking up. Days, he’s ballin’; nights, he’s on me, gentler now. Once, sweaty from practice, he hugged me; I whined, “You stink.” He laughed, “You love it, bro,” then dragged me to the shower for a wet round.

Time rolled on—no more just locked-door secrets. One night, he dozed studying; I blanketed him. He woke, grabbed my hand: “Good having you, bro.” My chest warmed. Weekends, he’d drag me to games—winning, he’d whistle at me; losing, he’d sulk on my shoulder: “Rub it, bro.” Rainy Sunday, curtains shut, he held me: “Thought I was straight, bro—you fucked me up.” I shoved him, “Who fucked who?” He grinned, flipped me over: “Round two, then.” Rain outside, us inside—sweat, gasps, our world.

[The End]