My Straight Jock Roomies at Sports U

Chapter 1: First Moves on the Balcony

A University’s the ultimate jock haven, campus swarming with ripped AF dudes, air so thick with testosterone you could choke on it. I’m Finn Slade, 18, freshman, sports management major, 170cm, 56kg, packing a 12cm lil’ guy—nothing to brag about, but my nipples? Sensitive as fuck. One brush and my legs turn to mush—my dirty little secret I keep on lock. Still closeted as a total bottom, I land in a quad dorm with three senior studs: Luke “Hawk” Harris, basketball king, 190cm, all golden vibes and alpha swagger; Pax Dean, freestyle swim god, 185cm, face and bod so fine he’s basically campus royalty; and Liam “Peak” Foster, soccer beast, 188cm, dark skin, muscles stacked like a brick wall. They’re all different flavors of hot, but each one’s got a serious package under those pants—walking thirst traps that wreck me.

Move-in day, they’re shirtless, flexing around, pecs and abs popping so hard I’m dizzy. Hawk slaps my shoulder, voice deep and gravelly: “Yo, Finn, you’re fam now. Need anything, hit up your big bro.” I mumble a shy “mm-hmm,” face flaming redder than a Snapchat filter, heart slamming like it’s about to bail. They’re always half-naked—loose sweats or boxers showing off every muscle curve and that thicc bulge. I’m popping boners 24/7, clenching my thighs to play it cool, then sneaking off to jerk it under the covers at night.

Mid-October, power cuts out, dorm’s a damn oven. AC’s toast, fans dead, all four of us dripping sweat, stripped to boxers. I’m on my bed, sweat sliding down my neck into my soaked tee, tossing like a fish on dry land. Peak yawns, all lazy and sexy, scratching his dark pecs: “Too damn hot. Balcony crash sesh? Catch some breeze?” Sweat beads down his eight-pack, and I’m parched, swallowing hard. Hawk nods: “Beats roasting in here.” Dean says nada, just drags a mat outside, smooth and effortless—hot as hell.

Balcony’s tight, four of us shoulder-to-shoulder, muscles mashed up, heat and sweat stinking the air in the best way. I’m sandwiched—Peak left, Hawk right, Dean chilling on the edge. Peak grins: “Bit cramped, but beats melting.” Hawk chuckles: “Your beefy ass hogs the most space, don’t squash Finn.” We vibe—talking love, girls, dreams. Peak jokes: “Finn, when I’m ballin’ in matches, you’re my soccer manager, yeah? Room and board on me.” I blush: “Sure, Peak.” In my head? I’d crash with you for free just to drool over that bod daily.

Middle of the night, cool wind hits, they crash mid-chat, but I’m wired—three shirtless gods around me, heart banging like a drumline. Moonlight paints ‘em: Hawk’s pecs like fresh-baked buns, sweat gleaming on his collarbone; Peak’s thighs tight and powerful, 18cm bulge teasing through his boxers; Dean’s abs carved like a damn statue, long frame screaming sex appeal. I’m locked on those packed boxer outlines, lust torching me, dick throbbing, wet spot blooming in my briefs.

Wedged between Peak and Hawk, I wiggle—no reaction. Balls growing, I slide my left hand to Peak’s boxers, feeling a soft, warm mound, like a sleeping beast. I pinch his balls—full as eggs—pulse racing. He’s out cold, breathing steady, so I go harder, slipping under the waistband, fingers brushing his 18cm softie, thumb grazing the tip. I’m picturing it hard, slamming me, brain frying.

Next, Hawk. He’s on his side, white boxers half-see-through with sweat, 19cm outline popping. I sneak my hand over, grabbing his semi-hard monster—scalding, massive, palm tingling. His abs are steel, chest rock-solid; I tease his peanut-sized nipple, rubbing till his breath hitches, but he stays out. Heart pounding, I tweak it harder, watching it swell into a little red bean on his pec.

After all that sneaky groping, I’m wrecked—12cm leaking precum, briefs soaked. Fuck it, I dive in, hand straight into Hawk’s boxers, gripping his half-hard beast. A few strokes, he grunts low, and I freeze. Over to Peak, I play with his balls, knead his pecs, tease his tiny, hard nipples—lighting my fire. Dean’s too far, out of reach, bummer.

Half the night’s gone, head swimming with their heat and muscles, hands tingling with their feel. Dick grinding my briefs, I crash out, satisfied. Dreamland? All three seniors pinning me, muscles crushing, moans echoing, wet and wild—woke up with drenched boxers.

Chapter 2: Hawk’s Invite and Late-Night Teasing

Two weeks later, weather flips from steamy to freeze-your-balls-off cold. A University’s dorms are mid, no heat yet, and I’m shivering under a thin blanket, lips blue. Hawk catches me shaking, frowns: “Finn, this ain’t it. Crash with me tonight—weekend’s coming, grab a thick quilt then.” His voice is soft, big-bro energy on lock. I nod chill-like, but inside? Screaming—sharing Hawk’s bed? VIP pass to heaven.

Lights out, I climb in. He’s in loose white basketball shorts, shirtless, 190cm frame making it tight. His pecs are mountainous, abs chiseled like art, glowing dim. I’m in a tee and briefs, scooting close, shoulder brushing his arm, heat radiating like a furnace. His bare skin smells of sweat and laundry soap—dude musk that’s got my dick twitching, tenting my briefs.

His steady breathing’s got me frozen, scared to wake him, but my brain’s replaying that balcony night—his 19cm semi, hot as lava in my hand. I nudge my arm, grazing his shoulder—nope, still out. Bolder, I roll to my side, left hand creeping to his pec, palm cupping his peanut nipple. It’s hard, like it’s been teased before. I pinch it, twirling slow, his chest rising faster.

A few rubs, and it’s swollen and hot. Holding my breath, I slide down his abs—rock-hard ridges—to his shorts. No boxers, waistband loose, pubes peeking out. Heart’s about to explode as I slip under, grabbing his semi-hard cock—too big to wrap, burning like a torch. I stroke a few times, he groans low, I yank back—rubber band snaps loud. I freeze, sweating bullets, but he rolls over, breathing even again.

Minutes later, I’m back, slower, teasing his tip, then stroking full-on. It grows to 19cm, thick and heavy, hand aching. I’m lost, my 12cm soaking my briefs. I speed up, his breathing gets ragged, then—bam—he shoots, sticky cum hitting my hand, splattering his abs. Gasping, I wipe him with my tee, clean myself, and crash, guilty as hell.

Morning, I wake in Hawk’s arms, his big hand on my stomach, warm like a heater. His morning wood—19cm, rock-hard—presses my ass through his shorts. Face flaming, I shift his hand to my bulge, letting him cup me unconsciously. Electric. I bite my lip, savoring, till he grunts awake.

He blinks, pulls back, adjusts his boner, muttering: “Morning wood’s a bitch.” I play dumb, yawning: “Morning, Hawk.” He glances, smile awkward: “Sleep good?” I nod, replaying last night’s madness. Breakfast, his shorts still bulging—not fully down.

Post-meal, cafeteria run. Peak’s jogging, shirtless, waving, sweat dripping down dark pecs—instant thirst. Back at the dorm, Hawk claps my shoulder: “Weekend, I’ll tag along for that quilt. No more freezing.” I mumble “mm-hmm,” thinking: If I crash with you every night, I’d ditch the quilt to snuggle that muscle heat.

Chapter 3: Friday Night’s Two-Man Fire

Friday afternoon, dorm’s dead quiet. Dean and Peak, local boys, bailed home, leaving me and Hawk solo. Air’s missing that sweaty chaos—I’m lowkey shook. Eight PM, fresh from a shower, hair dripping, Hawk’s chilling on his bed, shirtless in white briefs, muscles glowing under the lamp. He looks up: “Finn, scrubbed up? Come kick it, I’m bored AF.”

I’m in blue briefs and a white tank, climbing beside him. His shower gel vibe mixes with jock musk—heart rate spiking. Cross-legged, playing cool, I ask: “Hawk, you miss Dean and Peak’s noise?” He drops his phone, stretches—pecs popping, nipples hard: “Kinda. They dip, it’s a ghost town. But you’re here, so not total deadsville.”

We chat—classes, hoops—he asks if I’d bulk up. I poke my scrawny arm, smirking: “Wanna, but this twig bod ain’t cooperating.” His big hand lands on my shoulder, warm and solid: “You got this—just grind smart, eat right.” He flexes his bicep—rock-hard—grins: “Feel that. Years of hustle.” I gulp, fingers brushing—hot stone. “Hawk, you’re goals—perfect bod,” I blurt. He’s smug: “All grind, fam.”

Lightbulb—I play curious: “Your pecs and nips are huge too. Trainable?” He pauses: “Pecs, yeah. Nips? Nah, just built that way.” Moonlight’s my wingman—I tug the blanket, lift my tank, pinch my bean-sized nip: “Yours are way bigger—what’s the deal?” He stares, eyes darkening, shrugs: “Genes, I guess.” I go for it, hand on his pec, sliding to his nip, rubbing: “Hawk, these feel worked—big and hard.”

He’s shook, my pinch making him twitch, a low “ungh” slipping: “Don’t mess with that…” Voice husky, holding back. I play dumb: “What’s up?” Both hands dive in, kneading his nips. His breathing’s a mess, chest heaving, soft moans leaking: “Fuck… stop…” But his eyes scream more. I’m hyped, fingers twirling his nips till they’re red-hot beans, sexy as sin.

“Yo, Hawk, you tweak these solo?” I tease. He hesitates, panting: “Yeah… sometimes.” I grin: “No wonder they’re touchy. I dabble, but mine ain’t this thicc.” I grab his hand, pull it to my chest: “Test mine.” He freezes, then pinches—zap—I moan, it swells to a bean. He mutters: “Yours ain’t bad—cute on you.”

Panting, I shoot: “Yours match your vibe—big pecs, peanut nips, pure fire.” His briefs tent, 19cm grinding my thigh. Our hands roam, tension explosive. Then—oh shit—my nip leaks, milky drops sliding. Hawk blinks: “You sweating?” I blush: “Nah, Hawk… I leak milk when played with.”

Jaw drops: “Dudes can milk? First I’m hearing this.” I mumble: “Sorry, wet your bed.” He’s chill: “No biggie.” Keeps flowing—I bite my lip: “Hawk, still going… suck it clean?” He stares, throat bobbing, nods: “How?” I whisper: “Just suck.” He dips, lips on my nip, sucking soft—mind blown. I grab his hair, moaning: “Ahh… Hawk…” He goes harder, tongue swirling, sipping sweet milk. Pulls back, licks lips: “Sweet, like milk, smooth as fuck.”

Gasping: “Thanks, Hawk… my turn.” I dive, sucking his nip—no milk, but hard as nails, pecs flexing. He’s losing it: “Fuck… too good, Finn…” I slide into his briefs, yank out his 19cm beast—raging. He’s panting, watching. I free my 12cm, stack ‘em, jerking—his thick heat vs. my slim throb. Speed up, he roars, cumming all over my hand; my precum mixes with his load, dripping sticky on the sheets. I collapse into his arms, his hand in my hair: “You’re a wild one, Finn.” I nuzzle his sweaty chest, blissed out.

Chapter 4: Peak in the Shower

Sunday afternoon, dorm building’s got that faint bleach vibe, air so cold I’m bundling up tight. Liam “Peak” Foster rolls in from soccer practice, dripping sweat, dark skin gleaming, 188cm frame filling out his kit like a damn ad. He shakes out wet hair, flashing me a grin: “Yo, Finn, just balled out all afternoon—beat. Shower with me? Bathhouse is empty, perfect chill spot.” I look up—sweat’s trickling down his pecs to his abs, boxer line peeking out, that rugged dude scent hitting hard. Face red, I nod: “Cool, Peak.”

A University’s bathhouse is old-school—rows of showerheads, low dividers, usually packed with jocks bumping muscles and cracking up. Today’s dead, just distant water echoes. I trail Peak in, and he’s peeling off—down to black boxers, muscles hard as steel, sweat and dirt mixing into a gritty, sexy stink. He turns: “You just gonna stand there? Strip, scrub my back—night snack’s on me.” I swallow, ditch my jacket and tee, standing in briefs next to his 188cm bulk—my 170cm twig bod looking extra frail.

He cranks the shower, water blasting, steam fogging up fast, droplets racing down his pecs and abs—thirst trap central. Hands me a towel: “C’mon, Finn, hit my back.” I take it, step behind, fingers brushing his broad, solid back—like a damn plank, slick with sweat and heat. I scrub hard, eyes drifting down—his tight ass hugged by boxers, 18cm bulge teasing the outline. Hand slips, towel drops to his waist, fingers grazing his ass cheek. He spins, smirking: “Yo, where’s that hand going? Sneak attack on your boy Peak?”

Face flaming, I stammer: “N-no…” He laughs, turns full-on, water cascading down his chest, boxers tenting hard. Squints at me: “Blushing already? Shy guy?” Before I can dodge, he yanks me under the spray, rough hands on my shoulders, growling low: “This skinny frame’s begging for a tune-up.” I’m still processing when his hand slides to my ass, kneading through my briefs, heavy enough to make my knees buckle.

“Peak…” I whimper, and he chuckles: “What’s that? Scared?” Rips my briefs off—12cm pops free in the mist. He glances, smirks: “Cute lil’ thing.” I wanna hide, but he pins me to the wall—wet tiles chilling my back. His boxers hit the floor, 18cm beast springing out, thick and dark, rubbing my thigh. I gasp, grabbing his arm: “Peak, not here…” He snorts: “Chill, no one’s around—water’s loud as fuck.”

No escape—he pries my ass open, water sluicing in, hot and dizzying. Bites my ear, voice rough: “Relax, Finn, gonna break you in.” Then—bam—he’s in from behind, 18cm stretching me wide, pain and heat crashing together. I bite my lip, tears welling, as he pounds—wild, relentless, every thrust slamming me forward. Water mixes with his sweat, dripping on my back, his musk frying my brain.

“Peak… slow down…” I beg, panting. He grins, breathless: “No brakes—you’re gripping too tight.” One hand slams my nipple, tweaking it red-hot, legs jelly. My precum’s dripping, mixing with the water pooling below. He ramps up, growls, and—boom—unloads inside, heat flooding me, body shaking. Pulls out, slaps my ass: “Good shit, huh? You took it like a champ.”

Legs shot, I’d collapse if he didn’t prop me up, water rinsing off the mess. He grabs a towel, wipes himself, tosses me one: “Clean up—sleeping together tonight.” I nod, face burning, brain scrambled. Post-shower, he’s in fresh boxers, claps my shoulder: “Let’s roll—snack’s on me.” I mumble “mm-hmm,” legs trembling, already hooked on the next “chill sesh.”

Back in the dorm, he sprawls out, winks: “You’re tough, Finn—stick with me, we’ll grind more.” I duck under my blanket, face hot, that shower scene branded in my head—unshakeable.

Chapter 5: Truth or Dare Chaos Night

Friday night, dorm’s rare quiet—Pax Dean’s out, just me, Luke “Hawk” Harris, and Peak chilling. Peak hauls in beer cans from downstairs, grinning: “Weekend vibes—let’s drink, game, unwind.” Hawk’s lounging shirtless in basketball shorts, nods lazy: “Bet—Finn’s in too, no moping.” I’m on my bed in a tee and briefs, nod back, nerves buzzing with hype.

Beers pop open, dorm fills with that yeasty buzz, vibes heating up. Peak slaps his thigh: “Truth or Dare, fam—lose, you sip or strip.” Hawk smirks: “You’re fucked with that plan.” Peak fires back: “We’ll see—Finn’s playing too.” I blush, agree, and we huddle up, phones picking random numbers for the fall guy.

Round one, Peak loses—rips off his shirt, dark pecs and abs flexing, sweat and beer stink hitting hard: “Feels good—next!” Round two, Hawk’s out, picks truth—spills a cringe first-kiss fumble, me and Peak howling. My turn, luck’s trash, smallest number. Peak grins wicked: “Finn, ditch a layer—or Hawk gropes your chest. Pick.”

Face lava-hot, I glance at Hawk—he coughs, playing cool: “Don’t mess with him.” I bite down, whisper: “Hawk can touch.” He freezes, then reaches—big, warm hand over my tee, fingers pinching my nipple soft. I moan, it hardens under the fabric, his ears pink as he mutters: “Damn… sensitive much?” Peak hoots: “Hawk’s got skills—round two!”

I lose again—Peak cackles: “Finn, pants off—or lap time with me.” I wanna vanish, Hawk frowns: “Ease up.” But Peak’s relentless, pulls me over—I plop on his lap, his hand dives into my briefs, grabbing my 12cm: “Hard already? Thirsty thoughts?” I squirm, panting—he locks me in, dark chest scorching my back, brain melting.

Hawk growls: “Peak, chill.” But his eyes darken, 19cm tenting his shorts, outline screaming. I gasp, bold up: “Hawk… I’m good.” Peak laughs, yanks my tee up—pale chest and hard nips exposed: “Look at this tender cut.” Hawk caves, leans in, mouth on my nipple, tongue swirling—wet heat frying me.

Peak’s not outdone—hand on my ass, kneading: “This cake’s prime.” Licks my neck, teeth grazing, leaving marks. I’m trapped, front and back sizzling with muscle—Hawk sucking my nip sloppy, Peak’s fingers probing behind. Legs clamp, moans choppy: “Hawk… Peak…” Hawk pulls off, panting: “Not so loud—next room’ll hear.” Slips his 19cm free, presses it to my lips: “Lick it, hush.”

I open, tongue on his tip—salty heat flooding me, heart racing. Peak grinds from behind, 18cm rubbing my crack through briefs, smirking: “Mouth’s busy, huh?” Peels my briefs, fingers stretching me—I’m double-teamed, mind blank. Hawk groans, unloads in my mouth, sticky spilling down my chin. Before I recover, Peak slams in—18cm deep, hitting my spot, precum soaking the sheets.

Post-climax, I’m wrecked on the bed, panting. Peak slaps my ass: “Finn, you’re toast—hilarious.” Hawk wipes my mouth with a tissue, ruffles my hair: “No more booze—you get wild.” His eyes soften, Peak sprawls: “This game’s fuckin’ lit—next week, rematch.” I burrow under covers, legs shaking, secretly craving more chaos.

Chapter 6: Dean’s Soft Domination

Saturday afternoon, A University’s pool hall’s dead quiet, just water ripples echoing. Pax Dean’s training, mentioned offhand this morning: “Finn, swing by the pool later if you’re free—bring a towel.” I nodded, no biggie, but all day I’m stuck on him in swim trunks—185cm, lean muscle, sexy without flexing. Four PM, towel in hand, I hit the pool—chlorine air, steam rising. He climbs out after his last lap, water dripping down his abs, trunks clinging, 17cm outline teasing.

He spots me, shakes wet hair, strolls over, smirking: “Right on time.” I hand the towel, eyes low: “Dean, you swim like a pro.” He wipes his chest—muscles flexing subtle—says coolly: “It’s whatever, routine.” Glances my way: “Cold out—come to the locker room, don’t freeze.” I nod, trailing him, heart thumping.

Locker room’s empty—cabinets, benches, heat cranking, his scent mixing with steam. He drops his trunks, bare-assed, 17cm soft and wet, like a damn statue. I blush, look away—he saunters close, voice low: “You keep staring—what’s up?” I stammer: “N-nothing…” He chuckles, deep: “Don’t play dumb, Finn—I clocked you ages ago.”

Steps in, backs me to a locker—thud. I’m in a tee and briefs, skinny frame dwarfed by him. He leans, fingers brushing my chest, pinching my nip through fabric: “This spot’s your weakness, huh?” I moan, it perks up—he smirks: “Knew it.” Lifts my tee, mouth on my nip, tongue teasing—legs buckling. I grip his shoulders, gasping: “Dean… don’t…”

He pulls back, lips glossy: “Don’t what? Hate it?” Before I answer, his hand’s in my briefs, grabbing my 12cm, thumb swiping the tip: “Hard quick, huh?” His moves aren’t Peak’s rough chaos or Hawk’s warm rush—cool, controlled, deadly precise. I pant, he ditches my nip, kisses my neck, fingers probing behind, stretching slow: “Chill, don’t clench.”

I bite my lip, shame flooding: “Dean… not here…” He hums: “Why not? No one’s coming.” Stands tall, pulls out his 17cm—sleek, hard, a spear. Grabs my waist, slides in front-on, slow and deep, every thrust nailing my spot—tears spill. I sob: “Dean… too much…” He whispers: “Take it—you’re tighter than my ex.” Pace steady, relentless, precum pooling, legs jelly.

He sucks my other nip, tongue circling, fingers tweaking the first—brain blanks. I claw his back, nails digging muscle—he grunts, speeds up. I hit peak, voice shot, he follows, unloading on my chest, heat dripping down. Pants, wipes me with the towel: “You’re a damn tease with those reactions.”

I slump against the locker, legs quaking. He cleans me up, says flat: “Keep this from Peak—his mouth’s too big.” I nod, flushed—he pats my head: “Go rest, you’re wrecked.” Leaving, he glances back, smirks: “Next time for the towel?” I mumble “mm-hmm,” already craving his next takeover.

Chapter 7: Three-Way Peak Chaos

Sunday night, dorm’s power craps out, heat’s gone, cold seeping through the cracks—shivers all around. Peak’s bundled, cursing: “This school’s trash—again?!” Hawk frowns: “No fix—bunk together, stay warm.” Dean nods, drags a mattress down, piles on blankets: “Four’s tight, but we’ll manage.” I stand by, tee and briefs, eyeing their shirtless bods—nerves and hype clashing.

Mattress is small—shoulders mashed, muscles on muscles, heat and sweat thick. I’m center—Peak’s dark pecs left, Hawk’s broad shoulders right, Dean’s long legs pinning mine. Dark hides it, but their warmth’s got my dick stirring. Peak rolls, hand landing on my thigh, mumbling: “Soft lil’ dude.” I bite my lip, silent—Hawk shifts, arm over my chest, palm on my nip. I whimper, shrinking from the zap.

Dean’s foot rubs my crotch, smirking: “Finn, you hard?” Cool but taunting—Peak snaps awake, hand diving into my briefs, grabbing my 12cm: “Well, damn—thinking nasty?” Hawk growls: “Don’t mess with him.” Peak ignores, yanks the blanket—me exposed: “Finn’s not dodging tonight.” Vibe ignites—three sets of eyes lock on me, hungry as wolves.

Peak moves first—rips my briefs, 18cm grinding my crack: “This ass is begging for it.” Slams in from behind, rough and wild—I yelp, pain and heat colliding. Hawk steps up, 19cm at my lips: “Not so loud—lick it.” I suck, tongue on his tip—salty heat choking me. Dean sits up, mouth on my nip, tongue swirling, fingers joining Peak’s stretch: “Ease up, don’t grip.”

Trapped in their scents, double-teamed, mind blanks. Peak pounds fast, shoving me forward—Hawk grips my head, deep and bossy. Dean’s tongue soaks my nip, fingers hitting my spot—I sob: “Peak… Hawk… Dean…” Voice wrecked, begging. Peak laughs: “No use crying—you’re ours tonight.” Growls, unloads inside—heat jolts me.

Dean flips me, slides in front—17cm slow, deep, pro moves: “Tears? You love it.” I claw his back, voice gone—Hawk sucks my other nip, milk leaking: “Sweet shit.” Dean ramps up—I burst, he paints my chest. Hawk takes over, .Concurrent 19cm back in, tender but owning: “Finn, you’re mine.” Deep, heavy thrusts—tears stream, peaks stacking—I nearly black out. He roars, fills me, sticky mixing with sweat.

Dorm’s all gasps and musky sweet stink—I’m limp, legs sieving. Peak slaps my ass: “Ours now, Finn—good shit?” Dean lights a smoke, cool: “Don’t wear him out—class tomorrow.” Hawk pulls me close, kisses my forehead: “I got you, no worries.” I melt into his chest, dazed, dorm life forever wild now.

[End]