Category Archives: The Bulging Singlet

Masseurs Gone Wild: The Wrestling Champions

Here’s the beginning of Masseurs Gone Wild: The Wrestling Champions, a brand-new tale by Happiest Ending and the conclusion to the Masseurs Gone Wild series!


When Mansur dragged Ethan’s hand to his cock, he growled and snorted like he didn’t like it, even though he was the one who did it. He closed his eyes. Ethan wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to jack Mansur off. That seemed right, except that Mansur had a face like he didn’t want it.
He had also implied he wouldn’t allow that, back when he first showed up for his massage. Ethan was the only male masseur at the Tophaul Massage Parlor, so he sometimes got clients who were annoyed they didn’t have a woman. Mansur was such a client.
He scowled when he came in, and looked back out in the hall.

“Where is the Chinese woman?” he asked with a crude, British-inflected voice.
“She’s with another client,” Ethan said. He motioned for him to get up on the table.
Mansur was a thick-bodied, barrel-chested Turkish man. He had a hairy torso and a dense beard, and he wore a fez above a Turkish men’s suit. He didn’t look like he was used to dressing in nice clothes. He shifted his weight uncomfortably in them as he came into the room. People didn’t usually dress so formally at a massage parlor.
“I do not want to do anything gay,” Mansur said with a sneer.
“Oh. Okay.”
“I am here for the tournament,” he said. “My coach has warned me of America. There is too much gay here.”
“I see,” Ethan said. He had already guessed that Mansur was here for the tournament. This city was home to the International Wrestling Tournament right now, so the streets were crawling with hot muscle-bound foreigners. Ethan was excited to think he was starting to get them in his massage parlor.
He was disappointed, however, that Mansur did not want a happy ending. He awkwardly stood there and waited while Mansur took off his clothes. He quietly removed everything — most men needed encouragement to take off their clothes in front of Ethan, but Mansur didn’t seem to care. He folded his jacket, shirt, pants, and even his tie and socks. His folding was awkward though, like he had little experience with it but knew he was supposed to do it.
When he dropped his briefs (hairy men in tight briefs were so sexy Ethan thought, trying not to be obvious as he checked out Mansur’s package), Mansur hopped up onto the massage table. He had a massive, uncut cock that flopped against his thigh.
Again, that was unusual. The vast majority of American men were reluctant to get naked and then when they did, covered their crotches. When they got up on the table, they laid on their belly to cover up their cock and balls, and because it was generally assumed that massages would be focused on the back and shoulders.
But Mansur apparently expected Ethan to work on his chest. Ethan used warming, scented oil, and Mansur groaned as Ethan began to knead his flesh.

First-Time Jocks in the Barracks

Here’s a sample from the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Barracks, a new story by Happiest Ending!

Drill Sergeant Mitchell Armstrong stood behind the barracks, peering into the window. He stood on the air conditioner so he could see in the high window to the showering area in the back of the barracks. He smiled as he watched Cadet Brandon Scaramuzza sit on Danny Lafleur’s face.

Two dozen of the heftiest, most athletic cadets in the Army were in those barracks, and Armstrong watched them shower. He could have gone in there, but then they would have stopped and he couldn’t watch any more.

It wasn’t a rimjob, of course. Presumably Lafleur had lost some sort of bet, so he allowed Scaramuzza to sit on his face. It was only for a moment. Had he farted on his face? Maybe, but Armstrong didn’t think so. He could hear them laughing as LaFleur blushed and clawed at his own cheeks.

Then they all started dancing and Armstrong was confused — a sudden dance party? Was this a Japanese game show?

But then he heard a pounding techno beat. That seemed to be A Thing, which he didn’t understand because he was too old — every once in a while, this generation of cadets put on electronic music and apparently they were all required to dance like club kids. It wouldn’t have been strange if they actually enjoyed that kind of music, but not a single one of them actually chose to listen to it in any other context.

Armstrong didn’t understand the younger generations.

They danced together for about a minute, stopping only when someone started slapping Cadet Lee Amasuzi’s ass. It soon degenerated into a torrent of laughter and horseplay — they treated each other like strippers, slapping each other’s ass and jiggling their buttcheeks in front of each other’s faces.

Drill Sergeant Armstrong began masturbating. He was just inches from those plump asses, and he could even taste the soapy shower water as it covered their taut skin.

These were not any random collection of Army recruits. They had been chosen to be on the US Army wrestling team. They were given a shared barrack and Armstrong was put in charge of their training, all because the Army was tired of losing to the Navy in wrestling.

It was Armstrong’s job to turn them into champion wrestlers, and hopefully soldiers as well.

Inside the barracks, the horseplay had turned into a game called Boner Loses. They didn’t invent it, it had been passed down from an earlier group of cadets. Drill Sergeant Armstrong had even played a very similar game back when he was a new recruit, which felt like it was eons ago. Armstrong was glad that Cadet Scaramuzza was going to play this game now, because he really hoped to watch Scaramuzza lose.

Brandon Scaramuzza was “forced” to play — he wasn’t exactly forced, per se, but he had implied he would win if he did play, and he was urged to back that up. He frantically tried to come up with way to get out of it, but he came up with nothing. Everyone expected him to do it, and Brandon wasn’t willing to violate their expectations like that — they were his expectations too. That’s because Brandon saw himself as more sexually experienced than anyone else here. He had had sex with nine girls, more than anyone else in his barracks. He had had sex with two women at once. He had had sex with an older woman.

So he thought he was well-suited to win Boner Loses. That was a game wherein the player (Brandon) had to stand there while another player (usually someone who had lost a bet, in this case Lee Amasuzi) had to put his dick in his mouth.

First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: A Wrestler Tradition

Here’s a sample from the beginning of First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: A Wrestler Tradition, a new story by Happiest Ending!


Every year, the wrestling team told their new freshmen about the “happy ending tradition”. They were told that they had to get a “happy ending” from Charlie, the team masseur and physical therapist. He used to work in a massage parlor nearby, but now just worked directly for the team. He was available after every game and every practice — and at many other times, depending on his schedule.

It wasn’t really a rule, at least not one that anybody enforced. The seniors told the freshmen it was a rule. But it wasn’t like the seniors monitored everyone’s cocks to see who got handjobs from whom, and Charlie refused to say. He claimed medical confidentiality. So no one had any way of knowing who had done it and who hadn’t.

But the freshmen only figured that out gradually. When the seniors told them it was required in September, the ones who were comfortable with it did it right away. The rest put it off and eventually forgot or pretended they had already done it. The seniors occasionally asked for updates on who had done it, but they never had any way of checking.

So when the freshman Delroy showed up after one practice, Charlie felt duty-bound to tell him he didn’t have to go through with it.

“They won’t check, man, and I promise I’ll tell them you did it if they ask,” Charlie said.

“Really? Oh holy shit, thanks, man,” Delroy beamed. His tangled mop of brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His singlet was soaked too, crumpled on the floor, his youthful muscles bulging through the fabric. Delroy was a freshman, but he had been a poor student his whole life and had failed two years of grade-school (held back in fifth and eighth grade), so he was older and much bigger than other freshmen. He had a tuft of coarse black chest hair that just barely poked out from his singlet when he wore it — Charlie fantasized about sucking on that bit of chest hair every time he saw Delroy in the singlet.

Charlie felt a pang of regret: He had a feeling he could have told Delroy anything was mandatory and he’d have done it. He kneaded Delroy’s muscled shoulders. When he gave a massage, he didn’t much think about sex, even if the men he massaged were sexy — he was a professional, and he did it so often that it didn’t feel sexy.

But Delroy had been talking about sex and generally making it hard to avoid thinking about it. His pre-shower post-practice musk filled the air, making it difficult for Charlie to focus.

“I was gonna try to find you tonight, like see if I could come to your place,” Delroy said with a groan as Charlie worked a knot out of his back. “I’m getting drunk at the Halloween party tonight. I thought I could get a blowjob from a gay dude if I was drunk.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “You know it doesn’t have to be a blowjob?”

“What? I’m not doing anal.” He scoffed.

“No, I mean a handjob.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yep.” Charlie nodded though Delroy’s eyes were closed so he didn’t see.

Delroy fidgeted on his back, eyes closed. His fingers rubbed each other and he shifted his weight. Charlie had to suppress a giggle.

“Really? Just a handjob?” It sounded like he didn’t believe it.

“Yeah, that’s all they expect. That’s what a ‘happy ending’ is,” Charlie said.

“Oh… Is that… ? I mean, like… you’re gay, right?”


“So do you…?” He blushed. “I mean… do you like… want to?”


“Sorry, I don’t know what gays are into. I mean, dudes. I know that. Gays are into dudes. But like… do you like giving handjobs?”

“I do.”

“Why?” He laughed and blushed. He opened his eyes and looked down over his expansive chest. He still wore his jockstrap, which was dingy gray. His cock twitched. “Sorry.”

“Delroy, do you want a handjob?”

He bit his lip. “I mean… I ain’t think you would do that. I guess I thought you’d make me put it in your mouth. I can’t do that. That’s too gay. Okay? Don’t do that.” He paused. “Yeah. Yes. You can jack me off.”

No Homo: Jocks

Here’s a sample from No Homo: Jocks, a new story in the No Homo series of hardcore gay erotica that’s too hot for “gay sex”! This entry is all about college jocks hazing the freshmen on the wrestling team!

As soon as he got to his first practice on the college team, George regretted signing up for wrestling back in high school. The team had been short one man, and the coach, his mother’s boyfriend, insisted he join up, just so he could put it on his college application. Since George’s admission to college was in doubt, it seemed like a good plan. Colleges were competitive in 1951 on account of so many soldiers attending on the GI Bill, and George needed to do something to differentiate himself from all the other high schoolers with good, but not great, grades.

But then in his first, and only, match on the high school team, he drew three weak opponents, defeated them all and became the team savior. There was even a college scout there who signed him up on the spot for a scholarship at Goldendale Hills University, the elite private school in Mississippi.

He was elated then. But when he showed up for orientation in the required suit and tie, he realized that staying on the team was a prerequisite to keeping his scholarship, without which he had no hope of continuing his education. It had all seemed so simple before it began.

So George knew he needed to learn how to wrestle for real. This wasn’t his rinky-dink little town in southern Mississippi, this was a major sport at a big school. He’d be competing against the cream of the crop.

That put a lot of pressure on him, which wasn’t helped by his heavy workload. As a pre-engineering student, he would be taking a lot of dense math classes that he was sure he’d struggle with. The thought of being unable to balance his work and school, and having to go home to his mother a failure, made his heart race.

The first practice was easy enough. It was a lot of running and some other general exercises, along with a bunch of yelling from Coach Winnow about representing the university well. George was fit and quick, and a few of the clumsier boys attracted Winnow’s ire that first day, so George managed to acquit himself well.

As that first practice ended, George and the other wrestlers kneeled, listening to Coach Winnow go over the sports program’s rules. “That means that if I find out any of you are breaking the law, or consorting with girls, or anything like that, you are off the team,” he said. Then he looked around nervously. “Anybody here Jewish?” Nobody said anything. “Then I expect all of you at chapel on Sundays too. And if you’re Catholic, you can go to Saint Andrew’s. The college sends a bus in the morning, and I know Father Murphy, so I will make sure you’re there. No excuses.” He motioned into the crowd of young men, and one of the other wrestlers stepped forward.

Wayne Dashell was tall, and looked too old to be in college, George thought, at least twenty-five (though he later claimed to be only twenty-one). He had a thick shock of dirty blond hair and a smattering of it on his chest, which was broad and strapping, his muscles straining against the singlet he wore. He was the oldest and biggest senior, and he grinned like a cocky bastard as Coach Winnow introduced him.

“Most of you’s already met Wayne. He’s the team captain. What he says, goes. If he tells me you ain’t giving this team everything you got, then you are off the team,” Coach Winnow said. “Now go shower up.”

They walked slowly towards the locker, but then Winnow clapped and shouted something angry that George couldn’t quite make out. He gathered the gist of it was “Run, shitheads!”, since that was what everyone else did, so George sprinted the rest of the way to the locker room. The crowd of wrestlers were so intent on following Coach’s directions, they almost charged en masse into a colored janitor who pushed a mop bucket through the hall.

George and a few other freshmen in front fell in a pile near the colored janitor, who just smirked and walked away. George squirmed as he tried to free himself from the writhing pile of freshmen. Wayne and the other seniors laughed and threw their sweat-stained practice singlets at them as they went by. More than a few stripped even further than that, standing there in the hall in the nude as they watched the freshmen scamper away from their jockstraps.

Freshmen pile on!

Spitting away the salty fabric of someone’s undershirt, George rose to his feet. He tried to appear nonplussed by it, but he had always been a clean boy and didn’t like this kind of close contact with other men and their clothes. He knew there’d be a lot of hazing here at college though, so it wasn’t a surprise.

The upperclassmen stood imposingly above George, here in the hall, right outside the locker. No one was around, but still, George was shocked — in his hometown, men just didn’t get naked outside of the locker room. He stood there dumbfounded as one hairy Italian-type man bared a thick hairy prick. He wagged it in George’s direction.

“Hey!” Coach Winnow barked from the gym. “Git in there! What’d I tell you about strippin’ off in the halls? There’s wimmin on staff here, Joey!”

Joey smiled proudly but did as he was told; he waited for Coach Winnow to turn around, then grabbed his crotch and spat on the ground. George followed the last of the seniors into the locker room. It was not a large room, and George felt cramped immediately. There wasn’t really enough space for the entire team to change at once. He felt more than one limp, greasy cock brush against his hand as he found an empty locker. It looked like the others by and large weren’t upset by it, so George pretended he didn’t mind the nudity and cock-contact either.

George was nervous. He had never liked naked showering with his teammates, and at his high school, his mother had intervened to get him out of it. He had always claimed the humidity upset his lungs, but in truth he was self-conscious about a smallish penis. He hoped nobody noticed, especially as he saw a few of the freshmen, including Wayne and Joey, were noticeably huge — that was probably why they were so willing to get naked in the hallway.

“Freshmen get the Corner!” the seniors called out as they lined up at the shower entrance. They were naked, sneering and carrying thick wooden paddles, which they had gotten from a closet in one corner of the locker room. The Corner apparently referred to one showerhead that stuck out more than the others, and looked older, as though it was a relic of an earlier showering area that had later been expanded. This one showerhead was large enough that its spray covered the entire corner with vaguely rust-flavored water, which freshmen were required to share so the older players could shower freely in the modern-day showerheads.

The freshmen were lined up at the entrance, where the seniors and juniors barred entry. The two biggest seniors were right there watching as the freshmen got ready. They had their hands on their hips, thick cocks swinging between their legs. Since both men were very tall, their crotches were at most of the freshmen’s belly-height, or even higher.

Let’s see ‘em, nitwits! We gotta examine yer meat! Better meet the minimum or you get beat!

George’s heart skipped as he saw what was happening — before going in the shower, all the freshmen had to compare cocks with the five head seniors. Anyone smaller than all five got a paddling on the way in. The upperclassmen inside the shower brandished paddles and smiled at the younger men.

“It’s for your own good!” Wayne called out as the fourth freshman in line, a ratty, lanky kid with a faint mustache, winced. “Paddling makes your dick bigger!” The other seniors laughed and hooted as though they really believed that.

The lean freshman bent over and blushed, but the seniors weren’t so quick, telling him to wait until everyone had gone through the line. He was the first to be singled out for his small penis, which was a relief to George — he hoped he would pass the exam, but he was glad to at least not be the first to fail.

“What’s your name, little boy?”

“Travis Barnett,” said the lean kid, while the other seniors began quickly checking through the other freshmen. “I’m not a boy. I’m almost nineteen.”

“You got a cock like a little boy.”

Travis, who blushed beet-red, was still the only one pulled aside when George got to the front of the line. As soon as he saw the seniors’ naked cocks, he knew he would be paddled too. They were huge, seemingly impossibly huge — he didn’t think cocks came that big, much less that all five of them would be so gigantic.

Joey, that hairy Italian barrel-chested swarthy bastard was at front. George had never liked Italians very much. Joey whacked his own dick against George’s, smiling as he said, “Hey boys, I think we gotst another one.” He seemed to delight in watching George squirm at their cock-to-cock contact. George thought this kind of touching was inappropriate, maybe even sinful, but he wasn’t surprised that Joey didn’t see things that way — George’s pa had always said Italian men were like that. If’n you ever get locked up, George, pull whatever strings you have to so you ain’t got an Eyeteye for a cellmate, they’ll take your manhood like it were’t nothin’. George had always assumed that was his father exaggerating, as he was prone to do, but he felt sure that Joey was dangerous.

“Lookit him, he got a dick like my thumb,” Joey said.

They all crowded around to look. Joey’s dick was at least ten inches long and as thick as George’s forearm. He took his own dick and George’s in the same hand, stroking both shafts together. Joey was at least twice as long as George, and even thicker in comparison.

Damn, Joey, you touchin’ him!

“Cuz I ain’t mingherlino,” Joey said. It was obvious that he didn’t really speak Italian and he used that word — whose meaning George didn’t know — without really pronouncing it right. He probably had only a vague idea what it meant himself. “You squeamish weaklings are worried you’ll get hard if you touch another man.” He laughed and rubbed his entire hairy body against George’s, to prove that he didn’t get hard.

George blushed beet-red, though he tried to look stoic. Next to him was Travis, the puny redneck who looked like he was on the verge of tears as he and George were led into the shower.

“Bend over and grab your ankles, you pencil-dicked freaks!” Joey bellowed. He looked on hungrily at the pair of fresh-faced freshmen stammering as they got into position. George’s cock had never felt so small. “Come on, girls, grab your ankles. Keep your butt up!”

George did as he was commanded. He grabbed his ankles and tried to ignore the hot, humid shower air wafting over his suddenly open asshole.

The first sharp crack of pain made him yelp, and the whole team laughed, even the other freshmen. Make the fresh piggies cry! But when Travis started sobbing after his first hit, everyone soon started to ignore George.

Toughen up, little piggie!

The sound of the paddle slapping against Travis’ ass caused George to feel like he was being hit all over again; it made his ass-cheeks twinge with remembered pain. The upperclassmen switched between paddling Travis and George, but when it became apparent that George was not reacting much and Travis was crying, they gradually forgot that George was supposed to be paddled too.

If you don’t stop crying, we’ll give you something to sob about, you little weakling!

Shove the handle up his ass!

He stood up when it was done, gently rubbing his red asscheeks. George pretended to be in more pain than he was, in the hope that everyone would forget he was still owed more paddling. Travis had difficulty staying still, and so Wayne was holding him down as Joey whacked him with the paddle. Wayne’s blond hair shook and dripped with shower water as he hugged Travis tight. He even made sure to line his crotch up with Travis’, so as Travis writhed in agony, his small cock pressed against Wayne’s oversized meat.

The most disconcerting aspect of all this, George thought, was that a couple of the seniors were starting to get hard. They weren’t quite erect, but George saw their cockshafts jerk to attention when Travis’ thick cheeks jiggled. Back in high school, when someone had a boner in the shower, the rest of the team teased them about it mercilessly. He was shocked that the wrestling team here at GHU took it so lightly. No one even seemed to notice, even when Joey’s hand instinctually fluttered to his own dick; he gave it a stroke. George gasped (and he thought some of the other naked freshmen nearby did the same) — he masturbated himself right here in front of everyone, only for a moment and he didn’t blow his wad, but still, as far as George was concerned, that was beyond the pale.

Any girl who sees that is gonna laugh at you, limp-dick!

Finally it was all over. The seniors laughed at Travis’ red, tear-stained face, but one of their buddies had run by the shower to tell them something about a party with girls, and now the seniors were in a hurry to finish up and get out of there. They continued calling Travis a girl as they showered, however, and Travis stayed there pretending he wasn’t on the verge of tears.

Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed that George didn’t get all of the paddlings he had been promised. He hurried up and got out of there as soon as he could do so without attracting attention. He avoided making eye contact with Travis on the way out.

Jockstrap Haunt 3

This is a sample chapter from Jockstrap Haunt 3 by Randall Eisenhorn. It’s a hardcore tale of gay jock rough trade, and it’s available along with eight other complete stories — plus more bonus content — in the megabundle Infinite Innings!

As soon as Spencer showed up for his first practice on the Goldendale Hills University wrestling team, I knew I had to stick with him for awhile. He was a baby-faced freshman with the body of a long-time Marine, I thought, tall and strapped, with toned muscles that I suspected came from farmwork, based on his twang and homespun swagger.


I was a ghost, you see, cursed to inhabit the underwear of men at Goldendale Hills. Spencer was my latest target, and I was delighted to see he had an outsized cock that almost burst from his jockstrap. I cradled his balls as he awkwardly pulled on his singlet, silently watching the other freshmen.


He lined up with the unsteady gait of a man who was used to being in charge — he had probably been the biggest bully at his high school, I thought, and now felt unsure about how to act as a freshman somewhere new. His balls were sweaty with nervous sweat, which I licked as he listened to Coach Wilson’s speech.


As always happened when I inhabited a man’s underwear for long, Spencer began to get hard. The hornier I got from possessing every supple inch of his body, the hornier he got no matter what was around him.


They sparred, and I was so enthralled I could barely pay attention. Spencer was not acquitting himself well, probably because he was distracted by my ghostly touches. I was not real enough to be seen or truly felt, but he sensed me on occasion.


As he got in position to spar again, standing overtop his partner, I stuck my nose in his ass. The tight singlet clung to his skin and smelled of his clean, pure sweat. My phantomic tongue swept up his buttcrack from taint to the small of his back, where faint blond hairs tickled my lips. He shuddered. The whistle blew.


Spencer was on the ground, pinned, before he could blink. I nuzzled his neck and his powerful pecs with hard nipples as he walked to the sidelines. He nodded as Coach Wilson gave him a talking-to.


“You had better get your ass in gear,” Coach Wilson said. “I know you can do better than that.”


Spencer clicked his tongue against his teeth and rolled his eyes with the look of a man who had lost his temper. He snarled at Coach Wilson. “I’m off my game, alright? It’s the first fucking day, man, lay off!”


Wilson looked at him with stunned disbelief. Spencer’s balls crawled up a little in his sac like he knew he had done something wrong. “You’re gonna talk to me like that? Boy, I will bounce you off this team before your girlfriend can make you cum, and I bet that happens in about three seconds flat. So are you gonna ‘pologize and show me a little respect?”


Spencer rolled his eyes again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Coach Wilson interrupted him.


“You fucking hesitate with me, boy? You’re here on a scholarship, one I can take away anytime I like. Why don’t you go run ten laps, then see if you can find some respect? You’re three pounds past your weight class anyway, fattie.”


I think Spencer was glad to be running, where he could cool off his temper. He made a show of not liking it though. I knew how uncomfortable it was to run with a hardon, so I tried to avoid molesting him.


But by the time he was finishing his last lap, I couldn’t resist. His back was dripping with sweat into the elastic of his jockstrap. I sucked every salty drop off.


Practice was just about finishing, and the wrestlers were all gathered in front of Coach Wilson. Spencer awkwardly approached, having finished his laps. He was panting for breath.


Wilson grabbed him by the balls. Spencer gasped and tried to move away but Wilson held him in place. The other wrestlers all winced but stayed silent. “Where’m I holdin’ you, boy?”


“What? My balls… My balls, Coach,” Spencer said. His voice trembled with pain and anxiety, though Coach Wilson didn’t squeeze, he just held on.


“That’s right. I got you by the balls-“ Coach Wilson stopped and squeezed Spencer’s shaft, which was hard. “You got a boner, boy?”




“Yes, you do. You some kinda queer? That’s okay if you are. We got a queer on the basketball team too,” Wilson said. He raised one eyebrow.




Coach Wilson’s rough fingers caressed the worn fabric of Spencer’s jockstrap, which was my home so I felt as though Coach was massaging my entire body. He squeezed just a little on Spencer’s balls, and the young buck whelped in pain, then fell into shameful silence as the team laughed at him.


Coach Wilson roughly pulled down the jockstrap, and I fell to the floor, on Spencer’s big, sweaty feet. Wilson pointed to Spencer’s hard cock, which was still ragingly erect because the fabric of my jockstrap was still touching him.


“You tryin’ to tell me you ain’t a faggot? Standing here in front of me with a hardon?”


“Coach, I don’t know why, it just happens sometimes-“


“Oh, well, so you got a hardon but you ain’t really horny?”


“Yeah.” He was uncertain — it was obvious Coach Wilson was leading him into a trap.


“So prove it,” he said, “Prove you ain’t really a faggot. Cuz I think you really is a faggot,” he reached out and grabbed Spencer’s cock, giving it a few quick strokes. “If you ain’t, you won’t cum from a tug job from a man, right?”


The team laughed and hooted as Coach Wilson began stroking. It was obvious that Spencer was on the verge of cumming already, so they knew where this was going. Wilson kept at it with precision and care, like a farmer handling his livestock.


I knew it was my fault he was in this position, so I felt bad and thought about moving on, but I wasn’t close enough to any other players. Besides which, I was nutting alongside Spencer as his balls curled up in his jockstrap.


“You nuttin’ already, boy? You must be a faggot fersure.”


He moaned involuntarily and rolled his eyes as his orgasm overtook him. A few drops of salty sweet cum landed right on me, and I could taste their masculine flavor just as though I was sucking him off.


Coach Wilson held up his hand for silence from the team. He grinned down at Spencer’s embarrassed face, and said, “See? I knew you was a faggot. There ain’t nothing wrong with that, it’s just a fact. Now go on home, queerbait.”





Straight College Wrestler Revenge

This is a sample chapter from Straight College Wrestler Revenge, a story in The Bulging Singlet series from  It is also available along with many other stories for a great value in the Brutewood Medium Security, Vol. 1 compilation.

Alessandra was sitting in the stands. Scott saw her there, pretty, dark-haired, smiling supportively. He could tell his wrestling matches bored her to tears, but he was glad she came along anyway. He couldn’t wait to fuck her after the match, he thought, he’d been waiting and holding off all day so he could destroy her pussy later. He knew he’d wrestle better if his balls were full.

He sauntered out for his next round, noticing the familiar blond face of his old friend Tom Farley. They hadn’t spoken in years. It threw Scott off his game — he was used to wrestling strangers in strange uniforms, from strange schools, not someone he used to know well from a school right down the road.

They grimly nodded at each other, Scott not sure if he was nodding in recognition of their relationship or if it was merely a perfunctory good-sportsman kind of greeting. Did Tom recognize him? He had to, Scott decided, they had known each other for years, used to hang out every single day after school.

His horniness for Alessandra got the best of him moments after the match begun, as he grappled Tom and they went to the ground. His cock in his jockstrap almost immediately got hard. That wasn’t too uncommon in this sport, but Scott was embarrassed that Tom would know it. They used to play around in middle school and early high school, before drifting apart, and when they wrestled in their backyard, the loser always had to suck off the winner.

Of course, this was collegiate wrestling, not backyard horseplay. So Scott wasn’t worried about such dire consequences of a loss this time. But grappling with his friend’s muscles again reminded him of how he felt back then, when his very manhood seemed to be at stake with every bout.

He was so thrown off by the surprise opponent and his stubborn erection, Scott wrestled poorly. He knew he was going to lose a few minutes into the match, and it was over soon after. Tom had dominated him, and gotten him into an easy leg-lock that Scott only made a perfunctory effort at escaping.

After the match, Scott showered, thinking about Allessandra, trying to forget about the loss. He laughed with his teammates appropriately, all of them avoiding the sight of each other’s cocks. He knew he wasn’t the only one who had occasionally traded off blowjobs when they were young, some of them had admitted it during late-night drinking sessions. But there was no room for faggotry in adult wrestling. He had to admit, though, the men of his wrestling team were sturdy, well-built and mostly handsome. Their muscles gleamed with moisture, white foamy suds covering them and rinsing off, their limbs and chest flexing as they talked and laughed.

He was so lost in his musings on sexuality that Scott barely noticed his teammates had all left the shower, not until he saw Tom walk into the otherwise empty showering area. He stopped short when he and Scott recognized each other. Tom’s dark pubic hair was trimmed, his long cock extending out as though almost semihard already.

“Oh, hey,” Tom said, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Hey, what’s up, man?” Scott said.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and then fell silent. Tom was a raven-haired bristly Greek-American, who now had a thick beard and muscles pouring out of his short frame. Scott was taller, handsome, with a face like a painting of a British king, blond hair resplendent when it was wet and well-lit.

“You remember our tradition, right?” Tom asked after a minute or two. He had on a wry smile.

“Man, don’t bring that up,” Scott said.

“Fine, whatever, if you wanna abandon the tradition, that’s your right, I guess,” Tom said.

“That was a long time ago. We get pussy now, Tom,” Scott said.

“Sure, I know. There’s nothing wrong with deciding not to go through with it.”

Scott knew Tom was trying to pressure him, but he also knew it was working. He used to have fun wrestling with Tom whenever his mom wasn’t looking, pretending to be Hulk Hogan or the Undertaker. And while he had dreaded even the thought of it during the match, now that he was there, alone, in the shower with Tom’s toned muscles heaving for breath and glistening with steam above him, Scott kind of wanted to see what it was like to suck cock as an adult. After another long silence, Scott said, “Fine. You better not tell anyone though.”

“Of course not. I don’t want people knowing this shit.”

Scott sunk to his knees and took Tom’s dick in his mouth. He thought it would be grosser now, since he hadn’t done it in years and was used to eating pussy instead of dick. But it came naturally to him, like a well-practiced skill, and he sucked Tom’s cock all the way to the root.

Tom moaned and groaned, swaying his hips to hit every corner of Scott’s mouth. His hairy thighs scratched against Scott’s own muscles. The shower water dripped down Tom’s body and onto Scott’s head, lubricating Tom’s shaft as it slid deeper into Scott’s throat.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Tom said, “This is even better than it used to be. You sure you ain’t been practicing?”

Scott let out a pained moan, as though he was hating this, but in truth he found it reasonably tolerable. It was definitely not sexy like eating pussy, Scott decided, so he was definitely not gay, but, like Brussels sprouts, he didn’t mind eating some now and then, especially when it was as perfect as Tom’s dick.

Tom finally came, shooting a giant load towards the floor. Most of it landed on Scott’s shoulder though, and he gagged, brushing it off, rinsing it in the shower’s warm flow.

“Alright,” Tom said, “Thanks, man. Tradition should be cherished.”