Training Balls
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
The text came in at 11:46 p.m.
Casper: meet at the small gym by the science building at 5:30am before it normally opens. i wanna do some extra training with you.
No capitalization, no emoji, no explanation.
I stared at it for a full thirty seconds, thumb hovering. My heart was already pounding, even though I was lying in bed, lights off, screen low. Mason had been snoring softly for hours across the room. I didn’t even want to breathe too loud.
5:30 a.m.
Before it opens.
Extra training.
I had no idea what that meant. I wasn’t even sure if I was being singled out for something good or bad. But I didn’t care.
My stomach flipped, sharp and nervous and hot. I reread the message three more times. Then typed out a response:
Me: Ok. I’ll be there.
I didn’t sleep much after that.
The air outside was still dark and wet when I stepped out. My breath fogged faintly, the sky just beginning to hint at a faint light above the trees. The sidewalks were empty. The science building looked dead, like everything else.
But the side door to the small gym was propped open with a dumbbell.
Inside, it was quiet. Smaller than the main gym, no windows, just rows of mats, low lighting, and equipment lined up with military neatness. I stepped in slowly, letting the door shut behind me.
Casper was already there.
He was at the far end of the mat, stretching. Black tank top, low on the sides, sweatpants clinging loose to his hips. His hair was still a bit damp, probably from a quick rinse, and a faint sheen of sweat already coated his chest and shoulders. I watched the curve of his spine as he reached overhead, muscles rolling smooth under skin. It was silent except for the squeak of his bare feet against the mat and the soft pull of fabric as he shifted.
He didn’t look at me right away.
I swallowed, heart pounding as I set my bag down near the door.
Casper finally spoke without turning. “You’re on time.”
I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see that. “Yeah.”
“Good. Start warming up.”
That was it. No explanation. No nod. Just: start.
I rolled my shoulders out, still watching him for a second before moving to the edge of the mat. The floor felt cool under my palms as I dropped into a stretch. My limbs were stiff, but not from sleep. I hadn’t really slept at all.
Casper circled slowly as I stretched, eyes scanning, arms crossed. Every so often he’d stop and correct something. A hand to my shoulder. A press to the top of my thigh. One palm at the small of my back. Always firm, always calm. He was close, but not as close as he’d been before.
Then he had me transition into hip stretches. On my knees, back arched, chest lowered, thighs open. It wasn’t a position I’d ever done much in track.
Casper knelt beside me, adjusting my hips with both hands. His fingers pressed against the top of my glutes, guiding the angle. The sweat on his forearms caught the light, and the scent of it reached me—sharp, clean, masculine. Not cologne. Just him.
I inhaled too fast.
“Relax,” he said, adjusting my hips again. “You’re locking.”
“I’m trying,” I muttered, but my voice caught. My forehead was damp. My core was tight in a way that had nothing to do with the stretch.
Casper stood and walked around to the front.
“Switch,” he said, voice even. “Other side.”
I did, settling in, breath uneven. He crouched again, adjusting. This time, when he bent, I caught a clear view of the shape of his ass in his sweats: full, tight, outlined by sweat-soaked fabric.
My cock twitched in my shorts.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was no use. Every time he moved, every time he bent over, the pressure got worse. His voice, his scent, his body, my body just responded. My dick pressed uncomfortably against the front of my waistband.
Casper didn’t say a word.
The silence only made it worse. My whole body was warm now, soaked. His sweat had landed on my shoulder at least twice, and I didn’t wipe it off.
I thought he might say something. Joke. Scold. Anything.
But he just told me to move into the next drill.
Again. And again.
He ran me through an hour of conditioning. Planks, leg lifts, core holds, inverted positions that brought my face far too close to his ass. Sweat dripped off him steadily, spattering onto the mat. Onto me.
And I couldn’t hide it. The hard-on was constant. I stopped even trying to adjust. My shirt stuck to my chest, my hair damp against my forehead, my jaw clenched.
Casper never said a word.
When we finished, he checked his watch, nodded once, and said, “Same time tomorrow.”
I nodded, breath still catching. “Okay.”
He was already walking away.
The next morning, he was already stretching when I arrived. Same gym, same silence. But this time, he was wearing a singlet.
Not just any singlet. A dark, skin-tight one that clung to his body like it was trying to mold itself to him.
It took everything in me not to freeze in the doorway.
The straps framed his shoulders cleanly, leaving the muscles of his upper back completely bare. His ass looked obscene—round and flexed through the thin, taut fabric, the curve exaggerated every time he bent over to adjust a weight or roll his spine.
When he turned, I nearly swallowed my tongue.
The front of the singlet wasn’t padded. At all. It hugged him tight, leaving nothing to the imagination. His package was full, prominent, outlined clearly enough that my brain short-circuited trying to avoid staring while still taking it in.
He caught me looking once—maybe. His eyes flicked up from his wristwatch and landed on my face, unreadable.
“Warm up.”
His voice was as flat as ever, but it hit differently now. I peeled my hoodie off in a daze and stepped onto the mat, already hard.
The drills were tougher that day. Longer holds, deeper stretches, more bodyweight resistance. Casper kept me low to the ground for most of it, hips open, thighs shaking, shoulders down. Half the time, he stood or bent right in front of me. His ass filled my field of vision. Sweat glistened along the crease where his thigh met his glutes, soaking darker into the fabric.
At one point, during a set of slow body saws, he crouched down to correct my shoulders. His body lowered right in front of me, the stretch of the singlet taut between his legs.
I was panting, straining, but it wasn’t from the workout.
By the third session, I’d stopped pretending I wasn’t hard.
Every morning, the same thing happened: Casper in that goddamn singlet, moving with total calm while I sweated, shook, and tried not to lose it.
He never commented.
Not once.
Not when sweat poured down my back. Not when his own sweat dripped onto my arms and neck. Not when I started leaking into my shorts like a desperate idiot, cock aching from the friction, from the heat, from the way he looked when he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck mid-stretch.
He just kept adjusting my form.
“Lower. No, lower than that.”
“Hold it.”
“Don’t lock your knees.”
“Open your hips.”
Always the same calm tone. Always the same impossible control.
And I kept obeying.
I showed up every morning, on time, eager, hoping to please.
But all he ever said at the end was: “Same time tomorrow.”
I’d walk out dizzy. Throbbing. Ruined.
I didn’t know how much longer I could take it.
It was the sixth session.
The gym felt even smaller that morning. Maybe it was the heat, or the way the lights flickered faintly in the corners, or just how soaked I already was thirty minutes in. My shirt stuck to me like a towel that had already been used. My legs ached, my core burned. And still, as always, I was hard.
Casper had me holding a deep squat against the wall, arms forward, back flat. My thighs trembled. My breath came in short bursts. He circled in front of me, barefoot on the mat, arms crossed.
He’d worn a singlet again.
This time it was grey. Lighter. The sweat had already begun soaking through, tracing darker lines down his chest, lower down his abs. His package was outlined so clearly now it didn’t feel like clothing. It felt like an invitation to stare. Like torment.
He stopped in front of me, tilted his head slightly.
“You’re still not improving.”
I blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”
“Your form,” he said. “It’s inconsistent. Your hips aren’t staying level. Your knees collapse inward when you’re tired. Your shoulders lock up.”
He stepped closer.
“I’ve pushed you. Spotted you. Adjusted you. Still not seeing what I want.”
I stared at the mat, trying to slow my breathing.
His voice lowered. “You know what I think’s getting in your way?”
I swallowed. “No.”
Casper stepped in until I could smell him. The sharpness of salt and skin and fabric soaked through. His crotch was almost eye-level.
“I think it’s this,” he said quietly.
I followed his gaze.
He was staring directly at my bulge.
My breath caught. I didn’t move.
“You’ve been hard every morning,” he said. Still calm. Still unreadable. “Pretty much from the second I say warm up.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
Casper knelt in front of me. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world. The singlet stretched along his thighs, the material at his crotch pulling tight. He reached out, gripped the bottom of my shirt, and peeled it up and off without asking.
“You’re distracted,” he said simply.
I nodded. Or maybe I just didn’t stop him.
His hand settled briefly on my chest, palm flat, warm and slick. “I want you to take care of it.”
I looked at him, eyes wide.
“Now?” I breathed.
Casper raised a brow like it was a dumb question. “Unless you’d rather keep failing.”
I froze. My cock throbbed in my shorts.
“OK,” I said.
His voice shifted, just slightly.
“Good.”
Then casually, almost like he was bored: “You can lick my balls while you’re doing it. If you want to.”
My entire body went hot.
My brain screamed at me to hesitate. To question. To ask what this meant. But my mouth stayed shut.
Casper stood, slow and deliberate, and slipped the straps of his singlet down off his shoulders. The fabric peeled away, rolling to his waist.
Then he stepped out of it completely.
Naked from the waist down. Skin flushed. Balls slick with sweat. His huge cock swung with the swagger of a prize fighter above them, not hard, not focused on me.
He didn’t have to be.
“Your choice,” he said, voice flat.
I knelt forward before I even knew I was moving.
I lay back without thinking, shoulders flat to the mat, shorts pushed down just enough to free myself. My hand wrapped around my cock automatically. I was already leaking, so hard it almost hurt.
Casper stepped over me, one foot on either side of my chest, then slowly crouched. His thighs brushed against my arms as he lowered himself, his balls settling just above my face. Heavy. Damp. The scent hit immediately: sweat and skin and something raw underneath. My throat tightened.
I stared up at him, still stroking, heart pounding.
I didn’t want it to happen like this.
I wanted—God, I wanted something real. A kiss. His cock in my mouth. Maybe even… sex. I’d thought about it. Him pushing into me. Fucking me. That kind of thing.
This wasn’t that.
This was just his balls in my face. Just sweat and heat and maybe a little lust.
But it was still him.
And it was more than I’d ever had.
You can still say no.
You don’t have to—
Another drop of sweat landed just above my lip.
That was it.
I groaned and jerked harder, dizzy from the smell. My face felt flushed, skin prickling like I was too close to something I couldn’t touch. I could see the hair at the base of his cock, dark and damp. His balls hung so close now I could feel the heat off them.
I shouldn’t want this. Not like this. But I did.
I tilted my head. My lips parted. My tongue met skin—slick, warm, a little bitter—and I started to lick.
Above me, Casper didn’t move.
“Thought so,” he said. Just that. No tone. No praise.
And I kept going.
His balls were hot against my tongue. The skin was loose and slick, the taste sharp with sweat. I dragged the tip of my tongue along the underside, slow at first, just to feel it. Just to prove to myself it was real.
My cock jumped in my hand.
I stroked harder, groaning low in my throat, barely holding back. Every time I licked, my hand jerked up in response. Like one sensation fed the other.
I opened my mouth wider, taking more of him in. The weight of his sac pressed against my lips now. I could smell him with every breath—thick and male and perfect. Sweat rolled off him and hit my face in little drops. I didn’t care.
My hand was wet with pre-cum. Every stroke dragged along the shaft like I’d been edging for hours. Maybe I had, in a way. Days of buildup. Mornings of training. Of staring at him. Of doing nothing.
Now I was under him, and my cock felt like it was going to explode.
I licked again, rougher this time, flicking the tip of my tongue right between his balls, just to see how it felt. The texture. The give. The heat.
I moaned.
My fingers sped up. I could feel how close I was, already pulsing. My thighs tensed, heels digging into the mat. I was soaked in sweat, his and mine both, my body sliding a little every time I shifted.
Above me, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t moan. Didn’t even grunt. He just stayed there, letting me do it.
And somehow that made it worse. Better? Definitely more intense.
I pressed my mouth higher, lapping slowly, breath on skin. I loved the taste. I hadn’t expected to. I thought I’d be grossed out. But I wasn’t. Not even close.
I was obsessed.
My cock throbbed like it knew exactly what I was doing. Like it was grateful.
I stroked faster, rougher, hips twitching off the mat.
My mouth was full of the scent of him. The taste of sweat. My face was flushed, lips swollen, body burning. I moaned again, louder this time, right into his skin. I didn’t care how I sounded.
I was too far gone.
Too close.
Too desperate.
He adjusted his stance slightly. I felt it in the shift of his thighs. Then, without warning, he lifted his balls with one hand—just enough to pull them away from my mouth—and let them drop gently across my face.
The weight of them landed right over my nose and lips, damp and heavy and deliberate.
My cock jerked.
“Mmm,” Casper muttered, low. Almost a hum. “That’s it.”
Just that. No other praise. No instructions. Like he knew exactly what that would do to me.
It was over.
I groaned loud, body seizing, hand locked tight around my shaft as I came hard across my stomach. The first spurt hit high on my chest. The next coated my fingers. It kept coming, longer than I expected, messy and hot, and I didn’t stop licking even as my body bucked underneath him.
My head swam.
All I could feel were his balls on my face, his sweat in my mouth, and the ache in my cock finally breaking.
I let out a shaky breath, hand loosening as I finished, legs going limp on the mat.
And above me, Casper still hadn’t moved.
His weight lifted from my face. A breath of cooler air washed over me, shocking after the heat.
Casper stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if nothing unusual had happened. He picked up a towel, tossed it so it landed beside my hip.
“Wipe off,” he said. “Then let’s see if we can fix that form.”
My pulse hadn’t even slowed. Cum was still cooling on my skin. I dragged the towel over my stomach, chest, fingers shaking. The room felt tilted. Unreal. My mouth tasted of salt and cotton. I could still smell him.
He didn’t give me time to settle. “Up,” he repeated, like an ordinary drill command.
I pushed to my feet, legs weak, shorts hanging halfway down my thighs. He didn’t look at my mess, didn’t smirk. He just motioned to the wall bars.
“Wall sits. Deeper this time. Hold until I tell you to shift.”
I swallowed, tugged my shorts back in place, and moved. My thighs burned the second I sank into position. Sweat streaked down my temples. My cock was soft now, but every nerve felt blown open, skin buzzing.
Casper walked a slow circle, calm, eyes on my knees. No mention of what had happened thirty seconds earlier. No lingering stare at the towel on the floor.
Just training.
I tried to breathe evenly. My mind spun anyway.
I had just licked his balls. I had just come harder than I ever had, with him watching. Now I was back against a wall like nothing happened, thighs shaking, trying not to collapse.
Is this what coaching is for him? Is this the reward? The punishment?
I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that I’d be here again tomorrow at 5:30, hoping—maybe a little scared even—he’d ask for more.
“Hold it,” he said, voice steady.
I locked my knees wide, chest up, sweat dripping from my chin. My muscles screamed, but a deeper ache settled low in my stomach, warm and restless.
I wasn’t sure which hurt worse: the burn in my legs or the need already coiling back into life.
Either way, I held the position and stared straight ahead, waiting for his next word.
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