Hawthorne 420
Ryder slammed the dorm door behind him with his heel, still breathing hard from the walk back from the college rec center. It was only week three of freshman year, but he’d already claimed the single room on the top floor of Hawthorne Hall like it was his own personal kingdom. The RA had tried to argue, but Ry just grinned that dumb-cute grin, and somehow walked away with the key.
Thinking back to his first day on campus, when he rolled up to the RA’s door in a cropped white tank that was basically just two straps and a prayer, grey sweats slung so low the teal waistband was doing all the talking. He knocked with one knuckle, already chewing bubble-gum loud enough to be heard down the hall. The RA, some stressed junior named Ethan with a man-bun and a clipboard, opened the door and immediately forgot whatever rule he was about to quote.
“Yo, man!” Ry flashed a full-wattage golden-retriever smile. “Heard you’re the bro for room changes and I'm eyeing the single on four.”
Ethan opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “Uh… the single on four is reserved for…”
Ryder was already leaning in the doorway, one arm up on the frame so his bicep and pit were right at eye level. “Bro, hear me out for like two seconds.” He popped his gum. “I’m tryna go pro with the gains this year, right? Top-floor single’s got that north light, perfect for mirror selfies at golden hour. My quads already blew up two inches since move-in. You want me stuck in a double with some dude who microwaves fish? That’s anti-progress, king.”
Ethan’s clipboard lowered an inch. “It’s… against policy…”
“Bruuuuh.” Ryder dropped his voice to a low, sweet, dumb-bro drawl that made straight dudes question their sexuality. He reached out and tapped the clipboard twice with one finger, slow. “You ever hit legs so hard you can’t walk down stairs? I’m tryna save lives here. If I gotta share a room I’m gonna be waddling around crying at 2am and nobody wants that energy.”
He tilted his head, blonde hair flopping, and hit Ethan with the puppy-dog eyes that had gotten him out of three speeding tickets already. “Plus… I’ll Venmo you fifty for dining dollars and shout you out on my story every time I hit a PR. Ten-K followers, bro. Free clout.”
Ethan lasted four more seconds before his resolve melted. “…Fine. Gimme five minutes to swap the paperwork.”
Ryder’s whole face lit up like he just won the Olympia. “My GUY!” He yanked Ethan into one of those bro-hugs that lasts half a second too long, big hand smacking the RA’s back hard enough to echo. “You’re literally the homie of the year. Top-floor kingdom incoming—let’s gooo!”
He bounced off down the hall chewing gum, sweats sliding another half-inch lower with every step, already thumbing open his phone to film the “new room tour” story. Ethan stood in the doorway, wondering why his face felt hot and why he was already checking his Venmo.
Ryder always seemed to get what he wanted, without being aware of how he was doing it.
Within days the room already looked like a frat house had exploded in it: empty cans stacked into a pyramid on the desk, stringer tanks slung over the chair, a half-deflated yoga ball he used for hip thrusts shoved in the corner. The only neat thing was the full-length mirror propped against the wall—floor-to-ceiling, LED strips stuck around the edges so every mirror selfie popped. His lock screen was already set to last night’s post-leg-day pump: tan skin glowing, ass arched just enough with black shiny briefs so tight the fabric looked painted on.
Monday’s schedule was simple: 9am lecture, 11am leg day, then whatever party was popping later that evening. Ry peeled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, tossed it toward the hamper, and missed by three feet. Whatever. He kicked off his slides, peeled down the neon green running shorts that had been riding up his crack for the last hour, and stood there in nothing but a pair of black tight briefs that made his quads look obscene and his ass look like it was trying to escape.
He turned sideways, smacked his ass hard enough to leave a handprint on the tan skin. “Sheeeesh, still got it, bro,” he muttered, watching the muscle bounce. Three plates on squats today, plus four sets of Romanian deadlifts until his hamstrings felt like they were gonna rip. All worth it. Every dude in the weight room had done a double-take when he re-racked the bar and plates. One of them, a tall lacrosse guy with a fade, had even muttered “Jesus Christ” under his breath. Ry pretended he didn’t hear, but his dick twitched in his shorts to the attention.
He flopped onto the unmade bed, legs spread wide, phone already in hand. Snapchat was blowing up: stories from the gym, bros tagging him in mirror pics (“@ryryhawthorne deadass has the best legs on campus no cap”). He smirked, thumbed open the camera, flipped it to selfie mode. Tank off, one arm up behind his head to make the pecs pop, tongue out just a little. Caption: “leg day done fucked me up fr… who tryna come over and stretch me out 👀 no homo.”
He hesitated one second, then hit post.
The second the story went live, his heart kicked a little harder. Same thrill every time. He told himself it was just jokes, just bro stuff, just content. But his hand was already sliding down the ridged abs, under the waistband of his briefs, palming himself through the taught fabric. The room smelled like pre-workout and the coconut tanning lotion he put on even when it was cloudy. He inhaled deep, eyes half-lidded, and let his thighs fall open wider.
Ryder laid there sprawled out, hand lazily stroking himself through his briefs, phone balanced on his chest while the little Snapchat ghost blinked with new adds. His heart was still hammering from the post, that same stupid rush he used to get senior year when he’d lock his bedroom door and open three incognito tabs in a row.
The videos wrecked him every time:
Some ripped lacrosse bro or wrestler fresh off practice, shirt already gone, pits ripe, shorts yanked down just enough to let a thick, half-hard cock flop out over the waistband. They’d smirk at the camera, spit in their palm, and start stroking slow while trash-talking in a low, lazy drawl: “Yeah you like that, bro? Been marinating these balls all day… come get it.” Then they’d turn around, arch their back, and spread their cheeks so the camera caught every inch of sweaty crack and low-hanging nuts before spinning back to nut. The money shot was always the same: ropes of thick cum splattering across their own abs, dripping down the V-lines while they laughed, and mocked the viewer.
Ryder would watch, volume low so his parents wouldn’t hear the wet slap of skin or the nasty verbal that always made his hole clench. He’d edge for hours, dick leaking into his palm, thighs shaking, whispering “fuck, please” at the screen every time the guy on camera flexed and said “swallow it all.” He bookmarked every clip where the top called the viewer a “greedy little cumdump” right before unloading. Kept an entire hidden folder labeled “workout plans” that was just 4K videos of sweaty bros nutting huge loads of jizz.
He never touched another guy in high school, but he trained his throat on his own fingers every night pretending they tasted like locker-room ball sweat, gagging himself while some TikTok-famous frat bro told ten thousand viewers exactly where he was gonna park his load. He never hooked up in high school. Not once. Too many people knew him, too many teammates who’d slap his ass in the hallway and yell “nice glutes, Ry!” like it was normal. He was terrified someone would notice how long he stared in the showers, how he always volunteered to hold the blocking pad during drills just to be close to the linebacker’s sweaty crotch. So he kept it locked down. Captain of the “no homo” brigade by day, absolute fiend by night.
He’d goon until his eyes burned, until the sheets were stuck to his thighs, until he had to bite his pillow so he didn’t moan out loud when some 6'4" muscled frat bro on OnlyFans finally nutted on his own abs. And every single time the guy on-screen came, Ryder would whisper “fuck” under his breath and blow so hard his vision went white.
Now he was here away at college, with a single room, no parents and nobody to hear him if he got loud. Nobody to judge him.
From Fantasy to Flooded
Ryder’s thumb hovered over the record button on his phone for a solid minute, longer than he’d ever hesitated on most things in his life. His cock was already slick in his fist, shiny black briefs shoved down under his balls, but his stomach was doing flips. This wasn’t a joke anymore. This wasn’t “no homo” content. This was him, eighteen, freshman, virgin to real dick, about to invite some random campus bro to walk in and use him.
He hit record. A ten-second clip: camera angled down his sweaty chest, past the V-line, to his hand slowly pumping his dick. In the mirror behind him, his thick tanned ass with cheeks spread just enough that the smooth, hairless hole would wink when he clenches. White text displayed over the video:
“Hawthorne Hall 420. door cracked if any bro needs to nut quick… no talking.”
He posted it to his private story and immediately rolled onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow, heart slamming so hard he could hear it in his ears. What the fuck did he just do? Thirty seconds later the little purple arrow turned white. Someone opened it. Then another. Then six in a row. He was shaking, actually shaking, when the knock came. Three soft taps, like the guy was scared too.
Ryder croaked out a “yo, it’s open” that came out way too high-pitched.
The door creaked wider and a lacrosse guy he recognized from the weight room stepped in, the one with the fade who’d whispered “Jesus Christ” earlier. 6'3", in the same gray tank and black shorts, skin dewy from practice. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and just stared.
Ryder tried to play it cool, rolling onto his side, cocky-like, but his voice cracked. “Uh… you saw the story, right?”
The guy gave a slow nod, eyes dragging down Ryder’s body. “Deadass thought it was a meme until I saw the room number.”
Silence stretched and Ryder’s face was on fire. He almost told him to leave. Then the lacrosse guy pulled his tank over his head in one motion, kicked off his slides, and stepped closer. The smell hit Ryder first: hot musk, deodorant half-given-up, straight-up ball sweat. It went straight to his dick.
“Turn over,” the guy said, voice low, almost bored. “Been thinking about that ass since you hit depth on those squats.”
Ryder’s brain short-circuited. He flipped onto his stomach fast, ass up without even thinking, knees spreading on instinct. The guy laughed under his breath. Not mean, just surprised how eager he was.
“Fuck, you’re you shaking, bro?” A big hand landed on Ryder’s lower back, thumb tracing the dimples above his ass. “First time?”
Ryder tried to play it off. “Nah, I ….. whatever, just do it.”
The guy smirked, dropped his shorts, and that heavy, half-hard dick flopped out, already glistening at the tip. He climbed on the bed, knees between Ryder’s, and dragged the sweaty shaft up and down Ryder’s crack, letting his ripe, post-practice balls glide over Ryder’s hole with every pass.
The smell hit like a drug: hot musk, dried sweat, pure locker-room stink. Ryder’s eyes fluttered and he let out a shaky, humiliated moan before he could choke it back.
“Fuck, you’re eager,” the guy laughed under his breath. He hawked a thick wad of spit right onto Ryder’s hole, rubbed it in with the head, then lined up.
“Tell me you want it, bro.”
“C’mon bro, my hole needs that post-workout pump. Just feed me that protein real quick!” Ryder looking back full dumb smile across his face.
One slow, relentless push and the fat head popped past the ring. Ryder’s back arched hard, mouth open in a silent scream as the rest sank in to the root. It burned, it stretched, it felt like getting split open and remade in the same second. The lacrosse guy didn’t pause. He pulled back and slammed home again, setting a brutal rhythm right away, balls slapping loud against Ryder’s taint, the whole bed creaking.
“Look at this fucking hole,” he growled, fingers digging into Ryder’s hips. “Acting all straight in the weight room, now you’re creaming on my dick like a slut. This ass was built to take loads.”
Ryder couldn’t answer; just drooled into the pillow, pushing back greedily, moaning broken little “uh-huh, uh-huh” noises every time those sweaty balls smacked him. The lacrosse guy set a punishing pace, hips snapping hard enough to jolt Ryder’s whole body up the mattress, the wet slap-slap-slap of his heavy, sweat-slick balls smacking Ryder’s taint loud enough to echo off the cinder-block walls. Every time he buried himself to the root, Ryder’s smooth, tan cheeks spread wide around the thick shaft, the pink rim clinging desperately, stretched glossy and thin, winking open each time the cock pulled back glistening with spit and anal mucus.
Ryder’s brain was pure static. All the years of edging to porn, pretending he wasn’t dying for this, and now some random jock he’d seen in the gym that earlier that week was finally actually inside him, and it felt so fucking right it almost hurt. This was what his hole had been training for with every squat, every hip thrust, this was the real thing, and he was already addicted. Pushing back greedily, moaning like a whore while being used by a bro was the only thing that had ever made sense in his entire life.
“Gonna flood you, bro. You ready?”
Ryder solely focused on getting loaded at this point urged the guy to blow his load in his guts. “Dump it, dump it, dump it! My ass is wide open and ready for the money shot, let’s gooooo!”
The guy buried himself balls-deep and came with a low groan. Ryder felt it immediately: thick, heavy ropes pumping into him, way more than he thought was possible, pulse after pulse until his guts felt warm and bloated. When the guy finally pulled out, a torrent of cum gushed out behind him, running in thick white streams down Ryder’s balls and dripping off onto the sheets.
The lacrosse guy gave the wrecked, leaking ass one last possessive slap. “Good boy. Keep posting those stories.” He yanked his shorts up and walked out without another word.
The second the door clicked shut, Ryder was already moving, like his body wasn’t his own anymore. He rolled onto his back, legs falling open, and reached down with shaky fingers to scoop the thick, warm cum leaking from his wrecked hole. He brought the messy fingers to his mouth without thinking and sucked them clean with a broken moan. It tasted like everything he’d fantasized about for years: salty, bitter, pure jock. He needed more.
He shoved two fingers back inside himself, curling, scooping, pulling out another fat glob that dripped off his knuckles in sticky strings. He smeared it across his tongue, eyes rolling back, hips bucking off the bed as he savored every drop. Another scoop, another desperate lick, until he was basically tongue-fucking his own hand, whining like an animal finally tasting a real man’s spunk in his mouth and it was better than porn ever promised.
His cock, still untouched since the breeding, jerked hard against his abs. One more thick dollop of cum pushed out of his loose hole, slid down his crack, and that was it. Ryder furiously beat his cock until he cried out, back arching, and came in long, violent ropes that splattered his chest and chin while he frantically licked the last of the stranger’s load off his fingers.
He lay there panting, wrecked, and cum cooling on his skin.. The craving hit harder than the orgasm ever could. He needed another dick inside him, another load to swallow, another bro to walk in and use him again. He reached for his phone with sticky fingers, opened the camera, and hit record on a new private-story clip: ass up, hole gaping and shiny. Caption: “Pre-lubed jock hole… door’s staying cracked 👀”
Anon Loads Are the Best Loads
Ryder woke up the next afternoon still tasting the loads from the previous day, hole sore and sticky, sheets crusted. The private-story clip he’d posted at 3am (“pre-lubed jock hole… door’s staying cracked”) had dozens of views and a flood of fire emojis resulting in several college bros using his muscular ass as their personal fuck sleeve. One reply stood out though, sent earlier in the day: “basement bathroom of Hawthorne Hall. 8pm. third stall. everyone knows what it’s for.”
“Bro… that’s kinda sketch,” he said out loud to his phone, then immediately grinned. “But like… free protein? And it’s leg day tomorrow, so technically recovery. Facts.”
He hopped up so fast he almost tripped over his own yoga ball. Twenty minutes later he was fresh out the shower, baby-smooth from neck to toes because “glutes pop harder when they’re shiny. Science.” He spent a solid five minutes in the mirror flexing, oiling his tanned body, and hyping himself up.
“Looking thick today, king,” he told his reflection, smacking his own ass so hard it jiggled. “Gotta give the people what they want.”
He grabbed the tiniest black running shorts he owned, the ones with the split so high you could see cheek as he walked. No liner, no briefs, nothing. Just pure cake on display.
“Free-ballin’ for the gains,” he muttered, checking the back view one last time. The shorts barely covered the bottom curve of his ass; every step was gonna be a public service announcement.
Heads turned. Frat bros did double-takes. Some girl walking her dog literally stopped and stared. Ryder just hit them with the 1000-watt grin, popped his gum, and threw up a casual double bicep every twenty steps.
“Keep staring, fam, it’s all natural!” he called to nobody in particular, bouncing on his toes so his glutes did that extra jiggle. “Gotta feed the timeline!”
The basement men’s room smelled like bleach, weed, stale piss, and cum. Fluorescent lights buzzed. No one was in the room, so Ryder explored the seedy restroom. Between the second and third stall someone had Sharpied above a gloryhole between them: ‘RYDER’S CAKES --- NO LOAD REFUSED’
Ryder squatted down to read the Sharpie mess, eyes going wide like he just got handed a lifetime GNC membership. “No way, bro… they wrote my NAME? That’s literally clout!”
He bounced on his toes so hard his cheeks clapped under the tiny shorts. “Deadass about to get so much protein man! Annon loads are the best loads. No talking, no spotting. I’m like a human shaker cup tonight, let’s GOOOOO!”
He entered the third stall and locked the door, dropped his shorts to his ankles, and knelt on the grimy tile like it was the most natural thing in the world. He literally whispered “thank you” to the gloryhole like it was a vending machine that dispensed free pre-workout. He had been kneeling on the cold tile for six minutes, shorts around his ankles, and stared at that gloryhole the whole time eager for what was to come.
Finally, he heard footsteps followed by the adjacent stall door slamming shut. The lock clicked, then sound of a zipper. Ryder’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t even seen the guy, just two beat-up white Nike’s and the hem of gray sweatpants under the partition. A thick, half-hard cock slid through the hole, heavy, veiny, already shiny at the tip like it had been leaking on the walk over. Ryder froze. This was it, some random bro he’d never have to look in the eye. Then he began to panic. What if someone walked in and heard? What if he gagged loud enough for the whole basement to hear that some campus faggot was on his knees choking on a stranger’s dick?
The cock twitched impatiently. A low voice from the other side muttered, “You gonna stare at it or open up?”
That was all it took. Ryder leaned forward, and let the head push past his lips. The taste hit instantly, salty skin, old cock sweat, pure jock. His eyes watered the second it bumped the back of his throat. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, hands braced on the partition, and started sucking like his life depended on it. Several minutes of cock sucking later, the guy grunted, hips jerking, and unloaded straight down Ryder’s throat. Thick, hot pulses he swallowed on reflex, moaning around the shaft like a cheap slut. When the cock slipped out, a single drop clung to Ryder’s bottom lip. He licked it off without thinking.
Word had spread fast, and sneakers started lining up outside the stall. Dudes were whispering “yo that’s actually him” and “bro he’s really doing it.” Someone slid a fresh bottle of poppers under the door. Ryder snatched it, ripped the cap off and took three huge hits, eyes rolling back, whole body tingling. He giggled, high as fuck, then pressed his mouth right up to the hole.
“Yooo next king, slide that dick, bro! My hole’s wide open and starving, deadass need that hot protein shake! Feed your lil’ cumdump, let’s gooooo!” Another hit of poppers and he’s full-on bouncing on his knees, clapping his own ass cheeks together like hype man drums.
For five straight hours it didn’t stop. Cocks of every size, every color, some stinking of practice, some fresh from the shower, some already slick with someone else’s load. He sucked until his jaw locked, then bent over the toilet and got railed until his knees were bruised, huffing poppers frying his brain. Every time a guy nutted in his ass he felt the warm rush in his guts and just craved more. By midnight he was floating, drooling, only able to moan “thank you” after each load. His phone now propped on the toilet tank, recorded the whole thing on selfie mode: his face flushed, cum dripping from his chin, sneakers coming and going in frame as random dudes used his thick ass to blow their loads.
By 2am the bathroom had gone quiet, just the occasional drip from a faucet and Ryder’s own ragged breathing. He was still on all fours, face resting on the rim of the public toilet bowl, ass pressed firmly against the stall partition, hole loose and glistening with what felt like a gallon of mixed loads. Every breath pushed another warm trickle out of him and down his balls. Then the main door banged open one last time, followed by heavy footsteps. The adjacent stall door slammed shut. No words, just the immediate metallic rasp of a zipper and the soft thud of something thick hitting the partition.
Ryder didn’t even have time to brace for the massive intrusion. A brutal, beer-can-thick cock punched through the hole, head spearing straight into Ryder’s sloppy, ruined cunt in one savage thrust. The brutal assault forcing a wet, obscene squelch as two dozen stranger loads were churning in Ryder’s guts, causing frothed cum and anal mucus to squirt out around the shaft in thick white ropes.
“Fuckin’ hell,” the voice growled from the other side, low and mean. “You’ll take any cock up that nasty cunt, won’t you, slut?”
Ryder’s eyes crossed, a dumb, blissful grin spreading across his face. He shoved back hard, cheeks crushed against the partition, and let out a happy, breathy moan:
“Yeah… any cock, bro… keep going. I’m your hole. Just keep breeding me.”
Another savage thrust punched deep. Cum farted out around the shaft splattering the floor.
“Feels so good… don’t stop, bro. Want all of it…”
“Look at this loose shithole,” the stranger laughed, hips already jackhammering. “Just a fucking cum bucket now. You like that big cock rearranging your guts, don’t you, whore?”
Every thrust was vicious and punishing The head punching so deep Ryder felt it in his throat. The partition rattled from the force of it. Cum foamed and frothed around the shaft, dripping off his balls in sticky strings and also ran down Ryder’s thighs. The smell was pure filth: anal mucus and fresh loads churning into butter. Ryder could only sob and drool, pushing back on instinct, babbling broken “yes, yes, fuck my hole, please….”
A final brutal thrust and the stranger buried himself balls-deep, roaring as he unloaded. Ryder felt the pulses like a firehose, thick ropes flooding what little space was left inside him until it geysered out around the cock in messy pulses. With a wet pop the cock withdrew from Ryder’s ass. A literal flood of cum poured from his gaping, red-ringed hole, pooling between his legs. Without another word the cock disappeared and the stall door next to him opened.
“Open the door, fag.”
Ryder’s heart slammed against his ribs. He hadn’t seen the guy’s face. For all he knew it was some 40-year-old janitor, or a campus cop about to ruin his life. His hands shook so hard he could barely grip the lock.
“I, I don’t…” he started, voice cracked and tiny.
“Now,” the voice cut in, cold and flat.
Ryder’s stomach flipped, but his body moved on autopilot. He reached up, fingers slick with cum, and slid the lock open. The door swung wide. There stood Chad, buzz-cut blond hair so short it looked silver under the fluorescents, ice-blue eyes, and a permanent half-smirk like he already knew every secret you were terrified of telling. Sharp jaw, veins popping down his forearms, and a gold chain that laid against his heavy pecs.
“Good, muscle slut.” Chad said, smirking. “Knew you’d open up for me. After all, you’re only here because of me, aren’t you whore?”
Chad stepped in, his phone recording, smirking down at the wrecked freshman leaking on the floor like broken plumbing.
“Spread it, whore. Let’s see what thirty-eight loads looks like.”
Ryder fumbled his shaky hands back, grabbed both cheeks like he was spreading for an ass selfie, and yanked them wide with a big, dumb, blissed-out grin. A giddy amused laugh slipped out as he stared straight into Chad’s phone and chirped in his sunniest, brain-empty bro voice:
“Check it, bros… peep the damage… still open for business!”
“Tell the bros what you just did, cumdump.”
Ryder’s eyes were glassy, tongue half-out. He grinned huge and vacant at the camera, voice raspy, and let the words spill out like he was reading his own highlight reel:
“Yo… thirty-eight loads in one night, thanks for feeding the gains!”
Then he gave the lens a goofy double thumbs-up, cum still smeared across his chin.
Chad spat in Ryder’s face and smirked, zooming the lens in on Ryder’s wrecked dripping hole, then back to his dumb, grateful smile.
“Good boy.”
He pocketed his phone and gave Ryder’s ass hard wet slap, and walked out. Ryder stayed on the floor another twenty minutes, waiting for a possible number thirty-nine that never came. He finally pulled his shorts up over the mess covering his body, legs wobbling, and limped back to his dorm with cum running down his thighs all the while Chad’s voice echoed in his empty head.
No Load Refused
It was a Friday night, as Chad’s jeep pulled up outside the Hawthorne dorms. Ryder was already waiting on the curb in nothing but a white jock, black running shorts, and the new black leather collar Chad had snapped around his neck two days earlier. The collar had a single silver ring in front and three stamped words on the back: NO LOAD REFUSED. Chad didn’t even get out of his car, just lowered the passenger window and crooked a finger.
“Get in, faggot.”
Ryder’s eyes went comically wide, like someone just told him Chipotle was doing double-meat for free. A huge, dopey grin split his face and he actually bounced on his toes.
“Brooo… you called me faggot! That’s, like… top-tier funny. Say it again when we get there? Makes my hole wet.”
Chad smirked, reached over, and clipped a short chain leash to the collar. Forty minutes later they were walking through the steamy front door of Flex, the city’s biggest bathhouse. The clerk barely glanced up; Chad slid a hundred across the counter and said, “Sling room, all night, no interruptions.” The money disappeared replaced by two black wristbands, followed by Chad tugging at the leash.
First thing Chad did was shove Ryder face-first against a locker and yank the running shorts down his thighs. He pulled a thick black Sharpie from his pocket and started writing in huge block letters across Ryder’s pelvis ‘LOAD COUNTER’ and ‘CUMDUMP’ across both ass cheeks. Then blindfolded him with thick neoprene and marched him naked down the hallway by the leash.
Blindfolded, collared, barefoot, and leashed, Ryder’s mind was pure static in a strange mix of fear and sexual excitement. The sling room smelled like poppers, lube, and old cum. Chad hoisted Ryder into the leather sling, locked his wrists and ankles into the cuffs so his legs were spread wide and high, hole on perfect display. By the time the sling cuffs clicked shut the panic was gone. Only gratitude was left, and the greedy need of his empty, hungry ass waiting to be filled with cum. A dozen guys were already circling, towels tented, eyes hungry.
“Open for business,” Chad announced, slapping Ryder’s ass hard enough to echo.
The tan cheeks, round, heavy, and overdeveloped rippled from the strike. The muscle underneath so thick the slap left a bright red hand print that stood out like a lewd sign against the golden skin. Both globes were shiny from baby oil and sweat, split by a perfect, hairless pink cleft that was already puffy and swollen from weeks of anal abuse. When the sting hit, Ryder instinctively flexed; the whole peach lifted and bounced, dimples popping above each cheek, the kind of cartoon-level bubble that made every guy in the room stop breathing for a second.
“No load refused. And be sure to mark him when you finish.”
The first guy stepped up, and two big hands spread Ryder’s cheeks so wide the skin burned. A hot tongue dragged over his hole to taste the fresh slut. Then, the blunt fat head of a cock pressed against the ring. Ryder’s breath hitched. Just spit. No mercy. One slow, merciless push and the head popped in. Ryder’s back bowed, a strangled whine ripping out of him as the thick shaft kept coming, stretching him open inch by inch until coarse pubes scratched his cheeks and heavy balls rested against his taint. The guy stayed buried, letting Ryder feel every throbbing vein.
“Sloppy cunt,” he muttered, pulling back until just the head stayed inside, then slamming home so hard the sling jumped. The second thrust punched a real scream out of Ryder; the third turned it into a broken moan. Hands found his nipples, twisted. Someone shoved poppers under the blindfold and held them there until Ryder’s head spun and his hole went soft and greedy. The first guy sped up, hips and balls slapping loud against Ryder’s skin, the wet sound getting louder with every stroke as precum and spit turned into froth.
“Daddy’s gonna dump thirty years of divorced cum in you, college boy. Say thank you.”
He came with a grunt, cock jerking deep, flooding Ryder with the first thick load of the night. When he pulled out, the suction made Ryder’s hole gape for a heartbeat then clench hungrily on nothing. Before the emptiness could settle, the next cock was already there, thicker, curved, sliding through the fresh cum like it belonged there. This one fucked him slow and mean, dragging over Ryder’s prostate until tears soaked the blindfold and his caged cock leaked a steady stream onto his abs.
“Open wider, piggy. Gonna stir my load in with the rest, make you a proper cum-batter milkshake.”
They didn’t stop for hours. Some took their time, grinding deep, making him feel every ridge. Others jack-hammered like they wanted to break him. One guy pulled out just to watch the cum bubble out, then shoved back in to stirred it deeper.
“Damn, this thing’s already blown out. Feels like fucking mash potatoes.”
By the thirtieth, his hole was a loose sloppy mess, squelching with every new cock, cum foaming around the shafts and running down his crack. Sharpie strokes appeared on his skin, one after another, until the numbers bled together from sweat and seed. The blindfold had turned the world into pure sensation: heat, stretch, burn, the wet slap of hips, the endless hot flood of new cum pushing the old cum deeper or forcing it out in messy farts that splattered the men using him. Every breath tasted like poppers and cock. Every heartbeat throbbed in his ruined hole. He didn’t know whose cock was in him, and he didn’t care. He only knew the rhythm: the sudden stretch, the slap of balls, the swelling heat of another load, the brief empty ache, and then the next one sliding home like it belonged there. His cage dripped constantly, a humiliating little faucet he couldn’t turn off.
His voice was totally fried, just high dumb laughs, and breathy babbles spilling out between thrusts:
“More… hehe, keep going, bros… feels so good...”
Every time a new cock slid home he’d let out a goofy, wrecked:
“Yessss… thank you… feed the peach…”
Then a spacey, sunshine-dumb grin and a slurred:
“Best night ever… don’t stop, please…”
By load sixty-three, the final guy built like a tank, pierced, and brutal approached the sling. He just grabbed Ryder’s hips with two huge, rough hands and dragged the sling forward until Ryder’s wrecked ass hung off the edge, chains rattling. Then he spat a thick gob right on the gaping hole, and slammed in. The cock was monstrous, thick as a wrist, pierced with a fat Prince Albert that felt like a fist punching through Ryder’s swollen ring on entry. Ryder’s back arched so hard the cuffs bit into his wrists; a raw, broken scream tore out of him and died into a wet gurgle. Ryder’s hole wasn’t a hole anymore. It was a trashed, puffy, crimson cunt, lips swollen purple and rolled outward, shiny with layers of stranger cum that had been churned into thick, frothy butter. Every time the pierced monster pulled back, the gaping rim clung to the shaft like it was trying to keep it inside, then bloomed open obscenely, a sloppy red tunnel drooling long white strings. When the guy slammed back in, cum farted out in messy spurts, splattering his hairy thighs like someone had squeezed a soaked sponge.
“Look at this disgusting fuckin’ shithole,” the guy finally growled, voice gravel and smoke. “Flooded with loads and it’s still hungry. You proud of that, cumdump? Proud of being the nastiest whore this place has ever seen?”
He punctuated every word with a brutal thrust that punched the air out of Ryder’s lungs. He reached down, hooked two fingers into the sloppy rim, and yanked it wider, showing the room the wrecked, cum-packed tunnel inside. “Look, boys, you can see every load in there. Swirling around like yogurt. This cunt’s never closing again.”
Ryder could only sob, drooling, hips jerking helplessly. The piercing dragged over his prostate on every stroke, forcing ruined spurts from his caged cock even though he had nothing left to give. Ryder’s eyes rolled, tongue lolling out in a big, vacant, happy grin. A bubbly laugh slipped out first, then he shouted in the sunniest, dumbest, proudest voice he had left:
“I’m the campus cumdump, bro! Built this peach just to catch loads, hehe!”
Another brutal thrust rocked the sling and he squealed, legs kicking like a kid on a carnival ride:
“I’M A FILTHY CUMDUMP, PLEASE BREED MY RUINED HOLE!”
The guy laughed at the dumb college jock begging for his abuse, wrapped one hand around Ryder’s throat, and went feral, hips pistoning so hard the metal frame groaned. When he came it felt endless: eight thick pulses. So much it overflowed and poured out in a steady stream, running down the guy’s balls and puddling on the floor. He stayed buried a few seconds, grinding, stirring his load into the mess already inside. When he finally pulled out with a wet sucking sound Ryder’s hole didn’t close. It stayed wide open, a wrecked pulsing red mouth drooling a river of sixty-three mixed loads in slow motion. The guy slapped the ruined rim once, twice, watching it jiggle and gush.
“Perfect,” Chad muttered. “Absolutely perfect trash.”
Ryder hung there limp, blindfolded, collared, and finally, completely full, feeling the warm lake of cum spread beneath him and knowing, with every ruined fiber of his body, that he’d never be anything else again. Silence finally fell, broken only by Ryder’s ragged breathing.
Chad tugged the leash once.
“Count’s done, cumdump. Time to go home.”
Chad unclipped the cuffs, yanked the blindfold off, and let Ryder’s trembling legs drop. The running shorts were pulled back on, barely covering the bottom of his ass fully, the cage peeked out between the leg holes, cum running down his thighs in shiny streaks. Once at the exit of the sex club, Chad shoved him out the front door into the 4am darkness.
“Walk home, cumdump. Two miles.”
Ryder’s legs shook the second his bare feet hit the cold sidewalk. Every step made his lewd shorts ride higher exposing more of the thick tanned bubble butt, as cum slid down the back of his thighs in thick white trails. The cage bobbed uselessly between his legs, cock weakly dripping its own clear string. Chad climbed into his jeep, rolled the window down, and eased along the curb ten feet behind, phone on the dash recording the lewd scene, while working his cock slow and lazy. Every block was a torture of exhibition. Inside the jeep, Chad’s breathing grew heavier. He matched Ryder’s pace perfectly, eyes locked on the way those tan cheeks jiggled and giant wet spot formed on the back of his shorts. His fist moved faster, gold chain bouncing against his chest.
“Look at you, faggot. Waddling down the street like a fucking diaper commercial, sixty-three strange loads sloshing out of that blown-out hole with every step.” Chad muttered loud enough for Ryder to hear. “Those tan cheeks all shiny with jizz, shorts riding up so everyone can see what’s left of your pussy. Bet half the cars driving by think you’re a hooker who just pulled a triple shift.”
Ryder whimpered, thighs slick to the knees now, footprints glistening behind him. A final fat glob slid free and hit the ground with an audible plop. That did it.
“Jesus, listen to that. Sounds like someone kicked over a yogurt bucket. Keep leaking, faggot. Let the whole city see what a disgusting, loose, cum-soaked piece of campus trash you turned into tonight.” Chad groaned low, hips jerking, and shot thick ropes across the steering wheel, never taking his eyes off Ryder’s ruined, dripping ass.
By the time they reached Hawthorne the sun was beginning to rise and Ryder could barely stand. Chad finally pulled alongside him, window still down, cock tucked away, satisfied smirk in place.
“Sixty-three loads, in that nasty twat. Proud of you, you absolute fucking mess.”
He reached out, ruffled Ryder’s sweaty hair like he was petting a puppy, then added with a soft laugh:
“Go shower before class. Or don’t. Let ‘em all smell what an eager slut you are.”
Punch-Fucked and Leaking
Ryder woke up around 2pm the following day to the feeling of something thick and warm sliding out of him and hitting the mattress with a wet slap. He didn’t have to look. He knew what it was: a mixture of thick anal mucus and the remnants of the previous nights gangbang still working their way out of his guts. The room reeked of cum, ass, and the coconut tanning lotion he’d rubbed into his skin. His hole throbbed with a deep, bruised ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He rolled onto his side and felt the cold air against against his swollen, purple, engorged ass lips. Ryder’s eyes went comically wide.
“Bro… my peach is EMPTY-empty?? Like, straight-up fasting right now. That’s a crime!”
He flopped onto his back, legs splayed open like a starfish, and immediately shoved three fingers in with zero warm-up. They slid home so fast his knuckles kissed his rim on the first try.
“Ohmygaaaawd yes,” he moaned, loud and goofy, hips already bucking. “Still sloppy from last night… hehe… good hole, good hole.”
He twisted his wrist, scooping at the walls like he was trying to stir cake batter, eyes rolling back.
“Fuck, I’m so hungry back there… need something fat and warm parked in my guts again, like, right now.”
Another greedy thrust of his hand and his caged cock gave a sad little twitch, drooling a thick string of pre across his abs.
“Plug shopping it is,” he laughed, already reaching for his phone with the hand that wasn’t still lazily finger-fucking himself. “Gotta feed the beast before it eats me, bro.”
He stayed like that for ten minutes, curled on his side, fucking himself slowly with his own hand while he opened Amazon on his phone with the other searching for ‘the biggest butt plug.’ Filtered ‘Prime, overnight.’ He added the Destroyer XL (3.5 inches at its widest, 10 inches insertable, 2.4 lbs of solid black silicone) to the cart, clicked Buy Now, and paid the $89.99 without blinking. The confirmation email pinged while his fingers were still buried in his sloppy drooling hole.
The plug arrived in a plain brown box the following day. Ryder ripped it open on the floor, lube already in hand. He squatted over a full-length mirror, knees shaking, and watched his reflection: tan skin still marked with smeared Sharpie tallies, hole puffy with the lips rolled slightly outward like they’d forgotten how to close.
He coated the Destroyer until it gleamed, lined the blunt head up with his loose ring, and sat down hard. The stretch was obscene. His swollen rim thinned out around the thickest part, before it finally popped over the ridge and swallowed the whole thing. The base kissed his cheeks with a wet smack. Ryder’s eyes rolled back, mouth falling open from the feeling of fullness again from his needy asshole. As the weight settled deep in his guts his cage spat a ruined spurt onto the mirror. He didn’t take it out again for six days straight except to shit and clean his bowels.
He wore it to his 9am lecture in thin grey sweats, the black base visible if anyone looked close enough. Every time he shifted on the lecture-hall seat the plug nudged his prostate and his cage leaked into his jock. He wore it to the dining hall, sitting gingerly on hard plastic chairs, feeling the base grind against the seat while he forced down chicken and rice. He wore it to the gym, squatting three plates while the plug shifted inside him increasing the pressure on his prostate and bladder, pre-cum soaking the pouch of his running shorts. Every guy in the weight room stared at his obscene ass and whispered. Ryder just grinned dumbly and added another plate.
Chad showed up unannounced a week later with eight lacrosse teammates, three GoPros, two ring lights, and a duffel full of toys. They didn’t speak. They just pushed Ryder face-down over his own desk, yanked the plug out with a wet, sucking pop that made everyone laugh, and lined up. The gangbang that followed lasted three and a half hours.
They fucked him on the desk, on the yoga ball, on the floor, against the mirror so he could watch his own face go slack, eyes rolled back, totally gooning out. They rotated like a drill team: one in his throat, one in his hole, two jerking off onto his back waiting their turn. Phones recorded everything. Someone started a live private story titled “Hawthorne 420 After Dark.” The viewer count climbed past 300. By the end Ryder’s hole was unrecognizable: swollen, angry red, lips rolled out like a blooming rose, constantly drooling thick white rivers that pooled on the floor. His voice was gone; all he could do was whimper and push back, greedy for the next cock even when his thighs shook with exhaustion. When the last teammate stumbled out laughing and slapping high-fives, Chad stayed. He locked the door, turned the ring light to full blast, and stared at Ryder sprawled across the desk like a used toy.
“Look at this disgusting loose cunt,” he said, almost affectionate. He spread Ryder’s cheeks with both thumbs and whistled. “Used to be a tight little freshman pussy. Now it’s just a ruined cock sleeve that won’t even fart right.”
He slid four fingers in without resistance. Ryder’s back arched hard, eyes crossing, and a big, dumb, delirious giggle burst out of him.
“Broooo, that’s the stuff… hehe, wrist-deep already? Let’s goooo!”
Chad tucked his thumb, made a fist, and pushed. The pop was loud, wet, obscene. His entire hand disappeared to the wrist in one slow glide. Ryder screamed, legs kicking uselessly, cage spurting clear fluid in rhythmic pulses.
“YES YES YES, fist my fucking guts, king!” he squealed, tongue lolling, grinning like an idiot. “Punch that prostate, make me leak, bro, I’m your human stress ball!”
Chad twisted his arm, knuckles grinding against Ryder’s prostate, and started punching upward: short, vicious jabs straight into the swollen bladder. The assault forced a hot, uncontrollable jet of piss out of Ryder’s cage, spraying high and splattering Chad’s chest and all over himself. The second made Ryder’s whole body convulse, another torrent soaking the desk and dripping off the edge in a yellow-white mixture of piss and cum.
“Pissing yourself like a fucking baby,” Chad laughed Chad, punching again. “Now you’re leaking from both ends like a broken urinal.”
Chad kept punching deep, forearm rippling, knuckles hammering Ryder’s swollen bladder like it owed him money. Ryder’s eyes were crossed, tongue hanging out, and he let out the happiest, sluttiest little laugh between every splash.
“Hehe… bro I’m literally a broken water gun right nowwww!”
Another brutal jab and a fresh geyser shot up, splattering Chad’s chest. “Keep going, king! Drain the tank, I’m your piss fountain now, let’s gooooo!”
His hips bucked greedily into every punch, chasing the pressure like it was the best ride on campus. “Feels so good leaking everywhere… love being your sloppy urinal, bro, don’t stopppp!”
Chad finally drove his cock into Ryder's loose hole alongside his fist, stretching his sloppy rim so wide it produced a loud wet fart. Ryder’s eyes rolled all the way back, a huge, vacant grin splitting his face.
“Brooo… double-stuffed like a burrito… hehe, best feeling everrrr!”
Chad started jerking himself hard and fast inside that ruined tunnel, fist and cock sliding against each other in this warm guts.
“Tell me what you are, faggot.”
Ryder laugh, voice raspy and wrecked, hips rocking happily into the double invasion.
“I’m your loose lil’ cum-filled piss toy, bro! Built for fists and dicks and loads, let’s goooo!”
“Louder, dummy.”
Ryder threw his head back and shouted at the ceiling, proud and brainless:
“I’M THE DUMBEST, LOOSEST, PISS-SOAKED CUMDUMP ON CAMPUS AND I FUCKING LOVE IT!”
Chad growled, fist pumping faster, cock throbbing in his own firm grip. He slammed deep one last time and exploded, thick ropes blasting straight into Ryder’s guts, painting his insides with fresh seed.
“Take it, you loose nasty fucked out fleshlight!”
Ryder squealed, legs kicking in the air, cage drooling like a faucet.
“Pump it, pump it, feeding the peach, thank you brooooo!!”
Chad milked every drop, then slowly pulled his dripping cock out, followed by his hand with a loud, wet slurp. Ryder’s hole gaped huge and empty, twitching, drooling a river of fresh cum onto the desk. Chad leaned in, patted Ryder’s sweaty cheek like a proud owner.
“Looser than a five-dollar crack whore.”
He zipped up, gave the ruined hole one last lazy slap that made it fart cum, and walked out. Ryder just stayed sprawled there, grinning at the ceiling, piss cooling on his skin, hole winking like it was blowing kisses.
-----------------------------------------------
Best Year Ever
-----------------------------------------------
The last week of April smelled like cut grass as the academic year was coming to an end. Ryder was splayed across his bed on his stomach, one leg kicked out of the covers, the other tangled in yesterday’s stringer tank. The room looked exactly like it had the first week of freshman year, only worse: the pyramid of cans had grown into a legitimate sculpture, the yoga ball was permanently wedged between the bed and the mini-fridge, and the full-length mirror now had a ring of crusty handprints at ass-level from guys steadying themselves while they railed him from behind. His hole gave a wet gurgle when he shifted. A warm, thick trickle slid out of him and soaked into the already-stained sheets. He reached back on pure autopilot, scooped the glob with two fingers, and popped them in his mouth without opening his eyes. Salty, a little tangy, still warm. Whoever had dumped that one must’ve left right before sunrise.
“Breakfast of champions,” he mumbled, voice raspy, grinning at the ceiling.
He finally rolled over and checked his phone. The lock screen was a selfie from two nights ago: him on all fours in the dorm lounge at 3am, tongue out, eyes crossed, cum dripping off his chin while some baseball guys laughed behind the camera. 4,312 views on the private story. Someone had replied with the peach emoji forty-seven times. Ryder laughed, loud and dopey, then flopped onto his back and spread his legs so the morning light hit his ass just right. He angled the phone down his sweaty torso, past the caged cock that hadn’t been unlocked in months, and zoomed in on his puffy, slightly prolapsed rim that winked when he clenched. The Sharpie tallies from the weekend were still legible on his left cheek: 70 little black lines and one big “SPRING SEMESTER PR” circled in red. He hit record.
“Morning check-in, bros,” he chirped, voice all sunshine and vocal fry. “Still leaking from Monday’s study break. Hole’s sitting at a solid four-finger gape right now, no plug, no effort. We love progress.” He flexed his glutes so the lips fluttered open a little more, showing the shiny pink inside. “Anyway, heading to kinesiology in twenty. Door’s cracked if anyone needs a quick nut before section. Let’s get those gains.”
Posted.
He tossed the phone, scratched his balls, and waddled to the bathroom down the hall. In the shower he didn’t bother closing the curtain. Two sophomores brushing their teeth did double-takes when he bent over to rinse his crack, water running milky down his thighs. One of them muttered “Jesus, Ry,” half horrified, half turned on. Ryder just looked over his shoulder, hit them with the dumb grin, and flexed.
“Morning, bros. Y’all good?” They both nodded way too fast and started for the floor.
Back in the room he threw on the usual uniform: paper-thin grey sweats that left little to the imagination when wet, a cropped white tank that said PROTEIN ADDICT in cracked red letters, and the Destroyer XL plug resting in his loose jock pussy. He checked himself in the mirror, popped his gum, and smacked his own ass hard.
“Looking thicc today, king.”
The walk to class had become the same daily parade. Frat row was awake; guys on porches drinking coffee cat-called him like it was their job.
“Yo Hawthorne 420, save some for finals week!”
“Bet you can’t walk straight today, slut!”
Ryder just threw up a double biceps and kept bouncing, cheeks clapping softly under the sweats. In the lecture hall for Advanced Human Physiology (three hundred seats, tiered), he took his usual spot: third row from the back, aisle seat. Professor Patel didn’t even blink anymore when Ryder dropped his backpack and the wet spot on the chair became immediately obvious. Half the athletic training majors in the row behind him were already pulling their hoodies over their laps. Ten minutes into the lecture on muscle protein synthesis, a lacrosse guy two rows over raised his hand.
“Professor, quick question, can we get a live demo of glute activation?”
The room erupted. Patel sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “Mr. Hawthorne, if you’re going to volunteer again, at least keep your pants on this time.”
Ryder was already halfway out of the sweats. “No promises, doc.”
He ended up bent over the desk in front of the projector while the lacrosse guy ‘demonstrated’ hip thrust mechanics. The whole class watched the plug base shift with every rep. Someone in the front row filmed it vertically for their story. Ryder just grinned at the ceiling and counted reps out loud in his bro-y drawl.
“Eight… nine… fuck yeah, feel the burn, man… ten!”
When it was over he yanked the sweats back up, gave the guy a fist bump, and sat down in a fresh puddle of his own pre-cum like nothing happened. After class he hit the dining hall. Chicken and rice, double protein. The cashier, a cute freshman girl who’d been on his private story since October, didn’t even blush anymore when she scanned his meal card.
“You leak through another pair of sweats?” she asked, nodding at the dark patch spreading down his thigh.
“Third time this week,” he laughed, flexing a quad so the wet spot stretched. “Laundry’s expensive, bro.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling.
Leg day was religious. He rolled into the rec center at four wearing neon pink 3-inch inseam shorts and the same cropped tank. The entire power rack section went quiet for half a second when he walked in; then everyone pretended they hadn’t noticed the plug outline or the way his thighs were already shiny. He loaded four plates per side for squats. Every rep down, the base nudged his prostate. Every rep up, his cage leaked into the mesh pouch. By the third set he was shaking, moaning under his breath with every breath. Spotters rotated without being asked. Half the guys in the gym had fucked him at some point this semester; the other half were scared to ask. One of them, a quiet offensive lineman who’d only ever used the gloryhole, finally tapped his shoulder between sets.
“Uh… you free after this?”
Ryder grinned so big his dimples popped. “Always, big guy. Locker room?”
Twenty minutes later in the sauna the steam was thick enough to hide details but not sounds. Ryder was on his knees on the top bench, shorts around one ankle, taking it from both ends while three other dudes waited their turn and filmed on their phones. When the lineman finally nutted down his throat, Ryder swallowed, looked up with watery eyes, and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Solid load, bro. Ten out of ten recovery fuel.”
By the time he limped back to Hawthorne the sun was setting orange through the trees. The fourth-floor hallway smelled like weed and Axe. Someone had taped a new handwritten sign to his door:
HAWTHORNE CUMDUMP
NO LOAD REFUSED
knock twice, walk in, nut, leave
He laughed when he saw it, peeled it off gently, and stuck it to the inside of the door instead. Respect the brand, but don’t tempt freshmen. Inside, the room was already occupied. Two basketball players he vaguely recognized were waiting to tag-team him over the desk before he even dropped his gym bag. He didn’t ask names; he just kicked the door shut with his heel, peeled off the sweaty tank, and bent over with a happy little sigh.
“Welcome home to me, I guess.”
The door hadn’t even clicked shut before Marcus (tall, dark-skinned, fresh fade) had Ryder by the hips and folded him over the desk.
“Been thinking about this sloppy ass since practice,” Marcus muttered, ripping the neon-pink shorts down just far enough to fully expose Ryder's thick tanned bubble butt. The Destroyer XL was still seated deep from the gym, base shiny with dried sweat and leakage. He gripped the flange, twisted once for fun, and yanked. The plug slid out with a wet, vulgar pop, dragging a thick rope of trapped cum that splattered across the back of Ryder’s legs and dripped in slow strings to the floor.
“Jesus fuck,” Jaylen laughed from behind him (light skin, blond buzz-cut, already palming his dick through sweats). “That hole’s straight creaming already.”
Ryder just arched harder, toes curling against the floor. “Feed me, kings.”
Marcus didn’t wait. He lined his thick, curved cock up with the loose, glistening rim and sank balls-deep in one smooth stroke. The leftover sauna loads instantly turned frothy, white bubbles foaming around his shaft like whipped cream every time he pulled back. Each thrust forced more out: warm, pearly globs rolling down Ryder’s taint, coating his balls, splattering Marcus was he assaulted the greedy hole. Marcus set a brutal pace, hips snapping the meaty muscular ass. “Feel that, cumdump? Those random loads getting churned into butter for me.” Ryder could only whine, knuckles white on the desk edge, cage leaking clear strings onto the floor.
Jaylen stepped up, impatient and positioned himself under Ryder on the desk. “My turn.” He shoved in beside Marcus, stretching Ryder’s sloppy rim wide around two cocks at once. The froth went nuclear: thick, pure-white cream squirting out in messy ropes with every double thrust, splattering their bodies and the floor in wet slaps.
They worked him like a machine, turning Ryder’s hole into a sloppy, churning mess. Cum farted out in loud, wet bursts.
Marcus blew first, burying himself to the root with a deep growl and unloading. Ryder felt every heavy pulse, fresh heat flooding his guts. When Marcus pulled out, a fat gush of mixed seed poured after him, dripping down Jaylen's cock and balls in long, pearly strands. He immediately took over, sliding through his buddy's fresh load. Ten hard possessive thrusts and he was groaning too, pumping thick ropes deep in Ryder's guts. His ruined hole gaped, angry red and puffy, drooling a slow, constant leak of their combined cum. Jaylen slapped the wrecked peach once, watching it jiggle and leak.
They left with fist bumps. “Good dump, Hawthorne. See you at summer training, bro.”
Ryder flopped onto the bed naked, legs spread, cage dripping onto his abs. The room was dark except for the LED strips around the mirror cycling purple-pink-blue. Ryder grinned at the ceiling, reached down, and lazily fingered the loose, puffy mess between his cheeks. Still warm. Still hungry. He opened the private story one last time that night and hit record. Same angle as always: phone propped on his chest, pointing down his ridged abs to the swollen, shiny hole that hadn’t closed properly in months.
“End of freshman year recap,” he said, voice soft and sleepy and stupidly happy. “Ending the year with six hundred and something loads and the loosest peach on campus. Zero regrets. Door stays cracked all summer if any of y’all are still in town. Love you kings. Let’s run it back sophomore year.”
He flexed his glutes so the rim winked at the camera, blew a kiss, and hit post. Then he rolled onto his stomach, shoved a pillow under his hips, and left the door unlocked like always. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed, footsteps got closer, and Ryder’s grin got wider in the dark.
Best year ever, bro.
