Bad Boys’ Sweaty Fuck Fest
“Here we go, boys!”
“Where’s this damn restaurant at?”
“We’re almost there!”
“What? He’s late again? Make his ass pay the bill!”
Friday night, summer heat lingering, the sky still clinging to a fading strip of orange-yellow against a dusky blue, even at eight or nine. The weekend’s kicking off, and whether you’re a student or a wage slave, everybody’s letting loose. The cool evening breeze carries the scent of freedom, and folks are dialing up their crew, three or five strong, hitting up hotpot joints or BBQ spots. They’re slamming drinks, getting that sweet buzz going, then stumbling out, half-drunk, clutching half-empty bottles, laughing, arms slung over shoulders, headed for bars, clubs, or karaoke dives. More booze, more chaos, pushing the night to a fever pitch of drunken madness to drown out the week’s bullshit and gripes.
Every public spot’s pulsing with wild energy, everyone caught up in this weekly ritual of debauchery. From pretentious high-end joints with live jazz and overpriced wine to gritty street stalls reeking of grease and beer cans clinking amid the honking traffic—same vibe everywhere. From middle-aged folks juggling family and careers to fresh-faced grads still chasing dreams, everyone’s in on it.
But especially those young, reckless studs—barely legal, already deep in the game, no education, no fucks given about the future, just living for the now, no limits. You know ‘em: the “bad boys,” the “thugs,” the “punks,” the “lowlifes.”
The urban village is their turf.
Narrow streets snake between cramped buildings, the pavement slick with grease from food stalls and dive bars, stained with dried tomato skins, veggie scraps, and scattered bamboo skewers. Step too far, and you’re dodging crusty vomit stains baked into the ground.
It’s hot as hell, so the eateries drag tables and chairs outside, setting up open-air spots to pull in cash. Every joint’s got a couple of broke, wiry dudes in tight pants and beat-up sneakers hustling customers, hollering about BBQ, hotpot, stewed fish, roasted lamb, or some big-ass mix of everything. The chaotic setups fill up fast—some locals, but mostly the young punks from the all-boys sports academy across the street.
“Pfft… huh?”
The flimsy plastic tablecloth rustles in the evening breeze, the greasy wooden table loaded with metal trays wrapped in plastic bags, piled high with skewers slathered in sauce and chili. The ground’s littered with beer bottles, stacked like bowling pins.
Jax Korsen’s chomping on lamb he just ripped off a skewer, swallowing hard before turning to spit on the ground. His right hand, sporting a black sports watch, snags a cheap cigarette propped against the tray—already burned a hole through the plastic bag. He takes a deep drag, his sharp, narrow eyes squinting, oozing bad-boy charm with a rugged, chiseled face that screams trouble. He’s eyeballing the nervous wreck of a guy standing in front of him, all hunched and submissive, waiting for Jax to finish chewing. Jax blows a cloud of smoke right into the dude’s face, smirking.
Rory Duncan’s fresh on the job, not yet schooled in the art of schmoozing over drinks. He doesn’t touch smokes or booze—usually, even a whiff of cigarette smoke makes his nose twitch. But now? Even with Jax’s thick, second-hand smoke blasted in his face like a taunt, Rory’s holding his breath, not daring to flinch. Head down, all he can see is a pair of tanned, jacked legs crossed casually, one foot twitching impatiently. Jax’s big, calloused feet, baked dark from the summer sun with pale tan lines, dangle in red flip-flops, the big toe lazily flipping them up and down.
Jax’s sprawled on a rickety plastic chair, his lean, shredded body barely contained by a sweat-stained, faded white tank top that shows off the deep cleft of his pecs. His long arms ripple with defined muscle, and a thick patch of dark pit hair spills out like a jungle. One leg, sticking out from loud, patterned shorts, stretches out, making the chair creak like it’s about to collapse. His sweaty, pinkish foot sole gleams under the flip-flop. He props one arm across his chest, elbow resting on the hand holding the cigarette, and when no answer comes, he tilts his head, glaring up at the twitchy guy’s face. He sucks in his cheeks, blows another plume of smoke, and barks in a gritty, commanding voice, “The fuck you just say, huh?”
Jax’s sharp, scarred brow lifts, his thin, single-lidded eyes and cocky smirk on a square-jawed, devilishly handsome face suddenly filling Rory’s lowered gaze. The sheer intensity of that rugged, bad-boy mug makes Rory flinch, nearly tripping over his own feet. He steadies himself, eyes darting up to sneak a glance at Jax’s mocking expression, stammering softly to the buzz-cut stud whose scalp shows through his short hair, “Got… got a job I wanna ask if you and your bro’d take…”
Rory’s face burns red, too humiliated to repeat himself, his head practically buried in his chest.
“Yo, hold up, I heard that! What’s the deal, man? What kinda job?” Jax twists his head, pointing the cigarette hand at his ear, leaning toward the cowering guy. His shout draws every eye at the BBQ stall, and Rory feels the weight of their stares.
“…M-my girlfriend…” Rory’s voice is barely a whisper, audible only to himself.
“Yo, what the fuck you mumbling about? Speak up, bro, I can’t hear shit!” Jax leans back, slouching, brows knotted in fake confusion. “Louder!”
“Please… you two…” Rory finally snaps, shouting, but his voice cracks, and his face turns scarlet, red as a baboon’s ass. The thought of what he’s doing, what he’s about to say, makes his heart pound so hard it might burst.
“…Have sex with my girlfriend…”
His voice shrinks, teeth clenched, squeezing out words he can’t believe he’s saying, words that shock even himself.
Nervous? Ashamed? Humiliated? He wants to crawl into a hole and die. The reasons behind this are simple yet tangled, but he’s got no chance to explain now.
“Well, fuck me sideways!” Jax shakes his head, takes a slow drag, and lets out a long, lazy breath, his deep, magnetic voice dripping with dominance as he drawls each word into Rory’s stunned ears.
In the noisy chaos, it’s not that Jax didn’t hear—he just wanted Rory to say it again, loud, stripping away his dignity in front of everyone.
Across the table, Zane Colby watches Jax toy with the pathetic dude like a pro, seeing Rory obediently humiliate himself. Zane can’t hold it in, cracking up, his grin stretching ear to ear. His tanned, hairy arm slaps his thick thigh, the faded brown beaded bracelet on his wrist clacking. “Holy shit, man!” He grabs a beer bottle from the ground, chugs it down in two gulps, and plays along, “What’s that? What’d he say?”
Jax locks eyes with Zane, a knowing smirk passing between them. Partners in crime, they both know exactly what game they’re playing.
“What else, man? What the fuck you think he wants us to do?” Jax laughs, grinding his cigarette butt into the tray, burning another hole, ash and sparks scattering, not giving a damn if they land on the meat. In a voice loud enough for the whole damn place to hear, he sneers, “Ain’t shit—just begging us two studs to fuck his chick’s pussy raw.”
That line hits Rory like a gut punch, his world crumbling. The crowd erupts in jeers and hoots.
The place is packed with jacked-up sports academy bros, low-class and rowdy. They don’t know much beyond training, drinking, and flexing their egos. Their free time? Picking fights, causing chaos, or chasing tail. For these horny, testosterone-fueled studs, it’s all about banging chicks—groping tits, eating pussy, and ramming their thick, throbbing cocks for that adrenaline-pumping thrill. Swinging their dicks, chugging booze, and spitting crude shit—that’s their idea of a good time.
The second they hear words like “fuck,” “chick,” or “pussy,” these sex-crazed beasts light up, eyes gleaming with sleazy hunger, throwing out lewd grunts and whistles. Jax’s loud-ass cuck chant about Rory’s girl getting railed sets them off.
“Yo, what the fuck!” “Wooo!” “Oh, damn!” “Cuck shit, huh?” “Fucking savage!” “This dude’s begging for a green light to get cucked?” “What, his tiny dick can’t get it in?” “Never fuck a pussy before, needs daddy to show him how?” “Kicked out by his girl to find some real cock?”
Jax’s rhythm fuels their taunts, slamming Rory for being a weak-ass man who can’t satisfy his girl. In their eyes, his manhood’s a joke, and these ripped, cocky jocks—built like tanks, dicks blackened from pounding pussy—are the gold standard of masculinity. They’ve got the right to roast him in this public humiliation ritual, while Rory, stuck in the middle, can only take it, drowning in shame.
Head bowed, all he can see—or deserves to see—are their legs: some lean and wiry from track, others thick and explosive from balling. Their big, meaty feet, calloused and wide, stomp the ground in worn-out, grimy flip-flops. His mind flashes to their usual gear—sweaty, yellowed ankle socks or knee-high soccer socks caked with dirt, paired with beat-up, filthy basketball or running kicks.
“Fuckin’ a pussy? Who the hell can’t do that? Quit actin’ all shy about it—havin sex’!” Jax drawls loud and slow, mimicking Rory’s words with a taunting lilt, then hocks a loogie onto the ground. “Tch! Thought it was somethin’ else, almost didn’t catch that shit. Wanna get all poetic? You mean fuckin’ *makin’ love* or some crap?” He shoots a sneering side-eye at Rory, who’s stiff as a board, and keeps the humiliation train rolling full speed, bellowing, “So it’s just bangin’ her pussy, right?”
“Fuck yeah, haha!” “Playin’ coy, huh?” “Makin’ dumbass *love*? Get outta here!” “Man, I’m dyin’ over here…” The crew of sex-crazed jocks roars with even nastier mockeryDIY_MODELS, laughter, egging it on.
“Yo, dude over there!” a voice shouts from behind. Jax slings an arm over the chair back, turning. “What?”
“Whoop! *Tch*… *slurp slurp*…”
At the next table, a shirtless, ripped stud throws up a peace sign, shaping his fingers into a V, pressing them to his lips, and sloppily licking and sucking them with wet, obscene noises.
“Holy fuck!” “That’s some nasty shit!” “You hungry for that pussy or them tits?” “Fuck off, man!” “Hahaha!”
The surrounding tables erupt in hoots and jeers, the shirtless guy roughhousing with his bros, his broad, bare back getting slapped hard. Jax grins, tosses a thumbs-up, then spins back to Rory, clearly loving the chaos he’s stirred up. He grabs a beer bottle from the ground, chugs the last half in one go, and lets out a loud, “Ahh!” “Alright, tell your boys again—what you beggin’ me to do?”
Jax’s loving this game, hell-bent on crushing every last shred of Rory’s dignity, leaving him no escape. Rory’s already drained every ounce of courage to spit out those words once, and now his throat’s so dry he can’t even swallow, frozen in place, unsure if he should even move.
“Yo, chill, man, don’t let Jax mess with ya—he’s just got a mean streak, no biggie,” says the other stud at the table, who’s been quietly watching the show. Zane steps in at just the right moment, strolling over to Rory’s side as the crowd’s attention drifts. Before Rory turns into a total statue, Zane’s there to pull him out.
At over six feet, Zane’s towering frame makes it easy to sling an elbow over Rory’s shoulder. “Why you always gotta fuck with people, huh? Makin’ our boy here look bad,” he says, giving Jax a light shove as he chews through three skewers of meat in one bite. His words sound friendly, but the smirk in his voice betrays his amusement. “C’mon, bro, sit, sit.” He drags an empty chair over and plops it behind Rory.
Rory keeps his head down, a breeze carrying the musky, sweaty scent of the tall stud next to him. A heavy hand presses down on his shoulder, too strong to resist, and Rory’s eyes catch the chair by his legs. He’s stuck, no way out, so he takes Zane’s cue and sits, feeling the weight of the moment.
“Let’s skip that for now, talk some other shit. No pressure, just shootin’ the breeze with your boys,” Zane says, dropping into a chair. His veiny, tanned hand grabs a beer glass from the table, pops a fresh bottle, and pours one for Rory, who’s still staring at the ground. “Have a drink, man. Fuck, lift your head up—we’re all bros here, no need to be shy.” When Rory doesn’t budge, Zane’s long arm reaches out, gently tilting Rory’s chin up.
For the first time, Rory gets a good look at Zane’s face.
Unlike Jax’s sharp, rugged vibe, Zane’s got a young, chiseled, bad-boy charm that screams trouble with a playful, sadistic edge. His slicked-back, side-parted hair frames a square-jawed, cocky grin, his round, piercing eyes gleaming with cunning under thick, straight brows. His high, broad nose and thick, juicy lips ooze sex appeal—you can’t help but hang on his every word. That deep, booming voice, dripping with honeyed charm, has probably lured countless innocent girls, his lips devouring their soft, sensitive mouths, stealing first kisses meant for their one true love.
Zane’s built like a goddamn tank, bigger and more explosive than Jax. His black, skin-tight tank top clings to his bulging, sculpted pecs. His sun-kissed, wheat-colored skin screams healthy, jacked-up vitality, his arms pumped with veiny, elastic muscles stretching to his hands, covered in wild, bushy hair that screams raw masculinity. His black, tight shorts hug his thick, hairy legs, spread wide, the coarse hair poking through the fabric. His massive feet, longer than the water bottles on the ground, grip worn-out black flip-flops, the soles stained with sweaty footprints. His legs are straight-up pillars of muscle, the shorts outlining every chiseled curve—and the thick, cylindrical bulge snaking down one leg is impossible to miss.
“Cheers, bro, I’m downin’ this one!” Jax’s still face-deep in his food, ignoring Rory, but Zane’s playing the good guy, pouring himself a beer and raising it for a toast. Rory stares at the fizzy, amber liquid in front of him, suddenly feeling bone-tired.
When was the last time someone showed him kindness? When did he last have a real talk with anyone? His “friends” vanished after graduation, those years of camaraderie just mutual bullshit. He didn’t even have time to process it before society threw him to the wolves, no safety net, with pressure piling on from every angle. Job hunts, work, overtime, hustling, blind dates—his company, his parents, the world didn’t give a shit how much he could handle, just kept dumping more weight on his shoulders. Mornings were a blurry rush of washing up and squeezing onto packed buses. At work, he got chewed out by bosses and stuck with his team’s slack. Lunch? Half-eaten meals while his eyes drooped. No time to chat, no energy to make friends, and his awkward ass didn’t even know how to start.
Even at home, he couldn’t catch a break. He and his live-in partner barely talked, no shared interests to keep things going. Young as they were, they lived like some old married couple, exchanging polite hellos before eating in silence and sleeping in separate rooms. Rory felt nothing, but he couldn’t say no—not when his job came through her family’s connections. She was sweet, drama-free, and hot as hell, at least giving him something nice to look at.
But they were strangers under one roof, polite and distant.
How long had Rory been bottling this shit up? A year? Two? His frustrations had nowhere to go. Slumped at his desk all day, eating greasy takeout, he was a scrawny mess with a budding beer gut, despite dodging smokes and booze. The lines on his face and thinning hair made him look fifty at not even thirty. Who’d want to talk to him? Who’d be his friend? Who wouldn’t laugh or sneer?
Standing among these loud, boozing, meat-chomping punks, he was a clown, mocked and humiliated—and it felt like he deserved it.
No way out, no hope, just an endless, shitty cycle. He was fucking exhausted.
But then Zane reached out, pulling him up from that humiliating pit like he gave a damn, treating him like an equal. This random act of kindness hit Rory hard, stirring something deep inside.
He stared at the beer, then made up his mind, grabbed it, and chugged it down in one go, eyes shut tight. The icy rush jolted him, the cool breeze hitting his sweaty shirt, the fizzy burn waking his brain, the bitter sting washing away his exhaustion. He let out a loud, “Ahh!” smacking his lips.
Downing a beer in one go? Fuck, that felt good.
Appendix
Welcome to BreedLove Fertility, Your Happiness Guaranteed!
Before applying for our services, please read the following terms carefully:
*To ensure top-quality service, we pursue pure, natural insemination. Breeders and clients must cohabitate in our provided facilities until successful insemination. We’ll supply premium nutritional supplements to ensure flawless results. During the process, the breeder’s desires take priority—think twice before proceeding.
*Our breeders are professionally trained to guarantee success within one menstrual cycle, but clients must maximize contact frequency with breeders for optimal efficiency.
*For our reputation and service integrity, breeders are strictly prohibited from using protection to prolong the process. Report any such behavior immediately. Likewise, if clients are found deliberately using protection to delay the cycle, we will pursue legal action.
Below is our roster of active breeders. Carefully review with your partner and select the breeder you both approve for insemination.
Gold-Tier Breeders · Basic Info
Name / ID: Jax / DJ8C5B
- Age/Height/Weight/Shoe Size: 19yo/183cm/71kg/US 13
- Penis Length/Diameter/Shape: [Flaccid] 17cm [Erect] 28cm
- Occupation/Skin Tone: Endurance Track Runner / Dark Tan
- Photos: [Front Face] [Side Face] [Full-Body Front (Nude)] [Full-Body Side (Nude)] [Penis Close-Up Front (Flaccid)] [Penis Close-Up Side (Flaccid)] [Penis Close-Up Front (Erect)] [Penis Close-Up Side (Erect)] [Penis & Scrotum Panorama]
- Skills/Hobbies: A naturally flexible, long tongue that dives deep into the fertile hole, teasing sensitive walls into a heated, ready-to-breed state; loves long, enduring thrusts with his massive cock, stretching and grinding the inner walls.
- Average Breeding Duration · Ejaculations/Experience/Years/Partners: 3h · 2-3 times / ~5 years / 489 partners
- Notable Achievements: Successfully bred 42 fertile holes this past month; record of 3 women in one day, 2 simultaneously, 5 breedings.
Name / ID: Zane / MD69PZ
- Age/Height/Weight/Shoe Size: 18yo/185cm/74kg/US 12.5
- Penis Length/Diameter: [Flaccid] 15cm [Erect] 31cm
- Occupation/Skin Tone: Power Sprint Runner / Wheat-Tan
- Photos: [Front Face] [Side Face] [Full-Body Front (Nude)] [Full-Body Side (Nude)] [Penis Close-Up Front (Flaccid)] [Penis Close-Up Side (Flaccid)] [Penis Close-Up Front (Erect)] [Penis Oversized (Erect)] [Penis & Scrotum Panorama]
- Skills/Hobbies: Long, powerful fingers skilled at intense hand-play, stimulating the fertile hole to lower the womb and sustain arousal; loves explosive thrusts, ramming the cockhead into the womb, filling it with relentless cum until it overflows.
- Average Breeding Duration · Ejaculations/Experience/Years/Partners: 5h · 4-7 times / ~4 years / 367 partners
- Notable Achievements: Successfully bred 59 fertile holes this past month; record of 4 women in one day, 3 simultaneously, 7 breedings.
