The dorm room was a shadowed cage, lit only by the faint orange glow of a streetlamp slicing through the blinds. Owen, a 20-year-old baseball jock, lay face-down on his creaky dorm bed, his 6-foot, 185-pound body a sculpted masterpiece from years of swinging bats and crushing gym sessions. His blond hair, usually a cocky mess, clung to his sweaty forehead, and his tanned skin shimmered under the dim light, every cut of his pecs, six-pack, and thick thighs popping like he was carved from stone. His navy gym shorts hugged his bubble butt, the straps of his black jockstrap peeking out, teasing the eye. His 8-inch cock, trapped against the mattress, pulsed with a mix of fear and heat he couldn’t shake.
His wrists were bound tight behind his back with athletic tape, the rough edges digging into his skin just enough to remind him he wasn’t going anywhere. His own sweaty boxers, yanked off in a blur, were stuffed in his mouth, the musky taste flooding his senses as he tried to breathe through his nose. Owen’s hazel eyes flicked toward the door, heart hammering like he was facing a 95-mph fastball. He was alone—for now—but the rumors about the “Coach” were screaming in his head, each one more twisted and electric than the last.
Three weeks ago, the baseball team’s locker room was a steamy haze after a grueling practice. Owen, shirtless in his jockstrap and shorts, was wiping sweat off his chiseled abs when Jake, a 6’2” pitcher with a buzzcut and a cocky smirk, leaned against the lockers. “Yo, Owen, you hear about this ‘Coach’ dude?” Jake’s voice was hushed, his brown eyes glinting. “They say he’s been hitting up sorority girls, sneaking in at night, tying ‘em up with their own thongs. Leaves ‘em screaming for more.”
Owen laughed, adjusting his jockstrap to hide the twitch in his shorts. “Sounds like some frat bro’s wet dream, man. What, he’s just breaking into houses and banging chicks?” But his voice wavered, and he turned to his locker to cover it.
“Nah, it’s real,” said Ethan, a lean shortstop with dark curls, toweling off his ripped torso. “My girlfriend’s roommate got hit. Said this dude’s huge—6’8”, jacked as fuck, and packing serious heat. Tied her to the bed, made her beg for it. There’s an audio clip, bro. You hear it?” Ethan pulled out his phone, playing a muffled file—high-pitched moans, a girl’s voice gasping, “Please, oh God,” and a deep growl saying, “That’s it, take it all.” Owen’s gut tightened, his 8-inch cock stirring despite himself. “Bullshit,” he muttered, but he couldn’t stop listening.
Two weeks ago, Owen was at a frat party, red Solo cup in hand, the house pulsing with music and bodies. His tight tee showed off his sculpted arms, and he was chatting up a cheerleader when a group of lacrosse bros started talking nearby. Ryan, a beefy attackman with a man bun, was half-drunk, gesturing wildly. “I’m telling you, this ‘Coach’ guy’s a fucking legend. My buddy’s sister got ‘coached’ last week. Said he tied her wrists with her own scarf, fucked her till she couldn’t walk straight. She’s got this audio—sent it to her friends.” Ryan fumbled with his phone, and a clip played: a girl’s moans, desperate and raw, mixed with a deep voice purring, “You’re mine tonight, sweetheart.”
Owen sipped his beer, his heart pounding. “That’s fake as hell,” he said, but his eyes lingered on Ryan’s phone. Connor, a lanky midfielder, laughed nervously. “Fake or not, girls are lining up for this dude. He’s gotta be hung like a horse, right? Who’s got the balls to do that?” The bros laughed, but Owen caught their uneasy glances, like they were all wondering if the Coach was watching. Owen adjusted his shorts, his cock betraying his cool-guy act.
Ten days ago, Owen was in the campus gym, spotting his buddy Tyler, a compact gymnast with a shredded build. The clank of weights filled the air as Tyler racked a barbell. “Yo, Owen, you heard about this ‘Coach’ shit?” Tyler said, wiping sweat off his brow. “My ex said her friend got hit by him. Dude’s, like, 6’8”, pure muscle, and a total beast. Tied her up with her own leggings, left her a mess. There’s this audio clip going around—sounds like a fucking porn shoot.”
Owen grunted, helping lift the bar, his biceps flexing. “Yeah, I heard. Probably some creep hyping himself up.” But his voice was tight, and when Tyler played the clip—moans, a girl begging, “More, please,” and that same deep voice growling, “Good girl”—Owen’s jockstrap felt way too snug. “Girls are eating it up,” Tyler said, shaking his head. “But, like, who is this dude? He’s gotta be some pro athlete or something, right?” Owen nodded, but his mind was elsewhere, picturing a massive shadow slipping into a room.
A week ago, Owen was in the dining hall, tray loaded with protein, when he overheard a group of hockey bros at the next table. Matt, a burly center with a shaved head, was talking low. “My girl’s friend got ‘coached’ last weekend. Said this dude’s a fucking giant, tied her to the headboard with her own bra. She’s got this audio—sent it to half the sorority.” Matt played it on his phone, volume low: a girl’s gasps, a rhythmic slapping sound, and a deep voice saying, “You’re taking it so well, princess.” The table went quiet, the bros exchanging looks.
“Dude, that’s insane,” said Dylan, a wiry winger, his fork frozen mid-bite. “How’s he not getting caught? And why do these chicks love it?” Matt shrugged, smirking. “Guess he’s just that good. Bet he’s packing some serious heat.” Owen shoveled food in his mouth, trying to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. He told himself it was just gossip, but the audio stuck with him, that voice echoing in his head.
Three nights ago, Owen was back in the locker room after a late practice, his blond hair wet from the shower, a towel slung low around his hips, showing off his treasure trail. Jake and Ethan were there, along with a few hockey guys who’d crashed the baseball team’s gym time. The vibe was tense, the air thick with sweat and whispers. Ethan leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yo, Owen, you hear the new shit about the ‘Coach’? It’s not just girls anymore. They say he got a dude. That gymnast, Cody. Cocky fucker who’s always flexing in the gym.”
Owen’s stomach dropped, but he played it cool, wrapping the towel tighter. “No way, bro. Cody? He’d knock a guy out.” Ethan shook his head, pulling out his phone. “Listen to this.” He played the clip—muffled, desperate “gah, gah” sounds, unmistakably a guy, choking and struggling, followed by that deep, familiar voice: “Take it, pretty boy.” The locker room went dead silent, every jock frozen. Jake’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit. That’s… Cody?”
“Nah, can’t be,” Owen said, but his voice cracked. His cock twitched under the towel, and he turned away, pretending to dig in his locker. Ryan, the hockey bro from the party, piped up. “Heard Cody got in the dude’s face, talking shit. Coach tied him up, fucked his throat raw. Cody’s been weird since, skipping practice.” The bros exchanged looks, half-scared, half-thrilled. “Straight or not, that’s some power move,” Ethan muttered, and Owen caught the same spark in his eyes he felt in himself—fear, yeah, but also a twisted curiosity.
Now, taped to his bed, Owen’s body was a live wire, every muscle taut as he waited. The door creaked open, and the “Coach” filled the frame—6’8”, a wall of lean muscle in a black tank top that clung to his sculpted pecs and veined biceps. His gym shorts strained against his thick thighs, the bulge of his 8.5-inch cock impossible to miss. His dark eyes locked on Owen, a smirk curling his lips like a predator sizing up prey.
“Pretty boy,” the Coach growled, his voice matching the audio clips perfectly. “Heard you’ve been laughing off my rep. Thought you were too tough for this, huh?” He stepped closer, boots thudding, and Owen’s heart jackhammered. The Coach’s hand tested the tape on Owen’s wrists, then slid down to smack his ass through the shorts, the sting making Owen’s cock jump. “Nice jockstrap, jock. Wearing it for me?”
Owen’s muffled groan was caught by the boxers in his mouth, his body betraying him as it arched slightly. The Coach chuckled, leaning down, his breath hot against Owen’s ear. “You’re all the same, you cocky jocks. Act straight, talk big, but you’re dying to know what it’s like to be owned.” His hands roamed—gripping Owen’s shoulders, tracing his spine, teasing the waistband of his shorts. Every touch was a power play, stoking the fire in Owen’s core, making him squirm against the binds.
The Coach didn’t rush, savoring every second of control. “Look at this body,” he murmured, smacking Owen’s thigh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “Built like a fucking god, but you’re mine tonight.” His hands kneaded Owen’s muscles, teasing but never crossing into anything too raw, keeping him on the edge of sensation. The boxers muffled Owen’s moans, his 8-inch cock throbbing painfully against the bed. The Coach’s voice was relentless, taunting, “Bet you’re thinking about that gymnast now, huh? Wondering if you’ll break like he did.”
When the Coach finally cut the tape and yanked the gag free, Owen gasped, his chest heaving, his blond hair a sweaty mess. The Coach tossed his shorts back, smirking. “Sleep tight, pretty boy. I’ll be back.” Owen collapsed, his body buzzing with shame, fear, and a heat he couldn’t deny. The rumors were real—and he was hooked.
Owen stumbled back to his dorm under the cold November sky, the West Michigan campus quiet except for the crunch of leaves under his sneakers. His head was a fog—too many beers at the frat party, or maybe something else? He remembered laughing with his baseball bros, the thump of music, and then… nothing. A black hole where memories should’ve been. His 6-foot, 185-pound frame felt heavy, his blond hair a sweaty mess as he fumbled with his keycard and collapsed onto his dorm bed, still in his navy gym shorts and black jockstrap. The last thing he recalled was the door clicking shut behind him. Then, darkness.
Now, he was wide awake, heart jackhammering, his chiseled body sprawled face-down on the mattress. His wrists were bound tight behind his back with athletic tape, the rough edges biting into his tanned skin. His own sweaty boxers were stuffed in his mouth, the musky taste choking his ragged breaths. His 8-inch cock, trapped against the bed, throbbed painfully, a mix of fear and heat coursing through him. The rumors about the “Coach”—that 27-year-old, 6’8” mountain of muscle who’d been “coaching” girls and maybe even jocks—flooded his mind. Was this him? How the hell did Owen end up like this?
A creak broke the silence—someone moving behind him. Heavy footsteps, deliberate, like a predator circling. Owen’s hazel eyes widened, darting toward the shadows. He tried to speak, to demand who was there, but the boxers muffled his words into a pathetic grunt. He squirmed, muscles flexing against the tape, trying to twist his head to see. A massive hand slammed down on his back, pinning him to the bed with ease. His bubble butt, framed by the jockstrap under his shorts, arched instinctively, and a low, young man’s voice rumbled through the room, dripping with dominance.
“Easy, pretty boy,” the voice growled, smooth and dangerous. “You’re not going anywhere. Time for your first real lesson.” Owen’s cock jumped, his body betraying him as the voice continued, hot and filthy. “Been watching you, Owen. All that jock swagger, that tight ass. Tonight, I’m gonna coach you right—teach you how to take my dick in that pretty mouth of yours.”
Owen’s breath hitched, his mind screaming to resist, but his body was on fire, his 8-inch cock straining against the mattress. The Coach’s hand pressed harder, fingers digging into Owen’s sculpted back, keeping him pinned like a prize. “You’re gonna learn to open wide, stud,” the Coach purred, his voice a mix of command and tease. “Bet you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? All those rumors about me breaking jocks like you.”
The footsteps moved, and suddenly the Coach stepped into view, standing right in front of Owen’s face. Owen’s eyes flicked up, and his breath caught. The Coach was a fucking vision—6’8”, a wall of lean, chiseled muscle wrapped in a tight black tank top that hugged his massive pecs like a second skin. His biceps and triceps bulged, veins popping under tanned skin, every flex a testament to raw power. A black mask covered his face, leaving only his sharp jaw and piercing dark eyes visible, glinting with predatory hunger. His soft gray sweatpants hung low, the outline of his huge cock unmistakable, thick and heavy even at rest.
Owen’s gaze locked on the Coach’s chest, the way the tank top stretched over every ridge, then drifted to those sexy, pumped arms. The combination—massive pecs, sculpted biceps, and that air of total control—hit Owen like a drug. His hazel eyes betrayed him, wide and glassy, screaming he was ready even as his mind hesitated. His cock throbbed harder, tenting his shorts, and a low moan escaped through the gag.
The Coach smirked, catching every flicker of Owen’s expression. “Look at you, jock,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Getting hard just looking at me. I’m gonna be a good coach, Owen. We both know you want this, don’t we?” He leaned down, his masked face inches from Owen’s, those dark eyes boring into him. Owen swallowed nervously, his throat working around the boxers, his body trembling with a mix of fear and need.
The Coach’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, yanking the sweaty boxers from Owen’s mouth. Owen gasped, coughing, his lips wet and parted as he sucked in air. The Coach didn’t wait, hooking his thumbs into his sweatpants and sliding them down. His 8.5-inch cock sprang free, thick, straight, and rock-hard, the head glistening as it bobbed inches from Owen’s face. Owen froze, mesmerized, his eyes locked on the massive shaft, the veins pulsing, the sheer size overwhelming. His tongue darted out, licking his lips instinctively, a reflex he couldn’t control.
“There you go, you little slut,” the Coach growled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Knew you were ready.” He reached out, delivering a sharp, sweet slap across Owen’s cheek, the sting sending a jolt through his body. Owen’s cock twitched, precum soaking his jockstrap, his hesitation crumbling under the Coach’s dominance. “Open up, pretty boy,” the Coach commanded, guiding his thick cock to Owen’s lips, brushing the head against them, teasing. “Time to learn how a real jock takes it.”
Owen’s mind was a storm, his straight-bro pride clawing to hold on, but his body was betraying him, screaming for surrender. His 6-foot, 185-pound frame, chiseled from years of baseball, lay pinned face-down on his dorm bed, wrists bound tight behind his back with athletic tape. His navy gym shorts clung to his sculpted bubble butt, the black jockstrap underneath framing it like a prize. His 8-inch cock throbbed against the mattress, leaking precum, a humiliating testament to the heat flooding his veins. The sweaty boxers that had gagged him were gone, yanked out by the Coach, leaving his lips wet and parted, trembling as the 6’8” mountain of muscle loomed over him.
The Coach, a 27-year-old god in a black mask, stood in front of Owen, his tight black tank top straining over his massive pecs, veins popping along his sculpted biceps and triceps. His gray sweatpants were down, his 8.5-inch cock standing thick and straight, the glistening head brushing Owen’s lips. The Coach’s hand gripped Owen’s blond hair, tilting his head back, forcing his hazel eyes to meet the dark, predatory gaze behind the mask. “Good boy,” the Coach murmured, his voice a filthy promise, low and dripping with control. “Let’s start your training.”
Owen’s breath hitched, his lips quivering as the Coach’s cock nudged against them, hot and heavy. Part of him wanted to yell, to fight, but the heat in his gut, the ache in his own cock, held him captive. The Coach’s grip tightened, his thumb brushing Owen’s jaw, coaxing it open. “Open that pretty mouth, jock,” he growled, his voice a velvet blade. “Time to show me what a star like you can do.”
Owen’s lips parted wider, hesitant but helpless under the Coach’s command. The Coach didn’t rush, savoring the moment, guiding his thick cock past Owen’s lips with a slow, deliberate push. The head filled Owen’s mouth, warm and slick, the musky taste overwhelming his senses. Owen’s eyes widened, a muffled moan escaping as his tongue brushed the underside, instinct taking over despite his racing mind. His cheeks hollowed, lips stretching around the girth, struggling to take…
The Coach’s hand in Owen’s hair tightened, guiding him with a firm, unyielding grip. “That’s it, pretty boy,” he purred, his voice dripping with dominance. “Suck it like you mean it. Show me how bad you want this.” Owen’s body trembled, his chiseled abs tensing as he worked his mouth, lips sliding along the shaft, his tongue swirling tentatively. The Coach’s cock was thick, veins pulsing, and Owen’s hazel eyes flicked up, meeting that masked gaze, the sight of those massive pecs and chiseled arms making his cock twitch harder in his jockstrap. His face burned with a mix of shame and heat, his moans vibrating against the Coach’s skin, sending a shudder through both of them.
“Fuck, you’re a natural,” the Coach growled, his free hand gripping Owen’s shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. “Look at that tight jock mouth, taking me so good.” Owen’s body reacted, his 8-inch cock throbbing painfully, precum soaking his shorts as he sucked harder, lips gliding, cheeks hollowing with effort. His bound wrists strained against the tape, muscles flexing, his bubble butt arching slightly as he rocked against the bed, chasing friction. The Coach’s words hit like a spark, each one stoking the fire in Owen’s gut. “Knew you’d be a slut for this, jock,” the Coach taunted, his voice low and filthy. “All that swagger, and here you are, drooling on my dick.”
Owen’s mind was a blur, pride warring with the raw need coursing through him. His tongue worked faster, sloppy and desperate, the Coach’s thick shaft filling his mouth, stretching his jaw. He gagged softly as the Coach pushed deeper, testing him, but Owen didn’t pull back, his lips tightening, sucking with a hunger that shocked him. “Good fucking boy,” the Coach praised, his hand guiding Owen’s head, setting a slow, relentless rhythm. “Bet you’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you? Getting owned by a real stud.”
The Coach’s grip tightened, his hips rocking forward, pushing his cock deeper until Owen’s nose brushed the coarse hair at the base. Owen’s eyes watered, his throat working around the thickness, gagging but not stopping, his body screaming yes even as his mind reeled. His cock was rock-hard, leaking steadily, the jockstrap soaked as he ground against the mattress, every nerve on fire. The Coach’s voice was a constant, filthy stream, each word a lash. “Take it all, jock. Every fucking inch. You’re mine now, you hear me? My pretty little slut.” Owen’s muffled moans grew louder, his body trembling, his sculpted thighs clenching as he fought the urge to buck harder against the bed.
The Coach’s pace quickened, his massive hand controlling Owen’s head, pushing him to take it deeper, faster. “Look at you, choking on it like a champ,” he growled, his masked eyes glinting with hunger. “Knew you’d break for me, Owen. Knew you’d love it.” Owen’s face flushed, his lips stretched wide, saliva dripping as he worked, his tongue swirling, desperate to please despite the shame burning in his chest. His body was a live wire, every thrust of the Coach’s cock sending jolts through him, his own cock pulsing with need.
The Coach’s hand tightened in Owen’s blond hair, his hips rocking as he savored the sight of the jock’s lips stretched around his 8.5-inch cock. With a low, predatory chuckle, he leaned over Owen’s bound, 6-foot frame, his massive chest casting a shadow across the dorm bed. “Let’s see what else you’re hiding, pretty boy,” he growled, his voice dripping with dominance. His free hand slid down Owen’s back, fingers grazing the sweat-slick ridge of his spine, then hooked into the waistband of Owen’s navy gym shorts. He tugged them down slowly, expecting to find a pair of tight boxers clinging to the jock’s legendary bubble butt.
Instead, the shorts slid past Owen’s hips, revealing nothing but bare, chiseled muscle—the perfect, tanned globes of his ass framed by the straps of his black jockstrap, leaving everything exposed. The Coach froze for a split second, his masked eyes glinting with raw hunger. “Fuck, jock,” he purred, his voice thick with approval. “No boxers? Just this slutty jockstrap? You’re begging for it, aren’t you?” His hand smacked Owen’s bare ass, the sharp sting echoing in the room, making Owen’s body jolt, his 8-inch cock throbbing harder against the mattress, precum soaking the sheets.
Owen’s muffled moan vibrated against the Coach’s shaft, his cheeks burning with shame and heat as his ass arched instinctively under the touch. The Coach’s fingers kneaded the firm muscle, teasing the straps, his grip possessive. “Look at this perfect fucking ass,” he taunted, smacking it again, the sound mixing with Owen’s choked gasps. “Built like a goddamn trophy, and it’s all mine tonight.” Owen’s hazel eyes watered, his body trembling with a mix of hesitation and need, his cock pulsing as the Coach’s words and touch drove him to the edge, every nerve screaming for more.
The Coach’s breath hitched, his chiseled pecs flexing under the tight black tank, his biceps bulging as he gripped Owen’s hair tighter. “Gonna paint that pretty face, jock,” he growled, his voice rough with impending release. “You ready for it?” Owen’s eyes flicked up, wide and glassy, his body screaming yes even as he hesitated, his lips never stopping, sucking harder, wet and sloppy. The Coach pulled back suddenly, his hand pumping his thick cock, aiming it at Owen’s flushed, sweat-slick face. “Open up, jock, show me your tongue!” he commanded, and Owen’s lips parted instinctively, his tongue darting out, his hazel eyes locked on the Coach’s masked face.
With a low, guttural groan, the Coach came, hot ropes of cum splattering across Owen’s lips, cheeks, and jaw, marking him like a prize. Owen’s 6-foot, 185-pound frame shook, his 8-inch cock throbbing in his jockstrap, his face a mess of heat, shame, and raw need. “Fucking perfect,” the Coach purred, his voice a velvet blade, smearing the slick mess across Owen’s lips with the head of his thick cock, claiming every inch of him. “Look at you, all marked up like my bitch.” Owen’s moans were raw, his chiseled body arching, his bound wrists straining against the athletic tape as the Coach’s words burned into him, searing as much as the cum dripping down his flushed face.
The Coach leaned closer, his 6’8” frame looming, his black tank top straining over his massive pecs, veins popping along his sculpted arms. His masked eyes glinted with predatory hunger as he dragged a thick finger through the sticky mess on Owen’s cheek, gathering a heavy drop of his cum. “Open that pretty mouth, jock,” he growled, his voice low and commanding. He pushed the finger past Owen’s trembling lips, the salty, thick taste flooding Owen’s senses. Owen moaned, a deep, desperate sound, his tongue swirling around the Coach’s finger, sucking instinctively as his hips bucked against the bed, chasing the electric aftershocks of his own orgasm. His precum-soaked jockstrap clung to his throbbing cock, his muscular thighs clenching as he ground down, every nerve screaming to prolong the high.
“Fuck, you’re greedy,” the Coach taunted, his finger pumping slowly in Owen’s mouth, mimicking the rhythm of what they’d just done. “Look at you, lapping it up like a slut.” Owen’s hazel eyes fluttered, half-lidded with need, his blond hair a sweaty mess as he sucked harder, his moans muffled and raw. The Coach’s other hand gripped Owen’s jaw, holding him in place, smearing more of the cum across his lips, painting him with slow, deliberate strokes. “My pretty boy, marked and begging for more,” he purred, his voice dripping with control, each word sending a jolt through Owen’s core.
With a sudden, effortless move, the Coach grabbed Owen’s bound shoulders, flipping the jock onto his back with a grunt. Owen’s chiseled abs flexed, his tanned skin glistening under the dim dorm light, his bound wrists pinned beneath him. The Coach’s hands moved fast, hooking into the straps of Owen’s black jockstrap and yanking it down, the fabric peeling away to reveal a glistening puddle of Owen’s own cum, hot and thick, pooling across his defined six-pack and treasure trail. The Coach’s smirk widened behind the mask, his eyes glinting with wicked delight. “Look at this fucking mess you made, jock,” he growled, his voice thick with approval. “Came so hard for me, didn’t you?”
He scooped up the warm, sticky cum with one massive hand, his fingers slick as he smeared it over his own 8.5-inch cock, still hard and pulsing. The sight made Owen’s breath catch, his lips parting, his body trembling with a mix of shock and craving. The Coach leaned in, gripping Owen’s blond hair again, tilting his head back. “Time for round two, pretty boy,” he said, his voice a filthy promise. He guided his cum-slick cock back to Owen’s lips, the head brushing against them, the mix of their releases hot and overwhelming. “Taste yourself on me,” he commanded, pushing past Owen’s lips, slow and deliberate, filling his mouth again.
Owen’s moan was guttural, his tongue swirling over the slick shaft, the taste of his own cum mingling with the Coach’s, driving him wild. His hips bucked off the bed, his cock twitching despite the fresh release, his body a live wire under the Coach’s control. “That’s it, jock,” the Coach growled, his hand guiding Owen’s head, setting a slow, relentless rhythm. “Suck it clean, you filthy little slut.” Owen’s eyes watered, his face flushed, but he didn’t stop, his lips tightening, his tongue working desperately, every move a surrender to the Coach’s dominance. The Coach’s massive frame loomed, his chiseled arms flexing, his voice a constant stream of filthy praise, pushing Owen deeper into the haze of need.
