Begging for contact
The weekend passed in a blur, nothing major—just hung out with Luke a bit, hit the gym, tried to stay out of my own head. Coach had me in for a solo training session on Saturday morning. Normally I’d complain or at least joke about being worked too hard, but I didn’t. I didn’t even think to! Just showed up, ran drills, followed instructions. It felt natural. Easy.
Too easy.
Lacey's been texting a lot. Flirty. Hints about her parents being gone next weekend. I know what that means. She wants it. And I should want it too. I do… or at least, I want to want it. But every time I imagine her body, her voice, the things we’ve done before—it’s like something’s just... missing. I can’t hold the image in my head for more than a few seconds before it slips away and I’m thinking about something else. Someone else.
And the erections—Jesus. They’ve been nonstop. At college. At home. In the car. I’ll just be sitting there, thinking about absolutely nothing, and suddenly I’m hard. Thick and aching and leaking in my trousers. It’s embarrassing. I’ve had to start carrying my bag in front of me between classes like a damn cliché.
I’ve tried to jerk off. A bunch of times. Every night since that night. But it’s never the same. Nothing hits like that video. That moment. I’ve gone through page after page — girls, couples, threesomes, everything I used to love — but it all feels… dull. Like watching a movie I’ve already seen too many times. I’ll get close, but it never tips over. Never explodes like it did when I…
I don’t even want to finish that thought.
I just need to clear my head. Get focused. Whatever’s going on with my hormones or brain or whatever. It’ll pass.
It has to.
I chugged my routinely morning shake on the way out the door, the powdery taste still coating my tongue as I headed to college. It didn’t take long to kick in—just like before, that heat started bubbling in my chest, humming low and steady in the background. My skin felt extra sensitive, every brush of fabric or breeze against my neck sending little sparks through me.
By the time I got to the locker room, the team was already mid-chaos. Guys yelling, laughing, snapping towels. The usual.
I found my spot next to Luke, pulling off my blazer and shirt, a slight sheen already starting to form across my body even though I hadn’t done a thing yet. I tried to keep my eyes straight—but it was like they had a mind of their own. The smell of musk and deodorant was thick in the air. Steam clung to skin from the showers still running nearby. Bare backs. Thick thighs. Tight compression shorts.
I wasn’t staring. Not really.
As I headed for the entrance of the pitch, someone shoulder-checked me hard. I stumbled sideways, bumping into the bench.
“Watch where you’re going, fag.”
Kyle Knight. Prick. College athlete, golden child and complete prick. He walks around campus like he owns the place, and I guess in some ways he does as everyone lets him get away with murder in this town. His hair is always short and spiky perfect for him to run his fingers through it as he hits on girls, his boxers peaking out from the top of his trousers like a promise for more if anyone dares to try.
Smirking menacingly he slapped me on the ass—hard—and walked off like it was nothing, his henchmen in tow sniggering amongst themselves.
My stomach flipped. Something ugly curled in my chest... and something else, just below that, pulsed.
Outside, the sun hit like a hammer. The field was soft, slightly damp, and the air was thick with heat and tension. We broke into drills—tackling, sprinting, forming up. Bodies collided. Grunts and shouts filled the space.
The scent of sweat and grass. The sound of cleats pounding turf. Men panting. Barking.
I tried to focus.
The ball snapped into play with a shout, and I fell into motion, legs pumping, cleats biting into the turf. Kyle barked orders from the far side, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. I moved without thinking—hours of drills embedded in my muscles—but everything felt turned up. Louder. Closer. Raw.
The ball flew between hands, arms flexing, sweat gleaming across chests and shoulders as bodies collided. I tackled someone—Ben, I think—and hit the ground hard, skin sliding against damp grass, his body on top of mine for a breath too long before we scrambled apart. I could still feel the imprint of him on my chest.
We reset. Ran again. I was inside the rhythm now—sprinting, turning, crouching low for another pass. I could hear Luke behind me, the blow of his footsteps close, his breath hot as he caught up and slid the ball into my hands. His fingers grazed my side. I swallowed hard.
Everything was heat and sound. Grunts. Shouts. Slaps of muscle against muscle. Every tackle drove more air from my lungs, every restart made me hungrier. I dove for the ball, landed on it, and someone landed on me—hard, solid weight pressing into my back, a thigh slipping between mine. I gritted my teeth, face buried in the grass, trying not to groan in passion.
The sun burned down, and my head spun. Shirts clung to torsos like second skin, revealing every slope, every contour. Shorts clung tighter. Jock straps visible. Steam rose off bodies. I swore I could smell it—salt, testosterone, something primal.
I wasn’t just flushed. I was burning.
At one point, I sprinted out, caught the pass, turned—and slammed into Kyle head-on. The two of us tangled, twisted, fell. He grabbed at my jersey. I grabbed back. Our faces were inches apart in the grass, breath hot and ragged. His eyes flicked over my lips. Just for a moment.
Then he stood up without a word, leaving me breathless and shaking.
We ran, we grappled, we laughed, but I was transfixed by Kyle from then on. Every tackle was rough, every brush of skin another jolt. I was too aware of him—his voice, his touch, the way his muscles moved under his sweat-darkened shirt. Every time we locked up, I lingered a little too long. Every time he tackled me, I hit the ground harder, chest heaving, flushed.
During the final play he charged at me spinning out of reach. I turned, sprinted—he caught me mid-stride and pulled me down from behind. We hit the grass, tangled, half beneath him struggling to break free the ball still in my possession.
I felt him press in close behind me. Not hard, not obviously—but close. His hips bumped mine. His breath hit the back of my neck. I didn’t move.
If anything, I backed into it.
Everything blurred. Contact drills turned into something else—almost ritual. Heat pressed in from every side. I couldn’t get enough air. I was sweating through my shirt, my thighs trembling, and every time I moved, I could feel the fabric of my jockstrap tightening. Threatening to burst free like it had this entire time uncaring about who would see.
I didn’t even realize what was happening until it hit.
A wave. A full-body throb. My knees nearly buckled. I clenched my fists and bit my lip, hard, holding in a noise I didn’t understand. The world flickered. Just for a second.
I tried to move. Didn’t.
Instead, I shifted—once, twice—my hips rocking back into his thighs. He grunted, clueless, adjusting his arms around me. “Fucking give the ball up man!” Kyle hissed.
I let out a shaky breath, barely able to think. My whole body was pulsing, hot and tight. Every part of me felt alive, skin prickling, muscles tense. I didn’t even realize I was moving—slow, rhythmic, grinding down into him like I couldn’t stop.
I thought I could feel the long length of his manhood behind me. His slick sweat covered chest against my straining back. Breath against my ear, as if promising something unwavering. In this moment I didn’t care that I hated him, I could all but contain the desperate moans scaping my wanting lips, wanting this minute to stretch out for eternity.
Then suddenly the pressure broke. Days of pent up frustration broke free as a wave surged through me, enveloping me in blinding passion. I froze, jaw clenched, as a full-body tremor rolled from my spine to my toes. My whole body locked up as the orgasm tore through me—sudden, overwhelming, blinding. I wasn't even touching myself, but my cock throbbed and pumped helplessly.
I came harder than I had in days, the orgasm ripping through me as hot, thick spurts filled my underwear, soaking me as I shook and gasped, soaking my underwear with wave after wave of hot, sticky release. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t Move. My mind went white as I hung there gripping the ball with all the strength I could muster, completely undone.
Coach’s whistle blew from somewhere behind me.
I stayed on the ground for a second longer than I should have, the pounding of blood in my ears louder than any whistle. My legs were still trembling, mouth agape with no sound.
I didn’t know what had just happened.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
When it passed, I hurried to catch the others up trying to act normal, praying that no one had noticed.
My jockstrap was soaked in ropes of my own cum, and I hadn’t even touched myself! I was so humiliated. My shorts were sticking to me in a way they hadn’t before. The inside of my thigh felt… wet, as the warmth slowly dribbled down and dripped onto the grass beneath me.
As I glanced toward the sideline, I caught Coach Adams watching me—arms crossed, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but the smirk on his face was unmistakable. Not proud. Not amused.
Knowing.
