The little beach bungalow smelled like salt, weed, and coconut sunscreen. One big window open to the ocean, waves rolling in the dark outside. Inside, the only light came from the cheap TV playing some brain-dead reality show nobody was watching.
They’d met that afternoon. The 25-year-old surfer god — tall, lean, viciously cut — had been giving the 20-year-old college jock a private lesson. The kid was a fucking tank: 6'2", 225 lbs of thick football muscle, heavy chest, tree-trunk thighs, big round ass that made his boardshorts look painted on. Eight wipeouts. After the last one the surfer had paddled up, water dripping off his razor-sharp eight-pack, and smirked:
“Eight falls, meat. That’s a lot of help you owe me. My place tonight. No excuses. You can help me out with something — call it payback.”
The beefy jock had laughed, already half-hard, thinking This pretty boy has no idea. I’m gonna let him think he’s in charge for five minutes, then I’m bending him over and breeding that tight surfer hole till he’s crying my name.
Now, two hours later, they were both on the big L-shaped couch. The jock was sprawled in nothing but his low-slung boardshorts, thick legs spread wide claiming space, one big hand casually resting on his own heavy bulge as if reminding himself — and maybe the surfer too — who usually ran the show.
The beefy 20-year-old was pure top energy radiating off him in waves. Shoulders squared like he owned every room he walked into, thick thighs spread wide, chest puffed, that fat cock already thickening just from being close to the older guy. In his head the night was already scripted: a little teasing, maybe let the lean dude think he was calling shots for a minute, then flip the script hard. Pin those sharp hips down, make that pretty surfer arch and beg, slide his own thick cock in deep and raw, pound until the older guy was moaning his name and shooting across those insane abs. Worst case? He’d settle for getting some sloppy, eager head from the cocky surf stud — lips stretched around his girth, eyes watering while he face-fucked him slow and mean. Either way, the jock was walking out of here knowing he’d wrecked that tight hole… or at least left the surfer choking on his load. No question. He was the bull tonight.
The 25-year-old surfer sat relaxed beside him, still wearing a loose white tank top that clung to his narrow waist and showed the deep cuts of his obliques. He looked lazy, almost bored, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers lightly brushing the jock’s thick shoulder.
After a long silence the surfer finally spoke, voice low and smooth.
“You still thinking about that help you owe me, big boy?”
The beefy jock grinned, cocky as hell. “Hell yeah. What you need help with, pretty boy?”
The surfer chuckled, then in one slow, casual motion hooked his fingers under the hem of his tank top and peeled it up and off. He tossed it aside.
The sight hit the jock like a truck.
Those abs.
Eight deep, brutal bricks of muscle, tanned dark, still slightly shiny from the ocean salt earlier. Every single ridge was carved so sharp you could pour water into the grooves and it would stay there. The V-lines plunging down into his boardshorts were obscene.
The surfer leaned back even farther, arms stretched wide along the couch back, letting every carved inch catch the TV flicker. Then his own hand drifted down. Long fingers traced the deepest center groove, thumb circling one sharp ridge, then sliding lower to follow the shadowed line of his oblique. He was eying his own stomach now, frowning slightly like he’d spotted something.
The beefy jock’s eyes locked on the movement. “What’s up, bro? Something on there?”
The surfer’s lips curled — that same cold, knowing smirk. “Maybe. Come check it out for me, stud. Closer. Help me make sure.”
The jock shifted forward without thinking, huge frame leaning in until his face was inches from those glistening abs. He could feel the heat rolling off the surfer’s skin now — warm, salty, alive. Up this close the definition was even more obscene: every brick etched so deep it looked like it could cut glass, veins faintly visible under the tan where the muscle pulled tight. The jock’s cock throbbed harder in his shorts, but something else twisted in his gut too — a weird, nagging pull he couldn’t name. He was the top here, always had been, always would be… yet staring at that perfect, carved stomach, all he could suddenly picture was pressing his mouth to it. Tasting it. Worshipping those ridges with his tongue like some needy bitch. The thought hit him like a slap and he blinked hard, confused, trying to shake it off. Nah, I’m just horny. I’m gonna fuck him, not—
“See anything?” the surfer asked, voice low and lazy, fingers still idly stroking his own abs.
The jock swallowed. “Uh… looks clean to me.”
“Yeah? Don’t you wanna check it more carefully? Lick it, stud”
The words landed soft but heavy. The beefy jock froze for half a second — brain screaming I don’t do that shit, I’m the one who gets sucked — but his body betrayed him. He leaned the last inch forward and dragged his tongue once, slow and tentative, right along the lowest deep groove.
The surfer let out a quiet, pleased hum. His hand slid into the jock’s thick, messy hair — not grabbing yet, just resting there like he already owned it.
“Yeah… just like that. Keep going. Make sure you didn’t miss anything.”
The beefy jock groaned low in his chest and obeyed, mouth open, tongue dragging over the deep grooves, kissing higher, then lower again, lost in the feel of those perfect abs against his face. His huge thighs were trembling. His hole actually twitched once — he didn’t even notice. All he could think was I’m gonna top him so hard tonight… right after this. Just one more lick and I’ll flip him.
The fingers in his hair tightened. Not rough yet… but firm.
The surfer’s voice dropped, quiet, almost intimate.
“You like the way they feel on your tongue, stud?”
The jock moaned against the muscle, nodding, too horny to speak.
Then the grip turned to iron.
The surfer yanked the jock’s head back hard. Their faces were inches apart. The beefy stud’s eyes were glassy, lips shiny, chest heaving.
The surfer looked straight into them, cold blue eyes locked on the jock’s.
“It’s time you pay me back for real, stud.”
One hand stayed fisted in the thick hair. The other rose slowly, palm open.
Crack.
A sharp, stinging backhand slapped across the jock’s cheek. The sound was loud in the quiet room. The beefy jock’s head snapped sideways, a bright red handprint blooming instantly. His fat cock throbbed violently in his shorts, a wet spot spreading.
The surfer stroked the burning cheek with his thumb, almost tender, voice soft and deadly.
“Now turn around.”
The beefy jock’s brain was short-circuiting — confusion, pain, horniness crashing together. He was still rock-hard. Still convinced he could flip this. But his body moved anyway. He turned on the couch, huge back to the surfer, thick ass flexing in the boardshorts.
The surfer immediately yanked the jock’s head back and down hard, mashing his face right into the massive bulge in his boardshorts. The beefy stud’s nose and lips were crushed against the thick, hot outline, the fabric stretched tight over the veiny length, heat and musk flooding his senses.
“Bro… what the fu—”
“Shut up and lick the abs again, stud”
The surfer shoved the jock’s face back onto his stomach for one more long, sloppy drag of tongue over the ridges. The big boy obeyed on instinct — moaning, confused, pre-cum soaking his own shorts.
Then the surfer hooked two fingers in his own waistband and slowly dragged the boardshorts down.
The huge 8.5" cock sprang free like a weapon and slapped the beefy jock hard across the cheek. The veiny underside pressed straight down the center of his features — nose buried under it, plump lips parted against the hot skin — while the swollen head rested right on the surfer’s own carved abs, reaching up to the deep navel, a perfect line of dominance painted across both of them.
A thick, glistening rope of precum welled up at the slit — big, slow, pearl-like, hanging heavy before it started to drip. The surfer caught it with two long fingers, scooping the warm, sticky drop right off the fat head.
He brought those fingers to the jock’s trembling lips and smeared the precum across them in slow, deliberate circles — painting the plump lower lip, then the upper, spreading the slickness until it shone. Then he pushed both fingers inside, deep, demanding, hooking against the jock’s tongue and forcing the taste in while his thumb pressed the lips closed around his knuckles.
The beefy jock’s eyes fluttered, a broken whimper escaping around the intrusion.
“Brooooo…”
That was all he could manage — a shaky, wrecked sound that sounded nothing like the cocky top who’d walked in.
The surfer’s voice was low, velvet poison.
“When a bro’s cock is laying on your face like this, stud… the only thing you have to do is serve it.”
The beefy jock’s mind was imploding in slow motion.
This isn’t me. I’m the top. I’m the fucking bull. I was supposed to pin him, fuck him raw, make him beg. Why is his dick so heavy on my face? Why does it smell so fucking good? Why is my mouth full of his precum and why can’t I stop tasting it? Why is my hole clenching like it wants something?
His massive chest heaved, abs flexing uselessly, fat cock leaking rivers into his shorts, thighs shaking, and all he could do was breathe in the thick musk while those fingers kept his mouth claimed and that monster cock owned his face.
“Open wider, stud.”
The beefy jock’s jaw dropped on pure reflex — lips already swollen from the earlier teasing, plump and shiny with spit and pre. His head was lolled back against the sofa cushion, thick neck stretched, massive chest rising and falling fast, eyes glassy and locked upward at the towering surfer god.
The 25-year-old stepped in tight, feet planted on either side of the jock’s spread thighs, that 8.5" cock throbbing heavy right above the beefy face. He gripped the base with one hand, aimed the fat, slick head straight down, and slapped it across the jock’s left cheek — thwap — hard enough to make the head bounce off the cushion. Then the right cheek — harder. Fresh precum streaked both sides like war paint, leaving shiny trails over the fading handprint.
The beefy jock whimpered, a low broken sound, but his mouth stayed open wide — tongue flat, waiting like he couldn’t help it.
The surfer didn’t tease anymore.
He pushed in — one long, ruthless thrust — the thick head forcing those lips to stretch obscenely wide, then sliding straight past the tongue and slamming into the back of the throat. The jock’s eyes bulged instantly — GLURK — a violent gag ripping through him as his throat clamped down hard around the invading girth. Saliva exploded from the corners of his mouth in thick, messy ropes, bubbling out and running down his chin in seconds, dripping onto his heaving pecs and happy trail.
The surfer locked both hands in the thick, damp hair — fingers digging in like reins — and started fucking that face with zero mercy. Deep, punishing strokes that made the beefy jock’s head bounce back against the sofa cushion with every plunge. The wet, choking sounds filled the bungalow — gluck-gluck-gluck-gluck — loud, sloppy, obscene. Spit poured out in waves, coating the shaft, dripping down the jock’s neck, soaking the collar of his nonexistent shirt, pooling on the carpet between his thick thighs.
Tears hit fast. Hot, streaming down the flushed cheeks, carving clean tracks through the precum streaks. His nose started running almost immediately — snot bubbling out with every desperate, snotty inhale he tried to steal through it, smearing across his upper lip and dripping onto the veiny cock slamming in and out. The beefy stud’s face was turning into a total disaster: red, shiny, wrecked — tears, snot, spit, pre all mixing into a glossy mess that ran in rivers down his jaw, his throat, his chest.
His huge arms flailed at first — big hands slapping weakly at the surfer’s lean hips, trying to push back, trying to breathe, trying to regain even a shred of the top energy he walked in with. But it was pointless. Every time he pushed, the surfer yanked his head forward harder, burying deeper until the jock’s nose was mashed into the trimmed pubes, throat bulging visibly around the full 8.5", eyes rolling back to whites as another violent gag shook his whole body.
“Fuuuck— that’s it,” the surfer growled, abs flexing like carved stone with every snap of his hips. “Cry on it, meat. Snot running, tears pouring — look at you, big bad jock turned into my sloppy throat toy. Thought you were gonna top me? Nah… this mouth was built to choke.”
He pulled back just enough for the fat head to sit on the tongue — letting the jock gasp, cough, a wrecked snotty inhale — strings of spit and pre connecting lips to cock like webs. The beefy stud’s voice cracked, hoarse and broken:
“Bro— p-please— too much— I can’t—”
The surfer just laughed — low, cruel — and slammed back in, balls slapping the chin. He went feral now: short, brutal thrusts that battered the throat over and over, making the jock’s head thud rhythmically against the cushion. More spit gushed out, thick and foamy, running down in sheets. Precum leaked steady from the tip, mixing with everything else, coating the jock’s tongue, dripping down his throat when he swallowed on reflex.
The beefy jock was struggling hard — legs kicking out, thick thighs flexing and trembling, massive body jerking with every gag. His own fat cock was rock-hard in the boardshorts, tenting obscenely, the front soaked dark with pre that leaked in a constant stream. He couldn’t touch it — hands were too busy clawing at the surfer’s thighs — but the deep throat-fucking alone had him right on the edge. Every time the cock bottomed out, his hole clenched hard, untouched dick twitching violently.
The surfer felt it — saw the way the beefy stud’s abs tightened, the way his hips bucked uselessly.
“You’re gonna cum from this, aren’t you?” he hissed, pace turning savage. “Choking on dick, face fucked to pieces, and you’re gonna blow your load like a bitch. Do it. Shoot for me, stud.”
One hand left the hair and slapped the jock’s cheek — sharp, wet — then gripped his jaw instead, forcing it wider. The surfer slammed in balls-deep one last time and held — grinding, pulsing.
He came hard.
Thick, hot ropes blasted straight down the throat — pulse after pulse, flooding so much the jock couldn’t swallow fast enough. Cum bubbled out around the shaft instantly, overflowing the stretched lips, pouring down the chin in creamy waterfalls that splattered the heaving chest, the abs, even hitting the soaked bulge in the shorts.
The beefy jock choked — violent, snotty gags — but the overload pushed him over. His fat cock jerked untouched in the boardshorts, shooting hard — thick spurts soaking through the fabric, pulsing against his own abs, legs kicking out straight as his whole body convulsed. A high, broken whine tore out around the cock still buried in his throat — muffled, desperate, completely fucking ruined.
The surfer held him through the last ropes, grinding deep until every drop was milked, then slowly pulled out with a wet schlorp. Strings of cum, spit, snot connected the swollen head to the jock’s wrecked lips.
The beefy stud collapsed back against the sofa, head lolling on the cushion, chest heaving, face absolutely destroyed — swollen lips, puffy red eyes streaming tears, snot streaked across his nose and cheeks, cum and spit dripping everywhere. His boardshorts were a mess — dark wet patch spreading, his own load leaking out the sides.
The surfer looked down at the trembling, cum-soaked tank of a jock, that cold smirk curling.
“Good boy. Now get those shorts off — we’re not done helping each other yet.”
The beefy jock — brain melted, body owned, still shaking from the orgasm — just whimpered and started fumbling at the waistband with trembling hands.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
