1
Jax Harlan rolled up to Southern State University like a goddamn storm on wheels, his beat-up pickup truck rumbling across the campus gates, kicking up dust in that thick Alabama heat that clung to everything like a lover's sweat. At 19, he was fresh meat straight out of some podunk town where the biggest thrills were Friday night football and sneaking beers behind the barn. But Jax? He was built like a fucking god – 6'2" of solid, rippling muscle forged from hauling hay bales since he could walk, pounding iron in the garage gym his old man set up, and dominating every sport that demanded raw power. His broad shoulders stretched his rebel flag tank top to its limits, the fabric hugging his massive pecs that bounced slightly with each step, nipples hard from the AC blast in the truck. Those arms? Thick as tree trunks, veins popping like rivers under sun-kissed skin, biceps flexing involuntarily as he slung his duffel bag over one shoulder. His waist tapered into that perfect V, abs so chiseled you could grate cheese on 'em – eight-pack deep, etched like they'd been sculpted by some horny artist obsessed with male perfection. Blonde hair flopped messily over his forehead, damp with sweat, framing those piercing blue eyes that could pin you down with a single glare, making your knees weak and your hole twitch without him even trying. And down below? Shorts riding low on his hips, hugging thighs like tree trunks, quads bulging with every stride, and that bulge – fuck, it was legendary. Heavy, swinging, promising an 8-inch uncut monster that'd wrecked more than its share of pussy back home, veiny shaft thick enough to stretch limits, balls hanging low and full, always churning with that youthful cum factory energy.
Back in his hometown, Jax had been the undisputed king – star quarterback with a rocket arm, the kind of jock who led his team to state champs while secretly ruling the social scene with an iron cock. Girls threw themselves at him, begging to be pinned under his weight, railed until they screamed his name. He'd fuck 'em hard, dominant as hell, gripping throats lightly while pounding away, his mind always drifting to darker shit even then. But the dudes? Oh, the closeted ones eyed him in the locker room, stealing glances at his towel-clad body, water dripping down his carved chest, tracing paths over those abs to his heavy dick print. Jax knew it, felt their hunger, and it stirred something psycho in him – a repressed fire that burned hotter with every jerk-off session alone in his room. He'd started with straight porn, but it evolved quick: tabs open to rough gay vids, massive tops demolishing twinky holes, power dynamics that left subs broken, asses gaping, cum leaking like defeated territory. "Fuck yeah," he'd mutter under his breath, stroking his thick cock slow at first, then furious, imagining himself as the alpha wrecker. His sexy thoughts twisted deeper – not just fucking, but owning, turning boys into whimpering sluts who craved his destruction. It was that ultimate high: control, conquest, the rush of making someone submit completely. But effort? Nah, Jax wanted it easy, guaranteed – no chasing, just pure top privilege where twinks lined up to take his load.
College hit him like a shot of pure testosterone. Southern State was a sprawling beast of a campus – manicured lawns dotted with ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss, frat rows thumping with bass from endless parties, and that humid air that made everything feel sticky and primal. Orientation week was a goddamn orgy of chaos: mixers with coeds giggling over red Solo cups, beer pong tables where bros flexed their throws, and hazings that had pledges streaking across quads, asses jiggling under the moonlight. Jax dove in headfirst, his body a magnet – dudes clapping him on the back, eyes lingering a beat too long on his bulge, while he chugged brews and scoped the scene. His mind raced with horny visions: this was his playground, where he could finally unleash those buried urges without the small-town judgment. No more hiding porn history; here, he could be the top jock who topped jocks, slamming into tight holes with no strings, effort-free dominance. His cock twitched constantly, half-hard in his shorts from the constant eye-fucking, pre-cum staining his jock as he imagined wrecking some freshman's ass in a dorm room, leaving 'em marked and addicted.
But the real game-changer lurked in the shadows of the frat rushes. Jax prowled the events, his massive frame cutting through crowds like a blade, sweat trickling down his deep V-line, pooling in the waistband of his shorts where his happy trail teased lower. Standard frats were fun – polos, keg stands, sorority hookups – but they felt vanilla, not scratching that psycho itch burning in his core. Then, whispers started filtering through the haze of cheap beer and Axe body spray: Sigma Alpha Tau. "The Top Factory," they called it in hushed tones on anonymous campus forums Jax lurked on late at night, phone in one hand, cock in the other. Tucked on the edge of campus, their house was a fortress – towering Greek columns casting long shadows, a yard cluttered with rusty weights, empty cans, and banners snapping in the breeze: "Forge the Fire: Become the Hammer." But the underground lore? This wasn't your beer-bro bullshit; it was a twisted academy for aspiring dom tops. Raw recruits molded into fuck machines – lessons in edging twinks to madness, throat-fucking till they gagged rivers, ass-pounding that left holes ruined and begging. Leaked vids on shady sites showed it: shadowed basements, grunts echoing like a dungeon porno, slogans etched on walls like "Pain is the Path to Power." "We build tops who break boys," one caption bragged, and Jax's heart pounded, his dick throbbing as he stroked to the thought. This was it – his guaranteed ticket to effortless top heaven: join, learn the ropes (literally), and have twinky boys served up on a platter, ready to be destroyed. No games, no rejection; just pure, horny power play where he could cum ropes while owning asses like conquests.
That night, as the sun dipped low, painting the campus in fiery oranges, Jax geared up for their rush event. He checked himself in the dorm mirror – tank clinging to his sweat-damp pecs, nipples poking through like invitations, shorts low enough to show the top of his jock strap, bulge prominent and unapologetic. His mind swirled with sexy, psycho details: imagining the twinks he'd top, their lean bodies writhing under him, holes clenching around his girth as he thrust deep, making 'em moan like bitches in heat. The thrill was electric – that youthful hunger, testosterone surging, turning every step toward the frat house into a buildup to explosion. He could almost feel it: the power, the release, cumming harder than ever while breaking in his first boy pussy. Little did he know, the frat's ideology ran deeper, a mindfuck waiting to flip his world – but for now, in that humid Southern night, Jax strode forward like the alpha he thought he was, ready to claim his throne.
2
Jax pushed through the heavy front door of the Sigma Alpha Tau house, the bass from the rush party hitting him like a wall of heat and sweat. The place was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with jocks—big, ripped college dudes grinding to the music, red Solo cups in hand, shirts already peeled off and tucked into waistbands. The air was thick with that raw bro stench: beer, weed, Axe, and the unmistakable musk of testosterone cranked to eleven. Dim red lights pulsed over sweat-glistened torsos, abs flexing as guys laughed and shoved each other, thick arms and broad backs on full display. Jax’s cock twitched hard in his shorts just taking it all in—this was exactly the kind of den he’d been jerking off to for months. A house full of alphas… and soon, he’d be the one owning the twinks they kept on deck.
Coach Reyes spotted him immediately, that dark-eyed Latino muscle god leaning against the stair rail like he owned every soul in the room. Mid-30s, 6'3", built like a brick shithouse—tree-trunk thighs straining gray sweats, a black tank clinging to his massive chest and shredded eight-pack, tats crawling up his thick neck and down veiny forearms. His buzzed head gleamed under the lights, and that smirk… fuck, it screamed pure dominance. Reyes crooked a finger at Jax, voice cutting through the noise like a whip: “Basement. Now, pledge.”
Jax followed, heart slamming, cock already half-chubbed and leaking pre into his jock. Down the concrete stairs into the frat’s infamous lair—walls scrawled with sharpie slogans: “Own or Be Owned,” “No Mercy for Holes,” “Break Them Harder.” A circle of upperclassmen lounged on beat-up leather couches, all shirtless, bodies carved from years of heavy lifts and harder fucks. Early 20s, prime jock perfection—tan skin, pumped pecs, veins popping on biceps, abs so deep you could lose fingers in the ridges. A few had visible hard-ons tenting their shorts, stroking themselves lazily through fabric while they eyed the fresh meat.
In the center: a low padded bench under a single hanging bulb, like some fucked-up altar built for worship.
Reyes circled Jax slow, predator sizing up prey. “Strip to your jock, boy. Let’s see what you’re packin’.”
Jax didn’t hesitate—cocky grin flashing as he yanked off his rebel tank, revealing that sweat-slick torso in all its glory. Pecs heavy and square, nipples pink and stiff from the cool basement air, abs contracting with every breath like living marble. He shoved his shorts down thick quads, stepping out of them until he stood there in nothing but a blue athletic supporter, the pouch stretched obscenely over his fat 8-inch uncut cock. It was rock-hard already, curving up against his lower abs, foreskin peeled halfway back from the swell, a fat bead of pre glistening at the slit. Heavy low-hanging balls filled the rest of the pouch, shifting with every flex of his thighs.
The room growled approval—low whistles, “Fuck, look at that meat,” and “Freshman’s hung like a horse.”
Reyes nodded, dark eyes raking over Jax’s body like he was memorizing every inch. “First lesson, pledge: control starts with release. You think you’re ready to destroy holes? Prove you can handle having yours worshipped first.”
Before Jax could fire back some cocky shit, Reyes snapped his fingers. Two pledges dropped from the couches instantly—lean, hungry twinks, barely 18, built for service. One was a pale blond with sharp cheekbones and pretty lips, the other darker with smooth caramel skin and big doe eyes. Both shirtless, narrow waists flaring into perky asses hugged by tiny shorts, already on their knees and crawling forward like they lived for this moment.
Jax’s pulse hammered. This wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured—he was supposed to be the one getting his dick wet in ass, not… whatever the fuck this was turning into. But his cock betrayed him, throbbing harder, another thick drop of pre oozing out as the blond pledge reached him first.
“Hands on your thighs, pledge,” Reyes ordered Jax. “Let ‘em work. You don’t touch your dick. You don’t thrust unless I say. Control, boy. Show me you got it.”
Jax planted his feet wide, thighs flexing, abs tight as the blond yanked the waistband of his jock down in one rough pull. His thick cock sprang free, slapping up against his abs with a wet smack, shaft veiny and flushed dark, foreskin fully retracted now, head swollen and shiny with pre. His balls tumbled out heavy, shaved smooth, hanging low and full of that 19-year-old cum load ready to explode.
The blond didn’t waste time—pretty lips parting wide as he swallowed half of Jax’s dick in one greedy plunge. Hot, wet suction clamped down instantly, tongue swirling under the head, flicking that sensitive spot that made Jax’s knees buckle. “Fuuuck,” he groaned low, head tipping back, blonde hair falling messy over his forehead.
The second pledge—caramel skin gleaming—went low, mouth latching onto Jax’s balls like he was starving. He sucked one heavy nut fully in, tongue rolling it, humming deep vibrations that shot straight up Jax’s shaft. Then he switched to the other, slurping loud and messy, spit already dripping down Jax’s taint.
Jax’s mind went psycho—flashes of every repressed locker-room fantasy crashing together. These twinks on their knees for him, worshipping his alpha cock like it was their god. His hips twitched forward on instinct, trying to bury deeper, but Reyes’s big hand landed on his chest, pinning him still.
“Control, boy. Feel it build. Don’t chase it yet.”
The blond took him deeper—throat opening like a pro, nose pressing into Jax’s trimmed pubes on the next bob, gagging wetly but not pulling off. Throat muscles milked the head, convulsing around it, spit bubbling out the corners of his stretched lips and running in thick strings down Jax’s shaft. Every time he pulled back, he twisted his head, tongue lashing the ridge, then slammed forward again—relentless, sloppy, perfect.
Below, the darker pledge licked a hot stripe up Jax’s taint, tongue circling his virgin hole for a teasing second—just enough pressure to make Jax’s abs clench hard and his cock flex inside the blond’s throat—before dropping back to suck both balls at once, cheeks hollowing.
Jax’s breathing turned ragged, chest heaving, pecs bouncing with each gasp. Sweat rolled down his temples, tracing over his clenched jaw, dripping off his chin onto his chest. His mind was pure horny static: I’m the fucking top here, they’re choking on my dick, I’m gonna flood this slut’s throat, mark him, own him—
“Look at you, pledge,” Reyes growled close to his ear, breath hot. “Already leaking like a faucet. Bet you’ve never had throat this good.”
Jax couldn’t answer—just a guttural moan as the blond deepthroated him again, holding balls-deep, swallowing around the head until Jax saw stars. His balls drew up tight, that familiar pressure coiling viciously at the base of his cock.
The darker pledge slipped a finger under his balls, pressing firm circles right on his taint, rubbing that spot that made pre-cum gush in thick pulses down the blond’s throat.
“Gonna—fuck—gonna nut,” Jax snarled, voice breaking, thighs shaking.
Reyes finally gave the nod. “Feed him, boy. Every drop.”
Jax grabbed the back of the blond’s head—fingers tangling in soft hair—and thrust hard, once, twice, burying to the root. His roar echoed off the concrete as the orgasm ripped through him—thick, hot ropes blasting straight down the pledge’s throat, pulse after pulse, so much it overflowed the twink’s lips and dripped in messy strings onto the floor. The blond swallowed greedily, throat working overtime, milking every last spurt while the darker pledge kept sucking his balls through the aftershocks.
Jax’s body shuddered, abs rippling, cock jerking with each wave until he finally pulled out slow. His dick slapped wet against his thigh, still hard, glistening with spit and cum, a final pearl beading at the tip.
He wiped it across the blond’s cheek on instinct, marking him, chest heaving as he locked eyes with Reyes.
The coach smirked, stepping closer, massive bulge obvious in his sweats. “Good boy. First load down. But we’re just getting started.”
Jax’s cock jumped at the words, hungry for more—even as some deeper, darker part of him registered the shift in Reyes’s tone. He was still riding the high, mind buzzing with power… not yet seeing the trap closing around him.
3
Jax stood there in the dim basement glow, chest heaving like he'd just crushed a max deadlift set, sweat carving rivers down his shredded abs, pooling in the deep cuts of his V-line. His thick 8-inch cock hung heavy between his thighs, still semi-hard and glistening with the twink's spit and his own thick cum ropes—uncut head flushed dark pink, veins pulsing like they were alive, balls hanging low and spent but already churning for more in that endless 19-year-old testosterone factory. The air reeked of fresh nut, musky bro sweat, and that primal edge of conquest, the upperclassmen bros circling closer now, their own bodies on full display—ripped torsos slick and flexing, bulges tenting shorts, eyes hungry like wolves scenting blood. Jax's mind was a psycho whirlwind: that blowjob high still buzzing, making him feel like the alpha king, ready to flip the script and wreck some hole. "Fuck yeah," he thought, sexy visions flashing—him pinning a twink down, slamming balls-deep, owning that ass like it was his birthright, no effort, just pure top power exploding in hot loads. His cock twitched back to full mast at the idea, pre-cum beading again, his youthful stamina screaming for round two.
But Coach Reyes? That Latino beast wasn't playing. He stepped in close, massive frame towering, his mid-30s muscle god body radiating heat—thick pecs straining his tank, nipples hard like bullets, tats snaking over boulder shoulders and down to veiny forearms that could crush skulls. His buzz cut gleamed, dark eyes locking onto Jax's blue ones with a stare that drilled straight to the core, unearthing those buried doubts every young jock hides: the flicker of vulnerability under the cocky armor, the secret thrill of losing control. Reyes's voice dropped low, gravelly, commanding the room: "You shot your load like a champ, pledge. But tops ain't made from just dumping cum. Nah, you gotta feel the fire first—know what it's like to be broken open, owned deep, so you can break 'em harder later." His big hand clamped on Jax's shoulder, fingers digging into the meat like iron, pushing him back toward the padded bench. The twinks slunk away, wiping cum-smeared lips, smirking like they knew the drill.
Jax's heart slammed against his ribcage, abs clenching tight as steel cables, his mind flipping from conqueror to cornered. "What the fuck? Nah, Coach—I'm the one toppin'. Let me show these bitches how a real alpha rails ass." His voice cracked with that raw youth edge, blonde hair matted with sweat, falling over his forehead as he flexed his arms, trying to shove back. But underneath the protest? A dark, horny undercurrent surged—testosterone mixing with adrenaline, stirring that repressed psycho layer from back home: stolen glances in lockers, dicks jumping at the sight of teammates' tight asses, the forbidden rush of wondering what it felt like to take it, to submit and rise stronger. His cock betrayed him hard, throbbing upright against his abs, leaking pre like a traitor, the thrill of the unknown making his balls ache deeper than ever. Deep down, the frat's twisted psychology was hooking him: young studs like Jax arrived with egos bloated on small-town glory, dreaming of effortless top dominance, but the ideology preyed on their hidden hungers—break the bottom in you to forge the ultimate top, turn pain into psycho fuel for future destructions.
Reyes chuckled dark, a rumble that vibrated through Jax's body, his free hand sliding down to grip Jax's jaw firm, forcing eye contact. "Cute rebellion, boy. But alphas earn their spot. Spread for the lesson—feel what you'll inflict." The upperclassmen moved in seamless, two grabbing Jax's wrists and tying them loose to the bench sides with frayed frat ropes—symbolic restraints spiking the power play, making his pulse race wild. Jax bucked once, thighs flexing massive, quads bulging like they could snap the bonds, but Reyes's knee pinned one leg down, spreading him wide. His virgin hole clenched instinctively, exposed under the harsh bulb light, pink and untouched, surrounded by that firm ass he'd built from endless squats—cheeks round and muscled, begging to be split. Jax's thoughts went full horny chaos: "This is bullshit, I'm no sub... but fuck, why's my dick so hard? Gonna feel that stretch, that burn... shit, it'll make me wreck 'em twice as bad after."
Reyes shed his sweats slow, teasing the reveal—his monster cock springing free, 9 inches of thick, veiny Latino meat, curved upward like a hook made for prostate destruction, head flared wide and slick with pre, balls heavy and swaying. "Eyes on it, pledge. This is the tool that builds legends." He stroked himself deliberate, shaft thickening in his grip, while popping open a lube bottle with his teeth, slicking fingers generous. Jax's breath hitched as those rough digits probed his hole—first one, circling the tight ring, then pushing in slow, the burn electric, stretching virgin walls that gripped like a vice. "Ah fuck... too tight... shit," Jax groaned, head thrashing, abs rippling as a second finger joined, scissoring deep, twisting to hit that spot inside that lit his nerves on fire. Pleasure crashed unwanted—sparks shooting to his cock, making it jump and leak rivers, his mind splintering: rage at the invasion mixed with a deeper, darker high, the psychology flipping him inside out. This was the frat's mindfuck genius—young jocks full of explosive power, testosterone pushing them to edges, learning dominance through submission, carving insecurity into calculated cruelty.
"Ready, boy? Breathe it in—this is your rebirth." Reyes lined up, fat head pressing insistent against Jax's slicked ring, the pressure building like a storm. Jax's body tensed, every muscle etched in sweat-glistened relief—pecs heaving, biceps straining the ropes, thighs quivering. With a grunt, Reyes thrust forward—breaching slow at first, inch by burning inch, the stretch tearing a roar from Jax's throat: "Goddamn... too big... fuuuck!" Tears pricked his eyes, but his cock throbbed harder, betraying the thrill as Reyes bottomed out, balls slapping ass, pausing to let the fullness sink in like a claim. Jax's hole clenched around the girth, walls fluttering, that psycho fullness frying his brain—visions of himself as the top now amplified, imagining inflicting this same ruin, but the submission high twisting it hotter.
Then the pounding started—hard, relentless, hips snapping like a machine. Each deep thrust slammed that curved head into Jax's prostate, exploding waves of ecstasy that made his toes curl, moans escaping raw and broken. Sweat flew, bodies slapping wet, Reyes's abs flexing with every plunge, his tats dancing under the light. "Feel that burn, pledge? That's the path to power—own the pain, turn it to fuel." He gripped Jax's throbbing cock, jerking it rough in time—twisting the head, thumbing the slit, pre flying. Jax's balls tightened insane, youthful stamina meaning he could edge forever but the pressure built volcanic: "Gonna... ah shit... cum from this!" He bellowed, exploding untouched almost—ropes shooting across his abs like war paint, body convulsing as Reyes railed through it, not slowing, flipping Jax stomach-down for doggy, slamming deeper, angling to destroy.
Jax's mind went full psycho surrender: flashes of home repression shattering, the ultimate aim crystalizing—not just top, but master, forged in this fire. Reyes chased his own peak, gripping Jax's hips bruising, pulling him back onto every thrust. "Take it all, boy—earn your spot." Finally, he buried deep and unloaded—hot floods pulsing inside, filling Jax's wrecked hole, leaking out messy as he pulled free with a wet pop. Jax collapsed panting, ass gaping and throbbing, cum dripping down his thighs, but his eyes burned fierce— the twist complete, bottom awakened, ready to rise and destroy. "Fuck... Coach... when do I get to top?"
Reyes smirked, wiping sweat. "Soon, pledge. But first, feel it simmer. You're one of us now."
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